Dino Mom

Sometimes I feel like a dino-mom.

Ancient and over the hill. Big and scaly. Roaring and cranky, too.

But, then my little dino-child comes around with a curiosity for all things dino.


“Mommy, what’s this?”

“Who’s that?”

“Why? Why, Mommy, why?”

She skips and dances, humming a tune. She throws her arms around me and professes her love for my dino-mom self.

Then, I smile and think that maybe being a dino-mom isn’t too bad.

Maybe a dino-mom is the best kinda mom to be.

I then go about my day less grouchy, less roary and somehow less ancient.

Later on, I sit down to share a cup of coffee with the T-Rex-mom up the street.

‘Cuz, you know, there’s always a bigger and badder dino on the block.

Kinda made me look like a harmless newt.

Dolly Hair Salon

“Mamma, I can’t find her hair brush!”

“Her hair brush?”

Silly of me to ask.

The doll’s nylon hair was standing on end, horrifically tangled and slightly gummy on one side. It was clear her grooming had been a tad bit overlooked.

“You’ll have to sort this one out on your own,” I said gently, before mentally adding, “….seeing that you were most likely the cause of this tendril travesty.”

I handed over a wide toothed comb and quickly extracted myself from the sticky scenario. I actually managed to enjoy a few moments to myself twittering around before my suspicions were aroused.

I suppose the endless running water should have sounded my alarm.

Not sure why the muffled giggles emanating from the upstairs bathroom didn’t quickly prick my ear.

What finally did lure me in was my three year’s old request for more of my fancy conditioner.

More?

In the end, the rest of my day was spent mopping a soapy floor and setting a dolly’s hair with my new hair curlers.

I figure, if she’s going to use half a bottle of my most expensive conditioner, we might as well give her the whole salon package.

Besides, there’s nothing like mile high hair on a naked Happy Holidays Barbie.

Worry Shrew...

I am not a worry wart. Not me. No way. No how.

Me?

I am a worry shrew.

Yes, a worry shrew, complete with a wart, a snaggle tooth and a rolling, lazy eye.

I burn the midnight oil as I run endless circles, wringing my knobbly fingers and hissing my endless worries.

When I am in the thick of a spell, I scold. I curse. I growl and I spit.

Nothing soothes my prickly thoughts or calms my crabby demeanor.

Yes, I am a worry shrew.

As for those worry warts?

Well…..they’re just a bunch of sissies ….

Grrrrrrr…

Father Time, quit riding my a$$!!

Lately, Father Time has been riding my a$$. I told him to lay off, but the bugger just won’t let up. Seems he gets to call all the shots in the relationship. And, when I call him out, he’s nowhere to be found.

He’s one slippery fella. Scrappy, too. Always wins.

So, the thought occurred to me. Maybe I should hit him where it counts. Maybe I should have a little heart to heart with his better half. Call up his old lady and let her know what her hubby’s really been up to. Fill her in on every last dirty little secret.

I am sure she would like to know how he’s been messing with us ladies.

It didn’t take long to figure out who his wife is. It was pretty obvious, after all.

I almost got up the nerve. Almost picked up that phone, called her up and let it all hang out.

But, common sense got the better of me.

After all, it’s best not to mess with Mother Nature.

A gal could go grey overnight.

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?

I was a Guest Blogger over at Natural and Organic bodycare. You've got to check out this blog for advice about organci beauty products and giveaways.

On vacation this week, folks! Off to the Happiest Place....Will let you know how it goes!

A Slippery Slope

I had fully anticipated this. I had ample warning. It’s common knowledge, after all.

Who among us isn’t aware that, at some point in our lives, we all transform into our mother?

Before we know it, we open our mouths and out pops dear ol’ Mom.

Eat your veggies! Drink you milk! Look before you cross and, for God’s sake, be home by nine!

However, as worrisome as this may sound, I fear the worst for myself.

I think I may have leapfrogged a generation.

You see, I am becoming my grandmother.

It all started with the simple purchase of a pair of elastic waistband pants, which was quickly followed by the discreet purchase of yet another pair….and then another. They’re just so comfy.

Of course, it made perfect sense to pick up the extra wide sensible shoes that matched the elastic waistband pants. Couldn’t pass those up. Since I was already in the shoe section, I figured I might as well buy some knee high nylons that were marked down 75%. Only a fool would pass up a sale like that.

And, since I was on a roll, who could blame me for snatching up the cozy cardigan which completed the whole ensemble?

Should I go back for the clip on pearl earrings, ya think?

These days, my oversized handbag is full of clipped coupons, Kleenexes and a broken pair of reading glasses……. Oh, there’s my missing knitting needle!

The other day, I somehow mistakenly checked out a book from the library with extra large print.

And I didn’t return it. So darn easy on the eyes.

I’m kinda under the radar about all this, but I am beginning to see the wisdom in comfort and the folly in vanity.

Who likes creeping satin panties anyway? Or stiff underwire? Itchy lace? Teetering high heels?

Not me.

Old age. It’s a slippery slope.

Somebody toss me a line??

I’ll wait over here on my rocker for a spell. Gonna knit me an afghan for the childuns.

Tinker 'Tude

She laid there sprawled across the chess board, hair in disarray and wings slightly bent.

“Tink! What are you doing here?”

From what I gathered, there was some sort of mix up during an afternoon cleanup in the playroom. A bit of a misfiling occurred. A misplacement of sorts. A goof. And, my suspicions were that my resident two year old was at the bottom of it somewhere.

Now, of course, Tink was full of complaints. She had spent the last four nights trapped in that Milton Bradely chess set and she wasn’t wasting any time letting me have it.

Didn’t I notice the light was not on in her teapot cottage?

Wasn’t I worried when her flower garden was looking wilty?

How did the children occupy themselves during her absence?

So, here we were. Me with my feather duster. She with an escalating fairy attitude. Nose to nose we were.

And, I heard her out. She certainly had a point.

It must have been a bit panicky locked in that box with all those faceless pawns, wondering when the next game night would occur.

However, I certainly cannot be held responsible for seeing that every toy is properly accounted for. Every. Single. Day.

So, I told her that. Plain and simple. No sugar coating…..

And so….

That’s how I ended up out here sitting on this toadstool in the backyard.

Ribbit.

Who would have thought a plastic fairy made in China could possess such a mean bag of tricks?

Mamma Aches...

“It’s from childbirth,” says my doctor after hearing my tirade about my uppity sciatic nerve.

“Pregnancy can do it to ya,” says my ophthalmologist as she writes me a stronger prescription for glasses.

“Bunions worsen with sudden weight gain,” says my foot doctor.

“Ya gotta stop bending at the waist to pick them up,” says my massage therapist as she wrestles with a knot in my back.

“Put some ice on it and elevate your feet,” advises my mom after I whack my shin on the toy bin.

“HUH?!” I say struggling to hear over the kids’ screams.

Mamma aches. It’s a new syndrome.

It does go away in time, doesn’t it?

And, can somebody pass me the aspirin?

Murder by Vacuum

So, it all started with the best intentions, really.

I was doing a little vacuuming in the playroom. Now, if I had noticed the pink feather boa cascading on to the ground, I could have avoided the whole fiasco.

But, I didn’t. And, so it happened.

Immediately, my high power Dyson vacuum violently sucked the boa halfway up into its bowels, causing a flurry of feathers, a burning smell and a high pitched whine to emit from my most beloved appliance.

Luck was with me (kinda) as it happened my girls were occupied downstairs and did not bear witness to the blunder.

Eager to cover up my crime, I pulled the vacuum to my room, boa firmly attached, trailing and bouncing behind. My cats began dive bombing the tail end of the boa, eager to help finish off the kill, I suppose. Shooing, them away, I hid the whole kit and caboodle deep in my closet and returned to the scene of the crime.

Assorted feathers were scattered on the floor and another kitty was making a feast of the situation.

Having heard my cursings, hubs was quick on the scene with the girls hot on his heels. I tried to stop him, but he was fast footed and eager to help. The feather strewn trail and burning aroma led him to the closet. Opening the closet door, he allowed a cat to escape. The cat coincidentally had firm hold of the boa and dragged the entire…um…situation out into full exposure.

As my daughters shrieked, a cat began regurgitating a feathery, glittery mass at our feet.

I, of course, stepped into the sticky muck. Hubs muffled a giggle. The cats fought over the boa’s carcass. And, the girls won a free trip to the toy aisle at Walmart.

Murder by vacuum.

At least it was quick.

And, kinda G rated, really, if ya think about it.

Sweep it, Sister!

"I sweep,” My toddler furrowed her brow as she pushed her plastic broom across the Lego littered floor.

“Clean up, clean up. Everybody, everywhere…” My preschooler had discovered my fluffy fuchsia feather duster and was boisterously bouncing around the room in search of cobwebs and dust bunnies.

And, where was I, you ask?

I was directing traffic from my perch on the couch, novel in one hand and a Cadbury egg in the other.

“Over there, darling, over there. The dust bunnies are under the sofa…”

“Atta, girl. Kick those Legos back into the closet.”

“We’ll have this place in ship shape in not time…Hand me the remote, would ya?”

Hallmark moments such as this are few and far between.

Gotta drink it up when you can. Live in the moment. Linger in the sweetness.

‘Cuz these kids can turn on a dime.

“Mommy! I hungry!”

“She won’t give it back!”

“I potty!”

“AHHHHH!”

Idiom Me.....

Ya gotta be quick witted around my house. My little daughters always have something up their sleeve. They’re a regular barrel of monkeys, those two.

Ya really gotta keep up with the best of ‘em. Stay on your toes. Keep your eye on the ball. Sometimes ya even gotta be scrappy around here.

I mean, I always try to keep ahead of the game. Outwit ‘em. Throw 'em for a loop. Head ‘em off at the pass.

But, sometimes they really give me a run for my money. Or simply put, knock me on my hiney.

At the end of the day, I guess you just gotta count your blessings and shine your best silver.

‘Cuz we all know who rules the roost around here.

And, it sure ain’t me.

A big thank you to my friendly idioms for lending a hand in this post. Sometimes a good idiom really knows how to take the words right out of your mouth.

Err…Or something like that…

Chocolate Bandit

He couldn’t be guiltier if he had been holding a smoking gun.

He was standing there wearing his boxers and a lopsided grin. And, he was holding the empty box of Dreyer’s chocolate peanut butter ice cream

“You wanted some?” He asked, attempting to display belated concern.

The gall. The indecency. The lack of civility.

“Scoundrel!” I muttered under my breath, turning on a swift heel.

Now, let’s hope he doesn’t discover the missing Hershey’s chocolate bar that was hidden in his top desk drawer.

Because, that would make me a hypocrite.

Or something. No?

A big thank you to Babymakin' Machine for the lovely shout out! If you haven't been over to visit her yet, what are you waiting for? Jen is so bright, funny and charismatic.....

Playing School

Now, when my little girls invited me to play Schoolhouse, I was under the impression that I would be the one at the chalkboard, ruler in hand.

But, oh, no.

My little ladies had something else up their sleeve.

I was directed to a footstool between Barbie Mariposa and Baby Alive. I was told to sit. Be still. And, heavens be, I had better listen up.

That schoolmaster appeared to be a bit uppity. Crochity, really. She stood in front of class, book in hand and she began her lecture.

On and on she went.

I started to doze off. Who could blame me? She was hard to follow. Kept hopping around topics. Frankly, I questioned her authority on the subjects.

The Dora footstool was jammed into my backside causing my lower extremities to grow number by the minute. I had to think of a plan. And quick.

I searched through my brain archive for escape plans and exit strategies.

I finally settled on the idea to fake illness and ask to be sent to the nurse’s office.

So, in a nutshell, that’s how I ended up lying here in the toddler bed tangled up in bandages with a thermometer up my nose.

Kinda made me consider re-entering the work force.

Mamma Brain

So, anybody out there seen my…ah….my what-cha-ma-call-it?

I know it was right here a minute ago.….

Now, where the heck did it go?

It didn’t grow legs and run off with that darned thing-ah-ma-jig I lost last week, did it?

Do you think you could help me find it?

‘Cuz we are supposed to meet What’s Her Face at that park over by…umm…. Ahh…..by….ah?

I think I’ll flip out if I can’t find it. So, if you could help, I will forever be in your service.

You will? Thank you! I appreciate it.

Ah, what was your name again?


Mamma Brain. It has a language all its own, doesn’t it?

Potty Whore

“Come on! Give it to me, Baby!”

“Come to Pappa!”

“Give it up, little lassie!”

The shocking words were emanating from the bathroom. Earlier, a toy had become lodged in the commode, resulting in a bit of a ….situation. Hubs was the first to go in equipped with a plunger, snake and a bucket. The rest of us could only listen to the resulting rodeo.

“Gosh dab durn it!”

“…Give it to me, Wild Pony!!”

“Take that, Potty Whore.”

Curious, I snuck a peek. He was hunched over, firmly tugging on a plunger, boot atop the pot, giving it his all. The tug of war was brutal. The pot seemed to have the home team advantage. It firmly stood its ground, calm and confidently poised in the middle of the powder room.

The sweat poured as his red face contorted with anger and creative utterances filled the air.

“Gonna buy Pappa a new pair of shoes!”

My husband was clearly the underdog, twisting and writhing around as he put all he had into the fight. Grateful my hunky hero had come to my rescue and happy to be on the sidelines, I nonetheless felt a bit helpless. I stood aside as the battle ensued allowing my worry to get the better of me.

“You want a piece of me??!” he hollered.

Clearly, this was what the potty wanted. A piece of him. She was holding her ground, not about to give an inch.

Finally, hubs stood, wiping the sweat from his brow. Turning to me he said, “Gotta let it sit awhile. Let her stew in it a bit.”

He retreated, boots stomping loudly. And I was left with a wet floor, a befelled plunger and a rather smug looking toilet.

The battle may have been lost, my potty friend. But, we will win the war.

Indeed.

I think it’s time a woman takes the wheel. Step aside.

*Author’s Note….Much apologies for using the crude “w” word. But, as you know, we only report the truth here on Mamma Talk. No editing, just a brutal dose of reality….Now pardon me, I’ve got some laundry fairies that need some wrangling….

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.

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!