Tag Archives: That Man of Mine

How Do WE Get Ready for Halloween?

As a family primarily populated by small children, we’re really just beginning to create holiday traditions. For a long time, it felt like we were the house of babies, then toddlers. And now that everyone is between the ages of two and three, we can actually say “we have three kids.” They are finally all able to understand Halloween – or at least the various decorations and activities that go along with it.

Now we have three very enthusiastic little people in our house who just LOVE PUMPKINS! So number one on the list of what we do to prepare for Halloween? We talk about pumpkins incessantly. The word “pumpkin” must be included in every other sentence – at least. And if we are driving in the car, there must be constant speculation about where the pumpkins are, how many there are and which direction should be taken to find them. Oh – and if there aren’t any to be seen? Get ready for some screaming.

We also make it our first order of business to purchase a hideous plastic light up pumpkin:

My three year old, Oliver felt that this was a “must have” on one of our trips to Harris Teeter – LAST MONTH. At the time, I thought, “what the hell? If an ugly light up pumpkin decoration adds to their Halloween experience, why not?” Why not? Because it’s now the most important feature of the house and must be plugged in at all times. Plugging that stupid pumpkin in is my first priority when we get up and when we come home in the evening. I’m starting to worry about what will happen when Halloween is over and the pumpkin is put away (hidden). How will they function without their tacky idol to worship? Will I have to buy them a plastic light up turkey?

The next Hood Halloween tradition is to buy our costumes early. And demand to wear them ALL THE TIME:

Unfortunately – George tired of his Yoda ears a couple of weeks ago and decided to hijack his brother’s costume:

If I don’t hide the Superman top, George will demand to wear it everywhere: to daycare, to bed, to the mall, in the tub (seriously – we’ve had some BIG fights about that). I’ve written before about George’s tendency to get attached to things. And I think that he would shatter all of the glass in the house with his screams if I dared to take that Superman costume away from him and let Oliver wear it. Luckily Target had more. So we’ll have two Supermen this year. I don’t care – at least Eleanor is happy as a ballerina. And I suppose I should be pleased that George isn’t demanding her costume.

But I think our most festive new Halloween tradition is “decorating the ceiling.” What – you’ve never tried this? Well let me tell you how it’s done!

It all started with one of my great ideas for kid friendly activities. I have these all the time – but they never turn out quite the way I have in mind. This particular gem was inspired by stickers. My kids love to put stickers on paper, but do tend to get frustrated when they can’t peel the stickers off the paper to re-stick them. So what could be more fun than reusable stickers? The answer? Halloween window clings! Have you ever heard of these? They’re like little gel stickers that you can put in your windows. I thought this could keep them busy for a long time while I made dinner, got lunches ready for the next day, changed out of my work clothes… And that it did.

While I put away dishes and Chris was on the computer, Oliver had the genius idea to rip the orange and black gel shapes into tiny pieces. Because shredding things is fun! Then he decided that if the pieces would stick to the window, they would stick just as well to ceiling!

I told Chris that I was running upstairs to change and caught Oliver in the act. He was mid-fling and obviously thrilled with the results of his work. We don’t have particularly high ceilings, but I had to be at least initially impressed by his skill. He had only gotten a few good throws in at that point, so I told him he had to stop, took away the pieces in his hands and called to Chris to make sure that nothing else happened until I came back downstairs. Assuming that my husband was in charge downstairs, I wasn’t in a rush. But apparently I should have been since my directions were not followed.

I came downstairs to find this:

Here is a close-up:

Now, I don’t usually take pictures of my children using their powers for evil. But this was just too outrageous. I needed proof. So before starting in on the husband evisceration, I grabbed my camera. That small detail out of the way, the whoop ass can was opened.

Unfortunately, no one was overly concerned with my rage. Chris thought the whole thing was hilarious and even tossed a few scraps himself. Just another example of men taking inappropriate pleasure in their sons’ misbehavior. It’s all about example setting at our house.

Anyway – the fun ended when we had to pull the pieces down later that evening and realized that they had stained our ceiling. But orange and black is festive for Halloween…and it makes the ceiling look old…like in a haunted house… Oh who am I kidding – it looks like crap. And I’m fairly certain that it won’t be re-painted until next Halloween. Chris is a bit of a project procrastinator. I mean, it takes him a year to make a dentist appointment (sorry honey – but it’s true).

So here it is October 30th, and we’re all ready for the big night! When darkness falls and the festivities begin, we’ll have our plastic pumpkin blazing, our children dressed as Supermen and ballerinas (costume wearers to be determined), and our ceiling stamped with the signs of much mischief. If you think about it, with the exception of costumes, it doesn’t deviate much from everyday life a “the house of kids” – where every day is Trick or Treat.

Happy Halloween!

Ungrateful Bitch

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Okay – so that sounds harsh. But I figure if teenagers are allowed to say it on the WB, then I’m not in any danger of being labeled a potty mouth. Not that I have anything against potty mouth writing. It’s almost the standard for most popular blogs. But I really don’t swear that much, so I’d feel like too much of a poser if I tried. And you have to be true to yourself – you know?

Okay, so now that my unnecessary disclaimer is out of the way… I’m running a little late on my Friday Confession. Actually – it will look like I have TWO Friday posts since I didn’t actually hit publish on my last one until after midnight last night. But since I was still up, I considered it Thursday. And THIS is my official Friday post.

So where does the swearing come in? Not at all actually. But but when I was trying to come up with a title for my subject, that was the first thing that came to mind. You see – I am terrible at receiving gifts. It’s not that I’m against getting presents – bring it on! – but people really do have a hard time shopping for me. I’m picky. I’m particular. And I’m mercurial when it comes to my likes and dislikes.

To clarify, I might like owls (I don’t – this is just an example – don’t buy me an owl), and I may even collect them. But that doesn’t mean that I like everything having to do with owls. I could even narrow it down and say that I like white ceramic owls with yellow eyes (again – I don’t – just making a point). BUT that doesn’t mean that I will like EVERY white ceramic owl with yellow eyes. Some may be too big, or the quality might not be great, or there might be a greenish cast to the white glaze when I prefer a warmer tone. You get the point. I’m a pain in the ass.

My friend Megan once put this well by saying “all the elements are there, but…” And I blame this entirely on my father. I inherited his fussiness along with his tendency tell people how to solve their problems when they haven’t actually asked. It’s genetic.

But I am a lot better at pretense than my Dad. How many times have I given him a gift, only to receive a noncommittal “huh” or have a flaw or observation pointed out to me (“I sure do have a lot of Hawaiian shirts”). He doesn’t do it on purpose – he’s just not good at pretending. I on the other hand have learned over the years to smile big and exclaim over whatever it is that I DO like about the gift. And if I don’t like anything about it, I marvel over something vague and not necessarily negative or positive (“Wow – this is so unusual. Where did you find it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before!”).

At the end of the day – I’d be happier just picking out my own gifts. But I’ve gotten better about this, and I’ve even tried to be open minded about things that may not have initially struck my fancy. The fact is, I really need to be less rigid about things because I now have children that will soon be coming home with hideous pantry inspired jewelry. I want to wear that macaroni bracelet and Fruit Loops necklace with pride. Well actually – I don’t think I can do that last one since I can’t stand the smell of fruit scented cereal and I might literally pass out from the stench. But you know what I mean.

I’m not really ungrateful, I’ve just always put a lot of thought into the way things look. I like my hair a certain way, I like my bed made just so, and yes – I like a particular sweater that I circled in the J. Crew catalog – not the one that was ultimately purchased for me. Does this make me a bitch? No – but I definitely walked a fine line when I was first dating Chris would be honest about presents that were a “good try.” My reasoning was that I didn’t want to paint myself into a corner where he thought I really did like tapestry vests (another made up example to illustrate a point) and continue to buy them for me. Instead I thought he could “learn from his mistakes.” Which sounds logical if you ignore the fact that it’s incredibly obnoxious.

Luckily Chris put up with me (and I don’t own any tapestry vests – so there!). We’ve been together for almost ten years and married for eight. He now picks out great gifts for me – when we actually do gifts. I will state for the record that I’m sure he would have developed a better understanding of my preferences over time, regardless of any tough love present buying lessons I gave him. To assume that it was all my doing would make me the worst of know-it-alls. But since this is a confession, I have to be honest. Deep down I really do think that I’m responsible for his finely honed instincts. So I’m an ungrateful know-it-all. What can I say? It’s genetic. Thanks Dad!

Kate & Oliver’s Baby Soothing Service: We Make House Calls

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The other night, my three year old son, Oliver accompanied me to our neighbors’ house to help soothe their baby. Actually, I was being consulted for my medical skills (if you call squirting saline solution up an infant’s nose and then finishing the job with a plastic syringe “skillful”). As a mother of three small children, I tend to command a great deal of respect in the knowledgeable mommy department. Which makes me feel very important – when I stop laughing.

I may not be the best choice for Rich and Cathy’s parenting guru, BUT I’m the fastest aspirator sucker in the West (or East since I live in Virginia). Oliver had a stuffy nose from the day he was born until his first birthday. And then six months later I gave birth to the twins who had their fair share of snot – though nothing to match Oliver’s prolific booger production. Bottom line: I may have to call the nurse hotline to get advice on constipation or vomiting – but I know exactly to do about a newborn with a stuffy nose.

Ironically enough, they really did think that Jack (the adorable two month old baby) might have a more serious problem. And when Rich knocked on our door to ask me to come over because Jack was having trouble breathing, I was expecting to find a baby gasping for air – and possibly turning blue, since I have a rather overactive imagination about this kind of thing. Instead I found a placid baby staring up at worried adults and comically snorting out breaths.

The reason that I brought Oliver with me is that I had been at BlogHer DC all day and since it was a holiday, the kids were at home and noticed my absence. I couldn’t leave the room without hearing a panicked Oliver calling for me. Somehow leaving the house didn’t seem like it would bode well for a peaceful bedtime. It was decided that he would have to accompany me on my house call.

It was about 8:45 p.m. when we arrived – just about the time that I usually start trying to convince Oliver that it really is time to put on pajamas and not just some crazy idea I dreamed up. Although he can’t read the clock, he can sense an approaching bedtime like a tracker hearing hoof beats from a mile away. (Does that metaphor work? Not sure…a little awkward…but I’m keeping it.) This is when he generally starts his redirection routine: “Hey look! It’s Curious George!” or “Sammach [sandwich] PLEASE” or “Uh Oh! Pee pee!”). So you can imagine how thrilled he was with our impromptu excursion.

He was equally enchanted with “baby Jack” and did a lot of pointing and Cousin It-like babbling (Oliver’s version of talking) about him. And he happily watched as I examined my patient. Diagnosis? A lot of snot plugging up Jack’s nose. Prognosis? A very uncomfortable and sleepless night for everyone that lived with him. But a little saline and aspirator action would help.

Because I’m all about sharing my gift. I held the baby and made Cathy do the work as I guided her through the complicated process. Step one: have someone restrain flailing baby as you insert the saline bottle in the nostrils. Step two: hold the bottle over each nostril for approximately three seconds. Step three: wait a few more seconds for the saline to do its work. Step four: continue to hold baby’s arms – now that he’s most likely gaining Incredible Hulk strength and can beat you senseless with his fists – and use the aspirator to remove “the obstruction.” Note to new parents – saline for babies will drip, so you don’t have to squeeze the bottle. I made this mistake for an entire week of Oliver’s life until I finally realized that I was powerwashing his brain with saline.

It was only after we finished the procedure and started trying to soothe a hysterical Jack, that I noticed Oliver’s agitation. He was horrified by what we did to that poor sweet baby and hovered around us as if he was trying to figure out how to snatch Jack and make a break for the front door. And when I imagined the scene through his eyes, I had to admit that it probably looked like something that would happen in an alien abduction. It was definitely time to go home and watch some Barney.

So we said our goodbyes to the happy little family (translation: shell shocked parents and wailing infant) and made our way back. As soon as I closed our door though, I knew that it wasn’t going to work. Oliver just stood there, lips quivering and tears streaming, asking for baby Jack. What could I do? I took him back.

I didn’t even bother knocking since barely five minutes had passed, and sure enough, we found them just as we left them – trying to calm Jack down. Oliver gave me a “do something!” look – so I took Jack and did another one of my baby voodoo tricks on him.

When George was a newborn, he had bad reflux and upon the suggestion of another twin mom, I purchased the Itsy Bitsy Yoga Book. Apparently yoga poses help with reflux. Since George couldn’t exactly lower himself into a downward dog position, I had to read the book and do the little exercises with him. The only really useful piece of information that I took away from that chapter of my maternity leave was that if you hold a baby out in front of you with their head in your hands and their feet at your chest, and then quickly squat down and slowly rise up over and over again – the baby will be instantly soothed. It’s absolute magic.

While it did look ridiculous, my squatting routine did the trick after just a few drops. I continued while I spoke with the exhausted parents and watched out of the corner of my eye as Oliver relaxed. Since it seemed as if my work was done, I returned Jack to his mother and hustled Oliver out before the crying could begin again. No such luck. The wailing started as we were walking out the door.

This time we didn’t even make it into our house, Oliver charged back without me. I told Chris that we were returning and asked him to come with us. I don’t even know if Cathy and Rich were surprised to see us. All I could say was, “yeah…we’re back.” I returned to my squatting routine, Oliver found Wonder Pets on the TV and Chris opened a beer. We certainly do know how to make ourselves at home.

One problem with the Itsy Bisty Yoga soothing magic is that it’s impossible to sustain for long periods of time. This is the exact reason why people hate going to the gym. It’s hard. Unfortunately – Jack was a grumpy boy, and the minute I would stop, we would start crying. Since Oliver refused to leave Jack in his time of need, I was starting to wonder if we’d ever get out of there.

My solution was for Rich and Jack to escort us back to our house. This ALWAYS works when Oliver doesn’t want to come inside after playing with a neighbor’s dog. Now instead of fighting with him, I just ask the owner to come back to our house for a few minutes (maybe I should write a book – I’m just full of great advice!) So we applied the same principles to the crying baby. Have I mentioned that I live in a townhouse? This story sounds a lot less bizarre if you know that we’re only walking about 20 feet door to door.

Jack continued to be fussy at our house, and Oliver wouldn’t go upstairs with me. I couldn’t do one more squat if I tried. As it was, I was worried about being able to walk the next day. Chris said he’d give it a shot. Apparently – he is the secret weapon of our baby soothing service. He just held Jack close and rocked him while making shushing sounds. Within minutes, the baby was asleep. I was a bit suspicious and thought Chris may have learned that Ninja trick of pinching the side of someone’s neck to make them pass out… Either way – he seems to have a gift. Why he wasn’t using it on the twins when they were newborns and woke up every 20 minutes at night? I’m not sure. But it certainly did work on Jack.

It’s too bad that we don’t plan to have anymore babies, because DAMN – we’re good! But we really don’t plan to have anymore babies. I can barely control the ones that I do have. Who knows? Maybe Oliver absorbed everything he learned that night and will become The Baby Whisperer for his generation. Or more likely he’ll just cultivate an unusual fear of nasal spray and develop the disconcerting habit of entering his neighbors’ houses without knocking.

Make Mine a Double: Part I

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*Don’t forget to enter my giveaway for a beautiful clutch from Bee Gee Bags! Click here for details.

Exactly two years ago (give or take a week), I looked like this:

And yes – it was just as uncomfortable as it appears. And what is even more outrageous is that I remember looking at that picture and thinking it was “flattering” – that it made my stomach look less gigantic than it actually was. So apparently, I was even bigger in real life. People who have never been pregnant before can pick themselves up off the floor now. It’s not like that happens overnight. You do have some time to get used to it.

Enough about my enormous stomach though (shut up – I mean then, not now!). I am showing embarrassing pictures of myself as an opening for the story of the birth of my twins. It’s their birthday! On October 9, 2006, at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) I gave birth to George and Eleanor Hood. They looked like this shortly after they departed my body:

And no – they were not nearly as angelic as they appear. Actually, they were perfectly sweet babies – it’s just that there were two of them. And having had one newborn already – I knew the difference between one screaming baby and two screaming babies. It’s simple math: 2 x 1 baby = 1 seriously deranged mother. But that’s another story.

On the morning of October 9, 2006, I had a feeling that the end was near. While my scheduled c-section (my “baby A,” George was breech) wasn’t supposed to take place for another week, I just didn’t feel right. And of course I was already four centimeters dilated and showing some “signs” that are TMI for even this blog. Also, we had just moved into a new house three weeks prior and I was still carrying my 35 lb. 18 month old up and down the stairs. This probably helped to speed things along.

The bags were packed and waiting by the door and I was finally resigned to the fact that George was not going to turn over for me, and I would have to have my first experience with surgery. Awake. One word: barbaric.

We were as ready as we were ever going to be – and I decided that I would spend the day trying to wrap things up at work, even though it was a federal holiday and the office was closed. It’s like I knew…

I won’t get into the details of the day – mainly because I barely remember them. But at about 5:00 p.m. I was ready to leave. I felt the urge to do some errands, so I called Chris and told him that I would be running late, and that he’d have to do Oliver’s bedtime routine (which he was more or less covering already in preparation for my post surgery limitations). Then I was off to the mall.

First stop – the cosmetics department at Nordstom. I was running low on concealer, and you know – this is a huge priority for someone that expects to be sequestered to their house for several months. I have to look good for the mail man and all. Then I headed over to Suissa, a hair salon where I had a history of success with random stylists (I’m notorious for being a walk in client).

When I arrived, the receptionist smiled at me and told me that I was the third expectant mother to come in that day. My first thought was that I hoped the others were as far along as I was and also sporting ill fitting maternity clothes that hinted at a penchant for inappropriate belly baring. I didn’t want to be “the big one” when they talked about the run on pregnant ladies that day. She told me that Giamcome would be able to take me immediately. (I don’t remember his name – but I once had another stylist named Giacome, and I think it suits my no name guy.)

Giacome? Not that much of a talker. But that suited me well enough, as my mind was racing in fifty different directions, and I didn’t mind NOT playing 20 questions with him as he pretended to be interested in my pregnancy. But one persistent thought running through the rest was that I was starting to worry about incontinence (don’t worry – this isn’t a story about incontinence – but it’s relevant in context). All day, I had been feeling a little…well, loose – for lack of a better word. I had never experienced incontinence before, and I was wondering if this was an early sign.

It was while my hair was being washed that I had the first pang of concern. There was definitely something going on down there – and I was feeling extremely grateful for the long black gown that covered my legs. At this point, I was thinking that I might look as if I had just had accident – or more accurately, that I looked like I HAD had an accident. But at the end of the day, I’m an optimist, and I hoped that it either wouldn’t show once I was standing up – or that maybe it would be dry by the time I had to unveil myself.

The haircut was uneventful. It was looking exactly like what I had requested and Giacome continued to play the strong silent type. But about ten minutes into the blow dry, something rather significant happened. I suddenly knew that I was not experiencing incontinence. I had my water broken for me in the hospital when I had my first son, and while this was not the same, there were definite similarities. It finally dawned on me: I wasn’t peeing my pants – I was going into labor.

I had never spontaneously gone into labor before. My 9 lb. 2 oz. first born was a week late and I had to be induced. And I was expecting a scheduled c-section for the twins. So I was completely unprepared for the slapstick situation of having my water break during my blow dry at the Tysons Corner Suissa where I was a goddamn walk in for god’s sake. Oh my god! Damn!

But I’m nothing if I’m not practical. And I never panic. So I quietly weighed my options as Giacome continued to smooth and straighten my hair. I had done this once before, and I knew that I had some time before I actually went into real labor. At this point I wasn’t even having contractions. Oh what the hell – my hair was only half done, and I figured that it wouldn’t hurt anything if I just let him finish. I deserved to have perfect hair for my first surgery. Awake. BARBARIC I tell you!

Plus – I kind of needed time to figure out what I was going to tell Giacome. I couldn’t imagine that this was something that happened every day at Suissa. So when he finally finished his last flicks and fluffs, it was time for me to break the news. I said, “so Giacome…I have to tell you something. I THINK that my water may have broken.” He looked at me blankly – and if he did say anything, I don’t remember what it was. At this point I was beginning to wonder if he was actually mute.

Then I stood up and he removed the vinyl drape. And that’s when I realized that my water hadn’t really broken yet – it was just starting to break. It was only when was vertical and gravity took over that it really BROKE. All over. With sound effects. I was truly in a sitcom from hell. And as an added bonus, that morning I decided not to wear the black pants that I had sported every day for the past two months. No – I was feeling “khaki.” And there was no camoflauging the river of amniotic fluid running down my legs.

Giamcome looked me. I looked at him. And then as if we had the same thought at the same time, we both looked at the chair where I had been sitting. Thank god it was the usual fake leather. I can’t even imagine the humiliation of leaving a soggy chair in my wake. I guess I expected more of a puddle – but maybe my pants absorbed most of it. All that was left was what you might find after a very sweaty person in shorts got up from a vinyl seat. And in silence, stoic Giacome switched on the hair drier and commenced to cleaning up my mess.

The receptionist’s desk was conveniently located directly behind me, so I grabbed her attention and explained that I’d have to settle up rather quickly. And I would have to use her phone because – of course – I left my cell at home that morning. I called Chris – told him to get the bags, make the necessary calls, take Oliver to our plan A person, and if she wasn’t home, to our plan B person. And then I was ready to go.

The receptionist was incredibly sweet and asked if there was anything she could do for me. I couldn’t really think of anything… She wasn’t a doctor, and she had already helped me with the walk in appointment… And a pedicure was definitely out of the question. So I said that I thought not. But then she offered to get my car for me – and that sounded like a great idea since I seemed to be losing gallons of amniotic fluid with every step I took. And I was pretty sure that I’d needed to keep some in there for another hour or two.

After some discussion about where I may or may not have parked (pregnant women NEVER remember where they park), I told her to “walk in that direction and just start clicking.” Eventually she’d hear the “beep-beep” noise.

While I was waiting outside for her, strategically covering my soaked pants with my purse, it occurred to me that I hadn’t called my doctor. Rookie mistake! And I didn’t have my cell… so had to again rely upon the kindness of strangers. The only person in speaking distance was a touristy looking guy who I think I remember as being Japanese (I know that there were characters on his phone screen instead of letters/numbers). Either way – he definitely didn’t speak much English, and I could only hope my appearance made up for any confusion over the translation for “broken water.” Apparently it did since he handed the phone over without any questions.

Just as I signed off with my doctor’s answering service, the receptionist peeled around the corner in my car. I handed the man back his phone and realized that I had never said goodbye to Giacome. Seems like we should have hugged or something. But it was too late, and it didn’t seem appropriate to hug the Japanese tourist. We didn’t have quite as much of a history, and you know – I was really wet.

With effusive thanks to the receptionist and the tourist, I was finally on my way to the hospital. As I drove off into the twilight, I wondered what my story’s cast of characters would make of my cameo appearance in what seemed to be just another ordinary day at the salon. Would they reminisce about me in months to come? Would they wonder what happened to me and wish me well? I didn’t know – but I didn’t have time to think about it. My real journey was only just beginning…

Cool ending huh? Like something from a really bad romance novel. Yeah – I just kinda went with it.

What’s that? Yes – I said “ending.” Have you noticed how LONG this post is? It’s definitely a “to be continued.” I’ll finish up tomorrow. And here are a couple of spoilers: I realize that when you have surgery you have to be naked, and Chris almost faints. In that order. But the two are not related. Till tomorrow then…

The First Mommy

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What pregnant mother doesn’t imagine a day when her baby will look into her eyes and say “mommy?” It’s one of the things that we most anticipate and most take for granted. When we think about our unborn child, we don’t consider any of the potential obstacles and challenges that he or she may face. We just picture that cherubic face, shining with love for us and a sweet little voice saying “mommy.”

My babies of course did not select “mommy” as their first word. I was pre-empted for “ball” and “teeth” and “daddy.” You would think that out of three children, at least ONE of them would humor me with an early “mama.” But apparently, that’s not the way they roll.

As I’ve mentioned before, my oldest son Oliver has had some speech delays. While he did start using words at the usual age, his progress was a bit on the slow side. After having him tested at age two, he qualified for a county funded pre-school (so while you say “oh no – speech delays…” I say “oh yeah – free preschool!”) And his teachers have worked with him on some of his more quirky habits like jargoning (which basically means speaking in gibberish) and making up words.

An example of these quirks was his bizarre tendency to say “yo-yo-yo” before something he wanted, like “yo-yo-yo cookie!” During this phase we called him a little rapper and spent countless hours amusing ourselves with imitations (because that’s the way WE roll). He’d also replace real words like “mom” or “mommy” or even “mama” with made up words like “mo.” So, yes – for about a year, my first born son called me “mo.”

Chris, of course thought this was hilarious and encouraged it: “Oliver – where’s Mo?…Oliver – listen to Mo…Oliver – keep calling your mother ‘Mo’ even though she doesn’t like it – because I’m sadistic and like to torture her when all she ever asked for was to be called ‘mommy’ by shining cherubic faces…” You know – that kind of thing.

While I didn’t exactly encourage “mo,” I lived with it and just hoped that he’d grow out of it someday. At the very least, I would not allow “mo” to become my official name in the family. Dammit – someone was going to call me mommy!

The first day that I brought Oliver to school was pretty hard on both of us. He was so little (only two!) and I had never left him anywhere new before. He’d been going to daycare since he was three months old. It was unthinkable for me to just hand him to strangers and then walk away. But I had to. And then I had to listen to cries of “Mo! Mo!” as I took the longest walk of my life away from him.

The end of those three hours could not arrive fast enough. Even though I was busy at my office less than a mile away, I felt like I hadn’t taken a breath since I had let go of his hand (something I hadn’t experienced since the first day I left him at daycare). When it was finally time to collect him, I raced into the school wildly scanning the crowd for his little blond head and orange jacket.

When I finally did spot him, he sat with the other little kids, looking confused and forlorn. Not crying – but heartbreakingly unsure of what would come next. Then his eyes met mine, and his cherubic little face broke into the brightest, most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. And then he said “Mommy!”

I have no idea what changed. Maybe the teachers referred to me as “mommy.” Maybe the other kids talked about their mommies. But for some reason, I finally stopped being “mo” and started being “mommy.”

Thank god!

As for George and Eleanor? Eleanor is a typical girl in her constant chatter. She started calling me mommy once she really began talking. And apparently, it’s her favorite word. It’s also the soundtrack of my life: “MO-MEE! MO-MEE! MO-MEE!” Be careful what you wish for – right? George is only just starting to call me mommy, but chooses to pronounce it “Ma-MY!” Of course he also calls Chris, “Da-DY!”

We find this insanely adorable. Weird. But adorable. Which I personally find to be an apt description for all of my children.

*This is part of the “Writing Motherhood” writing challenge and giveaway over at Mommyvents. Post a link to your own post in the comments section and you can win a copy of “Writing Motherhood.”

Like Cats and Dogs

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NOTE: This post has been edited to exclude a paragraph (and one last sentence) that were pointed out as unnecessarily harsh by a respected friend. I don’t want to have a mean spirited blog – so if you are wondering why I made some cuts…well, that’s why. This post is now less funny – but it’s also less cruel. A good trade off as far as I’m concerned.

For the past week, we’ve had an unofficial pet cat squatting on our front lawn. Actually – in all fairness, it is a pet we share with our next door neighbors since he spends half of his time on their lawn (and they put out the food and water).

We have no idea where this cat came from, but have heard that he’s been around the neighborhood for a while now. He was definitely someone’s pet. He loves people too much to be feral. Whenever I walk out the door, there he is rolling onto his back as if to say, “pet me please! I need love!”

He has also gotten into the house – much to my children’s delight. Since I was late for work and trying to get the kids out the door and into the car (it’s like herding cats, I tell you!), I was not delighted. But it does break my heart to leave him outside. The truth is, we just can’t take on a pet right now. More importantly, we can never have a cat because both my mother and brother are hideously allergic.

So far – this post has been pretty boring. Especially for people that don’t like cats. But the reason I bring up Arthur (one of the neighbors he used to stalk named him Arthur) is that he’s like the poster child for why people who love cats….well, love cats. He is the antithesis of everything cat haters claim to be their bad qualities. He’s lovable, he’s friendly, he follows you around, he appears in the window at night mouthing “let me in” and scares the bejeezus out of you (okay – that’s not exactly a good thing, but it does discount the idea that cats could care less about people…or maybe they just want to be inside…okay – strike that third one).

Arthur reminds me that if I didn’t have relatives with allergies (and if I was a bit more handy with the vacuum), I would probably be a cat person. I’m like a cat myself. I am independent, I like to be clean, I don’t barrel into a room demanding attention, I prefer to let people come to me, I like to be warm, I don’t like to be wet and I demand to be taken seriously. If I don’t like my situation, I retreat – but if you attack me, I am well able to defend myself.

My husband on the other hand, is a dog person. And what a surprise – his personality better reflects the qualities of dogs. He is incredibly social and requires little time by himself. He’s also a bit of a ham and likes nothing more than to be the center of attention. He has no problem laughing at himself. He is a swimmer (cats are not known for a love of water) and likes to run and fetch things (okay – that last one is not true, but he is awfully good about bringing me glasses of water at night). If he senses danger, he will come out swinging. He doesn’t let anyone push him around but is very cognizant of who holds the title of alpha male (but then again, don’t all men?).

So why do we get along so well? We don’t. Or more accurately, we have had to learn to understand and respect each other. And I think we’ve done a pretty good job of it. I know when he really needs my attention and he knows when I prefer to be left alone. And I think that we’ve helped each other grow up and get over ourselves a bit. I’ve made him lighten up with the alpha male stuff – and he has encouraged me to stop taking myself so seriously.

So big happy family of cats and dogs right? Not really what I had initially planned on writing. What I was really thinking about was how people tend to like one animal more than the other, and often have heated debates over which pet is better. This was actually the subject of this week’s All Mediocre “Topic Tuesday” (every Tuesday a topic is up for discussion – one that is not particularly serious, one that might actually be considered “mediocre” in relevance). And as usual – I can see both sides.

There is no question about it. Cat people can be pretty weird. But the cool ones will readily admit it. I was recently laughing with an old friend about how one day in eighth grade I found a stack of polaroids on her desk that featured all of her cats in different positions and locations in the house. When I asked her about them, she started shuffling through and saying, “look at this one of Gatsby – he’s such a clown…and then look at Fluffy’s expression in this one. She’s such a snob.” Meanwhile, all I was seeing was a cat on a chair, a cat on a porch, a cat on a counter… Of course the fact that she is able to see the humor in this, makes it much less weird. Sort of… And for the record, she’d totally agree with me.

The really bizarre cat people don’t have a sense of humor about themselves give a bad name to the others. And as a result, smug dog lovers feel justified in cultivating a healthy disdain of their feline loving nemeses. They sneer at the idea that a cat can provide as much love and affection as a dog. And I must admit, they make some valid points. I mean cats DO tend to be very independent and they can be shy with new people when a dog would be leaping all over the visitor, pleading for attention. But the dog lovers lose me when they start talking about how cats are “mean.” Everyone has heard at least one ardent cat hater insist that cats are “sneaky” and “selfish” and “mean.” These are all very human traits and really don’t apply to the animal kingdom, making for a somewhat ridiculous argument. And let’s be honest – at the end of the day, you never hear a news report about someone being viciously attacked by cats.

Another strike against dogs is the whole picking up dog poo thing. I can’t think of anything that I’d rather do less. Four years of changing diapers will be enough poop for me thank you very much. And ironically enough, many dog owners who chose not to have children will often make comments about the horrors of diaper changing. But they have no problem going for a three mile walk with their dog, carrying a bag full of poop. I may change a lot of diapers – but I don’t throw all of the poop in a plastic bag and carry it around the neighborhood.

Why do I always end up talking about poop? And how did I manage to write such a long post about cats and dogs and not even have a point? Let’s see if I can reel this in.

Everyone is different, and as a result we’ll all have varied preferences including the pet that suits us best. And some even like both – or neither. But there is no reason to be nasty about it. Arthur (who is unnervingly absent from our front lawn at the moment – making me wonder if he’s hiding somewhere in the house) is a great cat. Even my dog lover husband says so. So how can you say that cats are “mean?” Maybe we spend too much time making blanket statements and not taking these animals on a case by case basis. Maybe we also do this with each other far more than necessary. MAYBE instead of fighting like cats and dogs (there’s the tie in!), we should just respect each other for our differences and get over it already. We all have flaws – but we also have our good points.

This is What Crazy Looks Like

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Parents
Kate (36*)
Chris (35*)

Children
Oliver (almost 3 1/2)
George (almost 2)
Eleanor (almost 2)

*I included the ages of the children as a frame of reference and then decided to do it for all of us. Just like Us Weekly and People Magazine. They always do that. I don’t know about you – but I find something very reassuring about knowing how old people in magazines are. So what the hell – we’re old.

A Little Background:
It’s Sunday. The day started at 7:30 a.m. (which is a miracle since it usually starts at 6:00 a.m.). Chris left on Saturday for a business trip. I am alone with the kids for the day – and while it’s sunny, it’s also too muddy to play outside.

Oliver: Play Doh please!

Kate: Okay – let’s all play at the table. Sit in chairs. No Play Doh on the floor.

Eleanor: Pway Doh!

George: (Drags a chair over to the TV to play with the buttons.)

Oliver: Snakes!

Kate: Okay – let’s make snakes.

Eleanor: Nakes!

Kate: Oliver – put your Play Doh back on the table. George – that’s too loud. Come back to the table.

Eleanor: Tay-boo!

Kate: (Moves both George and his chair back to the table as he shrieks like he’s being dipped in a vat of boiling oil.)

Oliver: More snakes please!

Kate: Okay – let’s make more snakes.

Eleanor: Nakes!

Kate: George, I said stop it. Come back to the table. That’s too loud. (Moves both George and his chair back to the table.)

George: (Emits a sound that bursts dog eardrums throughout the neighborhood.)

Kate: Okay – who poopied? I smell poopie.

Oliver: Candy please!

Eleanor: Caddy!

Kate: No candy. George did you poopie? Hey – Play Doh stays on the table!

[Omit approximately 30 minutes of more of the same.]

Kate: Okay – that’s it! No more Play Doh. Oliver – do you have to go potty?

Eleanor: Potty!

Oliver: No…

Kate: Let’s go try. George and Eleanor, you come too.

Eleanor: Too!

Kate: George – I said that’s enough. Stop playing with the TV. Let’s all go upstairs.

Eleanor: Dairs!

[Omit the 15 minutes that it actually takes to get everyone upstairs.]

Kate: Okay Oliver – come on, lets go potty.

Eleanor: Potty!

Kate: Pee Pee first.

George and Eleanor: Pee Pee!

Oliver: (Stands at the potty and pees.)

George and Eleanor: (Try to position heads directly under the “flow” in hopes of getting the best view.)

Kate: Hey – that’s too close! Okay Oliver, let’s go potty now.

Eleanor: Potty!

Oliver: (Sits on the potty.) Candy please!

Eleanor: Caddy!

Kate: No candy.

George: (Muffled shrieks of delight from another room.)

Kate: George! Where did you go?

[Everyone moves from bathroom to master bedroom where George is jumping on the bed.]

[Phone rings.]

Kate: (Answers the phone.) Hello? George get off the bed!

Chris (on the phone): Hi! It sounds a little crazy over there.

Kate: Oh – you know, the usual. Eleanor get down!

Eleanor: Down!

Kate: So what are you up to? Oliver? Where did you go?

Chris: I’m looking for Starbucks but it’s not here. They said I should go to…

Kate: OLIVER! Get out of the shower! Put that down! Oh my god – it’s all over the place….NO! Don’t do that – you’re going to slip…

Chris: What happ….

Kate: Oliver just spilled soap all over the shower stall and now it’s all over his legs and all over the floor and…OLIVER! Get off the bed – you’re getting soap everywhere!

Chris: Okay – it sounds like you’re busy, so I’ll let you…

Kate: Okay bye! (hangs up)

Eleanor: Bye!

Kate: Okay Oliver (back to being calm Mom) let’s get that soap off of your legs so it doesn’t get all over the bed. George and Eleanor, get down (takes George off the bed and puts him on the floor).

George: (Screams and flails – then hits a note so high that glassware can be heard shattering throughout the house.)

Kate: Eleanor (puts Eleanor on the floor), you too.

Eleanor: Too!

Kate: I smell poopie. Eleanor – did you poopie? Oliver! What did I say? No jumping on the bed – get down!

Eleanor: Down!

Kate: George! (Lunges for George as he starts to climb back up on the bed, but trips and bangs head on the corner.) Ow! Shit!

Eleanor: Sit!

Kate: (Takes a minute to recover and then looks up to see all three kids now jumping on the bed.) Okay – everyone get down NOW. I said NO JUMPING!

Eleanor: Dupping!

Kate: (Changing tactics.) Hey – who wants to watch Curious George?