Sometimes my toddler acts like a toddler. Like the other day when it was time to turn off the Wii, and she threw a temper tantrum that shook the house. The rest of the time she acts like a teenager-in-training...from the eyerolling to the Jonas Brothers poster on her wall. Worst of all, her smartassidity levels are skyrocketing.
Last night was a challenging night. My husband went to Canada for work that day, so dinnertime was mine to deal with alone. Children can sense fear...it is then that they pounce. The older ones fight. The youngest ones have a yelling contest that ends in spitting and placing pizza slices on their heads. And the toddller grins as she avoids drinking her milk.
"Irelynn...you need to drink your milk."
Irelynn commences yelling with the babies.
"Irelynn. Drink. Your. Milk."
Irelynn grins and giggles, but does not drink her milk.
"IRELYNN. MILK."
She smirks as she glances at my bottle.
"Mommy. Beer."
I then do the thing every parent does...begin to count out loud to three, hoping that the child will listen before I reach three...because honestly...I'm not sure what I'll do after three.
"One..."
"One..."
I stand up....and she takes a drink.
My biggest challenge with this child is to try to discipline her without revealing that I secretly think she's pretty damn funny at times. Although...I'm not sure what I'm in for when she becomes a teenager...
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Oh the Noise, Noise, Noise, NOISE
While my home is normally what I would call a cacophony of sound at any given time, dinnertime seems to be the culmination of all noise. This is the point of the day when all children are gathered in one place...all with very important (and not so important) things to say...and all very hungry.
It was Spaghetti Night. I have a love/hate relationship with Spaghetti Night. On one hand, it is a simple meal to make and everyone loves it. On the other hand...it has to be, without a doubt, the messiest meal you can serve a child. First of all, it contains a sauce that stains the floor so badly that despite steam mops, Lysol floor cleaner, and even the Magic Eraser, the stains remain ingrained in our floors for days until they finally dissolve away. Not only can you find sauce on the floor...but also all over our two youngest children. A bib is no match for Spaghetti Night. While the sauce is the obvious source of frustration for parents, the noodles also present various mess opportunities...they stick to walls, they make long slurping sounds when sucked up by a toddler, and they find their way into all sorts of nooks and crannies that can only be discovered later upon removing diapers at bathtime. It all makes for a suitable environment for noise to fester and grow.
The older two were arguing. I do not remember the argument....I vaguely recall discontent and my head throbbing. In between rebuttles, the toddler was singing "Jingle Bells." Loudly.
"Shut up!"
"Jingle Bells, JINGLE BELLS..."
"YOU shut up!!"
"JINGLE ALL DA WAAAAAAY!"
"Oh, Owen..."
I look over to discover Owen with his plate of spaghetti...on his head. Noodles slid down the side of his face...and he was quite pleased with himself. Connor began laughing hysterically.
"OH WHAT FUN IT IS TO RIDE IN A ONE HORSE SLEEEEEIIIIIGH...."
The older kids are momentarily distracted. A plate crashes to the floor, followed by a sippy cup. So ends Spaghetti Night. Spaghetti Night also usually ends with multiple baths for the children...and beer (for me.) I think tonight I will serve something that does not have sauce. Or noodles. Perhaps some chicken nuggets....with a side of earplugs.
It was Spaghetti Night. I have a love/hate relationship with Spaghetti Night. On one hand, it is a simple meal to make and everyone loves it. On the other hand...it has to be, without a doubt, the messiest meal you can serve a child. First of all, it contains a sauce that stains the floor so badly that despite steam mops, Lysol floor cleaner, and even the Magic Eraser, the stains remain ingrained in our floors for days until they finally dissolve away. Not only can you find sauce on the floor...but also all over our two youngest children. A bib is no match for Spaghetti Night. While the sauce is the obvious source of frustration for parents, the noodles also present various mess opportunities...they stick to walls, they make long slurping sounds when sucked up by a toddler, and they find their way into all sorts of nooks and crannies that can only be discovered later upon removing diapers at bathtime. It all makes for a suitable environment for noise to fester and grow.
The older two were arguing. I do not remember the argument....I vaguely recall discontent and my head throbbing. In between rebuttles, the toddler was singing "Jingle Bells." Loudly.
"Shut up!"
"Jingle Bells, JINGLE BELLS..."
"YOU shut up!!"
"JINGLE ALL DA WAAAAAAY!"
"Oh, Owen..."
I look over to discover Owen with his plate of spaghetti...on his head. Noodles slid down the side of his face...and he was quite pleased with himself. Connor began laughing hysterically.
"OH WHAT FUN IT IS TO RIDE IN A ONE HORSE SLEEEEEIIIIIGH...."
The older kids are momentarily distracted. A plate crashes to the floor, followed by a sippy cup. So ends Spaghetti Night. Spaghetti Night also usually ends with multiple baths for the children...and beer (for me.) I think tonight I will serve something that does not have sauce. Or noodles. Perhaps some chicken nuggets....with a side of earplugs.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Things They Don't Tell You About Motherhood...
Motherhood is one of life's greatest adventures. It changes you. It challenges you. It completely breaks you down. It makes you stronger. It will simutaneously make you lose your sense of self...and yet complete you. It is not for the weak...yet you will not realize how strong you really are until you look back on it.
Starting in pregnancy, your body becomes alien to you. It is no longer your own. You marvel and wonder about the little life growing inside. Once the baby is out...although you have been waiting to have your body back, the realization hits...it will never really be your's again. Not in the same way. Learning to accept and love this new body is difficult. Is it worth it? Of course. Do you ever really feel the same? No. And while this stretches you....pains you....overwhelms you...and utilizes so much of your strength and endurance for a good part of a year...it still does not earn you the right to be called a "mom." This was something I learned back when I still had my body. My body was mine...but my heart belonged to the two children that came into my life unexpectedly.
You come to find out that the trials and tribulations, the joy and the amazement...the growth and the change that consume your life thereafter...these are the things that begin to define you. Or rather...how you choose to react and respond to the events in your life...this is truly what makes you a "mom." And you will know the moment...when it hits you. It could be a simple as a little girl looking into your eyes and for the first time calling you "mom"...even though you only came into her life a short time ago. It could be the first time your baby gets hurt...and your heart drops as you clutch him tight. Or it could be in the moment that you feel like you have failed...when you are so frustrated that you feel like giving up, but realize you never could. That as angry as you are, as upset and heartbroken as you are...you know that it is only because you love them so much it tears you up inside. These are the moments that you feel helpless...and then later realize you were stronger than you thought.
They don't tell you that sometimes you become restless. Your prior hopes and dreams have been put on hold, and you begin to wonder, as you slowly lose your old sense of self...will they ever come true? Or are they things that you must put away, like the doll your aunt made for you, and your 7th grade diary...memories of your past? Just as your body is no longer the same...your goals have changed, too. Sometimes...this makes you sad. Mostly it makes you realize how you have matured...and that the things that are important now are not things. But, you still have those moments of driving to the store (late at night so that you can actually go without children) and finding yourself singing the lyrics to "What's Going On" by the 4 Non Blondes and wondering what kind of life you would live if it wasn't completely consumed by children. And then you wonder how sad and lonely you will be when they have all moved out.
I'm not happy with my body; I'm not sure I will ever come to terms with that. I don't regret it for one moment, though. Even when my 3-year-old sees a commercial for tummy-flattening pants and tells me she wants some...for me. I'm not sure how motherhood is defining me...I still have many years to change and grow. I just hope that I will be the definition of someone who has lived and loved...and made a difference. I hope I am not defined by my tears...by my muffin-top, or gray hair...but by the moments of strength...the laughter...and the love that I hope they know and feel. Especially because the muffin-top isn't going anywhere anytime soon, and my hair will probably be completely gray before my twins turn two. I will cry many more times as the older children make it through their teen years, wondering if I will make it through them myself.
Children have a funny way of draining the life out of you....and then making you feel alive. I heard a quote once, and I feel it pretty much sums up motherhood: "Kids are like sponges. They suck the life and energy out of you, but squeeze them and you get it back". Just don't ever forget to squeeze them....and squeeze them often.
Starting in pregnancy, your body becomes alien to you. It is no longer your own. You marvel and wonder about the little life growing inside. Once the baby is out...although you have been waiting to have your body back, the realization hits...it will never really be your's again. Not in the same way. Learning to accept and love this new body is difficult. Is it worth it? Of course. Do you ever really feel the same? No. And while this stretches you....pains you....overwhelms you...and utilizes so much of your strength and endurance for a good part of a year...it still does not earn you the right to be called a "mom." This was something I learned back when I still had my body. My body was mine...but my heart belonged to the two children that came into my life unexpectedly.
You come to find out that the trials and tribulations, the joy and the amazement...the growth and the change that consume your life thereafter...these are the things that begin to define you. Or rather...how you choose to react and respond to the events in your life...this is truly what makes you a "mom." And you will know the moment...when it hits you. It could be a simple as a little girl looking into your eyes and for the first time calling you "mom"...even though you only came into her life a short time ago. It could be the first time your baby gets hurt...and your heart drops as you clutch him tight. Or it could be in the moment that you feel like you have failed...when you are so frustrated that you feel like giving up, but realize you never could. That as angry as you are, as upset and heartbroken as you are...you know that it is only because you love them so much it tears you up inside. These are the moments that you feel helpless...and then later realize you were stronger than you thought.
They don't tell you that sometimes you become restless. Your prior hopes and dreams have been put on hold, and you begin to wonder, as you slowly lose your old sense of self...will they ever come true? Or are they things that you must put away, like the doll your aunt made for you, and your 7th grade diary...memories of your past? Just as your body is no longer the same...your goals have changed, too. Sometimes...this makes you sad. Mostly it makes you realize how you have matured...and that the things that are important now are not things. But, you still have those moments of driving to the store (late at night so that you can actually go without children) and finding yourself singing the lyrics to "What's Going On" by the 4 Non Blondes and wondering what kind of life you would live if it wasn't completely consumed by children. And then you wonder how sad and lonely you will be when they have all moved out.
I'm not happy with my body; I'm not sure I will ever come to terms with that. I don't regret it for one moment, though. Even when my 3-year-old sees a commercial for tummy-flattening pants and tells me she wants some...for me. I'm not sure how motherhood is defining me...I still have many years to change and grow. I just hope that I will be the definition of someone who has lived and loved...and made a difference. I hope I am not defined by my tears...by my muffin-top, or gray hair...but by the moments of strength...the laughter...and the love that I hope they know and feel. Especially because the muffin-top isn't going anywhere anytime soon, and my hair will probably be completely gray before my twins turn two. I will cry many more times as the older children make it through their teen years, wondering if I will make it through them myself.
Children have a funny way of draining the life out of you....and then making you feel alive. I heard a quote once, and I feel it pretty much sums up motherhood: "Kids are like sponges. They suck the life and energy out of you, but squeeze them and you get it back". Just don't ever forget to squeeze them....and squeeze them often.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Mommy Quirks
It struck me the other day that, as a stay-at-home mom, I have acquired a few learned behaviors...or quirks, from having very little adult interaction. My oldest daughter left the bathroom door open (which is a no-no in this house now that we have babies that like to climb toilets, unravel toilet paper, and use the plunger as a weapon,) and I confronted her.
"Did you just go potty?"
She looked at me, raised her eyebrows, and repeated, "potty?"
This was the moment it dawned on me...there are quite a few things that I need to work on before entering the workforce again someday. The general reference to the restroom, for one thing, as the "potty." And, probably the fact that whenever something good happens, I clap my hands and say an enthusiastic "yea!" Or, from all the years of rocking and soothing babies, the tendency to begin swaying back and forth if I'm standing in one spot for too long. I suppose, judging by the grin I always get from my husband and older children, I don't really need to be cutting their sandwiches anymore. It could be worse...I could be cutting them into dinosaurs or butterflies, like the little ones....I only cut their's in half.
I couldn't hold a conversation with someone about what happened on the last episode of "Lost." Or even "House," which was one of my favorites. I could, however, go into a lengthy conversation analyzing why Diego and Dora's parents never seem to be around while they are out on dangerous adventures. Or how I think that there's something going on between Handy Manny and Kelly, the owner of the hardware store, because it seems she "always has what he needs." ((snicker)) Ok, see? Now that's just not right.
I suppose I need to try and look at how my time at home with five children will benefit me someday in the workforce. I suppose I've also acquired some useful skills. Adaptation, for one thing. I am required to always be adapting to changing conditions. I have fairly good reflexes now, although I'm not sure what kind of job I would be doing that would require that. Catching juice cups that are shoved off of trays, grabbing a boy about to do a wicked freefall from an end table, or saving my favorite magazine from being torn to shreds do not seem like things you'd write on a resume.
Oh well. I suppose the first step is admitting I have a problem, right? I've done that...and I still have a few more years until all of the kids are in school. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
"Did you just go potty?"
She looked at me, raised her eyebrows, and repeated, "potty?"
This was the moment it dawned on me...there are quite a few things that I need to work on before entering the workforce again someday. The general reference to the restroom, for one thing, as the "potty." And, probably the fact that whenever something good happens, I clap my hands and say an enthusiastic "yea!" Or, from all the years of rocking and soothing babies, the tendency to begin swaying back and forth if I'm standing in one spot for too long. I suppose, judging by the grin I always get from my husband and older children, I don't really need to be cutting their sandwiches anymore. It could be worse...I could be cutting them into dinosaurs or butterflies, like the little ones....I only cut their's in half.
I couldn't hold a conversation with someone about what happened on the last episode of "Lost." Or even "House," which was one of my favorites. I could, however, go into a lengthy conversation analyzing why Diego and Dora's parents never seem to be around while they are out on dangerous adventures. Or how I think that there's something going on between Handy Manny and Kelly, the owner of the hardware store, because it seems she "always has what he needs." ((snicker)) Ok, see? Now that's just not right.
I suppose I need to try and look at how my time at home with five children will benefit me someday in the workforce. I suppose I've also acquired some useful skills. Adaptation, for one thing. I am required to always be adapting to changing conditions. I have fairly good reflexes now, although I'm not sure what kind of job I would be doing that would require that. Catching juice cups that are shoved off of trays, grabbing a boy about to do a wicked freefall from an end table, or saving my favorite magazine from being torn to shreds do not seem like things you'd write on a resume.
Oh well. I suppose the first step is admitting I have a problem, right? I've done that...and I still have a few more years until all of the kids are in school. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Belly Button Insults and Bubble Wrap
There are many contributing factors to my mental state. I could probably write a discertation on the inticracies of motherhood and it's affects on a woman's brain...but I shall focus on a few current events for the moment...the ones that are driving me to consume this bottle of Canadian Molson much more quickly than I probably should.
There are the small things...the fact that the preteens have found everything to argue over, from who had the remote last to who has to set the table. It is always disasterous when Literal Boy and Oblivious Girl have a confrontation. With their powers combined, they create....noise pollution. Added to the mix is the much younger, yet surprisingly skillful adversary, Copycat Girl, who while battling her older brother with wit, proclaims, "my bellybutton says you're an idiot!" For once, he was speechless.
What truly has me unraveled lately, however, is the youngest of the family. Connor, to be exact. This child has trouble written on his forehead. And I don't mean the time the older kid thought it was funny to label him with markers....no, this child truly is trouble. He pushes stools to various objects: shelves, the counter, the dining room table...proceeds to climb the stool (or chair, if it was available,) and scale the object of desire. Whether it be paper from the printer, or Hershey Kisses from the candy bowl...this child has figured out a way to reach it. He uses drawers as stepstools to get to the electronics (now up high.) He jumps on the couches and uses them to get onto the end tables. He also jumps on his sister's bed, uses his old walker as a scooter, climbs into the doll stroller, and rides the cat. His twin brother is not quite as adept (his shorter, stubbier legs fail him,) but he is in close pursuit. I am considering wrapping them in bubble wrap and just letting them loose.
In the meantime, for tonight, they are locked in the living room with their father while I hide for a little bit. Unfortunately, I cannot hide from the noise pollution.
((sigh))
My husband just opened the gate. Now I cannot hide from Monkey Boys, either.
Is it bedtime yet??
I do believe it is early enough to have a second beer...
There are the small things...the fact that the preteens have found everything to argue over, from who had the remote last to who has to set the table. It is always disasterous when Literal Boy and Oblivious Girl have a confrontation. With their powers combined, they create....noise pollution. Added to the mix is the much younger, yet surprisingly skillful adversary, Copycat Girl, who while battling her older brother with wit, proclaims, "my bellybutton says you're an idiot!" For once, he was speechless.
What truly has me unraveled lately, however, is the youngest of the family. Connor, to be exact. This child has trouble written on his forehead. And I don't mean the time the older kid thought it was funny to label him with markers....no, this child truly is trouble. He pushes stools to various objects: shelves, the counter, the dining room table...proceeds to climb the stool (or chair, if it was available,) and scale the object of desire. Whether it be paper from the printer, or Hershey Kisses from the candy bowl...this child has figured out a way to reach it. He uses drawers as stepstools to get to the electronics (now up high.) He jumps on the couches and uses them to get onto the end tables. He also jumps on his sister's bed, uses his old walker as a scooter, climbs into the doll stroller, and rides the cat. His twin brother is not quite as adept (his shorter, stubbier legs fail him,) but he is in close pursuit. I am considering wrapping them in bubble wrap and just letting them loose.
In the meantime, for tonight, they are locked in the living room with their father while I hide for a little bit. Unfortunately, I cannot hide from the noise pollution.
((sigh))
My husband just opened the gate. Now I cannot hide from Monkey Boys, either.
Is it bedtime yet??
I do believe it is early enough to have a second beer...
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Christmas
"Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
EVERYTHING was stirring...except, perhaps, the mouse.
The stockings were laid in front of the tree with care,
Until Owen and Connor dragged them someplace over there.
The children were wired, not ready for bed,
Perhaps all the candycanes went to their heads."
Yes, Christmas Eve was full of activity in the Sawdon home. Santa was being tracked on NORAD. My sister-in-law and I were busy making candy for the party. The kids were wearing their new pj's (the one present they get to open this night,) and the countdown until bedtime seemed to take forever. The older two began the annual negotiations with their father regarding what time they were allowed up the next day.
"Eight."
"WHAT??!!! Come on! Six?"
"No. Seven-thirty."
"Come on, we were allowed up earlier than that the year Marissa was SICK!"
Marissa turns to Jay, "now is the time we ask Mom to jump in." They look at me. I give Bruce "the look."
"Honey...what time did you get up on Christmas when you were a kid?"
"That doesn't matter! We barely get any sleep as it is with the two babies!"
My sister-in-law is giggling on the couch, gesturing to me that the time he woke up was WELL before 7:30.
"It shouldn't matter, then...we'll be up anyway."
"Fine. Six-thirty. If the babies are up before then, we'll get you up."
Irelynn carefully picked out some cookies to leave out for Santa, and instructed me to make him some chocolate milk.
"Everybody leave Santa reg'lar milk...but what he really likes is chocolate milk."
We sent the older two to bed, and turned to the toddler. Oh boy. This was going to take awhile.
After responding to many questions, ranging from "will you keep Connor and Owen away from Santa's cookies and chocolate milk?" to "When does Santa get here? Like, three o'clock?," we finally got her down.
The older children were up at 6:30am on the dot. They actually had to wake up the toddler. Connor was awake (for his normal 3rd feeding) but Owen was not ready.
Now, I suppose you could say we spoiled our children this year (or Santa, rather.) I mentally tallied up the number of items for each child, thinking perhaps I was a bit overzealous as I scanned the living room, piled with presents. I counted about eight items each...which doesn't seem too bad. However, I suppose when you have five children...times eight gifts...it makes for quite a pile.
The children began tearing into presents. The boys (for Owen was now up, begrudgingly,) were sitting in their brand new blow-up Little Einsteins rocketship with balls...and trying to rip thier own gifts. I looked around. It looked like Toys 'R Us exploded in our living room. Irelynn was excited about each and every gift she got...even the pajamas. She had something to say about every one of them...until she got to the gift. Over the course of the holiday season she claimed that she wanted just about everything for Christmas...from the talking dollhouse to the automatic toothpaste dispenser. However, the two times she saw Santa (whom she is terrified of in person) she only asked for one thing: the pink heart cash register (it was a Disney Princess one.) I heard a small, quick intake of air.
"Is that what you asked Santa for?"
She just nodded and looked it over carefully, pushing each button. I smiled. These are the moments I absolutely love. The first reaction they have when they realize that Santa came....and then, when they open the one special present...the thing they wanted the most. It makes battling the holiday crowds, searching store to store and over the internet, watching as your account gets depleted and you have to get "creative" with dinners for a few days, stressing out because you also have to worry about everyone else on your list worth it to see their eyes light up like that.
There are two parts of Christmas I do not enjoy. The cleaning up of all paper and packaging, picking up every little piece before it gets lost, and trying to find a home for the new additions. Worse than that, though, is trying to get the toys out of their packaging. Nothing like having an eager child bounce next to you as you first yank open a box, then peel off a couple layers of packaging tape, to reveal a maze of twisty ties, and finally realize that even after that...you still need a screw driver to unscrew the toy from the piece of plastic anchoring it in it's temprorary home. There should never be a reason that a toy should be screwed into a piece that you are supposed to discard after removing. Seriously. By this time, the child has moved onto a different toy...or stolen one from a sibling. I do see benefit to doing this before wrapping...it would make Christmas morning go much smoother. However, I can barely find time to actually wrap a gift, let alone remove each item from it's original packaging. Perhaps next year I could hire some elves cheaply through the "No Elf Left Behind" program...I'm sure there are some out-of-work elves in this economy looking for work...
Well, overall, I'd say it was a good holiday. The kids got what they really wanted. Our home was filled with family, food and music. My husband splurged and bought me an iPod. And Santa brought me good coffee. What more could you want?
EVERYTHING was stirring...except, perhaps, the mouse.
The stockings were laid in front of the tree with care,
Until Owen and Connor dragged them someplace over there.
The children were wired, not ready for bed,
Perhaps all the candycanes went to their heads."
Yes, Christmas Eve was full of activity in the Sawdon home. Santa was being tracked on NORAD. My sister-in-law and I were busy making candy for the party. The kids were wearing their new pj's (the one present they get to open this night,) and the countdown until bedtime seemed to take forever. The older two began the annual negotiations with their father regarding what time they were allowed up the next day.
"Eight."
"WHAT??!!! Come on! Six?"
"No. Seven-thirty."
"Come on, we were allowed up earlier than that the year Marissa was SICK!"
Marissa turns to Jay, "now is the time we ask Mom to jump in." They look at me. I give Bruce "the look."
"Honey...what time did you get up on Christmas when you were a kid?"
"That doesn't matter! We barely get any sleep as it is with the two babies!"
My sister-in-law is giggling on the couch, gesturing to me that the time he woke up was WELL before 7:30.
"It shouldn't matter, then...we'll be up anyway."
"Fine. Six-thirty. If the babies are up before then, we'll get you up."
Irelynn carefully picked out some cookies to leave out for Santa, and instructed me to make him some chocolate milk.
"Everybody leave Santa reg'lar milk...but what he really likes is chocolate milk."
We sent the older two to bed, and turned to the toddler. Oh boy. This was going to take awhile.
After responding to many questions, ranging from "will you keep Connor and Owen away from Santa's cookies and chocolate milk?" to "When does Santa get here? Like, three o'clock?," we finally got her down.
The older children were up at 6:30am on the dot. They actually had to wake up the toddler. Connor was awake (for his normal 3rd feeding) but Owen was not ready.
Now, I suppose you could say we spoiled our children this year (or Santa, rather.) I mentally tallied up the number of items for each child, thinking perhaps I was a bit overzealous as I scanned the living room, piled with presents. I counted about eight items each...which doesn't seem too bad. However, I suppose when you have five children...times eight gifts...it makes for quite a pile.
The children began tearing into presents. The boys (for Owen was now up, begrudgingly,) were sitting in their brand new blow-up Little Einsteins rocketship with balls...and trying to rip thier own gifts. I looked around. It looked like Toys 'R Us exploded in our living room. Irelynn was excited about each and every gift she got...even the pajamas. She had something to say about every one of them...until she got to the gift. Over the course of the holiday season she claimed that she wanted just about everything for Christmas...from the talking dollhouse to the automatic toothpaste dispenser. However, the two times she saw Santa (whom she is terrified of in person) she only asked for one thing: the pink heart cash register (it was a Disney Princess one.) I heard a small, quick intake of air.
"Is that what you asked Santa for?"
She just nodded and looked it over carefully, pushing each button. I smiled. These are the moments I absolutely love. The first reaction they have when they realize that Santa came....and then, when they open the one special present...the thing they wanted the most. It makes battling the holiday crowds, searching store to store and over the internet, watching as your account gets depleted and you have to get "creative" with dinners for a few days, stressing out because you also have to worry about everyone else on your list worth it to see their eyes light up like that.
There are two parts of Christmas I do not enjoy. The cleaning up of all paper and packaging, picking up every little piece before it gets lost, and trying to find a home for the new additions. Worse than that, though, is trying to get the toys out of their packaging. Nothing like having an eager child bounce next to you as you first yank open a box, then peel off a couple layers of packaging tape, to reveal a maze of twisty ties, and finally realize that even after that...you still need a screw driver to unscrew the toy from the piece of plastic anchoring it in it's temprorary home. There should never be a reason that a toy should be screwed into a piece that you are supposed to discard after removing. Seriously. By this time, the child has moved onto a different toy...or stolen one from a sibling. I do see benefit to doing this before wrapping...it would make Christmas morning go much smoother. However, I can barely find time to actually wrap a gift, let alone remove each item from it's original packaging. Perhaps next year I could hire some elves cheaply through the "No Elf Left Behind" program...I'm sure there are some out-of-work elves in this economy looking for work...
Well, overall, I'd say it was a good holiday. The kids got what they really wanted. Our home was filled with family, food and music. My husband splurged and bought me an iPod. And Santa brought me good coffee. What more could you want?
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Age Appropriate Reading
You can tell your age by the magazines you read. Or at least where you are in life at the moment. My fitness and celebrity magazines have long since been replaced. First it was parenting magazines...starting with pregnancy publications, reading month by month to see how the baby was developing (and seeing what to expect in the coming months.) Yes, to a pregnant woman it is fascinating to know exactly when her unborn baby no longer has webbed toes.
Once the pregnancy is over, the parenting magazines take over the house, providing information on everything from stages of food, to how to survive on no sleep. This stage surprisingly does not last long, however. When a mother is inundated with everything child....when the visions of the sweet tot dressed in the perfect Gap outfit with the perfect nursery outfitted by Pottery Barn make way for the reality of hand-me-downs that you don't mind getting stained, the footed pajamas that they reside in because they are just so comfortable, and the constant battle to pick up the pots and pans on your kitchen floor and take away those parenting magazines, which they are gleefully tearing to shreds on your floor, while the very cool expensive educational toys gather dust on the cute Pottery Barn shelves in their rooms. This....this is when the parenting magazines begin to lose their luster. As a mother, I have enough things related to children in my life. My entire life revolves around children....the last thing I care to read about is what it is like to be a parent. I could probably write a few articles myself (although I'm not sure how helpful they would be...but I'm sure there would be some entertainment value to them.)
No, now is the time one wants to focus back on herself. That person that lies somewhere deep inside...buried under the sweatpants covered in her child's lunch and streaks of toddler snot. The person who used to know all the words to Greenday and Aerosmith songs, but who now sings the theme songs to "The Backyardigans" and "Imagination Movers." The person who used to dream about Johnny Depp, but now checks out Mover Scott...and Dave. Dave's pretty cute, too. Somewhere buried under diapers and legos, there is a woman there who is more than a mom. And we turn to magazines to find her.
There is my absolute favorite, "Real Simple." This is my dream magazine...the way I dream that my house will look, the way I dream that my organizational skills will be, the way I dream I will be put together...a hip young mom with an immaculate house. You may laugh...but if we don't have dreams, we don't have much. I notice that I have also subscribed to what I call my "mother's magazines." Not parenting magazines...or magazines on how to be a mom...no...MY mother's magazines. The ones I remember my mother subscribing to. Did I really reach that point in my life? I'm reading Better Homes and Gardens...Family Circle...and Woman's Day. Articles on cooking...on how to make your home more organized, decorating, and the occasional article about kids. However...there are always articles on make-overs. You know...the stressed mother who has let herself go, who gets a new hairstyle, make-up tips and new clothes. Oddly enough...those are the most inspiring. Because you see that even though you are stressed, wearing your husband's tee-shirts, and probably don't remember how to properly apply eye make-up, let alone know what shades are in season...there is hope. There is still an attractive woman there.
I did subscribe to one more magazine. I keep it hidden in my nightstand. It was a total vanity purchase. It has nothing to do with kids. It has no advice on how to organize my home, or be a better wife. It is a fitness magazine, plastered with pictures of women with rock hard abs, the time and money to go to a gym, fill their iPods with the latest tunes, and don the best running shoes. Why would I waste my money on such a thing? I suppose it is another dream magazine. There are still quite a few years before I can focus on myself in that way. But in the five minutes I have in the bathroom, where I lock the door and skim the pages...it somehow rejuvenates me. It reminds me that somewhere under my muffin top and stretchy pants there is an attractive woman there. And someday I will find her.
I just hope it happens before I start subscribing to senior citizens magazines.
Once the pregnancy is over, the parenting magazines take over the house, providing information on everything from stages of food, to how to survive on no sleep. This stage surprisingly does not last long, however. When a mother is inundated with everything child....when the visions of the sweet tot dressed in the perfect Gap outfit with the perfect nursery outfitted by Pottery Barn make way for the reality of hand-me-downs that you don't mind getting stained, the footed pajamas that they reside in because they are just so comfortable, and the constant battle to pick up the pots and pans on your kitchen floor and take away those parenting magazines, which they are gleefully tearing to shreds on your floor, while the very cool expensive educational toys gather dust on the cute Pottery Barn shelves in their rooms. This....this is when the parenting magazines begin to lose their luster. As a mother, I have enough things related to children in my life. My entire life revolves around children....the last thing I care to read about is what it is like to be a parent. I could probably write a few articles myself (although I'm not sure how helpful they would be...but I'm sure there would be some entertainment value to them.)
No, now is the time one wants to focus back on herself. That person that lies somewhere deep inside...buried under the sweatpants covered in her child's lunch and streaks of toddler snot. The person who used to know all the words to Greenday and Aerosmith songs, but who now sings the theme songs to "The Backyardigans" and "Imagination Movers." The person who used to dream about Johnny Depp, but now checks out Mover Scott...and Dave. Dave's pretty cute, too. Somewhere buried under diapers and legos, there is a woman there who is more than a mom. And we turn to magazines to find her.
There is my absolute favorite, "Real Simple." This is my dream magazine...the way I dream that my house will look, the way I dream that my organizational skills will be, the way I dream I will be put together...a hip young mom with an immaculate house. You may laugh...but if we don't have dreams, we don't have much. I notice that I have also subscribed to what I call my "mother's magazines." Not parenting magazines...or magazines on how to be a mom...no...MY mother's magazines. The ones I remember my mother subscribing to. Did I really reach that point in my life? I'm reading Better Homes and Gardens...Family Circle...and Woman's Day. Articles on cooking...on how to make your home more organized, decorating, and the occasional article about kids. However...there are always articles on make-overs. You know...the stressed mother who has let herself go, who gets a new hairstyle, make-up tips and new clothes. Oddly enough...those are the most inspiring. Because you see that even though you are stressed, wearing your husband's tee-shirts, and probably don't remember how to properly apply eye make-up, let alone know what shades are in season...there is hope. There is still an attractive woman there.
I did subscribe to one more magazine. I keep it hidden in my nightstand. It was a total vanity purchase. It has nothing to do with kids. It has no advice on how to organize my home, or be a better wife. It is a fitness magazine, plastered with pictures of women with rock hard abs, the time and money to go to a gym, fill their iPods with the latest tunes, and don the best running shoes. Why would I waste my money on such a thing? I suppose it is another dream magazine. There are still quite a few years before I can focus on myself in that way. But in the five minutes I have in the bathroom, where I lock the door and skim the pages...it somehow rejuvenates me. It reminds me that somewhere under my muffin top and stretchy pants there is an attractive woman there. And someday I will find her.
I just hope it happens before I start subscribing to senior citizens magazines.
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