Dada? No, Mama.

Sean: Dada.  Dada.  Dada!  Dada!


Me: Oh, baby.  Dada isn’t here right now.  But Mama is!


Sean: (Grabs my hand to lead me to what he wants) Dada.


Me: No, Mama.  I’m Mama.


Sean: Dada?


Me: Mmmaaaaammmaa.


Sean: Dada!


Ok.  Listen, kid.  You’re adorable.  If your father was here, this would melt his heart.  Heck, it’s even pulling on my heart strings.  But I WILL NOT ANSWER TO DADA.  I can’t.  I can try, but it won’t work.  You see, it’s like this.  I carried you for nine, almost ten, months.  You were heavy.  I had horrible morning sickness and acid reflux.  You grew until I had no room in me.  Then after you were born, I was the one who fed you, changed you, rocked you, sang to you, read to you, bathed you.  Not dada, mama.  You ate tons.  I sacrificed hours to feed you.  When you were sick, that was me taking care of you.  Who held you and cooed to you as you got stitches?  Mama, not dada.  Who held you when you got shots?  Mama, not dada.  Who cooks you your favorite meals?  Mama, not dada.  Who buys all the gifts, wakes up with you early in the morning, repeatedly reties the shoes your dada picked out?  Mama.  It’s not like we even look the same.  I’m taller, thinner, and have a better pair of breasts.


Sean: Dada.


Me: Mama.


Sean: Dada.


Me: Mama.


Sean: Dada.


Me: Mama.


Sean: Dada.


Me: Mama.


Sean: Dada.


Me: Mama.


Sean: Mama!


Me: (hugging him tight) Good job!  Now let’s get you a cookie.



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Mama Mia, here we go again. My, my how can I resist you

Evan: Mommy!  I want you to teach me to be a star!  (Perhaps I’ve let him watch too much Mario Galaxy when Wally, Grandma and I have played, but I admit it’s cute.)  The star of the dance movie!  (Dance movie?  Wha-) The dance movie Mama Mia! You should bring it home for me to watch on TV!


Between the love of faeries and the witch custom, let’s keep this between us as your father will not understand.  Besides when did you hear about Mama Mia?



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An apology

I wish I could write the way Bad Mommy Moments can about bad days.  A day that includes every button pushed and every nerve gotten too.  A day which has painted carpets, chip crumbs, spilled milk, and hour old chili left in a bowl to dry and rot.  A day where you know part of it is you and not them.  A day when you dream about the days before babies and diapers, before husbands and compromise, before responsibility and housework.  A day making you forget to laugh at a dance, to be excited over pee, to clap at drum solos, to gush about how smart, how cute, how wonderful the little ones are.  A day when you can’t get online to even write about it. 

Here’s to tomorrow.

Hey what’s this below my penis? (a Three-year-old’s exploration of his body)

We were sitting on our separate toilets when Tornado E noticed a “new” part of his anatomy.


Tornado E: Mommy, what are these?


He was tugging on his balls.


Me: They are your testes.  Or some people call them balls.


Tornado E: (His hands still moving and manipulating his sack.) What are they?


Me: Your testes or balls.


Tornado E: (He sperates them to notice there are actually two.) What are they? (for?)


Me: They’re part of your penis.  All boys have them.  I’ll explain more when you get older.


Tornado E: (He stops to look at me to emphasize his question.) What do they DO?


Me: Well . . . um . . . they’re for makingbabies.  (cough)


Pondering silence.


Tornado E: That’s weird!  I go potty now!  But when I’m older I’ll make babies!


Me: Sure.  (We’ll go with that for now.  I wasn’t expecting those questions until I was pregnant again.)  Are you done peeing now?


Beyond the door, in the office, I hear faint chuckling.  Next time, I’ll tell Tornado E to ask his Father.


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The Milk Machine

Like all good mothers, I have no privacy.  Any me-time must be captured during naptime or after bed time, and for the sake of myself and the people around me, I have to shower in the morning everyday, which means I’m naked for a few minutes.  Since I have two rambunctious tornadoes, I leave the doors open for all access.  Usually my boys don’t even try to find me as Mickey Mouse and his clubhouse are much more fascinating then bugging their mom.  To Disney, I owe them a debt of gratitude for that.

Only today, Evan was bored and came to tell me that he and Master Monkey had made me suckers and would I like to come down and get one.  I said sure as I toweled off and got out of the shower to find clothes.  Evan bounced on the bed as I searched for some clothes.


Evan: Mommy, what are those?!


Me: (looking down at my bare chest) My breasts.


Evan: (pointing) No!  What are those?!


Me: My nipples.


Evan: Do you make milk with them?!


Me: (Ok, he can’t remember me breastfeeding Sean, can he?) Yes.  For babies.


Evan: Mmm.  Do we have a milk machine in the house?


Me: What?


Evan: Do we have a milk machine somewhere in the house?


Me: (I’m picturing a cow milking machine with its wires and tubes.  While I sprung for the extra cash to get a nice electric breast pump, I’m sure that’s not what Evan’s talking about, and if it is, I’m not stupid enough to show him, as I picture him telling strangers about “the milking machine” at his house.)  Not the one you’re thinking of.


Evan: Ok!  I like milking machines!  I like milk!  Do you want to get some milk, Mommy?


Me: Yes; let me find my shirt.



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Husband, Wife, Penis Blogs

Me: My blog is doing really well right now.  People really like the penis stories.


Husband: I don’t know.


Me: What?


Husband: “They only think about their penises.”  That’s really controversial.  You’re going to make people mad.


Me: What?  (What you actually read my blog?  What you actually think that was controversial?  What you’re upset because I think men think with their penises?)


Husband: Yeah, you’re talking about your boys there.  It’s not right.


Me: First off, it was a joke.  Sarcasm.  Second, these are boys; you all DO think about your penises all the time.  Third, the people who read these are moms who have been or are going through with it; THEY know it’s a joke.


Husband: It’s just not right.  You probably offended people.


Me: (After a long pause wondering if offended my blog friends, then realizing you would totally call me out if I did.)  Honestly, you’re quite touchy about this.  It’s just a stupid generalization.  We all know SOMETHING has to be going on in your heads than just your penises or else you would never eat.


Husband: I think about other things.


Me: (roll of eyes) Obviously.  But this is just like my theory on human relations.  Men are stupid.  Women are evil.


Husband: I’m not stupid.


Me: (sigh) Do you remember when you thought that was actually funny?  When we were dating?  Or maybe you were just a little drunk?  Women learn in middle school how to be manipulative, and men learn to fight.  A man will kick your ass, but a woman will destroy your life.  All women have potential evil lurking in their soul.  All men are potentially rendered stupid under women.


Husband: I’m not stupid.


Me: Remember M?  How she would hang on you to make her boyfriend jealous and me pissed off, ready to kick her ass, but you never noticed?  Or how about the time she told her boyfriend you hit on her and he called you wanting to fight and you said dude, I’m MARRIED and I would NEVER do that to you if I were single?  Or how about J that TOTALLY convinced her boyfriend she wanted a kid and now will NEVER do it?  Those women did EVIL things that men would never EVER think of and were completely blind to.


Husband: Good point.  But I’m not stupid.


Me: (Sigh.  New tactic) Fine, you’re not stupid and you don’t always think about your penis.  By the way, did you read the one about the bookworms?


Husband: No.


Me: How about the one about the second child?


Husband: No.


Me: So which ones did you read?


Husband: The penis ones.  They’re always the funniest.


Me: Ah.



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Housewife! Kill me!

I’m sorry; I was just planning on getting out of the blogging world and calling my parents when I happened on a couple of posts that made me go WHAT!  Now I tend not to argue with people on their own blog; it is their own opinion.  Who am I to say they’re crazy?  Then we come to Faemom’s House of Insanity, and I have complete editorial power.  (Though I don’t mind if you call me crazy; I believe I’m one foot there with the other on a banana peel.)   But I just read some one referring herself to June Clever because she had cookies and milk ready for her kids, which is awesome, but they were from refrigerated dough.  And another blogger was extolling the wonderfulness of the book The Hell With ALL That: Loving and Loathing Your Inner Housewife by Caitlin Flanagan.


Ok, first off, you’re not June Clever for baking refrigerated cookie dough.  You just aren’t.  You can use it to make people believe you are, especially guests, but don’t for a minute believe it.  I have bought the refrigerated cookie dough when I’m jonesing for chocolate chip cookies and only need a dozen to get through.  I’m freaked out because for a wholesome (yes, I actually used the adjective “wholesome”) activity the other night, the boys and I made cookies from scratch.  Add that to the “bone” necklaces I’m making them and some friends for Halloween and that I’m making costumes, I am seriously stepping towards Cleverism.  I prefer to be more like Harriet Nelson from Ozzie and Harriet; she had spunk. But I digress, I made cookies from scratch with my boys.  Mainly because I didn’t want to turn on the TV and my mom’s copy of Martha had an awesome recipe for cowboy cookies.  And they are heavenly.  Trust me, the irony of baking cookies from a Martha Stewart magazine is not lost on me.


Next.  To Hell With All That is a very bi-polar book, and I planned on making a better post on it because it needs to be written.  I haven’t read the book in six months, so I have to reread it to give you all a real gist of the matter.  But let me just say while I was nodding in agreement, I started getting angry with the book.  Apparently the author puts the everyday housewife crap on a pedestal.  I mean like taking out the garbage and vacuuming and taking care of sick kids.  Basically all the crap we hate to do, and usually the stuff our husbands take for granted (but I bet some of you have really sweet husbands that think you’re totally a goddess for doing it, that’s just not all of us).  Well, it turns out the writer had (and probably still has) a maid and used to have a nanny until her kids went to school.  Are you F-ING kidding me?  You’re going to tell me to embrace my inner housewife when you have a maid and a nanny?  You had some one else to clean up vomit and wax your floors.  And I shudder at the term housewife, and I’ll explain in the latter post why she loves it.


Ok, I promised I wouldn’t get in to it until I reread the book, but it is obvious that I need to.  So after I finish the one I’m working on, which may take a while because it’s around a thousand pages, give or take a hundred (don’t worry, amazing writer, page turner and all), I’ll reread To Hell with All That and give a full report.  I promise I’ll even admit I’m wrong if I like it the second time around.  And I have only admitted that twice in my marriage.

Halloween Indecision

First it was a witch.  A boy witch.

Then Evan wanted to be a ghost.  Who can blame him?  The Haunted Mansion ghosts are cool.

Then Saturday he tried to decide between a princess in a castle or a faery in a castle.  Yes, I did ask, “Do you mean a prince?”  He assured me he wanted to be a princess.  Then he saw the faery costumes in the catalogue, and he declared he wanted to be a faery.  Unfortunately we were on the phone with my father-in-law who said there were no boy faeries.  Oh yeah, what about Oberon or Puck?  Give me some credit; I’m not going to put him in a dress with tights.  I’ll figure something out.

Today he wanted to be a purple witch or a purple ghost.  When I mentioned I’ve never seen a purple ghost and that they are usually white.  Evan declared he will be a purple boy witch along with Papi, Grandma, Grandma-great. 

I hate to stiffle his creativity.  I promise to keep it in context with society on some level.  I can’t wait to show him the pictures when he’s ten and hates girls.  I just better make the costume soon or who knows what he’ll come up with.

Raising Boys

Since I have two boys, I really can’t compare them to girls.  But I have a heard time believing a little girl would try to get you to sniff her butt.  Again, maybe they do, and I just don’t know because right now I am raising boys.  Yet they seem to be just a little different.  I’m not talking about high energy levels or potty humor because I’ve seen hyperactive girls and I watched kindergarten girls laugh at fart jokes.  But there is something so manly as trying to force a burp or a fart.

Evan has been trying to force himself to burp for months.  Months.  If you have read the other posts, you know he can’t quite get it.  He just does a pretend burp, and in case I missed the “burp,” he proudly exclaims that he just burped.  Growing up with brothers, boy cousins, and all their boy friends, I have learned that it is a proud achievement to burp your name, vowels, or ultimately the alphabet.  While I am sure my husband enjoys these boyish antics, I have never caught him teaching or complementing Evan on his fine burping skills.  Leaving me to believe, that this must be a natural trait, like running, jumping, or gossiping.  I only wonder what evolutionary value force burping has other than crude entertainment.  Not one to force a change on nature if it is harmless, I just make Evan excuse himself after every burp, hoping secretly it becomes too tedious to do both and give up his pretend burping.  Like I have a chance.

A couple of weeks ago, Evan put his hand down his underwear to scratch his butt.  For some reason, he sniffed his finger.  A discovery!  “Mommy, do you want to smell my finger?”  Are you kidding?  No.  But somehow my face betrayed the horror I felt as I calmly said “No, we don’t smell other people’s fingers” because he became insistent.  Great.  The other day he was naked and climbed up my back, trying to put his butt in my face, saying “smell it, Mommy, smell it.”  What?  I remember my brothers trying to fart on each other’s heads or just to clear a room.  When did my cute, sweet son become a little ape like his uncles?  Again I wish I could point my finger at my husband, after all he too is a boy, but I know he hasn’t played any boyish antics like this.  Wait, let me check.  Just like I thought a no with a weird look of “why would I teach him that?”  It was worth a shot to find out where this behavior came from. (Not my brothers either because this behavior would have occurred right after our family visit, not weeks afterwards.)

The only thing I can blame my husband for is Evan’s colorful language.  Evan has learned the word “scumbag.”  Watch last weeks Sand Diego/Denver game, and you would know how Evan picked up the language.  (Stupid football.)  At least Evan was napping through most of the colorful language.  While my husband chuckled, thinking it could be worse, I pointed out that Evan WILL use it in public and I hope my husband is around when people give us looks.  I curbed my language, and I need my husband to curb hi or he’ll have to watch the game at a bar.  (I know what a horrible punishment.  Watching a football game while drinking a beer surrounded by other football fans.)  I’m not raising a little hoodlum.

So somehow I got stuck raising boys, which should have been a foregone conclusion because of the all the boys in the families.  Now I have to pray that one day they will grow up to be civilized.  I know this is just the tip of the iceberg; we have elementary and high school yet to got.  It’s going to be a whole lot worse before it gets better.  I just am shocked how certain behaviors are innate.  God help me.

Men’s chores: A Conversation

I bet you think it will be between my husband and I, and you would be wrong.  During my daily conversation with my mom, I mentioned how I asked my husband to fill up my SUV that he was borrowing.  Amazingly enough he didn’t forget, and I was very glad.  (Which in a way is kind of pathetic that I get excited that my husband does something I asked)  Any ways, the conversation:

Me: . . . So he actually filled the tank.

Mom: You know, Pauline’s (a friend of my mom’s) husband always fills up her tank. 

Me: I know, Mom.  (Can we feel a lecture coming on?)

Mom: And your dad fills up the Mustang about 95% of the time.

(And here I thought he did that just to get away and be on his own for a little bit.  My dad’s a lone wolf.)

Me: I know, Mom.  It’s just I feel that who ever is driving the car, when it hits an eighth of a tank, can go fill it up or at least replace the gas they use.  My problem is he has left the car on empty when I’ve had the kids.  So it’s nice that he filled up the tank.

Mom: Well, we just think it’s a husband’s chore.  (silence)  What are you thinking?  (Is it that obvious?)

Me: I was thinking that you raised me to believe that there were no men’s chores or women’s chores.  They were just chores that needed to be done.  If the dishes needed to be done, then someone would do it.  If the garbage needs to be taken out, someone will have to do it.  You taught me to do “guy” chores.

Mom: (pause) I was a good mother, wasn’t I?

Me: Yes.