My Haunted House

I think my house may be haunted. I am hoping it is a friendly ghost….fingers crossed…but, I don’t think I can deny its spooky presence any longer. It’s for sure. Some unexplained phenomenon has taken up residence here at the Mamma Talk humble abode. The signs have been there for awhile…

The midnight wailing…
“Maaaa-Maaaa-Maaa-Maaa! WAAA!”

The flickering of electric appliances…
“Stop pushing that button!”

The mysterious disappearance of personal items…
“Car keys?? Hmmm….Did you check my Ugg boots?”

The repetitive opening and shutting of cabinet doors…
“Yeah, of course I baby proofed the kitchen. What’s with all the questions?”

The high pitched shrieking….
“Miinnee!”

The clammy nightly visitors….
“Can’t sleep, Mommy.”

The clanging of chains…
“Your music is beautiful, baby. Ummm…Can I have my pot back now? Yeah…and the ladle, too.”

The projectile vomit…
“Not again…”

The growling…
“No! No! GRRRR!”

And, I know our feline friends can sense a ghostly presence.
HISSSSS!
“Let go of Mr. Kitty’s tail, baby.”

And, sometimes I just get the creeps for no reason…
“She’s the spitting image. I’m telling ya…It’s like you gave birth to your Mother in Law.”

Should I warn the babysitter?

Boooooooo!

What Goes on in my Head....

Sometimes the life of a Stay at Home Mom can get dull. Monotonous. Boring. Gray. Uninteresting. Oh, yeah and repetitive.

To liven things up a bit, I tend to sometimes engage in a little fantasy and self indulgent exaggeration.

“I’d be happy to reschedule my dental appointment, but since I’ll be on my book signing tour all of May….”

“Yes, Mr. President, I do understand the pressure you’re under, but you really have got to stop leaning on me like this.”

“No, worries, Dooce. It’s been a pleasure ghostwriting for you.”

“What am I going to do with it all? Gosh, where do I start??….I plan to give half of my winnings to charity, of course…”

“Houston, we’ve got a problem….but, thanks to this nail file and trusty bottle cap opener, I’ll have her fixed in a jiffy…”

“Well, Oprah, it all started with a little mommy blog back in ’08.”

“I’ll be in my trailer napping. Send my assistant when it’s time for my close-up.”

And, my favorite…

“I’m sorry, Mr. Clooney. I’ve been off the market for some time now….Besides, you know I never take back an ex.”

Ezakiel

“It’s from stress,” says hubby.

“Childbirth did it to ya,” says the doc.

“Bend your knees before you lift,” says Mom.

“You’ve gotta come back to Yoga,” says my girlfriend.

It doesn’t really matter what caused this shooting pain in my right hip. One thing’s for sure. This pain is camping out for awhile.

Stretching?
Massage?
Orthopedic shoes?

Nothing helps much.

I’ve decide to embrace this pain. Adopt it. Welcome it to its permanent home. Christen it with a name even.

“So, which is it this morning, Ezakiel? White hot spear or electric pitchfork? Come on, the ol’ sciatic nerve is waiting…”

“Slow morning, Zake? Here, let me pick up this wiggly toddler. That outta do it.”

“Come on, girls. Piggy back rides for everybody. Ezakiel’s feeling neglected.”

“Babe, the girls need milk for tomorrow and don’t forget the Bengay for little Zakey.”

“What a horrible night. I was up with Ezakiel 4 times. When do they sleep thru the night again?”

And, I’ll never forget the morning I slept funny and woke with a pulled neck muscle.

“Honey! Honey! I’ve got news!.....Ezakiel’s getting a little brother!”

Hopefully now with some company, he’ll be a little less grouchy, ya think? Nothing like a shooting pain suffering from only child syndrome.

Secret Package

It came in the mail last week, securely wrapped in bubble wrap and brown paper. I eagerly rushed it inside, shaking it madly on the way back from the mail box. Moments later, it was unwrapped and laying on the table as I scrutinized the instruction manual.

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 clicks of some multi colored buttons...

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.

Peanut Buttery Love

How did people raise children before peanut butter was invented? I mean, it is the glue that keeps this household together.

When the cupboard is bare…

“Hmmm…Wanna quick PB&J?”

On long road trips…

“Well, we can’t stop now. Here, I packed a peanut butter sandwich.”

It’s the staple for picnics….

“Crackers and peanut butter! Yummy!”

It’s the main ingredient in some most favorite snacks…

“…and a peanut butter cookie for you and one for you and two for me…”

It’s delicious on apple slices, celery or banana chunks…

“Mommy, what’s the green thing under the peanut butter?”

It makes for an interesting addition to an old favorite.

“And, I’ll have one scoop of that chocolate/peanut butter combo, heavy on the peanut butter!”

Nothing’s more adorable than sticky, little fingers.

“That is peanut butter, right?”

Rumor has it, peanut butter beats the pants off some of those expensive beauty products.

“Peanut butter lipstick is so fancy, right, Barbie Princess?”

And, it’s the tried and true solution to a common childhood problem…

“I told ya not to fall asleep with gum in your mouth. Where’s that peanut butter?!”

Lord knows the peanut butter-Salmonella scare that hit the headlines last month really de-railed this household.

“How about some cashew nut butter, girls?”

Groan. Groan. Groan.

Like they always say, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

This family loves our peanut buttery hero. Please don’t leave us again, PB. Please? Pretty please with peanut butter on top?

Grocery Store Panic

“I have to go potty.”

My shopping cart, filled to the rim, screeched to a sudden halt.

“What do you mean?” I asked in all my motherly wisdom.

“I have to go potty.” My three year old replied with an urgency I knew all too well.

A smoke cloud of burnt rubber hovered in aisle 8 as I accelerated past the frozen food. Much like Fred Flintstone, my stone aged feet were a blur as I weaved around old ladies and elbowed past soup stacking employees. My cart swayed on two wheels as I navigated corners.

We sprinted past the bakery without so much as a sideways glance (a first). We dodged the line in the pharmacy (without pausing for a look, listen and laugh). We crash landed just outside the bathroom door and quickly found our place at the end of a long meandering line.

I remained cool as a cucumber as I did the baby juggle in line. I kept my calm demeanor as I pacified my whiney 3 year old. I breathed deeply while I waited for ladies finishing their snail paced business. I sang softly to my two little ones as I listened to women cackle and gossip in their stalls. I averted my eyes when I saw ladies picking their teeth at the sink. I didn’t complain about the missing toilet seat covers. I didn’t grimace over the sticky floor. I restrained my belly aching over the two last squares of toilet paper. I was patient as I elevated my three year old’s buns over a sticky toilet seat. I smiled as I maintained my balance crouching in a football squat in front of yet another public toilet, baby draped over my lap and my arms aching from the weight of my three year old. But, I was not prepared for what would come next.

“Can’t go, Maybe try later.”


Pardon me as I give you a Mammatalk re-run as I am enjoying a lovely holiday with family. This post is from 6 months ago, back when I had two readers. Thanks for being so supportive, hubby and Wylie!

Them's Fightin' Words

“Gimme that back!”

“Mine.”

“Don’t do that!”

“Arghh!”

Ouch. Them’s fightin’ words.

My preschooler and toddler were in a tug of war over a purple, plastic purse, when I began to ponder the evolution of “fighting words.”

Preschool
Mine.

Elementary
I had it first.

Jr High
I liked him first.

High school
I saw him first.

College
I had him first.

Post college
I left him first.

Work force
I got to the altar first.

High school reunion
I had a baby first.

Staff meeting
I had that idea first.

Mommy and Me class
My baby did that first.

Playgroup
I lost the baby weight first.

What’s next? Are we all going to be sitting in a retirement home arguing over who got there first?
Not me. I think maybe I’ll stop and re-direct my energy the next time I’m in the mood for a little fightin’ words.

Except for the second week of July. Family reunion. Snarl. Good time for fightin’ words.

Look Away!

I decided to just not look. Look away. Avert my eyes. Pretend it was just not happening.

My toddler’s hair was goopy with applesauce, her face smeared with mashed potatoes and her bib was dripping with….Ick. The floor beneath her was littered with flattened peas and …(sigh) oh, can we just not talk about this?

Maybe I could just take the spoon and help her scoop the glob hanging from her chin.

“No!” she spouted.

I had been informed.

She continued on with her feast, eating fistfuls and spoonfuls as if she hadn’t eaten in days.

I decided to just not look. Look away. Avert my eyes. Pretend it was just not happening.

THUD.

Hmmm. I thought sippy cups were spill proof.

“Milk! Milk!” she commanded.

I had received my orders and, faithful servant that I was, crawled under the table to retrieve the beloved item. The squashed peas welcomed me to the party they were having in the carpet.

Squish. Squish.

So much for looking away.

And what is that splattered all over the baseboards? Closer inspection proved it was hardened, evidence of a long ago feast. The mahogany China cabinet had been targeted by the flying goop as well. And, that’s not a splatter under the table, right?

Splat!

Did I mention I was still under the table?

Should applesauce be washed out of your hair right away or are there benefits to letting it sit? Anyone?

Who, Me?

I know imitation is the highest form of flattery, but when my preschooler marched into the room with my Ugg boots up to her thighs and my purse dragging behind her, I knew I was in for a good look in the mirror.

“We can’t have this!” She ordered as she stamped back and forth.

“Clean up, everybody, now!”

A brisk clap and a scowl followed.

“Now! Now! Now!”

Her sharp tone sounded reminiscent of….my mother, maybe? Had to be it.

“No! No! No!”

Hands were now planted on her hips and the scowl deepened. I am assuming she meant business.

“Good girls share!”

Her stare was re-directed to her baby sister. A moment of relief. Wait. No. I was about to step in when I again became the target.

“Now, as for you, young lady,” she said.

A sharp finger pointed in my direction and a pair of little eyebrows raised northward.

Uh-oh. I think I am busted.

I’ll let ya know when the coast is clear.