Secret Pocket

I have a secret….. I am afraid of my purse.

No, it’s not the stale Cheerios scattered at the bottom that gives me the creeps. Not the lost, dirty Kleenex that puts my hair on ends. And, it is not the gum clinging to the side that gives me the willies either.

It’s the secret pocket.

When I purchased this bag there were no warnings about a secret pocket. No tags advising to purchase at your own risk. No buyer beware. Nothing.

Truthfully, I had no idea that a secret pocket existed until …well, things began to happen.

It started with some spare change at Starbucks.

“Oh, thanks! I’ve been looking for the Nebraska quarter!” I naively chirped, tossing the coins into the “to be filed later” section of my purse. (Yes, that means they would be rubbing elbows with the “to be filed later” crumbling Cheerios partying in the deepest crevices of my purse.)

For days, I heard the coins jingle in my purse.

“Gotta file those..”

Then, one afternoon, I dumped my purse out…well, OK, my toddler dumped my purse out…… in the middle of the grocery cart, but that’s another story. The coins were gone. Missing. MIA. They had simply vanished. After a panicked swipe of my toddler’s mouth, I dismissed the odd occurrence. I filed it under “weird” …oh, and embarrassing…. and continued about my day.

Then, we had the lipstick incident. Things took a turn for the worse.

It was a certain lipstick that played a “now you see me, now you don’t” game with me in my purse for the better part of the week. Ordinarily, I would have just shrugged off the mystery and run to the local Walgreen’s for another quick purchase at the Wet and Wild display counter, but, Heck, budget’s tight these days! Gotta stretch that $1.99 as far as we can go…

So, here we go …another dumping of the purse. After shooing away a furry, 8 legged friend…or two…that had apparently taken up residence ….and averting my eyes from the gelatinous, gummy, quivering mass that seemed to be mating with my day planner, I came to the quick conclusion that this lipstick was NOT there!

My temper began to boil just beneath my “I’m-a-nice-person-who-once-worked-with-disadvantaged-youths” façade.

“Where is that freaky froupy nickel knucklebucker….” I searched my imagination for the most colorful swear words in my (limited and shrinking, thank you) vocabulary.

After a good working over, I tossed the purse to the floor. There was a clunk sound as it hit the ground. A clunk sound that shouldn’t be heard when yarn macramé hits linoleum. Grabbing the bag by her ( I hope it was a her) innards, I turned the whole kit and caboodle inside out to discover a hole in the stained, satiny inner lining.

A hole, as in a black hole, a time warp, a worm hole in space? Perhaps?

Peering through this hole, I found my lipstick! She was floating in a sea of Cheerios, between the macramé and satin lining, clinging desperately to a Nebraska quarter.

I was so happy to see her that I immediately swept her in my arms and kissed her. I applied her to my dry, colorless lips and promised to be a better Wet and Wild lipstick owner.

A hole in the lining! HA! Explains everything. Now, if someone could just explain the ransom note pinned to my lipstick’s chest, we’ll have a mystery solved.

Purse mafia, ya think?

This is a re-post. All this week I will be posting my favorite posts of 2009. Have a great New Year!

Hiss!

There’s something wrong with my mouth. It appears to have sprung a leak.

My days have been peppered with a variety of hisses lately.

“Shhhhhhh…Baby’s sleeping”

“Hisssssss, not in front of the children!!”

“Shuuushh! Do you need a time out?”

Of course, my years spent in the classroom afforded me lots of practice.

“Hisss! No talking!”

“SHhhh! You are speaking outta turn.”

“Shuuuuush! We are in the library!”

Hubby says I have two mouths, one for talking and one for…SHHH! The bloggers are listening.

All shushes are not the same.

* Machine Gun Shush- Sh-Sh-Sh-Sh-Sh- watch out! There’s a bullet in each syllable. Mama ain’t happy.

* Lullaby Shush- huuuuush… a kinder gentler shush, the place where all shushes are born; commonly echoed in maternity wards and baby nurseries.

* Librarian Shush- ssssssssshsssssshSHH!!- a long, continuous,snarling shush gaining in acceleration and followed by a sharp punctuation mark of a shush; translates to a firm warning, often precedes machine gun shush.

* Mommy Shush-ssssh-ssssh-sssssh-sssh-ssssh- a long series of rhythmic shushes, a reassuring hiss, An “Are you OK?” shush; usually accompanied by the patting of a back and smoothing of a toddler’s hair; often heard under playground equipment, bottom of stairwells and ends of long driveways.

* Daddy Shush-SSSHHH*T! – A firm, crisp shush, meant as a quick warning, it’s back end is blended with an expletive; often heard as a teeth clenched warning such as “Watch it!!...It’s gonna….SSSSHHH*T!”

* TSSSK-TSSSK-Tsssk- a cousin of Shhh. Translated to “No, no, not now.” Or “Don’t touch.” And occasionally meant to be an “Outta the way pronto” command.

* Shhhh should not be confused with the distant relative ssssssss, which is a crisis hiss, an ouch, breath holding inhalation hiss.

I am a talented husher. My knowledge and application of said hisses shouldn’t be underestimated. I am always ready to lend a hand at story time in the public library. I am equally available for crowd control at the bookstore. I am lots of fun at the movies. I am currently working on the ability to throw a hiss to the far side of a room without moving my lips (advanced hushing). It just might make me the fun one at parties.

Hiissss!

This is a re-post. It's Mamma Talk's year end review. I will be posting my favorite posts of 2009 this week. Feel free to join me. I'd love to read your favorite post!

Holiday Diva

This Holiday Spirit sure is a bossy one, isn’t she?

She storms in on Black Friday, demanding and shouting orders.

First, she does a number on your pocket book.

“Buy this. Buy that.”

Then, she has a thing or two to say about your home décor.

“More lights! More tinsel! More garland.…And, I don’t care if it’s your house, the electronic LED Santa is going over there!”

She monopolizes your social calendar.

“The office holiday party is this Friday, Breakfast with Santa is next Saturday….and don’t forget caroling with my mother tonight!!”

She prods you with guilt…

“You’re really going to just walk right past that Salvation Army guy?”

Takes over your kitchen…

“Out. I’m making Granny’s secret fruitcake recipe.”

Critiques your mood…..

“My, my….someone’s feeling a little Grinchy this morning!”

Piles on the homework…

“How are those Christmas cards coming?”

And, just when you’re ready to snap….Just when you’re about to wring her jolly, little neck….

She says the same thing…

“But, it’s Christmas!!”

Then, we nod our head in agreement, sob in our eggnog, and hop back on that holiday treadmill.

Sigh.

Don’t worry. Baby New Year is coming.

Hear he’s a real bundle of laughs.

New Year’s Resolutions, anyone?

An Affair to Remember...

What started out as a one man party has now turned into an army….

An army of single socks mingling in my bottom drawer commiserating in their loneliness.

I always keep them, you know.

If they don’t find their mate straight out of the dryer, I let them stick around.

I look them in the eye and tell them someday their prince will come. I promise them that if they go about their lives, chin up, there eventually will be a lover’s reunion.

“Don’t settle,” I remind them when I see one of them eyeing a less than desirable suitor.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I lecture as I untangle a clingy polyester blend from a cotton athletic sock.

Other times, a different reminder is needed. “Let’s do try to stay within our own league,” I whisper to a worn out wooly who was whistling at a satiny hose.

I’ve always had a tender heart for the lovelorn. But, I do think things may have gotten out of hand.

It was a late Saturday night. Hubby and I had fallen asleep early watching a flick. I was lost in a dream about….ah, no matter.

Suddenly, I heard some rowdiness coming from the bottom drawer.

The closer I got, the louder it became.

I clearly could make out Disco music mixed with laughter and some….muffled groans?

I opened the drawer a crack and was horrified.

I don’t want to get into details, but let’s just say I have quite the wild crew residing in my bottom drawer.

Might be time to weed out the undesirables.

Anyone interested in a fishnet thigh hi?

She seems to be the root to this madness….been like a cat in heat since she’s lost her better half….

The Stranger on my Tree...

There was an ornament, red and shiny, that was hanging from our Christmas tree.

It certainly looked innocent enough, hanging there as ornaments do, going about its business looking jolly and bright.

However, I knew better.

I had never laid eyes on this particular Christmas bulb before. This festive, shiny ball was a stranger to me. And, here it was rubbing elbows with my Baby’s First Christmas and hubby’s second grade stained glass candy cane.

“Where the heck did that come from?” I inquired, finger pointing.

“Dunno. The box from the attic?” hubby suggested.

Now, as the official ornament Queen, I know what is in each and every holiday box. Hubby was never a collector of things merry and bright. I am the one who carried the Christmas….um….baggage….so to speak…..into our union. I started my collection as a school teacher, amassing ornaments from my third grade students every December. And, here I am today still gleefully buying tinkling holiday balls to adorn our tree.

This ornament, my friends, did not belong with my beloved Christmas doo-dads.

This was a party crasher.

“I’ve never seen that ball in my life.”

“Well…….ah…….OK,” said hubby.

However, neither of us wanted to show the poor thing the door. Didn’t seem like the charitable thing to do. So, it was decided, that we would embrace the ornament as if it were one of our own. Provide it with a family. Give it a home.

Or at least allow it to hang out for awhile. Ahem.

So, we did just that. And, all was well.

Until it went missing one day.

My initial suspicions were correct.

It was Santa spyware.

Equipped with a miniature camera and a microphone, that darn thing went double agent on us. It recorded our every move. It knew when we were sleeping. It knew when we were awake. It knew when we were bad and good.

Better watch out, for Goodness sake!

Don’t tell me, you still believe Santa has a magic telescope, do ya?

Merry SITSmas

So many different ways to say Merry Christmas this holiday season...

Merry Christmas

Joyeux Noel

Feliz Navidad

od Jul and (Och) Ett Gott Nytt Å

Zalig Kerstfeast

Mele Kalikimaka

Feliz Natal

Merry Keshmish

But, most of all....Merry SITSmas!

Be sure to visit the SITS Girls if you haven't already. It is a wonderful blogging community with giveaways and blogathons. Lots of fun!

Conversations with a Boogie Man

OK, Mr. Boogie Man, I’ve had it up to here with all the midnight Shenanigans!

You’ve frightened my gaggle of gals to no ends. They’ve been spooked. Freaked. Scared out of their wits. You’ve spread the heebie jeebies around adequately enough.

Now, I’m pulling the plug on this operation.

Time to pull up stakes and head outta Dodge.

You’re not wanted here.

Go on now.

Get out before I throw you out…

What?

Your feelings?

Well…ah…no. I didn’t consider your feelings even remotely, now that you’re asking.

Oh…..

Now. Now. There. There.

Ok, Mr. Boogie Man. Don’t get all flustered.

It’s your behavior that we despise.

Ouch.

Strong word, “despise”?

OK. Let me re-phrase. It’s your behavior that we are not fond of.

You?

Well, you’re top drawer. As far as Boogie Men go, you’re the finest of the fine. As a matter of fact, we wish you much success in your next venture.

Can I help ya pack?

Here, take a Kleenex……

Sigh.

Bullies.

They’re all the same.

Big sissies.

Princess Turkey

My four year old was hard at work at her art station.

Sleeves rolled up and a whistlin’ while she worked, she was positively lost in her creative swirl.

I snuck a premature peek at the picture, but couldn’t make heads or tails. So, back to the scrubbing and sudsing in the kitchen I went.

Soon after, she presented her masterpiece to me, her familiar ear to ear grin pasted on her face.

“Wanna see?”

I got down to her eye level to meet her creation nose to nose.

The enormous bird was proudly sporting a full crop of widespread tail feathers colored pink, a fuchsia gobbler, and a lovely set of purple high heels.

I marveled at the details.

Rings sparkled from her feathery fingers. A diamond choker was clasped tightly around her gobbly neck. She held a lavender clutch. Her skinny legs stuck out from under her pink tutu. And a tiara teetered atop her tiny head.

Fashion at its finest.

“Princess turkey,” my little one explained.

“Simply delightful,” I affirmed.

I am always one to reward out-of-the-box thinking.

However, it did make me rethink that turkey sandwich.

Kinda gave me the guilts.

New Show on The Travel Channel

I had the opportunity to preview a new show, "Meet the Natives", that is scheduled to air on The Travel Channel this Sunday evening, November 29.

"Meet the Natives" chronicles the journey of five men from the remote Pacific island of Tanna as they tour the United States. These men are traditional farmers who typically wear grass skirts and sheaths (yes, those kind of sheaths). The spend their days living without the "conveniences" of modern men.

The show is done very tastefully, maintaining respect for the "native" men's culture. And, in the end, we are the ones who learn lessons from their thoughtful insights and warm humor.

Be sure to watch! This show premieres this Sunday evening, November 29 at 9 and 10 E/P.

Click here for a preview.

Mr. Potato Head's Thanksgiving

It was a lovely Thanksgiving feast in the playroom.

Mr. Potato Head sat at the head of the table.

Raggedy Ann and Andy squabbled over the corner seat.

A group of assorted Barbies gossiped and snickered on the left flank of the table.

Baby Alive balanced a full tea cup on the right.

And, Barbie Mariposa, in her full regalia, sat at the foot of the table. Her outstretched wings proved to be a logistical challenge at first. And, as usual, her lack of cooperation caused a flutter of whispers to rise from the rest of the Barbie crew.

Mr. Potato Head led the prayer of thanksgiving.

“We gather here today to join together…”

“Noone’s gettin’ hitched here, 'Tater Head.” Raggedy Andy was impatient.

“Yeah, that was last week,” gushed Bride Barbie, displaying her glittery plastic ring.

He began again.

“Here in the playroom, many toy creatures live together as family. We cohabitate together peacefully despite our differing backgrounds, toy stores of origin and Trademarks. As such…”

“Cut to the chase, Bud.” Andy wasn’t the only impatient toy. This heckle came from the Barbie crew.

“Ahem. We may occasionally bicker…However, we all contribute in our own, small way to a little child’s happiness. For this awesome opportunity, I think I speak for all when I say…”

“Muchas Gracias!” An abandoned, plastic Dora had found her way into the room to join the festivities.

“Damn straight, kid!” shouted Raggedy Andy before diving into the Play Doh pie and Moon Sand mashed potatoes.

Happy Thanksgiving from mine to yours!

Too Many Chefs in the Little Tykes Kitchen....

“Time to go!” I hollered upstairs to my little ducklings. I was eager to get them loaded and off for some grocery shopping.

“I’m busy.”

Busy?

Upon closer inspection, it was revealed that she was indeed busy.

Teetering in her Princess high heels, my two year old was manning the Little Tykes kitchen. Pots were clanking. Soup was bubbling. The timer was ticking. Something mysterious was baking. And the kettle was on.

Busy was the word.

“Maybe you can finish later,” I suggested.

“No. I busy.”

Between all the pots and brews, it was apparent my little one needed another set of hands.

“Here, I’ll help you finish,” I offered.

“No.”

Apparently, there were too many chefs in the kitchen.

Not wanting to disrupt her creative flow, I chose a little Tom Foolery.

“This Fairy Spice Soup looks lovely. Mind if I taste it?” I asked.

I slurped the imaginary concoction enthusiastically, incorporating the loudest sound effects.

“Oh, no!! We forgot the Fairy Spice!!” I was hopeful my overacting wasn’t killing the scene.

Needless to say, soon after we were all quickly strapped in the minivan off to buy some more fairy spice.

And milk, eggs and bread….

After all, when in Rome….

A Jurassic Lullaby

“Rock a Bye, Baby…”

My two year old was cradling the plastic Jurassic beast in her arms, patting its scaly back and kissing its reptilian nose.

“Shhh,” she whispered in its ear before placing it in the cradle for further rocking.

“Go sleep,” she cooed.

I stared at the Velociraptor, swaddled in a pink baby blankie, bottle shoved between its prominent fangs.

I admired my little one’s nurturing; her kind way with the ferocious creature.

She slipped a chubby cheeked baby doll under the covers next to the dinosaur.

“Friend,” she declared, eyes glimmering with joy.

And, I could have sworn, those red dino eyes shared the same glimmer.

For different reasons.

Needless to say, I re-located that fat dolly to a safe house later that day.

Not on my watch, ya overgrown croc!

Just wanted to give a big thank you to Heather from The Extraordinary Ordinary. She gave me such a lovely shout out the other day here. I am the "short and sweet" that she refers to (third paragraph down to be specific). If you haven't seen Heather's blog, please head over. Her posts are so well written and moving. After visiting her blog, you'll feel as if you just had a chat over tea with an old friend. The gal's got talent. You won't be disappointed.

My favorite post of Heather's is here. "Remember" It's simply lovely.

Here's Swine in Your Eye

It started with an innocent splash of Purell after grocery shopping. Some quick disinfecting of the shopping cart handle. And a little extra hand washing at home.

Which quickly graduated to…

Obsessive purchasing of disinfectants.

Frantic stocking up on a month’s worth of chicken soup and Children’s Tylenol.

Trolling Facebook for clues as to who to avoid.

And, though I am not proud to admit…..breath holding in crowded areas.

Yes, I have been sucked into this feverish frenzy, the black hole of flu panic. Determined to dodge the flu bullet, I have built a virtual flu fortress. I am armed with Lysol and equipped with Echinacea. I possess an arsenal of antioxidants, vitamins, herbal remedies and citrus beverages.

Prepared and ready to do battle, I am a flu bug warrior. Hear me roar.

And, step aside as I bubble wrap my blog, will ya?

So, That's Why I Haven't Been Sleeping

I was scanning the headlines the other day when I came across some shocking news.

“Major cutbacks at Sandman Incorporated”

Across the nation, thousands of Sandmen have received their walking papers.

“All I got was this pink slip and a reminder not to let the door hit me on the way out,” says one disgruntled former Sandman.

“They said I was sleeping on the job. You try working the night shift, Bud!” screamed another newly unemployed sleep worker.

"I'm FIRED?! But, I can put anyone to sleep anywhere, anytime. I got skills, I tell ya!"

Thousands more Sandmen have seen reductions in hours, salary as well as benefits. Morale is down.

“I can’t believe you need a Master’s Degree to qualify for this flea bitten job!”

There has been talk of a merger with a popular over the counter sleep remedy.

The impact is great.

People everywhere are laying awake at night, wheels a turnin’, hoping their sandman will come. And, sometimes his arrival never comes. Apparently, there have been rolling Sandman blackouts in a feeble attempt to decrease spending.

Public outrage is intense.

“I have three kids under five! I can’t afford to have the Sandman skip my house.”

“Why don’t they outsource, Dam Gummit?”

“What about those unskilled workers? I mean, how hard is it to toss some sand around?”

On a positive note, all the media coverage has shed some light on a previously unknown world.

“You mean there really is a Sandman?”

“That’s sweet. How exactly do you land a Sandman gig?”

“Do they run a background check on these fellas?”

Needless to say, the Tooth fairy has been shaking in her boots.

Yep, things have been tough for some of our nocturnal magical creatures.

Think Santa’s safe?

Eek.

It was a Snazzy Little Number

My toddler has taken to carrying a purse.

It’s a snazzy little number, black satin with embroidered flowers. And, a doo-dad on top, of course.

It can usually be found happily swinging on her wrist.

She simply won’t leave home without it.

It’s accompanied us to doctor’s appointments, trips to the library and play dates.

In the event that it is ever forgotten, there is much duress, and we simply must double back.

One evening, my curiosity got the better of me. I spelunked the depths of her little purse to discover bits and pieces of her life.

A hair clip, a discarded Band Aid, an injured Crayola and a fuzzy lollipop.

And, then I thought of my own purse, sitting sprawled upside down in it’s usually place in the middle of the living room floor amongst the Legos and Mr. Potato head accessories.

I peered deep within to inventory my purse’s contents.

Yep.

A lollipop, a hair clip, a Band-Aid, and a broken Crayola were tangled together in a hodgepodge at the bottom.

Some things just don’t evolve past preschool, do they?

Bells and Whistles

My daughters came home Halloween night after a good romp around the block, with trick or treat bags full to bursting.

They were simply over the moon. Like good little hunters dragging home a feast for the village, they were bursting with pride.

My preschooler couldn’t stop babbling on about the Nestle chocolate bar she had acquired. Apparently, she had elbowed her way past a couple of goblins in order to achieve her sweet victory.

My toddler bore the same sentiments over a rather sticky, purple lollipop, wrapper long ago discarded. Heaven knows where she found that gem.

Hubs and I were feeling warm and mushy ourselves. It was our first Halloween without a stroller or Baby Bjorn.

And, no assistance was needed with doorbells.

At ages two and four, our little gals are growing up.

To top the evening, we discovered their Halloween bags were magical.

Simply magical.

Apparently, these trick or treat bags had come equipped with some bells and whistles we hadn’t anticipated.

There was a disappearing button. One push. Candy gone. This button has a hair trigger. Watch out for those sticky, little fingers.

Luckily, there was also an automatic refill button. Thanks to hubby’s quick late night trip to Walmart. He was feeling guilty about his post bedtime candy raid, after all. The guy’s got heart.

Now, if we can just rig that automatic refill button to a couple choice places around the house, we’re good to go.

Wallet.

Dreyer’s Ice Cream container.

Cat food bowl.

Fancy hand creme.

Patent pending….

Let's Sail the Bloggy Seas.....

BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTT!!

Please excuse this interruption as “Mamma Talk” has temporarily been pirated by some ghostly, ghastly pirates.

Pirate 1: Arrrgh! We’re at the Capt’n’s wheel now, Mateys!

Pirate 2: We be flyin’ the Jolly Roger tonight. This be our blog now. “Pirate Talk” she’ll be. Argh.

Pirate 1: We be off to sail the bloggy seas. Pull the anchor and raise the sails, me hearties.

Pirate 2: We be helpin’ ourselves to yer bloggy booty, stealing yer pieces of eight and helpin’ ourselves to yer lassies.

Pirate 1: And, if ya don’t like it….well, dead men tell no tales.

Pirate 2: And, if ya do like it, well, yo-ho-ho!

Pirate 1: Light the cannons, there fellers. They be sleeping with Davey Jones tonight.

Much apologies from Mamma Talk management for this piratey coup. We’ll be back to regular scheduled programming after the holiday…..we hope.

What's Your Poison?

“Would you like a double chocolate, carmello, marshmallow shake?” My daughter asked, chef’s hat eschew. It had been a busy morning in her Little Tykes kitchen.

“Absolutely,” I reply downing it in one imaginary gulp.

“How about a spicy, orange juice, chocolate, fairy slurpee?”

She was pushing it a bit, but what the heck....

“Well, that would be most delightful,” I replied, throwing it down the hatch in one exaggerated swoop.

**What a chaser**

Shortly after, I topped it all off with a cup of mint, peanut butter, raspberry tea.

And, so it continued.

I was served concoction after concoction by my pint sized barista.

At one point, I was tempted to order up something a tad more adventurous, but thought better of it. Parenting always nudges us in the straight and narrow direction, doesn’t it?

By late afternoon, I had fictitiously sampled a vast array of magical brews.

It was a “high tea-happy hour-coffee break-ice cream social“ kind of a thing. Parents of preschoolers, I am sure you have been knee deep in this scenario on many an occasion.

Talk about chugging a lug.

My daughter was now manning the Playskool oven. Apparently, we were moving on to appetizers.

Zebra cheese and goblin crackers, anyone?

As soon as I finish this Play Doh popper, I know I’m game.

A Spooky Kind of Love

My little family ventured out in search of the perfect pumpkin. We endured a bouncing ride down a country road and some narrative from the back seat.

“Are we there yet?’

“More juuuice!”

Upon our arrival, I immediately fell in love with a Cinderella pumpkin, amber and misshapen.

Hubby set his eyes on an overgrown number still attached to a winding vine.

My toddler wasn’t too picky. Fingers were outstretched at every squash and gourd.

“Mine! Mine!”

But, the preschooler, she had her mind set. She was the picky one. She knew what she wanted and there was no backing down.

“How about this little white one?” I suggested.

“A ghost pumpkin” teased hubs.

“This is a pretty one, too.” I admired a shiny, round one.

But, she wasn’t having it. She was determined to find “the one” herself.

She meandered through the pumpkin patch, peering amongst the leaves and winding vines. She bent down to examine one but discarded it upon closer inspection.

“Just what are you looking for?” we asked in unison.

She reassured us not to worry. The pumpkin was here. She just needed a moment.

After some parental toe tapping, hubby suggested we take a break and enjoy some cider and cotton candy in the barn.

But, her laser focus was not to be interrupted. She was on a mission.

A pumpkin mission.

So, we gave her a moment. And then another.

Suddenly, the jackpot was hit.

Arms wrapped around a large, ill shaped pumpkin hidden at the edge of the patch, she smiled broadly and made the announcement.

“Here he is! I found him.”

I am sure I’ll always remember my 4 year old embracing that unconventional pick. Her heart was determined to spread cheer to the least likely candidate. The pumpkin underdog. The lovesick puppy in the proverbial window.

She had found her man.

And, with the help of a carving knife and a couple of tea lights, I think I just may fall in love, too.

A big thank you to everyone who voted for me during Scary Mommy's search for the Scariest Mommy! I appreciate the support and all the commenty love. But, alas, I wasn't the scariest. Congrats to the winners!

I'm a Scary Mommy, Too!

Scary Mommy is hosting a contest to find the most deserving “real” mother out there. In other words, she is looking for another “Scary Mommy” - a mommy with heart and soul, but who is also firmly grounded in the reality of the mommy trenches; a mommy who is most unafraid to admit her faults.

This contest, dear reader, simply called my name…

I began this blog shortly after I left my teaching career armed and equipped with the best a teaching credential has to offer. I happily infiltrated the ranks of stay at home mommydom, prepared, ready and….

…promptly got my hinny handed to me on a plate by a colicky baby and some dirty diapers.

I have been giddily blogging about the experience ever since.

The winner is given the opportunity to be highlighted on a blog that promotes the new movie, “Motherhood”, starring Uma Thurman, Minnie Driver and Anthony Edwards.

They’re also giving away a video camera.

So, if you could be so kind, please comment on Scary Mommy’s blog and tell her you think Mammatalk is the best candidate! Or, you could post your own Scary Mommy story. Nothing like a little healthy competition.

And, here is my favorite post that depicts the struggle to maintain sanity while mothering.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My Parent Decoder Ring.

I had saved up for weeks, hoarding every nickel and penny. I sent away for it secretly. Mum was the word. I had snuck the order form out to the mail, hidden between a couple bills.

And now, here it was. Shiny and new. Blinking and beeping on my kitchen table.

The fat instruction booklet was full of promise. Dr. Sears had nothing on this thing. Bothered by temper tantrums? Two turns to the left and a click to the right. Whiney toddler? One full spin and a push of the red blinking button. Argumentative tween? A couple spins and a few pushes of some multi colored buttons, a-la-Morse code.

I had thought I found the Holy Grail of Parenting. Soon after, I began seeing other parent decoder rings…everywhere!

The loud mouth in playgroup had one on her keychain. Our preschool teacher donned one on her right hand. And, what is that on the left finger of my Mother-in-Law??

Ring! Ring!

Ring! Ring!

Nurse: Doctor’s Office.

Hubby: She’s at it again. This time I found her leafing through the phone book and spinning a mood ring around in her hand.

Nurse: I’ll have the doctor call you ASAP….But, sir….if I can be so bold….You’ve really gotta stop forgetting Date Night…

Hubby: I know, I know…. Start with a bottle of Kendall Jackson and a foot rub….

Nurse: That’s a start.

My Magic Fairy Mamma-Mamma

So, I was spending time with my head in the cyber clouds. Taking a walk down the proverbial bloggy block when I dozed off. Not sure whose prose lulled me to sleep….Must have happened somewhere between a Crockpot recipe and a new baby tale, I suppose. But, no matter.

With my head resting on CNTRL/ALT, I floated off to the land of noddy. I was greeted by a magnificent lady in silver taffeta.

“Greetings, Mammatalk,” she chirped, adjusting her tiara.

“Who are you?” I asked, groggy and confused.

“My darling, I am your magic Fairy Mamma Talk-mother.” She was delighted as she spoke, clapping her hands with enthusiasm and with her shimmering wings fluttering in the laptop glow.

Nervous and excited, she was eager to explain. Her words quickly spilled out of her. She got ahead of herself at times as she bubbled on and on, stumbling here and stuttering there. She spoke of pumpkin facial masks and mommy spas. Pedicures, haircuts and waxings. Champagne flutes and chocolate. She tossed something out there about a life coach. Testing the waters, I think. Then, she finished off speaking of a nice afternoon nap with a Snuggie and a good book.

I was confused.

Surely, this was a good fairy. A creature of light. A good Samaritan of sorts. Eager to spread joy to my mamma world.

I should be overjoyed.

But, there was something about her manic giddiness that put me on edge.

Not to mention, the CNTRL/ALT key was digging into my nose.

“Why have you come?” I inquired.

She sighed. “All Mammas need a fairy mamma…Mamma…..Mammma! MAAMMMMA!!”

Then, I awoke with a start finding a keyboard jammed up my nose and a demanding toddler peering into my face.

“Mamma??”

And, off I went to fill sippy cups and change dirty diapers. But, you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll be in the garden tonight clicking ruby slippers and searching for a cricket named Jiminy. Or is it that mousey pair, Gus and Jaq, I should be looking for?

A discarded lamp?

Some magic beans?

You don’t think Rumpelstiltskin is behind this? I really can’t stand that guy.

Hmmm.

Might explain the shifty eyes.

Old Man Grump

We try to prevent it from happening. We really do.

The glass is half full at our house. Plenty of living in the moment and keeping your chin up over here. And, I’m happy to say we generally are bright eyed and bushy tailed.

But, on occasion, old man Grumps pays our family a visit.

He settles in, all cozy on the couch, an unwelcome visitor staking his claim. His influence is all encompassing.

“I don’t want to!” It starts with my preschooler.

“NO! NO! NO!” My toddler is quick to follow suit.

Hubby gets sucked into the negative spiral. “I just don’t have the time! Not now!!”

Our kitties feel the vibe. “HIISSSS!”

Per usual, I am the last to fall. “Can’t I get a moment’s peace around this mad house?!” Slam!

Soon, we are all whisking around a negative vortex lost amongst the complaints and belly aching.

At the height of our irritability, a life vest is thrown. A friendly phone call. A warm email. A fat baked good in the bakery window.

And, then, our grouchy house guest departs, leaving with promises to visit again soon. Let’s not have so much time pass between visits! Don’t be a stranger….and the like.

That fella, Grump, really chaps my hide. Next time, I outta introduce him to My Fiery Irish Temper. Like to see those rascals go head to head. I might even pay ring side seats to see that match.

And, my money’s on the red head. Go Irish!

My Odds are on the Kid

So, I was spending a leisurely afternoon with my little gals, sprawled out on the floor immersed in a friendly game of Candyland.

I had planned to teach them about the spirit of cooperation, fairness and turn taking. Possibly review our colors and numbers. Maybe touch on a lesson or two about counting.

And, then things starting getting ugly around the Licorice Forest.

My two year old had insisted upon illegally advancing her own pawn along the Candyland path, all the while stuffing my pawn up her nose.

My four year old kept sneaking a peek at the over turned deck of cards and rearranging the pieces on the game board.

My temper began to flare.

Who can play a friendly game with competition like this?

Cheaters. Conspirators. Up-to-no-gooders!

The scoundrels.

I insisted upon a time out. A re-match. Call in the ref.

Instant replay, maybe?

Apparently, my ruffled feathers only accelerated the chaos.

Our fans roared with commentary.

Mr. Potato head thought I was competing outside my age category, thereby giving me an unfair advantage.

Miss Raggedy thought it was about time I gave the hoodlums a piece of my mind.

My Little Pony thought an old washed up Candyland player like myself had no business getting back in the game at my age.

Thomas the train had a thing or two to say about hot heads getting worked up over alleged rule breaking.

Curious George just wanted us to get on with it. He had ten bucks riding on the toddler.

And, Mother Goose lectured us about remembering to put the fun back in the game.

Nothing like a little Milton Bradley to stir things up on an otherwise friendly afternoon in the playroom.

Who woulda thought?

Mommy Morphing

I suffer from Mamma Morphing Disorder. I spontaneously morph into various personalities to suit the situation.

Sometimes I am an old hag complete with a wart and hump shouting my commands and demands.

“For the last time!! Clean up this mess!!”

I am a witch perched atop a broom.

“Time for bed, my pretties!! (insert cackle)”

I am a furry beast baring yellow fangs.

“What did you say? GRRRR!”

I am a house troll chained beneath the stair.

“This laundry will be the death of me!”

I am a wicked schoolmarm armed with ruler and whistle.

“SHHHHHH!”

I am a hunchback in the bell tower, dragging my foot behind me.

“Really, how long has it been since I’ve had a good wax and cut?”

Happily, on rare occasion, I am the Fairy Godmother smiling from amongst the silvery pumpkins.

“Ice cream for everybody. Yeah!”

It’s a regular Disney circus around here.

A storybook soiree.

A cartoon carnival.

A bit of a beastie ball.

Sigh.

Sometimes this revolving door of Disney characters gets the best of me.

“Back in the closet, Tabitha and Isadora. Tuesdays are your day, remember? “

A bit of a scheduling nightmare, really.

Kinda hard to keep up.

I'm all ears!!

“I couldn’t believe it….

Really, if I behaved that way.

To have the nerve…”

Snippets of enticing conversation had slipped into my bedroom from an open window. Eager for a chunky morsel, I moved in for a better look and listen.

A lady pushing a bouncing baby buggy was passing beneath my window on her way to the neighborhood park.

And, apparently, she was knee deep in the most delicious conversation.

“Shocking!

You don’t say??

Really, now?”

Unfortunately, the other party involved in the conversation was notably absent.

Darn Bluetooth.

Takes all the fun out of peering over the fences.

“I just can’t believe the audacity.

Can you run that by me again??”

Yes, please do.

Ooops. Did I say that out loud?

Put Up Your Dukes!

The hysterics began slowly, building gradually and then peaked with one sharp, explosive piercing SCREECH!

Now, mind you, the panic would have been contained if the furry legged, multi-eyed beast of an arachnid had stayed in his corner of the tub.

But, oh, no.

This fierce bug had postured himself into a threatening stance. Perched on his hind legs, front legs balled into a fist, Spidey eyeballs rolling…..

And, pinchers pinching.

Not sure what this fella had in mind.

Guess he figured he could take me.

Maybe even thought I had it coming.

Perhaps he had planned to teach me a lesson.

Gimme a taste of my own medicine.

Serve me a knuckle sandwich even.

Typically, I am not one to back down from a fight. But, I just couldn’t see myself locking horns with this critter. Just not my thing.

I scurried off, tail between my legs, to fetch my hubby.

Hubby stomped in with his size 10 boots, eager to provide a quick and easy, albeit messy, solution.

And, then, I re-considered.

“Wait!”

Hubby hesitated, boot hovering over my opponent, quizzical look on his face.

“Ah…..um….I mean.…well…” I attempted to explain my thoughts.

Hubby raised an eyebrow.

“Ya gotta admire the spunk,” I said.

“Go get a cup.”

And, tonight, somewhere in our garden, a lone soldier returns home to the village, full of tales of bath tubs and gentle giants.

“…And, so, I gave her the ol’ one, two…See?

Tryin’ to mess with the likes of me.

Ain’t happenin’ on my watch. No, sir!

Next time, I’ll clock her where it counts…”

The Incident....

I found the doll hidden beneath the bed, crammed between a family of dust bunnies and a discarded Mr. Potato Head.

It was obvious what had occurred.

The knotted yarn hair and Crayola eye shadow…. The arms adorned with rubber baubles and plastic gemstones….. The fire engine red magic marker lipstick…..

The doll had quite obviously paid a visit to the toddler beauty parlor. Or, rather, the visit had been paid to her.

And, by the looks of the scissored off locks, I have a feeling my preschooler provided some technical assistance.

I tried to calm her, apologizing for my offspring’s callous attempts at beautification.

“They didn’t mean it, Miss Raggedy.”

“There. There.”

“They had the best intentions.”

But, there was no calming her. She insisted upon filing a complaint. Calling the authorities. Informing Dolly Social Services.

I continued to try to reason with her, but she was not having it.

Apparently, she had had enough. She wanted to be re-located to a more dolly friendly home.

She accused us of being insensitive. Bigots. Backward minded.

I think she even pulled the doll card. She said our doll prejudice was overwhelming.

I was shocked.

I do admit, my gals have a preference for dinosaurs, lizards and bugs, but our doll sensitivity is in full swing.

I think.

Her tirade was at its height when hubby joined the scene.

Apparently, he had heard the ruckus and had a thing or two to say as well.

“Goodwill.”

That did it. Miss Raggedy threw her knapsack over her shoulder and headed for the door. She mumbled a few choice words before slamming it behind her. And that was it.

What a relief.

Now, if we could just get Mr. Raggedy to stop all that pacing and hand wringing, we’ have a peaceful home once more.

Ahem.

OK. OK….Don’t worry. We’ll send a search crew….eventually. But, sometimes a good cooling off is necessary. Especially for an uptight rag doll with an attitude.

Besides, she kinda had it comin’.

A Little 4 Year Old Inspiration

My heart has been captured by a four year old ballerina.

The stiff tu-tu. The pink tights. The tight bun.

I watch her stumble and scurry across the ballet studio floor.

Each dance move always ends with an elegant bow, despite the slips and spills.

Every spin, no matter how topsy turvy, is followed by an elegant stretching of the arms skyward and a teetering balance on tippy toes.

Each pirouette. Every plie. All are followed by a confident flourish of the arms and a curt nod of the head.

I am inspired.

As I lay entangled in the next awkward Downward Facing Dog in my Beginning Yoga class, I will think of that tutu.

I will sigh.

My legs burning. My arms shaking. My yoga pants creeping in a Northward direction.

I will try again.

And, I just might finish class with an elegant bow and a curt nod of the head.

Hope it helps regain my composure.

What's That Growl Coming From the Closet?

Apparently, it was a green, furry finger emerging from the back of the closet that first got her attention.

Then, it was a glowing eyeball or two under the bed, blinking and winking in the darkness.

A growl from behind the stuffed animals was what pushed her over the edge.

At 1:30 AM.

Of course, a full safety inspection occurred complete with Mommy, Daddy and a Mag-lite flashlight…

A thorough search under the bed.

A long probe deep inside the closet.

Nothing.

It was explained that a vivid imagination often accompanies the fourth year of life.

“You’ll outgrow it.”

“Everyone gets nightmares.”

“It just isn’t real!”

However, my professor of a preschooler begged to differ.

“He was right here, Mommy.”

We tried to reason that we are the director of our own dreams. As such, the option to fire a particular dream cast member is always available.

“Tell him to go away,” said Daddy.

“You’re the boss.” I agreed. “Tell him to go bother someone else.”

She pondered this.

“Do you think he will listen?”

We reassured her that, yes, he will listen. If she really meant it, he would. If she ordered that monster out of the darkness with courage and determination, he’d flee. If she remained strong and firm, he’d just disappear. If she believed, he’d leave. Vanish. Scram.

And, he did.

He left with his tail between his furry legs, making a direct path to someone else’s closet.

Now, if I could just follow my own advice, we can boot him out of our family’s home altogether.

The kid was right. He is kinda creepy. Especially when he’s licking my Ugg boots. Ick.

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My Thinking Cap

I think I may have broken my thinking cap.

It’s my fault, really. I’ve been most careless with it. I always forget where I put it. Sometimes it’s missing days on end.

I’ve let the kids tinker with it. The cats have gnawed on it. And, I’ve even left it out in the yard overnight. Darn sprinklers.

Really, it’s been ages since it’s been polished…..

I just show her no appreciation.

Lord knows, thinking caps don’t grow on trees.

There’s millions of folk going about their days who are clearly not in possession of one of these dandy gadgets.

Sure, my thinking cap is peculiar looking. My particular model resembles an upturned silver colander adorned with bleeping lights and spinning buttons. Kinda makes for an interesting scene when I’m out mowing the lawn lost in thought.

But, heck, I’m the only mom on the street who has this model….or any model as a matter of fact.

It’s high time I take better care of it.

And, now, I’ve gone and broken it.

I’ve spent the better half of the morning changing batteries, pressing buttons and fiddling with wires.

Still no luck.

The use of Super Glue, scotch tape, and a bungee cord proved fruitless.

I’ve dipped into the tool box. Searched through my sewing kit. Rummaged through the craft box. And, spelunked the depths of my purse.

Still can’t find a tool that proves useful to my plight. Although, I did have high hopes for my purse sized nail file/ bottle opener combo, but that’s another post.

In my desperation, I’ve researched it at the library.

“Thinking who?”

Googled it.

“No results found.”

Asked Gramps.

“Eh?”

Nary a word of advice about my dilemma.

There are just no resources out there. No reference books or sites. Not even an old wives tale to consider.

What to do? What to do?

Hmmmm? Guess I’ve got to think on this for a spell….

Anybody got a thinking cap to spare?

Question of the year, isn’t it?

One Year!!

I can't believe it's been a year. A whole year.

I had meant to plan a big party complete with balloons, noisemakers and a juicy giveaway. But, alas, time got the better of me.

Today is Mammatalk's one year Blogiversary. It's been a year filled with snickering and lurking. Tweeting and twittering. Friending and following. Deleting and composing. And deleting again.

Oh, my baby blog, I have watched you learn to crawl....and then run. I watched with a tear in my eye as you wobbled down the hall on your spindly legs....and ran off into the blogosphere.

Thank you, my sweet, bloggy offspring, for being a refuge, a place for giggles and grins, a challenge as well as a springboard. I think back to those difficult newborn days when it was just you and me....posting and editing....*sigh*.....if only I knew then what I know now....I'd do it all over again!

And, thank you readers, subscribers, followers and most beloved lurkers! Thank you for joining me on the journey.

Ah...somebody is out there, right?

Happy First Birthday,Mammatalk! You're one heck of a kid!

Anybody Want A Cracker?

I’ve noticed lately that my freedom is tethered to my two daughters’ appetites.

And, boy, is it a short leash.

Just when I think I’ve found a stolen moment to unwind with a book…

“Moooooommy! I am huuuungry!”

My mornings are always started with a frantic tug at the leash.

“More Cheerios, Mommy??!!”

And, when I’ve tamed the morning growls, the late morning growls come creeping in.

“More crack-ahs??”

I’m not even safe in the car.

“Snack, Mamma?”

Heaven help ya if you take them on an errand without proper ammunition. As any wise mom knows, you simply must keep snacks in your purse….and glove compartment…and pockets….Heck, around your neck even.

It’s akin to always having a gaggle of geese gathered around you 24/7.

“Honk! Honk!”

“Stop your fussing Gertrude, Daisy and Clementine. You know there’s always bread crumbs at the bottom. Hang on there.”

I find it most unnerving when it occurs as one is unwinding at the end of the day….as it always does.

“Snack? I hungry!”

“Can ya gimme a minute, Gertrude?”

Really. There’s just no escaping.

HONK. HONK

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Yo, Mojo, Where You At?

I think I’ve lost my Mojo.

Yo, Mojo, where you at?

It seems my Mojo felt I was cramping her style. Bringing her down. Killing her vibe.

She hung around as long as she could before finally stealing away in the middle of the night, hot on the heels of some of my other lost friends (my patience, my sanity, my free time).

Since her disappearance, things have taken a serious turn for the worse. My inner fashion compass has been spinning erratically, hopelessly lost and confused. The end result is nothing less than a fashion nosedive.

I’ve been busting out the high waisted mamma wearing Lee rider jeans. I’ve developed a fondness for polyester and nylon. I buy hair scrunchies by the dozen. And, I seemed to have misplaced my favorite fanny pack.

I am really hanging on by my fashion fingertips, people. If it weren’t for the Wet and Wild makeup counter, I’d be a lost cause.

I first noticed my Mojo was missing at a recent wedding I attended. Happened on the dance floor. As I was attempting to shake it, I kinda forgot where it liked to be shook. And, how? And when? And, why?

And, now?

I am beginning to think my Mojo has been missing longer than I thought.

I simply must have my Mojo back.

I’ve called all her friends. Posted fliers. Offered up an award.

I just can’t go on without my sweet Mojo.

I need some help! Could we form a search party? Maybe everybody spread out and comb this place? Search high and low. Leave no stone unturned!

And, pedal to the metal, people.

I’d like to get my Mojo on tonight.

Ice Cream Bully

Ice cream is serious business around our house.

We’re regulars at the local ice cream parlor. We pay frequent late night visits to the ol’ ice cream aisle. And the guy at the drive thru knows our standing order. “Sundaes all around?”

We’re a regular ice cream fan club. And, I am the President.

Chocolate peanut butter. Rocky Road. Chunky Monkey.

You name it. I am an adoring fan.

Then, suddenly, my Vice President jumped ship. Claimed he was getting thick in the middle. Had to tighten his belt…so to speak…on his calorie intake. Apparently, our indulgences were slowing down his athletic performance, contributing to his middle aged spread and hanging around the ol’ caboose for a spell.

I was shocked. I felt abandoned. My bubble had burst.

I mean, what a wet blankie.

Aside from the ice cream thing, we’re pretty healthy folks. Organic meats. Lots of veggies. 8 glasses of water a day. Plenty of exercise. Vitamins.

So, I held firm with my ice cream obsession.

In fact, I became an ice cream bully.

“Want a bite?”

At first, he was steadfast in his convictions. Then, he wavered a bit. Only to steady and right himself once again.

I continued with my pursuit.

“Yum. Gotta try this new flavor.”

I just wouldn’t let him up for air.

“Yum-yum…. You’re missing out.”

Finally a firm proclamation. “No! No! No ice cream for me.”

I know. I know. I should support his new healthy goals. More ice cream for me, right?

But, sometimes, a sinful indulgence is better when shared. Don’t you agree?

“Want a bite?”

Hang on, I think he’s wavering again.

Laptop Romeo

My laptop and I are having a torrid affair. I didn’t mean for this to happen. It’s shocking how easily one slips into these little indiscretions. Sometimes, these things just…well…sorta happen.

I am simply addicted to the time we spend together. I sneak in moments whenever I can. Early morning. Nap time. Late nights.

You see….my laptop makes me feel like a new woman. He listens. He sends me messages. Makes me feel noticed. Adored. He gets me.

There’s never an argument. No demands. No nit picking.

It’s just easy.

But, after last night, I think it may be over. I’ve been so engrossed in my little affair, that I have been negligent of hubby. Noticing hubby was missing, I wandered into his home office only to catch him with a slinky little I-Mac.

He claims it was just a little innocent flirtation, but I suspect otherwise. During our argument, that trampy I-Mac took off running out the back door hand in hand with my Romeo of a laptop.

Typical.

Acknowledging our foolishness, hubby and I kissed and made up. We’re good at that.

But, I must confess. Temptation has reared it’s ugly head again.

It’s that Blackberry.

Keeps giving me the eye.

Showdown at the Corner Grocer

Standing in long lines with the kids at the grocery store just isn’t my thing. It really rattles my calm, cool demeanor. It unnerves me. Unsettles me. Kinda chaps my hide.

My point is, as the mother of two under five, I just do better when the cart is moving quickly through aisles. In fact, we all just do better with the wind in our hair and a nip at our cheeks. Our behavior is at its best with a rushed pace. We simply need an ever changing scenery of people, boxes of cereal and stacks of vegetables rolling past. Things move so smoothly…..efficiently…calmly ……when there’s movement. And, lots of it.

There’s something about being parked in an endless, unhurried line alongside tempting treats with a cart full of monkeys that completely derails the whole shopping experience. Needless to say, my mood takes an immediate nosedive.

I have done a few extra laps at the grocery store just to avoid a slow moving cashier. I have even deliberately quickened the pace when I spied a competitive fellow shopper eyeing the same short line. And, I’ve even gone so far as to cross items off the shopping list just for a chance to dart to a “no one’s in line over here” offer from a perky, Quick Draw McGraw cashier.

So, agreed, I like to avoid long lines. The question is, at what cost?

It was a typical morning at the grocery store. I had scored a double cart. I had found my items quickly. And, I had even happened upon a few sales.

My mood was light as I rounded the corner to spy a short line at check stand 3 with Ms. Quick Draw herself manning the ship.

And, then she came into view. Pushing a granny of a cart, complete with misbehaving wheels, it was clear she had eyed me first. She fidgeted with her Baby Bjorn strapped to her chest and was attempting to settle her grouchy toddler twins propped in the double cart.

With three kids under three years, I was clearly outnumbered.

Her cart was beyond full, bulging at the seams and groaning from the weight of the groceries. Not quite my pick to stand behind at the grocery store.

We faced each other silently, nose to nose, two mothers at the ultimate gunslinger showdown at the OK Corral.

She made the first move.

“You were here first?” I detected a snarl in her tone as her shifty eyes peered at the short line like a hawk peering at its prey.

The answer, of course, was yes. I was here first. My trigger finger was itching as I pondered my options.

I resigned myself.

“Go for it.” I nodded towards the line and left with a wink and a smile.

Sometimes, that long meandering line with the slow-as-Christmas cashier kinda looks inviting. Cozy, in fact.

And, sometimes, you just need to know when to back down.

Like a good gunslinger.

Little Crayola Me

Now, you know I approve whole heartedly of the creative arts.

I encourage it. I support it. I even prefer it.

I am the first to pull out the ol’ craft box. I allow my little gals quite a bit of free range when it comes to stretching the right side of their brains. And I would never think of limiting creative expression.

Gel pen. Crayola. Marker. Chalk pastels.

You name it. I’m all for it. Bring it on.

But, when my preschooler showed me her latest masterpiece labeled simply “Mommy”, I was aghast. I had to steady myself, really.

Stick legs. Medusa hair. No neck. Missing eye.

And, my middle finger was in a rigid salute. High in the air. Couldn’t miss it. For all to see.

Without a doubt, my quirky caricature was flipping everyone the bird.

And, judging by the crooked grimace on my no- nose cartoon face, I sure as heck meant it.

Not exactly sure what had gotten my Crayola likeness so peeved. But, I imagine, if I woke up missing a neck and a nose, with my hair full of snakes, I might be a little ornery myself.

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August- A Poser of A Month...

I have bone to pick with August. She’s a faker of a month. A poser. A bit of a bait and switcher. She claims to be a member of the Summer family, full of sunshine fun and pool parties. But, there’s something about her long, hot days that reminds me of the day after a party.

She’s a day late, settling in with the empty bottles, crumpled napkins and deflating balloons. All the fun is in her rearview mirror….4^th of July parades, last days of school and family vacations…Ahem, more specifically, my family vacations.

And, September keeps peering over her shoulder with her long, yellow school buses and sharpened pencils.

Kinda makes me nervous.

Maybe August gets a bad rap because of the lack of holidays. No holiday luster adding some life to her ho-hum calendar. No themes. No traditions. No jingly bells or bows. No magical character decorating eggs or scattering four leaf clovers across her days here in August.

I know I am not the only one less than pleased with August’s yearly visit. Everywhere, mini vans are returning home from long road trips, tents are unpitched, kiddie pools deflated and displeased children are buying school supplies.

On second thought, maybe it’s time to cut August a break.

Maybe it’s not her fault.

Maybe August signed up for summer and got the short end of the stick?

Maybe she’s doing the best with what she was given.

Maybe she’s misunderstood.

OK, August. I am giving you a second chance. Show me what you got.

Pure sophistication.

It wasn’t that I disapproved of her new look.

I rather liked the glittery purple eye shadow. It added a maturity to her appearance. The pink plastic pumps matched the Barbie Princess clutch so perfectly. And I think we all would agree that the subtle baubles and jewels were simple understated beauty.

As for the elbow length gloves? Elegant. The satin, fur lined cape? Classy. The furry boa? Pure sophistication.

Unarguably.

It was the twisted “unmentionables” that had rang my alarm, caused my concern and raised my dander. The unmentionables that had been “borrowed” from a drawer….. my drawer….The “unmentionables” that had been turned inside out and planted atop my resident four year old’s noggin.

Apparently, my unmentionables resemble a hat. Or a helmet. Or a crown. Or a tiara.…errr…or something.

Nothing like getting your panties in a knot…….over your panties in a knot.

Just a day in the life.

She was a granny of a cart....

So, my question is, do grocery carts ever get serviced?

Do the tires get rotated? The air pressure checked? And, what about that alignment?

It’s bad enough these go-carts come equipped without brakes or properly functioning turn signals. And, have you seen the seat belts on these puppies?

When I last was loading my most precious cargo into one of these contraptions at the corner grocer, there was only one word that came to mind.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

This particular beauty was the granny of the bunch. She most likely had served her time well, carting around screaming babies and bulging brown paper bags through the years.

And, she had the war wounds to show it.

This granny of a cart maneuvered slowly through the store, squeaking as she went. And, she was most tricky around corners.

Most interesting was her rear driver side tire. It seemed to swivel continuously in the wrong direction, lost in its mad, never ending rotation. The rear passenger side tire was no better as it seemed to be struggling with a long piece of random string that had the misfortune of having wound its way tightly around the axel.

And, let’s not even speak of her appearance. I do understand that the years can corrode beauty, but……really…..a bath was long overdue.

One can only wonder what kind of a life these poor things lead. The life of a work horse. A slave. An indentured servant. A prisoner, even.

And, then I heard the hoopla.

He had made it across three lanes of traffic without a hitch and was now attempting a wheelie over the curb.

A lone grocery cart breaking free.

I watched his heroic run with a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat.

And then I did it. I left that granny cart in the most remote corner of the parking lot, far from the peering eye of any teenage box boy. Unfettered. Unrestrained.

And free to catch up with her man.

Ah. I just love a happy ending. Kinda made my day.

Gotta Get Me One of These...

So, the kid’s got a lovie.

A security blanket. An attachment object. Or, to put it in her words…. "a woovie."

The two are inseparable. Best friends. Soulmates. Two peas in a pod. And, partners in crime.

A regular Bonnie and Clyde.

When I found the Crayons shoved in the DVD player, I knew who was to blame. The gooey fingerprints and pink lint gave it all away.

When the remote control went missing, I could have sworn I heard that blankie giggle.

She’s a bad influence, that one.

I decided to teach it a lesson. I threw that blankie in the washer with ….how shall I put it?.....some less than delicate items. When it came out of the laundry, my toddler seemed to be even more attached.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I guess.

The bond is unbreakable, I tell ya.

I suppose my toddler and her lovie are meant to be.

Together forever. United for all eternity in love and Play Doh. Never to part. Simply inseparable. Tried and true.

Maybe I gotta get me one of these? Might just take the edge off. No?

Road Trip Fun

I do not recommend taking a road trip with a toddler.

We spent half the trip debating whether it was a Pterodactyl or a chicken strapped in the back car seat.

Of course, it was inarguably a chicken that we wrestled back into the car seat after our frequent pit stops….a greased chicken at that.

The argument was whether or not her more piercing squeals resembled a winged Triassic creature or a common dime store barnyard fowl.

“EEEEYAAAAKK!”

Hubby insisted that a human ear has never heard a flying dinosaur’s screech. Therefore, we could never be certain.

I argued that a chicken comparison did our daughter’s unique vocalizations a disservice.

And so it went. Our lengthy pitter patter helped pitter away the miles and hours spent on the road.

Until we pulled into a parking lot for another quick pit stop.

Next to us, was a minivan, complete with a husband and wife wrestling their chicken-Pterodactyl combo back into the car seat.

“EEEEEYAAAKKK!”

It was here that hubby relinquished the fight.

“OK, You win. A Pterodactyl. Most definitely.”

Apparently, a little perspective was gained.

And, another win for me.