My poor husband is sick, and has been for a few days now. He has some sort of stubborn chest-mucous thing coupled with a cough, a runny nose and a self-inflicted sore throat. I say the sore throat is self-inflicted because I am almost positive that if he didn't go "hwaAAAAAA hwAAAAA HOOAH HOOAH HWwwwwwwak **gag** TO!" every time he wants to get rid of some mucous, his throat wouldn't be so raw. Since he first came down with this whatever-it-is, it has sounded like a construction site in here. I'm sure he now has the same thing I had a couple weeks ago, and maybe it was just me, but it wasn't that serious. Okay, a clogged chest that ripples inside when you breathe is annoying, but it's not the end of the world. And to see such a big guy act like such a baby is actually a little amusing.
But regardless, I let him dramatize to his heart's content because, all in all, he doesn't feel well. So I let him lie on the couch like a sloth while I wash, fold, and put away multiple loads of laundry, take care of the kids (meanwhile when I'm sick, I am still designated caregiver, but whatever), make homemade tomato soup and grilled cheese and countless cups of tea. I was beginning to feel bad for him when I began to notice that every time I looked at him wrapped in a blanket like a burrito (a very large burrito) he looked sicker and sicker as he wafted in and out of sleep.
Dinner was ready early, around 4 p.m., and after he had sipped his soup and eaten his grilled cheese he hops up out of his chair and says, "I'm going to Tony's."
"For what?!" I say.
"To get my tattoo worked on."
I'm not sure what he might have said after that because the blood boiling in my ears interfered with my hearing, but I do remember myself saying something along the lines of, "Muthafugga, you just sat around the house and watched me do all the work today because you were 'too sick' and now you're gonna go get a friggin' TATTOO?!"
He claimed the tomato soup made him feel better. I had half the mind to make him regurgitate it. But I was tired and didn't feel like cleaning up the mess.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Barbies not Babies
A friend of ours just gave my daughter her first Barbie.
Up until now Leila's toys have been over-sized and educational, and as I sat there stabbing the 57 plastic twist-ties and ridiculous amounts of super-strength tape with a knife like a madwoman to release the long-legged icon from her packaging, I couldn't help but reflect on how much of a "Big Girl" Leila really is now. She hasn't used a diaper in a year and a half. She tells me (demands) what she wants to eat, she knows what shows she wants to watch (and when she wants to watch them), she challenges everything I say (i.e. "Leila, don't stand on the arm of the chair because you might fall" "No, I won't!") and she has a crazy imagination and comes up with things that I didn't even know she knew. So as I ripped open the last piece of plastic with my teeth and handed her the doll I thought to myself "This is it." Now it's fashion and training bras and boys and attitudes...wait, she already gives me the attitude. Regardless, I was a little sad to look at my baby with her new Barbie and know that she is, in fact, not a baby. But she will, of course, always be my baby. And just then she looked back at me with her Barbie in hand and said, "Look, Mommy, she has boobies!"
Up until now Leila's toys have been over-sized and educational, and as I sat there stabbing the 57 plastic twist-ties and ridiculous amounts of super-strength tape with a knife like a madwoman to release the long-legged icon from her packaging, I couldn't help but reflect on how much of a "Big Girl" Leila really is now. She hasn't used a diaper in a year and a half. She tells me (demands) what she wants to eat, she knows what shows she wants to watch (and when she wants to watch them), she challenges everything I say (i.e. "Leila, don't stand on the arm of the chair because you might fall" "No, I won't!") and she has a crazy imagination and comes up with things that I didn't even know she knew. So as I ripped open the last piece of plastic with my teeth and handed her the doll I thought to myself "This is it." Now it's fashion and training bras and boys and attitudes...wait, she already gives me the attitude. Regardless, I was a little sad to look at my baby with her new Barbie and know that she is, in fact, not a baby. But she will, of course, always be my baby. And just then she looked back at me with her Barbie in hand and said, "Look, Mommy, she has boobies!"
Thursday, January 21, 2010
It's Not Always the End Result
My job as a mother is to teach my children everything I know, from basics like eating at the dinner table like civilized human beings and washing hands after using the bathroom to concepts like compassion and open-mindedness. But sometimes, in the most unexpected moments, I learn something from my children.
My girls attend a story-time/arts and crafts class on Thursdays and today the project was a snowman door hanger. The materials consisted of a foam door hanger and snowman, two googly eyes, glitter and buttons. Lots of tiny, brightly-colored buttons.
Now, I am not a fan of telling kids how their art projects are "supposed" to look. I give them the materials and let them go to town and so what if it looks different from the other kids' projects? Leila and Mia could have put that snowman upside-down with his googly eyes on his ass and I still would have said, "Wow! That's beautiful!" But they didn't put the snowman upside-down, and they were having a ball making their little door hangers.
Mia hosted a glue-tasting party of one while Leila found 101 ways to use a button ("Mommy, look, clouds!", "Mommy, I'm making snow", etc.) But it was Mia who I found myself watching closely. She had never actually sat down to do a project before (apparently she had more fun running around the craft room getting into mischief) so it was my first time being able to observe her.
She looked so cute using the little paint brush to daintily add a touch of glue to the back of each tiny button before she meticulously placed it in its proper place. I didn't even care that she had managed to get glue all over her shirt, face and hair as she used her fingers to make glue-designs on the snowman which would later be covered with glitter. She was so proud of her little door hanger that she wouldn't even let me hold it for two seconds while I put her arm through the sleeve of her coat when it was time to go (i.e. she threw a fit until I handed it back to her). And she walked with it all the way downstairs and to the car looking at it every few moments. I figured she must be so proud of herself, and I couldn't wait to show everyone the first project she did all on her own.
Mia held on to her pretty little snowman door hanger the whole ride home. I was so proud of her (mainly because she actually sat still long enough to complete a project, and partly because she did such a good job)and I couldn't wait to show my husband when he got home from work.
We finally reached the house and I pulled into the driveway. And as I looked back to where Mia was sitting I saw not a cute little button-covered door hanger in her hands, but three separate pieces of foam and a flurry of buttons. Turns out that during the ride home she was busy deconstructing her project just as happily as she had put it together and as she smiled at me, showing me what was left of her door hanger with googly eyes stuck to her shirt and dried glue stuck underneath her fingernails, I realized that sometimes it's not the finished project that matters, but the fun you had in the process.
My girls attend a story-time/arts and crafts class on Thursdays and today the project was a snowman door hanger. The materials consisted of a foam door hanger and snowman, two googly eyes, glitter and buttons. Lots of tiny, brightly-colored buttons.
Now, I am not a fan of telling kids how their art projects are "supposed" to look. I give them the materials and let them go to town and so what if it looks different from the other kids' projects? Leila and Mia could have put that snowman upside-down with his googly eyes on his ass and I still would have said, "Wow! That's beautiful!" But they didn't put the snowman upside-down, and they were having a ball making their little door hangers.
Mia hosted a glue-tasting party of one while Leila found 101 ways to use a button ("Mommy, look, clouds!", "Mommy, I'm making snow", etc.) But it was Mia who I found myself watching closely. She had never actually sat down to do a project before (apparently she had more fun running around the craft room getting into mischief) so it was my first time being able to observe her.
She looked so cute using the little paint brush to daintily add a touch of glue to the back of each tiny button before she meticulously placed it in its proper place. I didn't even care that she had managed to get glue all over her shirt, face and hair as she used her fingers to make glue-designs on the snowman which would later be covered with glitter. She was so proud of her little door hanger that she wouldn't even let me hold it for two seconds while I put her arm through the sleeve of her coat when it was time to go (i.e. she threw a fit until I handed it back to her). And she walked with it all the way downstairs and to the car looking at it every few moments. I figured she must be so proud of herself, and I couldn't wait to show everyone the first project she did all on her own.
Mia held on to her pretty little snowman door hanger the whole ride home. I was so proud of her (mainly because she actually sat still long enough to complete a project, and partly because she did such a good job)and I couldn't wait to show my husband when he got home from work.
We finally reached the house and I pulled into the driveway. And as I looked back to where Mia was sitting I saw not a cute little button-covered door hanger in her hands, but three separate pieces of foam and a flurry of buttons. Turns out that during the ride home she was busy deconstructing her project just as happily as she had put it together and as she smiled at me, showing me what was left of her door hanger with googly eyes stuck to her shirt and dried glue stuck underneath her fingernails, I realized that sometimes it's not the finished project that matters, but the fun you had in the process.
The Morphing Coffee Can
My kids have been playing with an empty coffee can for about a week now. It's one of those jumbo-sized cans from Costco and apparently, to them, it's more than just a coffee can. So far it's been a drum, a stool, a stepping stool (used to reach things like light switches and stuff on shelves), a play food holder, a helmet, a My Little Pony house, a bowl, a Frankenstein boot, and I sure many other things that I haven't gotten to see. And they probably would still be playing with their beloved coffee can were it not for the fact that today it was a hammer and there are now two new dents in the TV console.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Television Turmoil
There is a myriad of things that a person without children takes for granted. I have touched on a few of those things in previous blogs such as going to the bathroom without being followed, drinking an entire cup of coffee while it's still hot and eating an entire meal without interruptions. I will now add to that list "watching TV and actually being able to hear what is going on."
I firmly believe that my DVR has contributed to my maintenance of sanity after having children. I am able to record the shows I really want to watch at the same time my kids are watching the shows they like, and I get to fast-forward all the commercials when I can score an hour of free time that doesn't include cleaning, cooking, or wiping butts to sit down and watch said recorded shows. This is usually when both girls are in bed.
Well today, some time after breakfast, my girls were playing nicely in their room. I didn't hear any fighting or loud, alarming crashing, so I decided to take a 45-minute break and watch last night's episode of Desperate Housewives. No sooner did I press the "play" button on the remote did my lovely children decide to migrate into the living room and have a party in front of the TV. Between Leila shouting, "COME ON, MIA!! LET'S GO [SOMETHING UNDECIPHERABLE] COME ON!!" and Mia whining that she wants to watch Dora, I couldn't hear a damned thing.
I hit "pause". I tell Leila to lower her voice because Mommy can't hear the TV and tell Mia to stop whining because Dora isn't on right now. Leila runs back into her room and Mia follows her so I start up the show again. I get just past the opening credits when Leila comes back out and asks me if I want to play catch. I figure I can manage that while watching my show so I tell her "okay", except now she wants to stand in front of the TV to do it.
I pause the show again. Mia is now upset that Leila won't throw her the ball and Leila is refusing to remove herself from in front of the television so I take out their tent and set it up in the living room. I start up the show again and before I get to the first commercial break the girls are fighting over who gets to wear the pink princess dress. (Of course they have six princess dresses, but it has to be that one.) I try to ignore the yelling as I continue watching my show, but the lip-reading is giving me a headache, and I'm sure that I'm not getting the entire story. I look at the clock on the cable box and realize that 20 minutes have passed since I first pressed "play" and I haven't even gotten to fast-forward the first set of commercials.
Sometimes you have to choose your battles, and since I knew I wasn't going to win this one without forfeiting a bit of my sanity I put on a recorded episode of Sesame Street and retreated to the kitchen to wash the dishes from breakfast.
Kids: 1
Mommy: 0
I firmly believe that my DVR has contributed to my maintenance of sanity after having children. I am able to record the shows I really want to watch at the same time my kids are watching the shows they like, and I get to fast-forward all the commercials when I can score an hour of free time that doesn't include cleaning, cooking, or wiping butts to sit down and watch said recorded shows. This is usually when both girls are in bed.
Well today, some time after breakfast, my girls were playing nicely in their room. I didn't hear any fighting or loud, alarming crashing, so I decided to take a 45-minute break and watch last night's episode of Desperate Housewives. No sooner did I press the "play" button on the remote did my lovely children decide to migrate into the living room and have a party in front of the TV. Between Leila shouting, "COME ON, MIA!! LET'S GO [SOMETHING UNDECIPHERABLE] COME ON!!" and Mia whining that she wants to watch Dora, I couldn't hear a damned thing.
I hit "pause". I tell Leila to lower her voice because Mommy can't hear the TV and tell Mia to stop whining because Dora isn't on right now. Leila runs back into her room and Mia follows her so I start up the show again. I get just past the opening credits when Leila comes back out and asks me if I want to play catch. I figure I can manage that while watching my show so I tell her "okay", except now she wants to stand in front of the TV to do it.
I pause the show again. Mia is now upset that Leila won't throw her the ball and Leila is refusing to remove herself from in front of the television so I take out their tent and set it up in the living room. I start up the show again and before I get to the first commercial break the girls are fighting over who gets to wear the pink princess dress. (Of course they have six princess dresses, but it has to be that one.) I try to ignore the yelling as I continue watching my show, but the lip-reading is giving me a headache, and I'm sure that I'm not getting the entire story. I look at the clock on the cable box and realize that 20 minutes have passed since I first pressed "play" and I haven't even gotten to fast-forward the first set of commercials.
Sometimes you have to choose your battles, and since I knew I wasn't going to win this one without forfeiting a bit of my sanity I put on a recorded episode of Sesame Street and retreated to the kitchen to wash the dishes from breakfast.
Kids: 1
Mommy: 0
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Battle of the Bed
I wouldn't mind living in a 1950's sitcom. You know, when the husband and wife were forced to sleep in separate beds in the bedroom? It's not that I don't like sharing a bed with my husband, it's just that by the time he has spread out and made himself comfortable, there's not much bed left for me. And when we have two little ones trying to squeeze their way into what's left after I get comfortable, I'm usually the one waking up with a stiff neck.
Picture it: Hubby and I decide to hit the sack. After fighting over whose pillows are whose, we settle down, cuddle up and drift off into peaceful slumber. Sometime after REM sleep has kicked in, I am awakened by a faceful of Leila's hair. I used to be awakened by the sound of the bedroom door opening, but Leila has since become a master of sneak, and can enter and exit any room with the stealth of a ninja. I realize that I have been pushed to the edge of the bed and am covered by only one quarter of the blanket while Leila is rolled up like a little burrito in what was supposed to be my share of the covers. So I pick Leila up and carry her back to her bed, make a pit stop in the bathroom and crawl back into my own bed.
I close my eyes and just before I drift into the land of Nod, I hear Mia crying because she is getting over a cold and her stuffy nose makes for difficult breathing as she tries to suck her thumb. I wait to see if she will stop crying on her own and go back to sleep, but the whines are getting louder, and before she wakes up her sister, I decide to *sigh* bring her back to our bed, with every intention of putting her back in the crib once she falls back asleep. Mia has other plans. She wants to know what every sound is and what the shadows are on the wall, and then she wants to name all of my body parts. At 3 a.m. I am quite sure that I fall asleep before she does, and I am dreaming of being in a bad game of dodge ball during which my feet are cemented to the ground and I am being pelted with medicine balls from every angle. I begin to wake up, realizing that it is now morning and I am not being pelted by medicine balls, but instead my one- and three-year-olds are pile-driving me as I sleep. I am completely without covers, my arm is entirely numb in a strange contortion underneath my torso and my neck feels like I had been doing the "Night at the Roxbury" head bop all night. I manage to turn my head without cracking a vertebra to see hubby wrapped warmly in the blanket with his back turned to our WWE match, soundly sleeping. Of course.
Picture it: Hubby and I decide to hit the sack. After fighting over whose pillows are whose, we settle down, cuddle up and drift off into peaceful slumber. Sometime after REM sleep has kicked in, I am awakened by a faceful of Leila's hair. I used to be awakened by the sound of the bedroom door opening, but Leila has since become a master of sneak, and can enter and exit any room with the stealth of a ninja. I realize that I have been pushed to the edge of the bed and am covered by only one quarter of the blanket while Leila is rolled up like a little burrito in what was supposed to be my share of the covers. So I pick Leila up and carry her back to her bed, make a pit stop in the bathroom and crawl back into my own bed.
I close my eyes and just before I drift into the land of Nod, I hear Mia crying because she is getting over a cold and her stuffy nose makes for difficult breathing as she tries to suck her thumb. I wait to see if she will stop crying on her own and go back to sleep, but the whines are getting louder, and before she wakes up her sister, I decide to *sigh* bring her back to our bed, with every intention of putting her back in the crib once she falls back asleep. Mia has other plans. She wants to know what every sound is and what the shadows are on the wall, and then she wants to name all of my body parts. At 3 a.m. I am quite sure that I fall asleep before she does, and I am dreaming of being in a bad game of dodge ball during which my feet are cemented to the ground and I am being pelted with medicine balls from every angle. I begin to wake up, realizing that it is now morning and I am not being pelted by medicine balls, but instead my one- and three-year-olds are pile-driving me as I sleep. I am completely without covers, my arm is entirely numb in a strange contortion underneath my torso and my neck feels like I had been doing the "Night at the Roxbury" head bop all night. I manage to turn my head without cracking a vertebra to see hubby wrapped warmly in the blanket with his back turned to our WWE match, soundly sleeping. Of course.
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