Pumpkin Aversions

The Husband has food issues.  He hates using his hands to eat if there is any possible way to spill.  Hamburgers must always been on plates.  Pizza is always cut.  Chili is eaten at luke warm temperature.  Just to watch someone eat something messy (like those old Carl’s Jr. commercials), gives him the creeps.  We were at a restaurant once where they served him still boiling soup, and he threw his chair about a yard back.  It’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.  And I, I love to eat with my hands; I love to get messy.  While doing a sociology experiment, I had to eat a utensil dinner without utensils.  I adored eating my rice bowl that way so much that I did it for years.  The Husband and I both agree that this weird trait of his shouldn’t be passed to the boys as long as I also taught them to eat with utensils as needed.

Today we carved the pumpkin.  And yes, I love digging my hands into the pumpkin and pulling out the innards.  (Can you guess that I mix my meatball mixture by hand?)  The Husband wanted to carve, but he was more than willing to let me clean the pumpkin.  In my mind, I pictured the boys and I ewwing and squealing as we pulled out piles of slimy pumpkin vines.

Instead.  As I pulled out the innards, the boys shied away.  I couldn’t convince them to touch them at all.

Evan: Mommy!  They’re the icky!

Me: (to The Husband) I wonder where they get this from.

The Husband: Your side.

Me: (short laugh) Right.  No one in my family is grossed out by food.

The Husband: So all the looks come from your side and all the weird food aversions come from mine?

Me: Apparently.

No party and no costumes make Fae a very sad mom

I’m envious of a lot of you today.   I know why the internet was silent this morning, why my Storm wasn’t binging at outrageously early hour (since AZ is still on Western time), why so many haven’t been by.  Today the schools are celebrating Halloween, and you all spent the morning running around like chickens with their heads cut off.  Evan’s school has a no Halloween costume policy, which I should have asked about when I was looking for a school.

I love Halloween.  But I wonder if my mom began to hate it.  The day the school celebrated Halloween (usually on Halloween if it wasn’t on some glorious weekend) was the day we ran close to being late.  My mom hates being late or even on time; she likes to be early.  We were always early to school.  But Halloween morning found our house in seven kinds of chaos.  Mom!  Where’s my hat?!  Mom! I need your help with my make-up!  Mom!  I need you to do my hair!  Mom! Where’s my bow?  Mom!  I can’t go without my dress and hair sprayed with glitter!  Mom!  Where are my shoes?!  After a few years of chaos, my mom set down the law that if you wanted to dress up, you had to be up a half an hour earlier.  It didn’t help matters at all.  Since my mom was a super stay-at-home mom, I assume this scene is somewhat playing at your houses this morning.

But alas we didn’t have such moments.  Evan didn’t get to torture me by changing his mind.  I didn’t get to forbid him bring any weapon props.  We didn’t scramble to get treats ready for a class Halloween party.  I didn’t get to yell at Sean for sneaking the treats.  (Oh, wait I did because the little stinker was eating the Rice Krispie Treat ghosts before I iced them.)  I feel rather depressed by this.  Not that I blame the school . . . much.

Several years ago, before the boys, I was a teacher assistant at a private school.  The moms were ultra-competitive.  The first birthday rolled around, and the child brought delicious cupcakes.  The next birthday hit, and the cupcakes had sprinkles.  The next birthday came, and the cupcakes had candy.  The next birthday, it was cupcakes with rings on top.  The next birthday, toys on top of the cupcakes.  At the end of the year, a mom brought pizza, cake, and ice cream for the class.  A little ridiculous, even if I got to snag a piece of pizza.  The parties were worse as each mom brought something to outdo the other.  Instead of regular cookies and punch, it was gourmet cookies, sparkling punch, toys, full sized candy bars, and so on.

At the time I was pulling a second job with the Girl Scouts trying to start new troops in schools around OC.  We were at a school for three months, and at the end of the session, we would throw a party and induct each girl into the Girl Scouts.  We had a handle on the parties because we were working in middle class and lower neighborhoods, knowing moms worked or there wasn’t much money in the families.  We asked the girls to volunteer to bring chips/pretzels, punch/soda, and cookies/cupcakes.  If it was a huge session, we would add candy and break up the subcategories.  We insisted on economy bags of chips and liters of drink.  The girls were told to tell their parents that day and not the night before the party. 

Even with us monitoring the discussion, it was funny to have girls volunteer to bring cakes, pies, and even try to bring more than one thing.  We would gently persuade the girls to go along with our plans, trying to convince them that they didn’t sell Fire Cheetohs in big enough bags.  Of course, some crazy mother sent her daughter with a huge pack of Pixy Stix which we confiscated before the girls opened it.  Though I was evil enough, to send all the girls home with some and twice as many to the girl who brought it.

So if the school is trying to keep things low-key, I get it.  If they’re trying to protect the kids with food allergies, I’m on their side.  We wouldn’t want to a parent to mistakenly give a kid something he or she couldn’t eat.  But really, I wish we could throw a class party.   Or at least see the creative choices of the class.

Halloween Choices

I’ve been remised lately about the crafts, not just with you, but with the boys too.  Last year I had all kinds of crafts for people to do.  This year, um, not so much.  See, apparently when I get morning sickness, I prefer to let the boys learn from watching Mickey as I lay on the bed, telling my breakfast to stay put as I reread the adventures of Bella and Edward to keep my mind from questioning my sanity over deciding to get pregnant again.  This allows little to no time for crafts.  And Halloween is in a few days.  I’m sorry.  I suck.  I know.

But before I could become a fat (I know hard to do when I can’t keep my calories down), lazy slob in a hammock, yelling “Evan, get Mommy her prying bar; easy does it, easy, sugar” (nod to those who got that reference), I got my energy back.  Hallelujah!  So we made glue ghosts, which are more glitter than glue.  I plan on shaping some rice krispies bars into ghosts tomorrow.  Saturday my mom and I are planning a special Halloween dinner with scary face sloppy joes, ghost cheese bread, and bugs.  We still haven’t figured out desert.  I’m thinking brownie coffins again.

Last year I made ghost toast because Evan had a fever, so I had to forgo making ghost pancakes.  I cut their sandwiches with Halloween cookie cutters, but they didn’t eat them.  For dinner, I made a cheese pizza, using cheddar cheese so that I could use string cheese to make the web.  I made the ghost cheese bread out of refrigerated crescent dough, shaping the triangles into ghost shapes.  I made brownies that I cut into coffin shapes, iced, and then frosted a little cross on the top of each one.  I do this to make up for not being able to throw another large, outrageous Halloween party.

This year, I decided Sean should go as a pirate.  Sure, I should have asked.  I asked Evan at this age, and he wanted to be Robin Hood.  But I figured Sean is obsessed with pirates, so he would love a pirate costume.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a white button up shirt for a 2t boy?  No one has them.  I even went to a brunch of second hand stores.  Finally I settled on a size 4/5, since we all know pirates wore baggy clothes any ways.  I bought some dark grey sweatpants that I cut into a zig-zag pattern just below Sean’s knees.  My mom made Sean a black vest, and she found some gaudy button covers for him.  I cut him a red sash, tied a red bandana on his head, and placed a foam pirate’s hat on his head.  He loved the costume.

Remember last year when Evan decided two months out that he wanted to be a witch.  This year he couldn’t make up his mind.  He wanted to be a bat, a vampire, a green monster, a stick of gum, Halloween candy, a doctor, a rubber chicken, the chicken from Surf’s Up, a bubble gum machine, an alien.  At some point, I realized an Uncle was involved somewhere and told them to shut the f up.  So when we went to Wal-Mart, I told Evan he had to pick one thing.  My mom was looking at those cheap t-shirt costumes.  Evan picked the devil shirt, but since it had a corset, I thought I would make our own.  We went into the boy department and picked up a red turtle-neck and red sweats.  As I browsed the costume department for horns and a tail, which only came as a girl set, my mom and Evan argued because Evan had chosen something else, something store bought.  I think he wanted to be Darth Vader.  The kid has a wicked impression.  I broke up the fight and dragged Evan to the cash register with him calling me. 

What? 

I don’t want to be a devil anymore. 

What do you want to be? 

Ummmm, a transformer!

No.

When we returned home, I ripped off the feathers off the horns and placed them on Evan’s head, who laughed in delight, begging to wear his costume, which I obliged.  He was excited to be Mommy-what’s-it-called-again a devil. 

The next day he was wearing the shirt and pants with the tail still pinned to it before I even got out of bed.  Today he was a dragon.  Whatever.

Then Tuesday we were going to the special Halloween story time.  I dressed Sean up first.  Then I turned to Evan who decided he was going as a pirate too.  What?!  Are you kidding?! He calmly told me he could wear his pirate costume.  I should have said yes, but I have pride in my craftiness, so I couldn’t allow my son to go to Halloween in a store bought piece of crap.  I said no.  We argued.  I called for backup.  My mom wasn’t home, and my dad said he didn’t know.  Thanks.  I turned to Evan and gave him a choice.  Vampire or devil?

 Vampire.

Because this was the option thrown around most, I knew what I was going to do.  I pulled out his ring bearer tux.  I put him in his pants, shirt and white vest.  I used baby powder to whiten his face (because it doesn’t over do it like the costume make up).  Unfortunately when we moved, I went through all my make-up and threw out my unused lipsticks, costume make up and such, so the only lipstick I had was the one I actually use (from time to time when I have to be all “adult”).  Oh, well.  Then I put his black witch’s cape from last Halloween on him.  Bam.  Traditional vampire.  Except his hair was messed up like the newest, most popular, and arguably best looking vampire, and I didn’t have the heart to slick it back.  Actually I debated on throwing on some glitter (because I have tubes of that stuff).  But I refrained.

Evan loved it.  But at the end of story time, he had taken the pirate hat and was calling himself a musketeer.  Whatever.

Then yesterday when he talked to the triplet’s mom, and she asked what he was going to be for Halloween.  He proudly said a devil and described his costume.

Whatever.  I’m done.

Baby love

Since I had some money to burn and we were out of toilet paper, I thought we might as well go buy some cleaning supplies and groceries.  You know, fun stuff.  We were at Wal-Mart, America’s favorite place to buy junk or my last resort to save a penny.  The boys were having a good day.  Then we saw them.

Triplets.  About a year old.  Each in his/her own wagon, hooked together to make a train, pulled by the grandma as the mom paid for the stuff.  And Evan was in love.

We happened to all walk out together and through the parking lot.  Evan, riding on the cart like a fireman, kept waving and calling out “Hi, Babies!  Bye, Babies!”  The babies were enamored by Evan, smiling big smiles.  Sean was amused for a moment and then moved on.

As luck would have, we were parked next to each other.  Evan asked if he could say hi to the babies, and I gave him consent, reminding him to give them some personal space.  He then proceeded to have a long discussion with the mom and grandma over all kinds of things.  I finally roped him back, saying they had to go, we had to go.  The grandma smiled at me and told me her youngest talked like that to everyone too.

I tried to buckle Evan into the car, but he was trying to get away.

Evan: Mommy!  Mommy!  I have to tell them something!  I have to tell them that I’ll come to their house today to help them with the babies!

Me: But Evan, you have school today.

Evan: Mommy!  I have to tell them I can’t come over today!  I’ll tell them I’ll come over tomorrow!

Me: That’s sweet of you, baby.  But look they’re busy getting the babies in the car.  We’ll tell them the next time we see them.

I only hope that Evan wants to be this helpful with his own baby.

Homeschooling is not for me

“If there were no schools to take the children away from home part of the time, the insane asylums would be filled with mothers.” ~Edgar W. Howe

I don’t know how other moms do homeschooling.  I don’t.  I would murder my children.  I was thinking last night that centuries ago mothers did teach everything to their children at home, and then it dawned on me.  That was the reason so few of the children reached to adulthood.  It wasn’t the plague; it was moms being frustrated by ungrateful, whinny, temper-tantrum-throwing, not-listening, willful, disobedient children.  Or maybe it’s just my child.  Or maybe it’s me.  I’m fine with it being me.

Reasons I can’t homeschool my children:

1. I don’t have the patience to deal with a child who doesn’t want to learn.
2. If I can’t teach them one way, I can’t figure out any other way.
3. I find myself using stupid threats, like feeding him to the wolves.
4. I can’t make my child understand that the sooner he does it, the sooner he gets to play.
5. Did I mention I don’t have the patience?
6. I want to throw temper tantrums with him.
7. It turns out I have a violent side that only rises after fifteen minutes of trying to get a child to hold a crayon the correct way.  (Don’t worry; I only wish to hurl the crayon across the house.)
8. I would have to get on some serious medication.  Or start drinking.  And I’m pregnant.
9. I have mood swings.
10. I don’t have the patience!

I guess this is the part where I admit I had to force Evan to do a school project that he decided not to do at school.  (Point for it being my son’s issue.)  As the teacher knew I’m a concerned parent, due to the weekly meetings I have with her and the time I asked for all his work when he was out for a week, she gave me the project.  It was cut out a man shape to glue into a folded paper to be a jack-in-the-box.  Simple enough, right?  Insert hysteric laughter.

A half an hour of Evan saying he can’t, Evan going to a whining room, Evan going to a crying room, my dad walking out of the house, my mom trying her hand at it, my mom telling me to send him to time out, my threats that he’ll be there until he is done or until he dies whichever comes first, Evan FINALLY cut out the damn man figure.  Then it was twenty minutes over how he couldn’t make a face, he couldn’t make a smile, he couldn’t make eyes, the markers weren’t working, it’s just not right, I don’t want to do it.  I finally was able to let him glue it in the “box.”  Then I forced him to finish his “J” paper.  The horrors of being a four-year-old preschooler.  After an hour, he was free to run around, and I had the desperate desire for a shot of vodka. 

I will happily PAY someone to teach my child.

On Fresh Beats and Jump Arounds and the parenting in between

Some of you might remember a little post I did back at the end of May about how annoying The Jump Arounds, aka The Fresh Beat Band, are.  Since then I’ve received several endorsements and complaints.  Today I laugh because I got another complaint on the post just this weekend. 

I’ve been meaning to write a post addressing all the people that are upset with me not enjoying a children’s show.  Lighten up.

At first I was excited that The Jump Arounds went off the air because I noticed a lot of people felt the same way I did.  The show was engineered around four non-sings, non-dancers.  The songs were so very annoying.  But then Nickelodeon made a name change to deal with all the negative responses.  The Fresh Beat Band was born, but it was the Exact. Same. Thing.  Nothing changed.  I bowed my head in defeat, realizing that there must be lots of other parents who allowed their kids to watch the show.  My main problem is still that the advertise ALL THE F-ING TIME!  They advertise more than Olivia or Ni Hao Kai-Lan, more than any other show in the Nick Jr.  line.  I wonder if they actually believe that we would start watching it if they played it enough.  If you play it, they will come.  Maybe it’s more sinister, and this is a plot to hold us ransom.  I’m sure I can raise a million to get them to stop advertising, but I would rather that money go to somewhere important like autism research or making sure no child goes hungry again.

The Husband is begging me to make this post into an anti-capitalism speech.  He believes that The Fresh Beat Band is a symptom of a much larger problem, the desire to hook children in a pop culture that demands their money, starves their soul.  You’ll have to forgive The Husband; he recently watched Michael Moore’s new movie so he’s a bit obsessed with anti-capitalism theme, which is ironic because he’s a small business owner and I remember when he read Ayn Rand.  Don’t worry.  He’ll swing back in the middle in a month or two.

While I agree with my husband, I’m totally fine with other parents letting their kids watch it.  I just won’t let my kids watch it.  That’s my choice.  I’m the parent.

I’m upset because so many people think they have the right to judge me on my parenting over one little post, over one little opinion about some silly kid show.  And yes, it is silly because it’s only about entertainment.  Just like The Office is a silly show.  Just like The Simpsons is a silly show.  Just like Desperate Housewives is a silly show.

It frustrates me that parents out there don’t think it’s their place to monitor their children’s television shows.  Are you kidding me?  We’re talking about preschoolers and toddlers, not teenagers.  We’re talking about the most impressionable years of a person’s life.  Are they going to tell me I’m a bad parent because I won’t let my son pick out his own sugar-filled cereal that was advertised to him?  Am I a bad parent because I didn’t buy the toy my son wanted in the store?  It’s my job to monitor him!

I’m sure we’re going to have talks over the video games, movies, music, clothes he likes and wants.  I’m sure I’m not going to like everything he likes. But you know what.  That battle is years away.  I’d like to keep it there.

I like having a place where parents can complain about random kid stuff that we don’t like because we parents are subjected to a lot of stuff we don’t like.  If you’re like me, you have quite a few toys loving relatives and friends gave your children, toys that make you want to roll your car over or, at the very least, make disappear one night, but we don’t because the kids LOVE them.  We subject ourselves to a lot of shows that have annoying characters.  I’m not a big fan of Elmo, but I deal because it’s Sesame Street.  I think Donald is a loser, but the boys love The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.  Some days I wish Dora would just go away and not have such silly adventures (though I totally want a chocolate tree), but the boys are actually using Spanish that I obviously didn’t teach them.  I’m willing to eat a lot more vegetables because I’m setting a good example.  I’m willing to eat a lot more “kid food” if that means they’ll eat, especially if they eat the vegetable side dishes.  We’re willing to give up our television programming so that our kids watch something age-appropriate, and we’re willing to watch shows we don’t like because we don’t want our kids sold to by advertisers.  We do these things because we love our kids and want to be the best parents we can be.

But in the end, my opinion doesn’t matter.  I’m just a mom, living in Arizona, doing the best I can.  I get to be the loving, imperfect mom to two boys, and they are the ones who should care how I parent.  My opinion shouldn’t affect any you because you are the parents of other kids.  If I mess up, then I’ll just pull money out of the therapy fund for my kids.  And if you mess up, then hopefully you have a therapy fund.  Because I’ve learned one thing about this parenting business, we’re all doing the best we can with what we’ve got.  So don’t judge.

A Clue that they’re watching too much tv

I’ve admitted that I have let the TV be on more than it usually is or should as I nurse myself through morning sickness. 

Yesterday I was reading in my bed during nap time, nursing myself through the stupid cough lingering from my cold two weeks ago.  The boys entered my room from waking up from their naps.

Evan: Mommy!  There are no cartoons on for me!

Sean: Cartoons, Mommy!  Cartoons!

Crap.  Well, isn’t this a bad mommy moment?  Isn’t it awesome that I just realized I have my energy back?  So the mean mommy can arise and keep the damn TV to a minimum.  So who wants to decorate for Halloween?  Who wants to make Halloween decorations?

Popping Out

When I was pregnant with Evan, I was caught off guard with the baby bump.  After months of waiting and not seeing it, I didn’t notice it until I looked at pictures I had just taken the weekend before and saw my gut popping out over my jeans and under my once-cute shirt.  It seemed that only a little while before did my belly button popping out looked cute.  Now it looked like a beer belly.  I went shopping that day.

With Sean, I was a little busy with Evan, my own personal tornado, to pay attention to how I looked.  Every day I showered quickly, dressed quickly, threw my hair in a pony tail quickly after getting Evan dressed.  I had forgotten that after the first child, the subsequent pregnancies pop earlier and earlier.  One busy morning, I finished packing for the trip Evan and I were taking to my parents’ house.  I took a quick shower and got dressed in a cute outfit because I had an OB/GYN appointment before we flew out.  I turned for an inspection in the mirror when I screamed in horror.  My gut had popped.  At that moment, the door bell rang, and when I demanded that my ride, my hip fashion-forward friend, tell me why she didn’t notice this problem last week, she was as surprised to see the gut as I was.  I ran upstairs to quickly change, knowing I wouldn’t have time to repack the clothes and would have to buy more in Arizona or use my dad’s closet.

This pregnancy I was determined not to be caught off guard.  I watched.  I waited.  I had been warned that you pop with the third pregnancy the moment you found out.  Imagine my surprise when I still had not popped at the end of the third trimester.  But then last week I was taking a shower, and I noticed there was more of me to scrub.  I popped.  I popped up, not low.  It looks like a donut gut versus a beer belly.  Just enough that I wish I made those shirts that said, “No, I’m not fat.  I’m pregnant.”  Since fashion has changed to long shirts to cover post-baby-bellies, I have a few weeks before I have to pull out the maternity shirts.  But at least I’ll be watching.

Reality Check: Pampering Yourself

 

Pregnancy makes you realize that you don’t pamper yourself enough. Like how you decided you didn’t need one of your favorite foods because it was just one more store to drag the kids to, more gas spent to get it, more money to be spent on something just for you. But then you start to crave it, desire it, dream it. So you strap in the kids, making it the last place in the line of shops, just in case they act up, because really it’s only something for you. Then you make it to the store because the kids are like angels. You walk in, collect the food items, select the shortest line that miraculously is the shortest line. The cashier tells you the total. $3.50. Yup, I’ve been depriving myself of heavenly Trader Joe’s Spicy Hummus Dip and whole wheat pitas to save $3.50. The Husband spends more on a beer. And I realize I’m getting real tired of playing the martyr. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to enjoy my lunch as I force the boys to have PB&J instead of the McDonald’s they were begging for.

Nicknames

Sean: Squeak-squeak.

He carried his Blanky and crawled on my lap.

Me: What’s up, Sean?

Sean: Squeak-squeak.

Me: Do you want to use words?

Sean: Squeak-squeak.

Me: You keep talking like that, I’m going to start calling you Squeaker.

Sean: Squeak-squeak!

Me: Squeaker it is.