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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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.