In Which I “Mama Up” (or at least consider it)

Sam has also discovered SELFIES.

If you had told me 10 years ago that I would have two boys, a snake, and a membership at an Isshinryu Karate Dojo, I wouldn’t have even bothered to laugh in your face. I probably would’ve walked away from you and started telling people that you have a mental illness.

And here I am with all of the above (plus a betta fish that we traded for the four hermit crabs because one of those suckers pinched me and after that it was all over).

Tonight I said what may take the cake in terms of parenting quotes. And I don’t say that lightly, because I have had my share of “we don’t eat our boogers because they are too high in sodium” moments.

I should preface this with an explanation that Sam has been difficult lately. And not difficult in an eating boogers sort of way … much more than that.

He is emotional. He is hostile. He is unreasonable. He is mad because he cannot hold all of his Pokemon cards in one hand. (He also cannot hold all of his Pokemon cards in TWO hands, but he does NOT want a Ziploc bag or a rubber band!) He is upset because he doesn’t understand his immense pile of Pokemon cards and their various damage levels. He is pretty angry just in general. He is also offended that he cannot eat donuts and Cheetohs (Cheethos? Cheetos?) for every meal.

Additionally, he pretty frequently gets in trouble at school. And now -- per my request -- I’m getting phone calls instead of notes-home-in-his-lunchbox about this behavior.

Phone calls at work.

So, things aren’t smooth right now. They could be much worse, I know. And I seriously thank God and Jesus and Mary and Joseph and John the Baptist (and sometimes even Elijah and Moses) every night because I know that hidden underneath my delusion of difficulty is the reality that my life is pretty smooth overall. Maybe even easy. (Although if you repeat that to anyone, I will punch you in the throat.)

Tonight I said, and I quote (obviously): “Do NOT wipe your nose with the crotch of your dirty underwear!”

Should I just go ahead and ask for help, or wait until someone offers?

What would I even say at a support group meeting? Hello. My name is Kimberly, and my child actually took off his dirty underwear and used it to wipe his snotty nose.

Feel sorry for me.

What is the point of all this anyway? This parenting nonsense is making me take pride in such ridiculous things as successfully painting all of my fingernails purple except the ring finger, which I painted turquoise.  Because somebody told me that was the new thing.  And it is sorta pretty in a non-symmetrical kinda way.

What am I supposed to do with these difficult children that I’ve had?  I think they’ve finally outgrown the fire-station drop off threat, so now we’re accepting real serious proposals.

Some days I think: It’s them or me.  I can’t hear another fake fart or senseless nonsensical babble that ends in “face” (e.g., Mamaface, Peepeeface, Johnface, Stupidface, etc.).  It makes me want to peel away my epidermis (let’s face it, cuticles are an ORGAN!  Part of the biggest organ in our bodies – the skin!  This is way seriouser than anyone acknowledges.)

But I can’t just sit around peeling.  Because I’m.The.Mama.  And Mamas have to be more mature and responsible than their children.  (I know, right?  Who made up that crap?)  I’m always stuck with this feeling that even when Mamas feel that neither the mature nor the responsible trait has ever existed naturally in their DNA, they must still strive.

And so I’m writing this to console myself.  I’m writing this to say that I know I need to … I’m sorry, can we please do away with the phrase “Man up”?  I think “Mama up” gets more to the spirit of the idiom. 

And now, I’m off to Mama Up.  (Which likely includes lying down.)

OUS,

k

It's my party, and I'll ____ if I want to.

Brian and I have birthdays that are 12 days apart, so each year we celebrate together.  Normally this happens in between our birthdays, but due to inclement weather and viruses, this year it happened about 2 weeks late.

We decided to go to Ken's Sushi, one of our favorites, and afterward we attended a movie (we are SO adventurous).

At this point it becomes necessary for me to insert two very important side notes.  Normally my side notes are meant to be comic relief from whatever mundane thing I'm attending to, but these are actually integral to the plot, so please read them in full, no matter how painful.

Side note #1:  Two months prior to our birthday celebration, I had had a couple of bad days.  On Thursday, December 12th, we had a holiday potluck at my work.  I signed up to bring Green Bean Casserole (GBC).  But of course I can't just make a plain old GBC, I had to go over the top with it -- local, organic green beans, extra sauteed mushrooms, real bacon bits, etc.  Upon arriving at work, I exited the driver's seat and proceeded to the backseat to procure the GBC.  However, instead of gracefully hoisting it from the floorboard, I clumsily let it slip from my hands and crash into the backseat like, for lack of a better simile, projectile vomit.  Forgive me.  There's been a lot of projectile vomit in my backseat over the years.  Now.  Could I have handled this situation better?  Yes.  But I was pre-menstrual.  See, that TMI moment was almost worse than the projectile-vomit moment, but you're still reading.  Hang in there.  I could've just said, "Oh phooey," and salvaged what was left.  But no.  I proceeded to fling my oven mitts (and some mild swear words) across the parking lot while stomping my feet angrily.  And then the worst of it all happened: A handsome young man appeared, holding out my oven mitts (which were lovingly knitted by my mother's across-the-street neighbor, Peggy -- thanks Peggy!  We love those things ... they're so thick and protective!) as if they were a peace offering for the war I was fighting with the GBC.  I stopped stomping and cursing.  I accepted the mitts with a slight smile and "thank you," and he walked away, presumably to call all of his young, hip, single friends, and tell the story of the middle-aged mom throwing a tantrum in the parking lot.  His nonchalant behavior inspired me to pull it together, and I ended up saving about 75% of the GBC and -2% of my reputation.

Side note #2:  The next day, Friday, December 13th, I created for myself an itinerary that was -- if you can believe such a thing -- much much worse than the previous day's minutiae.  When I got up, my phone had a reminder notification about my Sunday school class's Christmas party.  But of course, this was at 6 a.m., and I hadn't yet had coffee, so I dismissed the reminder without looking at the details, and proceeded to frantically text every potential babysitter I know in an attempt to find a way to go to the party at the last minute.  Then I remembered that it was a potluck, so I started making a grocery list.  Next, I recalled not having bought any new clothes since the children were born, so I wrote down "Find new outfit -- at least a decent shirt" on the to-do list.  A babysitter texts back that she is available.  Score!  I go to work.  At some point midday, I emailed Brian to inform him that our Friday night plans had changed a bit and to please not exhaust himself teaching 6th grade math.  I worked until about 2 p.m. and then went to the mall, got a new shirt, came home, downed a coupla cups of coffee, and cleaned the house so the babysitter wouldn't call the DCS on us.  There was a poptart under Sam's bed.  (Just realized that the downside to side notes is that one feels compelled to keep it to one paragraph.)  I make a black-eyed pea and feta with quinoa salad to bring to the potluck.  I slow cook the black-eyed peas from scratch.  I go and picked up the boys.  Brian arrives at 5ish, and we are to leave at 6:30.  The party starts at 7:00.  The babysitter arrives at 6:15ish.  I'm in the shower.  I quickly attempt to make myself presentable in my new shirt and standard black pants.  By 6:45, I'm totally ready.  Where is Brian?  The boys note that his car is still in the driveway.  The sitter corroborates this allegation.  I go to the laundry room to check.  (???)  He's not there.  I check the bathroom, his car, and I even call the neighbors to find out if they've seen him.  Finally, I go into our bedroom because I had forgotten to put on earrings (the horror!), and notice him sound asleep next to a ginormous pile of clean clothes that I had not had time to fold and had dumped on our bed.  I clap my hands twice.  Because, you know, husbands like that.  He bolts up, confused.  I clap again, twice, to the rhythm of my words, "Let's GO!"  And he is so sleepy that he actually and amiably gets up and walks to the car.  At this point, we're late, so I'm in a hurry, but I'm trying to avoid the babysitter's car in the driveway.  I'm backing down with what I think is a careful eye when all of a sudden I realize I'm on top of the low brick wall which lines our driveway (again -- my car had just gotten out of the body shop because I had straddled the wall in Novemberish and caused significant damage), and Brian is yelling STOP! STOP! STOP!  So, I go with my instincts, which were to put the car in forward and drive off of the brick wall.  This cued more STOP! STOP! STOP! so I stopped.  Brian got out, surveyed the damage, and yelled for me to climb into the passenger seat and roll down the driver-side window.  I complied.  He climbed through the window (the door was stuck on the brick wall) and successfully reversed the car back onto the driveway.  I was so happy!  Brian had saved the day like always.  I let him drive while I input the party address into my phone's GPS.  We arrive.  There are no lights on in the house, no cars parked in the driveway, nothing, in fact, that even hints that there is a party at said house.  But I am sure that everyone else is late and we are just the first ones there.  I skip up to the door, black-eyed pea salad in hand, and knock excitedly -- yay!  A holiday party!  After a few minutes, my friend shows up at the door in sweats and graciously greets us.  I'm like, "Where is everybody?" and she's like, "Um.  The party is ... um, the party is not until tomorrow night."  And then we laugh like hyenas because there is nothing else to do in the face of such awkward idiocy.  Brian promptly turns and sulks back to the car.  She and I laugh for a few more moments, and I insist that she keep the salad for tomorrow night, giving instructions about how to serve it cold with lemon juice.  I walk back to the car and totally, completely burst into tears that can only be likened to the kind of thing that teenage girls do.  The sort of tears that turn your face into a speckled trout, and if you are, say late 30s or so, can cause your right eye to twitch uncontrollably for hours.  Brian intrusively announces that we are going to end this pity party and go get sushi; he is starving.  I'm heaving.  Sobbing hysterically about how unorganized and unfit I am -- why did he ever even marry such a stupid loser?  We park at the sushi place, and he waits a bit for me to stop crying.  I don't stop.  We enter the restaurant.  I proceed to cry throughout the ENTIRE meal.  The waitress keeps bringing me green tea ice cream because I haven't ordered anything -- I'm too upset.  As we leave, she says, "Honey, you have GOT to get rid of that cold, and I start boo-hooing again and practically yell, "I'm not sick!!!"  Brian respectfully berates me in the car for  not catching on to her attempt to cover for me.  The end.

So, tonight we go back to the restaurant where, two months ago, I had sat compulsively crying and eating green tea ice cream.  We sit in the same place.  We have the same waitress.  I tell Brian that tonight I'm going to redeem myself.  We order slowly, taking a long time between soup and entree.  The waitress is attentive but not nagging.  Finally, we're done and she comes to bring the check and remove the plates.  She asks how was the sushi, and I say, "Delicious!"  I'm thinking, "Thank GOD she doesn't remember us."

As she's leaving to get our change, she says, "I'm so glad you enjoyed it.  And (looking at me) you held up quite well through the whole thing."

At first, I sat astonished.  Then I said, "Right!  I didn't even cry! Yay!"

She got our change, and we left ... even though I wanted to tell her all of the above.

But I didn't.

Because despite my supercoolness, I'm mysterious.  Which makes me more supercool.

There's no lesson here.  Were you waiting on one of those, "This is what I learned" concluding sentences?  Well, you're going to leave disappointed.  There is no take-away from this except that waitresses have good memories.  I wish I could find a silver lining in the compiled narrative of it all. But sometimes I think it's enough just to tell the humiliating story.

Onward and upward,
k

January 2014

One of my NYRs was to write one blog post each month.  I'm already three days behind schedule.  But we shall carry on.

(My other resolutions, in case you're interested, were as follows:  (1) Save ALL coins -- so far I've cheated only once to buy coke at the vending machine at work; (2) Look at my calendar every now and then to avoid missing parties and/or showing up on the wrong night -- this is going well thanks for my nifty new phone; (3) Not let coffee be the first thing down my throat every day -- this is mostly just about remembering ... I haven't found it difficult to do this.)

So, here I am three days into February doing my January 2014 update, which shall be divided into parts:

Part 1: New Years

We traveled to Austin for New Years (by car, not that it matters), and I was able to finish two entire novels on the way there and back.  Texas shouldn't be allowed to be that big; however, I guess chopping it up would still keep Austin 12 hours away from Nashville.  Here are some pics from the trip (taken by MiL, OFP (Official Family Photographer).

John's Big Project

We took the kids and grandparents to a dangerous hiking area.

11 months apart and both are something.else.

I love this one so much!

The Lucy/Kimmy tradition of mani/pedis.

Bruce got a new hat.

Sorta normal.

cray-cray

Part 2:  School Begins Again

Brian and I quite enjoyed the return to normalcy.

The boys weren't exactly thrilled about it.

I began taking karate.

Part 3: Other Random Good Stuff

John got to attend a reading of Jeff Kinney's newest Wimpy Kid book and meet the author.  This was a thrilling literary event for him, and now we have a signed copy.

I have turned 37, and since it's now the 3rd day of February, Brian has turned 42.  I had BBQ and carrot cake.  He chose Indian buffet and "punkin" pie, as Sam calls it.  On the morning of Brian's birthday, we ate 1.5 punkin pies with our breakfast burritos.  The second half was polished off during half time of the Super Bowl.

My work has changed big time.  The coordinator of our ESL program has gone on maternity leave and left me in charge.  I have already done lots of ridiculous things such as hiring an instructor to replace her without checking his references first.  It all worked out well in the end, but still.  Lesson learned.

John is working very hard in 3rd grade and making all As.  He'll take the state test this year, and he's been practicing at home using a website.  His pre-test math/science scores are through the roof (and might I point out that he learns all of that first in Spanish, then takes the tests in English).  He's still working on the English/reading/writing piece.  He's such a crazy hard worker.  He's playing basketball right now and rocking the court.  Baseball will start soon.  He's also still doing piano and has now decided to also take karate.  So, every Tuesday night he and I treck down to Smyrna, Tennessee, which is where my sensei at school has always practiced.  Her sensei was trained by one of the original four marines who brought Isshin-Ryu karate to the U.S.  Yes, I am worried about all of these extra curriculars, so please do not ask if it's too much.  It probably is.  There are worse things in the world than quitting karate, however.

Sam is trying not to spit on people or poke them in the eyes.  He is also working hard not to call people a "mama head," which is way better than "fart gas."  He's taken to calling himself my "baby cat" and rubbing his head on my legs or shoulders like a cat, making a noise that simulates purring (or blowing one's nose).  Inevitably there is something disgusting on his mouth/nose while this is going on, which then gets transferred to my professional attire.  He will also start baseball next month, and is more than excited about shopping for a new glove, bat, and cleats.  He is really into beyblades and has learned how to take them apart and put them back together with other parts such that they change from "stamina type," for example, to "attach" or "defense" type.  He just spent an entire week (minus last Monday) with good reports sent home from school, so he got a new beyblade this past weekend named Pirate Orochi.  He's a balance type.

Brian is trucking along this semester riding on a cloud of his students' great practice test scores.  They were so improved that he won a half day off, which of course he won't take because, according to him, "If I want a day off, I'll take a day off -- no need for awards."  He is planning spring break trips of hunting and camping and summer trips of kayaking in Colorado.  I'm just trying to remember when the kids have birthday parties, practices, and school, so I'm grateful for his event planning skills.

I think that's all the news around these parts.  Hopefully I can crank another one of these puppies out before March.

OUS,
k

Baby Jesus and Zack the Elf Can Both Fly

Me:  Why is Baby Jesus in the air?
Sam:  Because they threw him up there.

We had to bribe him with pretzels, but Zack did come back this year ... with a vengeance!  

On his first night, he perched on the curtain rod (not pictured).  Here he is on his second night, pining for the boys while they sleep.  (I understand, Zack, honey, they are so sweet when they're sleeping, aren't they?  You're not the first to notice.)

Last night, Zack "flew" (as John says) down from the curtains, ate some pretzels (and left crumbs on one of the end tables), and then he "flew" downstairs to hug their portrait, which (John also says) is weird.

#motheroftheyear

Party Pics!

Sam's 4th (yet first actual (with friends)) birthday party was held on 11/23/13.  Although it felt easy, I think it was a huge success in terms of 4yos.

Here is the evidence.

First, KUDOS to Nanny (the Maternal Grandmother Baker Extraordinaire) who made a chocolate football cake AND an entire Lego football scene centerpiece.

Brian was given the job of pinata, which turned out well though it was a somewhat last-minute addition.

Sam whacked the pinata with abandon, causing all sorts of extremity damage, including the loss of an arm.

Said arm.

The booty was claimed euphorically.

Then John took over.

The youngers seemed to like chasing the older one.

Nanny may have also been involved in the Lego cookies which I totally found ALL the directions for on Pinterest. 

First we decorated.

Then we devoured.

Afterwards it was time for some R&R.  Here I am reading Awesome Man, a gift by one of Sam's soccer buddies (not pictured).  Sam and Elijah seemed quite comfortable in this situation.

This one seemed comfortable with it all.

 HAPPY BIRTHDAY BAM-BAM!

To my 2nd on his 4th

Happy birthday Sweet Sam (aka Bam, Bamsy B., Monkey Man)!

Tonight as I was putting you to bed, you said this, an obvious echo of my own words: “I’m your baby.  I’ll always be your baby, even when I’m bigger than you.” 

And then you slung your nasty wet “Night-Night” (blanket) into my eye and expressed doubt that there might come a time when you could ever be bigger than me. 

Regardless.  Sam, here are some things that I want you to know, divided into three distinct categories: 




1)      Four things you think I don’t know 
2)      Four things I think you don’t know 
3)      Four reasons I think I know these things 

Part 1:  Four Things You Think I Don’t Know

• I know that you are picking up on everything.  One night when John was making fart noises, I said, “John, no one is enjoying that except you, so please stop or go do it in the privacy of your room because nobody likes that.”  And you responded, “Except Quinn.”  (Quinn is one of John’s best 3^rd grade friends). 

• I know that that you have been trying to make your own “good notes.”  Buddy – I’m so sorry that in your short life, one of the most memorable things for you is getting bad notes sent home in your lunch box.  We’re on our 2^nd preschool partially because of this, and it’s mostly because you are not afraid to be a kid … not scared to be mischievous or even brazen.  The other day when I went to pick you up, you met me with, “I have a good note!”  I was so happy.  And then I saw that your “good note” was two recycled and stapled-together “Pre-K Emergency Contact Info” index cards on which you had written “S     _M      ^A” (Sam) on the back.    

• I know that you don’t use soap when you wash your hands. 

• I know that you sneak candy into your room.

Part 2:  Four Things I Think You Don’t Know

•          Sometimes when you’re sleeping, Dad and I watch TV and fold laundry together and crack up about how little your underwear is.  Dad says things like, “A person with a butt this small is asleep in the other room.”  I almost always have to get up at that point and go kiss your head.

•       Honey pie.  A diet of donuts, chocolate chip granola bars, eggs, graham crackers, rice with “wet” (soy sauce), applesauce, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches without crust, mack and roni "bugs," noodles with Dad’s sauce, chips, crackers, chocolate cereal, chicken nuggets, French fries, candy, deli turkey slices (not the Cajun kind), popcorn, cupcakes, cake, cookies, pie, and ice cream … AIN’T BALANCED.

•       Night-Night is Nasty and your dad has been cutting little pieces of it away at night while you sleep.  Please know, sweet:  I have been begging him not to throw it all away while I saw wood.   Last night, as you and I were lying in your bed talking about how fun your birthday party was, you said, “I broke Night-Night.  I broke his arm.”  I said, “I didn’t know Night-Night had arms.  Does he have legs too?”  After a pause, you said, “Well, he has … ONE.”  (I about peed my pants.) 
  
•            I always tell you that you are my “best” (because you told me that once, I reciprocated, and it has stuck).  The other night, in an effort not to seem too biased, I told you that you are my best and John is my favorite.  You looked at me right in the eyes and said with such conviction: “That’s just not true.”

Part 3:  Eight Reasons I Know These Things (4 x 4 = 8)

• You ARE picking up on everything.  There is a phrase that says, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”  Apparently, you already have your own version of this … if you can’t explain to them, LISTEN & COMMENT.  
  

• Maybe you DO make your own “good notes,” yet your mother sees this as an ability to recognize your own strengths and ignore weaknesses.  Someday you shall have a fabulous resume.  
  

• You could do WAY better at using soap.  Trust me, love:  You do NOT want to get pinworms.  

• You ARE sneaking candy in your room.  You can keep doing that until I'm dead.  There are much worse things you could sneak. 

• We DO crack up at your boxer/briefs.  Honestly, Bubby, they’re hilarious – tiny yet covered in large machinery such as tractors, diggers, and back-hoe loaders.
  

• Your diet DOES leave something to be desired.  Please try some baked fish at least.  
  

• Night-Night IS nasty. But I swear to you that I will not let your dad hack it all away.  I will keep some portion of it (in a smell-proof Ziploc bag).  
  

• As hard as it is, it’s best if you learn this now … everybody’s “BEST” is relative, sweet Sam:  Even mine.  You are my best (favorite?)  at many things (e.g., snuggling, pleasing, noticing), but John is also my best (favorite?) too (e.g., eating, arguing, wondering).  My love is a like a Thanksgiving pie ... and I will always have enough pie (and love) for both you and your brother.  I’m not good at math lovey, but I know this:  My love for y’all can only be multiplied, never divided. 

Those are some things I have wanted to say to you for awhile now, Love.  I have this idea that you will read and understand them better later than you could now, but then again, I have trouble balancing a checkbook and often go left at intersections for no obvious reason. 

Everyone loves you Bamsy ...

But especially ME.

XOX,
Mama

Because red hair.

A Treatise Against The Pointing Out of Reddish Hair

Several times a year, someone points out to me some aspect of the underlying red nature of my hair.  And it is never positive.  (It’s also usually not overtly negative, but hear a girl out.) 

Today someone I had just met said, “I like to meet redheads. My wife is a redhead.”

Cue the angels’ harmonic, “Ahhhhhhh!!”

Because most times.

(Note:  Today I read an article about how the word “because” is becoming prepositional and is often followed by nouns.  Only nouns.  Because evolution.)

Most times the recognition of red hints in my hair is at least indirectly negative.

And of course I’m sure, quite sure, that these sayers of hurtful half thoughts are well meaning.

Because human nature.

However.

My ears change good intentions (or at least not-well-thought-out intentions) into accusations.

Because Kimberly.

Here are a few examples:

At the closing on my first home, previous owner says, “Oh no.  Another redhead in that house.”

At work:  “Did you know that your hair gets redder when you’re fired up?”

At department store:  “I know you probably think you’re pale, but the reddish hair makes up for it.”

Newsflash:  If I am truly redheaded, then Miley Cyrus is only a mildly toxic role model for young girls.

Because y’all.

You would never say to someone with gray hair:  “Oh no, another geriatric in the house.”

So, can we please stop the discrimination against angry, temperamental redheads?

Because fairness.

Because if you don’t have something nice to say.

Because fear (of redheaded retaliation).

Because there.

Because I’m done.

Because as you were and onward and upward and sideways and all that.