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

*************************************************************************************

I couldn't believe my luck this morning. I won Scary Mommy's Favorite Things Giveaway. This lady always has the best giveaways. There were over 700 entries! What luck! I am so thrilled! Thank you, Jill! Be sure to pay her a visit. Ya don't want to miss her next giveaway.

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.

************************************************************************************

My bloggy friend, Kerrie, has written an amazing e-book, "Get Published in Regional Parenting Magazines". Got some good blog posts? Magazines will pay for small articles, witty stories and parenting advice.

Written by a blogger, mom and freelance writer, this guide takes the legwork out of freelance writing. With a database of over 200 regional magazines, this guide is worth every penny. It comes complete with contact info, writer's guidelines and Excel documents that help track your submissions and pay.

Curious? Take a peek! I bought it and have had 3 sales in two days. And, you know I do not plug products on this blog. Not my thing.

Good luck!

Get Published in Regional Parenting Magazines.

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.