Housewife Royalty

I have always thought blue blood coursed through my veins. I strongly suspected that a tiara rested on the regal heads of my female ancestors. I considered the possibility that my pedigree, somehow lost in the royal shuffle, had the noble family crest imprinted at the bottom….(in fine print)…for all to see…(provided they have a magnifying glass).

And, now I know it’s true.

When I enter a room, music plays.

“Can you tell me how to get
How to get to Sesame Streeeeet.”

All occupants of the room rise upon my arrival.

“Pick me up! Pick me up!! Mommmy! Mooooooommy!”

When there is a crisis, I am always the first to be beckoned.

“She BROKE my dolly!!! AHHHHH!”

I have a full wait staff.

“Ahh…So, yeah…hon, can ya pick up a pizza?”

My ladies in waiting circle when I call…

“Yeah! Ya better pick up those Cheerios, Missy!”

I live in a prestigious palace…

“I don’t know how we fit all these toys in this crackerjack box of a house !”

…surrounded by sprawling grounds.

“Babe, is that some sort of weed experiment gone wrong in the backyard?”

I gracefully rule while perched atop my throne.

“Close the door!! I am on the can!”

Of course, I always bow to the Queen Mum.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Blog less. Cook more. Gotcha the first time, Ma!”

And, it is my sincere hope that I pass my tiara on to my little princesses…

“Harvard Law. Harvard Law. Harvard Law.”

Here’s to all the other royal mommies out there.

Fake kiss. Stiff wave. Curtsy. Fake kiss. Stiff wave. Curtsy.

The Laundry Fairy

A family of two becomes a family of four. Laundry doubles, right? Somehow, the math doesn’t work that way in our house. After the birth of two children, our laundry room exploded. Full hampers were multiplied by 10. Smelly socks reproduced like gerbils. And laundry baskets ceased to empty.

I sort and wash. I sort and fold. I sort and put away. I turn around to find myself knee deep in the Pacific Ocean of freshly soiled clothing. I am convinced an evil laundry fairy feathered her nest behind my dryer. She cackles with delight turning each lone stinky sock into three, filling laundry baskets to the rim, and spewing lipstick all over whites. With one wave of her wand, the tide of laundry rolls back into one mega tsunami of assorted soiled garments primed and ready to drown the lady of the house.

I know she’s there. She curls up with the dust bunnies in the dead of night, taking a joy ride in the dryer and washing up in the cat bowl in the morning. She giggles as she dozes, malice in her heart, dreaming up new ways to work me to death.

Not sure if she came with the house or if she followed me home from the maternity ward. How does one rid themselves of such a pest? Didn’t see any Fairy Lures or Tinkerbell traps for sale at Home Depot. Weren’t any poisoned apples in the produce aisle. No Fairy B Gone in the garden section.

Does one need to seek the assistance of some unsavory types for a solution? “I want her gone. And not in front of the children.”

Or do I seek the advice from a leaf reading character. “I see winged beasts plaguing your living space...I’ll give ya a two for one on a house cleanse.”

Maybe it’s time for a new pet. “So, ya got any big, ugly, mouse catching type kitties for sale?”

Hubby always offers to assist with the extra loads. “Thanks, hon, but I think I got it under control,” I lie. After all, one evil laundry fairy is about all I can take.

Hmmmmm…Think this what-cha-ma-call-it might fix her wagon?

Macaroni Madness

My preschooler is addicted to macaroni and cheese. She is a bit of a connoisseur, really. She can name that mac with just one bite.

“I see it’s Kraft again, Mommy,” she says with a pinch of mac and cheese snobbery.

She would be happy to eat macaroni three times a day.

Macaroni! Macaroni! Macaroni!

“Pickiness is typical at this age,” reassures my doctor.

However, her macaroni passion does concern me. Do you think this could lead to addiction?

“Been macaroni-free for 154 days, dude.”

Are there Macaroni 12 step programs?

“I have come to accept that I am powerless over Kraft.”

What about macaroni withdrawals?

“Just gimme some more mac, man! Just a little more….”

And doesn’t addiction sometimes lead to crime?

“Attention, shoppers! The Mac Bandit was last seen in Aisle 8. Keep your valuables…Um…I mean, your macaroni on your person at all times!”

You don’t think I need to worry about Black Market Macaroni?

“Could I score some Mac off ya, bro?”

What about Macaroni Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?

Prep the Mac. Eat the Mac. Clean the Mac. Prep the Mac. Eat the Mac. Clean the Mac. Prep the Mac….

Can a macrobiotic, macaroni diet effect your health?

“Don’t know what it is, Doc. Her skin tone has been so…well, orange lately.”

And can someone overdose on macaroni and cheese?

“Send an ambulance! My daughter won’t stop eating the macaroni!!….Oh….and…um…Can ya stop by Safeway? We’re almost out.”

After all, I would prefer my mommy meltdown to be over something more pressing than macaroni.

“What finally pushed her over the edge?”

“It was …It was…mac and cheese!”

One can’t live on macaroni alone. That’s why I thank my lucky stars she at least eats the occasional grilled cheese. Gotta fill their diet with some variety, ya know.

PS. Don’t worry…She eats a spare veggie or two… Well….ah…...If I bribe her with some mac!

A Big, Bloggy Thank You!

Just wanted to thank all of you for the wonderful support you showed me yesterday. I so enjoyed being the featured blogger on The Secret is in the Sauce. I have never been showered by so many compliments, support and just plain ol’ bloggy love. It truly was a moment-in-the-movie-star-sun. I felt as if I were walking the Bloggy red carpet, stopping to scribble a few “bloggy”-graphs. (Don’t worry. A screaming preschooler and whiney todder pulled me back down to Bloggy Earth) I also have never laughed so hard at some of your own humorous comments and emails (over 500 comments). Please keep ‘em coming! It may take awhile to get back to each of you, but I will return the visits.

…So, in sum, I am glad I got over my Bloggy Stage Fright I had the night before.

“What if they don’t get it?”

“Do you think that post was too racey?”

“Will they kick me out of their Bloggy Sorority?”

“Am I the Bloggy Black Sheep?”

“What if I throw a Bloggy Party and no-bloggy shows?”

“Will some-Bloggy love me?”

“Should I have linked to a nice, safe recipe?”

More goofy posts to come....

Welcome SITStas!

“The Secret is in the Sauce?”

“Yes, Mom. I’m the featured blogger today!!”

“But, you don’t cook.”

“No, it’s not a cooking blog. It’s well…click here.”

“So, it’s kinda like the Crockpot Lady?”

“No, get your mind out of the kitchen.”

“Why do they call it The Secret is in the Sauce if it isn’t about sauce?”

“It’s not literal, Mom. It’s a networking site that supports fellow lady bloggers through comment support…”

“Hmmmm. Is there something you aren’t telling me, dear?”

“No. No. I have been waiting for my moment in the sun and it has arrived. Today I dance on their bloggy stage…”

“You are beginning to worry me, hon.”

“Mom, it’s kinda like the American Idol for bloggers….Minus the record contract.”

“OHHHH! American Idol! Gotcha!!”

“Yep. Exciting, huh?!”

“So, who plays Paula Abdul?”

Soooo…for the rest of you out there in the blogosphere…I am thrilled with having the honor of being the featured blogger today. I so look forward to the wonderful opportunity. I am eager to read your comments, get your feedback and network with new bloggy friends. Hope you enjoy your visit at Mammatalk – “Girl talk for Mammas”. Current and future Mammas need apply! Oh, yeah, and everyone else is invited, too.

Bloggy Spa

OK, so you’re not in Kansas anymore, but you’re still on Mammatalk. We’ve just been to the Bloggy spa. Had a few nips and tucks. Hopefully, nothing too noticeable…just looks like we’ve been on vacation, right?

Yes, that is me in the header with my little gals up to their usual Shenanigans. April over at April Showers did pretty me up a bit, however. Nothing like a little cartoony tummy tuck and Crayola magic. She even cut and colored my hair. No extra charge. Voila! A whole new me.

Thank you to April for taking the vision in my head and bringing it to life. Thank you also for your hard work, speedy and so thorough. Thank you for your creative touch. Most of all, thank you for your patience with my obsession over the telephone wire….

“It needs to be twisted through the letters, but not obscuring them. Twisted loosely, not tight like rope. Can you bring it up and over the A? No, not that A. How about through the A and around the T? No, not that A. How about extending from the A to the T? No, not that A. Let’s move on the M’s…..”

What a gal!! A gal I highly recommend.

Toddler Pox

My doctor peered over his glasses as I whispered my secrets.

“I think something’s a little off with me lately.”

He leaned closer.

“I’m exhausted at the end of the day. I am distracted. I can’t seem to finish a sentence. I run circles in my home. I have a flabby belly, stretch marks and saggy boobs. I obsessively make macaroni and can’t break my Barney addiction.”

“Hmmm.” My doctor smiled knowingly. “My wife had a bout of this in the 80’s.”

“She did?” I felt instant relief. “What is it?”

“Toddler Pox,” he stated.

I gasped in horror. “Is there a cure?”

“No. No end to this. Rather, it evolves. It starts with Baby Pox. Then, Toddler Pox, of course. Preschool Pox is around the corner. Then you’ll catch a nasty case of Elementary Fever….giving way to The Tweenie Plague… graduating to the contagious Teenage-itis. We will have to quarantine during this time, naturally.” He paused reflectively.

Hands over my face, I took it all in as he continued. “It is cyclical, recurring every 25-35 years. But, for the second cycle, you serve more as a witness rather than a victim. Makes for interesting retirement years.”

“Don’t they inoculate for this?” I asked in outrage.

“The drug companies pushed for a vaccine, of course, but the diaper lobbyists have a strong grip on Washington.” He winked. “I have heard rumor about a certain doctor that can help.” He paused, scratching his head.

“His name is on the tip of my tongue,” he continued, “….Dr. Snik….no…Dr. Snitch….No. Um, that’s not it.….Snit….No,…..Snipity…Ah…yes….Doctor Snippy Snip. That’s him. This will stop a reoccurrence. If you can just get your husband in the car, they’ll fix him up good.”

Hmmmmm?

Author’s note….tongue in cheek, of course. I loooove and appreciate my toddler. Just driven a little crazy this week due to four large molars erupting in her little, mostly always wide-open-and-screaming mouth. Makes for a very screamy, screamy day! If you hear sirens blaring from my blog, you’ll know they have finally come after me with a big net.

Hippie Cups

“Mommy, I have hippie cups.”

Hmm. Thoughts of braless, hairy hippies danced wildly in my head. Braless women don’t have to worry about cups, right? They don’t wear….No. Must be on the wrong track.

“Hippie cups?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And what do hippie’s drink?” I asked because I knew what they smoked.

“Water.”

“And, so …you want water in your hippie cup? Or is it a hippie cup that you need? Or did you say you already have that?”

“Ahh….. *HICK*…..*HICK UP!*”

Oh.

Pass the Pampers

It was our first day at home with our first baby. I was busy running circles around the house frantically wondering what to do with my new bundle. Hubby had run to Costco to buy last minute baby accessories.

My cell phone rang.

“Honey, I’m here at Costco and I noticed they have…Um….feminine napkins here. Ya can buy a box of 100. Do ya need 'em?”

My heart glowed. This was the man I married. White knight that he was, remembering my most personal items. Doing my thinking for me when my brain was so fuzzy.

I threw kisses and a pet name or two into the phone and sighed. What a fella.

Over the next few days, I began to notice how odd these discount feminine napkins were. Stiff and unusually curved…I certainly won’t buy these again, I noted. Too bad there were a few hundred left. Thinking hubby bought the wrong absorbency, I read the back.

As I strained to read the finer writing, I learned about this pad’s wonderful Absorb-loc core, its soft comfort and the amazing protection it would offer me. I learned how this absorbent pad would offer the greatest level of coverage for the woman with medium-light bladder leakage…. Back up. Pop her in reverse. Hubby bought me diapers? Yes, the light bulb above my head began to light up as I stood there in my, um…..yes, adult diapers. I had thought it was an odd brand for a great price. In fact, Poise is one of the most popular bladder control pads out there.

After a good hyena laugh which threatened to bust my C-section stitches, I attempted to send hubby back to the store with the box.

Hubby refused. Wouldn’t do it. Apparently, it was embarrassing enough to buy a mega box of menstrual pads in a crowded Costco on a Saturday. Now, the thought of returning an open box of adult diapers unnerved him. Wouldn’t do it.

“Couldn’t you…um…maybe use them?” he ventured to ask. “They work, right?”

“What?!” My voice was more shrill than I had expected.

“Couldn’t you save them for later?” he continued.

“Later? As in 40 years later?”

“Well, maybe you could give them away?” He still had hope in his voice.

“And, I could give these to…?”

“A homeless shelter…Maybe a church?...A retirement home?”

I admired his sense of charity, but once again the thought of carrying that opened box out into the brightly lit, very public world horrified us both.

So, trash bin it went in the dead of the night. And, I still feel guilty.

Such is the story of my one day spent in adult diapers. May it be my last.



PS I hope I didn’t offend my Poise wearing bloggy friends with this post. I do have more to add to the confession. If this were to happen today, with this economy, I’d use the darn things! What a couple of wasteful chumps!

Toddler Pirate

My second baby was 8 months old when we first noticed it at the dinner table.

“Argh! Arrrrrgh! ARGH!” She spouted.

“Looks like the stork brought a baby pirate,” I noted.

Hubby nodded and whistled a piratey tune. We all joined in, creating what is now considered our family theme song.

“Argh! Argh!
Oh, I’m a baby pirate.
Yes, I am
I like to poop my pants
Whenever I can.”

“I’m the meanest baby pirate
Of the seven seas
I’ll make ya walk the plank
Then I’ll make ya feed me peas! ARRRGH!”

Today, at 16 months, my baby is a wobbly toddler pirate with a bit of a drunken swagger to her waddle. She chugs her sippy cup, one eye closed and screams “ARGH!” with well practiced gusto.

I promise ya, Captain Hook and I did not have a little roll in the hay back in late ’06. No encounters with Blackbeard either. Maybe there was a little mix up at the hospital. Think my real toddler is being rocked to sleep on some rickety boat by a peg legged sea rat while I sing “Wish Upon a Star” to my lil’ dozing pirate in her crib?

Ya don’t think her piratey DNA will manifest any further, do you?

“This term, your daughter continues to excel in all curricular areas. As discussed at our last parent teacher conference, she is working on keeping her hands to herself. Please see me about confiscated sword. PS. Her map skills are off the charts!”

Do you think she’ll face any social awkwardness among her peers?

“Ahoy, Mateys! Up for a playdate? ARRGH!”

And criminal behavior is purely environmental, right?

“... I keep finding these giant black X’s in the sandbox…Hey, where’s my watch?!”

And surely I can influence her with my calm motherly demeanor.

“NO! I will NOT buy you just one hoop earring!”

Well, I guess ya never know what you’re in for when you roll those genetic dice. Just gotta roll with the punches!

ARGH! Shiver me timbers!

My UnResolutions

I’ve thrown them out. Discarded them. Tossed them. Gave ‘em the boot. And I’m not feeling guilty about it.

This turn-over-a-new leaf, start-over-fresh New Year’s Resolution stuff is for the birds, I tell ya. A conspiracy slapped together by weight loss companies and self help authors. I know it. They joined forces in an effort to capitalize on low self esteem and post holiday blues.

Every lady should have but one resolution, I say. And it should repeat every year.

Be gentle with one self.

The kinder we are to ourselves, the more it will overspill into the rest of our lives. Think of the great things that could occur.

NO MORE….

“Is my butt too big in this?”

“I can’t do anything with my hair!”

“Blech! I need a makeover!”

“What happened to my BOOBS?!”

“I can’t do it!”

“Why ME!?”

AND LOTS MORE OF THIS..,.

Laughter, joy, peace, hugs, skinnier thighs, calm, tranquility, satisfaction, acceptance

OK, so I threw in the skinny thighs thing.

Go out there and be gentle with yourself, my bloggy friends. If that involves reckless abandon with a bar of chocolate, so be it!

And to end this, why do we always tell our children to “be nice”, but never “be nice to yourself?”

Cheers!

Oh, yeah....and go click on the free book thing.

White Flag of Surrender

I give up. I surrender. I wave the white flag. I didn’t know it would be this hard. I need more sleep. I need more patience. I need more cough syrup. Even my second wind is bone tired. Why did I ever think I’d be good at this? This? This mommy thing?

“Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Hmmmm…Backspace. Backspace. Delete. Delete. Delete.

Moral: Every mommy needs a five minute freak out session, especially during flu season.

I am Your Boogie Baby

My one year old likes to bust a move. We first noticed it in the car as we were listening to some tunes. She bobbed her head and shook her leaky sippy cup like a tambourine.

“Hmmm..This one has a little rhythm,” says hubby.

It’s true. She regularly gets jiggy with commercial jingles, sitcom theme songs, and certain cell phone ring tones. She gets her groove on when a particular button gets pushed on her Leapfrog Fire truck scoot toy. And she really gets that party started in her toddler Kindermusik class.

She is discerning with her musical taste, however. She scoffs at the 80’s, but play a little Disco Inferno, and this toddler cuts up the rug. And, we’re not talking about just some light head nodding and toe tapping here. This child works it. Her hips are shaking, arms swinging and there’s an occasional full body wave. She even attempted some mosh pit moves with her older sister when hubby played an old Nirvana album the other day.

Oh, yes, this child can sure shake her thang. She takes her art seriously, though. No jumpy, giggly, baby bouncing here. Her eyes closed, lip bit and with her caboose a rockin’, this gal brings the house down. Hubby and I attempt to keep up with our own wiggly jiggly’s but she always seems to leave us in the dance floor dust, leaky diaper and all.

All aboard the Soul train! Chug-a-chug-a-chug! Choo! Choo!