Last Firsts

May 23, 2013

“You must be beyond ready.”

“You just want that baby out, huh?”

“Aren’t you so done with being pregnant?”

I get these comments a lot now. Probably because the size of my stomach is uncomfortable for the human eye to focus on without incurring optic muscle strain.

And that’s fine — I’m not offended. None of it is mean-spirited.

But I’ll tell you a little secret: I’ve just never been terribly uncomfortable or miserable when pregnant. Overall, it doesn’t really bother me beyond the minor things.

I mean, yeah, I’d prefer to wear normal clothes and have a waistline that didn’t resemble the equator. And, yes, my body temperature is distinctly in the Thermonuclear range while my husband freezes with a 61-degree thermostat setting. And I miss sleeping on my stomach. I miss sushi. I miss multiple cups of mind-crushing coffee. And, for the love of all that is holy, I miss wine.

And I’m not all Mother Earthy and out in a meadow celebrating the wonders of the human body. It’s not that. I just don’t happen to mind pregnancy all that much. I think I’ve been lucky in that it has never caused me massive discomfort or, worse, any major problems.

And the bigger secret is that I think I will miss it.

I’m about 99.8% sure that this will be our last child. My husband and the Global Department of Advanced Maternal Age are both about 1087% sure. We are all in agreement. And yet I am filled with what I’ll call pre-emptive nostalgia. Everything is about to be The Last Something.

Next week, I’ll be going to the last ultrasound I’ll ever have. {At least from an obstetrics perspective. If I accidentally swallow a rare gold coin sometime in the future, then back to Radiology I’ll go.}

The following week, I’ll check into the Labor & Delivery unit for the last time.

And then, I’ll bring home a newborn for the last time.

And all of those firsts that this baby will have — we will celebrate them and marvel over them and run with giddy parental excitement to capture them with our cameras.

But, still, I suspect I’ll be wistful that they will be the the last firsts.

{Yes, you can remind me that I said all of this when I am a sleep-deprived maniac in a few weeks.}

I’m beyond excited for this baby to get here — that’s an understatement. But I’m also not in a rush, if that makes sense. There’s something about the now that I love. The waiting. The anticipation. The holding onto this chapter just a bit longer, before things get a little more chaotic, complicated and crazy.

I feel this way even knowing — without a doubt — that our party of five will be fabulous, too. With new chapters that bring new firsts. I know this.

But that doesn’t stop me from also knowing that this giant stomach — in its last two weeks of clumsiness and eye-popping physics — is something that I’ll miss more than a little. Even if it’s the right time for it to be the last.

 

 

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Welcome to the Circus

May 14, 2013

“Paper or plastic?”

I was in the grocery store yesterday, as I am on most Mondays. I was staring at the ridiculous magazine headlines near the check-out {just before purchasing two of these fine publications}. I was tired. I mentally calculated when I would have time for a shower later in the afternoon between school pick-ups, karate and dinner prep.

And I wondered if, just a day before, it had really happened. Had I been up on a stage? With my name in a program?

“Ma’am, do you have your Price Plus card?”

Had I been all dressed up? Blinded by the lights of the stage? Had I really heard the words of my own writing come out of my mouth, through that microphone and into the audience of hundreds before me?

“Any coupons today?”

What a difference a day makes.

I don’t expect that I’ll ever forget what a great experience it was to be part of the Listen to Your Mother show in New York. It was really a thrill to share a stage with such a wonderful group of people — some professional writers and performers, and some not {ahem} — who brought such a huge array of motherhood stories to life. Every one of them impressed me more than I can say.

Let me tell you a few truths about the whole thing.

  • I was terrified. Really terrified. Like, I-might-pass-out kind of terrified.
  • I was stressed out. In true Murphy’s Law fashion, my son was projectile vomiting the whole night before, which kind of limits one’s babysitting options. And I was convinced that I would be the next one taken down by this virus, just in time to take the stage. {Thankfully, this didn’t happen.}
  • And, for the record, how many maternity dresses do you think one would have to try on at 35 weeks pregnant to find something that looks decent-ish enough to wear on a stage? Does 25 sound about right to you? OK, good.

But, all that aside, everything — somehow — came together. I was lucky to have family and friends give up their own Mother’s Day plans to come and support me. And you know you have amazing friends when they offer to babysit your sick kids so that your husband can come and see the show.

I felt guilty about spending Mother’s Day largely away from my kids. Yet, it was still somehow so fitting to be exactly where I was. I was doing something completely for me, yet it was something absolutely drawn from the essence of my daily motherhood grind. So even though my kids weren’t in the theater, they were up there with me on that stage — in my mind and on those pages from which I read. They were the reason I could do this.

I’m told there will be a YouTube link available at some point and, depending on how much of a Mack truck I look like, I may or may not share it with you when I get it. So, here is the written version of the piece I read. For the full effect, picture me overheating with fear and wondering if I’m actually about to faint.

But I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

Yep, it happened.

“No, no coupons today. Paper bags, please. And add these two magazines to the total.”

 

_____________

Welcome to the Circus 

 

Dear Child #3 {and, yes, we’ll get you a proper name},

I thought it might be helpful if we had a little chat before your June arrival.  I want to make sure you understand the lay of the land around here.  Because it’s probably pretty traumatic to be thrust into the world unexpectedly.  A world of chaos and strange customs.  A world inexplicably ruled a little more by Taylor Swift every day.

It’s hard enough for me to understand this place, and I’ve been here a while — so it must be completely unsettling for you.  Like suddenly joining the circus. Without even signing up for an audition.

So let’s think of this as your Circus Orientation Guide so that everything seems just a little less freakshow when you get here.

Let me introduce the main players to you.

There’s me – I’m the ringmaster.  The one who keeps the show running.  The one who attempts to contain all scheduling delays to under an hour. The multi-tasker who is just one flaming juggling pin shy of a domestic inferno. You may know me better as the person you often hear screaming “Get in the car, get in the car, get IN THE CAR, I’M LEAVING — GET. IN. THE CAR!”  That, incidentally, is nothing to worry about.  Just standard operating procedure around here.

And your dad.  When not pushing the limits of a gripping Home Depot addiction, he is the guy up on the high wire of our act — without a net — maintaining a sense of calm that keeps a certain ringmaster from throwing herself into the tiger’s cage. He astounds me every day with his solid footing and roll-with-the-punches mentality. And yet, this man never fails to delight the masses with his quirks and his laughter. He is the showstopper. Armed with extraneous power tools.

Let’s move on to the Clown Car.  Or, better said: Great news — you also have two siblings waiting to meet you!

Your big brother just turned six.  Currently Clown-in-Chief, he takes his leadership role seriously. He is a student of detail and a sensitive little soul. But he also has other aspirations.  For example, he is currently on track to break the world record for Number of Consecutive Questions Asked in a Six Year Period.  In addition, he can teach you all about the fine art of debate. I think his method, once published and with proper agency representation, will gain a loyal following.  The working title is Wearing Down Your Mother Through Endless Rebuttals: One Boy’s Journey From No. Anyway, he is really excited to have you around — as long as you’re a boy.

You also have a big sister, the clown apprentice.  She will be four this summer.  But she thinks she’s 12, so don’t say anything.  This is the girl who will grow up to tell all the jokes and charm the crowds. And because she has zero regard for her personal safety and would be well-served by wearing a helmet at all times, we are considering her for the human-shot-out-of-the cannon act.  Or, based on her table manners, she may soon headline the plate-spinning portion of the show. She is also really excited to have you around — as long as you’re a girl.

Back to me, though.  Because I’m the one you’ll be hanging out with the most in the beginning.

Just to be clear, I’m far from perfect.

For instance, I curse too much.  I know this because a sailor once told me during Fleet Week that I have a bad mouth. Also, I had very high hair in the 80s.  I miss living in Manhattan sometimes but I carry its residual pent-up road rage around the suburbs with me.  I am deathly afraid of craft stores and am 100% lacking the DIY gene, so you shouldn’t expect any sort of popsicle stick building or rainy-day diorama creations from me.

But, on the flip side: I make a mean red sauce, have been known to tell a good story now and then, and I am uniquely qualified to teach you – in 21 years – how to responsibly conquer a roulette table.

And here’s the truth about running this circus: There was actually a time when I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to be a mother.  Until I was.

And then, after your brother was born, I knew I had to have a second child.

And then I wasn’t sure about a third.  Until I was.

And then I knew I wasn’t finished — even with my imperfect parenting, a high rate of baking disasters and a broad cynicism of class moms.  I knew we needed you.

And you’ll be here before I know it.

So, welcome to the circus, baby. It’s the show of a lifetime and the best gig, by far, I’ve ever had. What some call madness under the big top, or three rings of crazy, we simply call the “home” command in the minivan navigation system.

Now, all that’s left is whether to buy the pink or the blue baby unicycle.

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Six

April 24, 2013

Swish, whooosh, whooooooooosh. 

Whispery yet distinct. In hushed but urgent tones.

Hoooo. Shwah. Yeeeeeeah.

A shadow quickly runs by, caught just a fleeting moment out of the corner of my eye. A blur.

And then he comes into my field of vision. And he is focused. He is ready.

For combat.

He is my son, the ninja.

And today he turns six.

On his last birthday, ninja mania did not rule my house. It was all about pirates and “Aaaaargh” and treasure chests and gold doubloons. That was a welcome break from the previous two years of intense Thomas the Train devotion — which was approaching card-carrying cult member status. I never thought I’d miss Thomas because, honestly, I think he’s annoying and sort of a whiner. But a few weeks ago, my son was going through some of his old trains and, to my total astonishment, he held up an old favorite and asked the unthinkable.

“What is the name of this train?”

I blinked audibly.

“That’s PERCY! You remember Percy!”

Faint signs of recognition hinted in his eyes: “Yeah, sort of.”

I almost feared that he was having a neurological episode of sorts.

“He’s the mail car. Thomas’ best friend. REMEMBER?”

I thought I was having an out-of-body experience. This child, two years ago, would have taken a fucking bullet for Percy. And now, he shrugged off the wimpy green #6 train and set him aside with little to no interest.

“Do you think that ninjas always train with swords?”

And in that moment, he looked so big to me. Had I not been trapped in that wave of nostalgia, I may have taken the opportunity to finally purge my home of the 7,894-piece Thomas collection. {But then you know that would guarantee this next baby would be a boy. And then I’d be here in two years, writing about how stupid I was to ditch everything from the bloody Island of Sodor.}

These days, my son seems so busy. Not because I fill his days with activities, but because his mind is always racing. Always storytelling. Always asking to know more. Always assuming the Playtime Rules Management role over his sister.

“You can be a princess but take this sword back to your castle. I’ll be the ninja who defends your kingdom. Don’t call me by my name. Call me Sensei.”

He is a creature of routine and does best knowing what comes next and when. But he is also thrilled with the intrigue of surprises.

He is equal parts ornery and sweet, and I see him trying his best to balance that out. Some days he does better than others.

He is serious and hysterically silly. Methodical and also carefree.

He’s not too old to hug me without reservation yet. Not too old to have me wipe away his tears. I know this will change someday. But not today.

But other things changed. Like the birthday party dynamics. For example, I heard this for the first time:

“No girls. Just boys at my party. Except my sister. And you. And if the baby in your belly is a girl, she can come too.”

And I changed things up this year, too.

In a break with tradition, I have opted to embrace my baking shortcomings and not stress myself the hell out over making a memorable birthday cake. One that, in exchange for a few Pinterest-worthy moments, would take incremental years off of my life. Simply put, I don’t think my 33rd week of pregnancy is conducive to such an endeavor. Mostly because I would eat more frosting than I would apply to the finished product.

{And also, a ninja cake is way outside of my wheelhouse.}

And so I made a phone call this week that was nothing short of spectacularly freeing.

“Hello, Shop Rite? I’d like to order a birthday cake. Yeah, with ninjas.”

Swish. Whoooosh. Heeeyaaaah.

No sign of Thomas the Train anywhere.

This boy. Long and lean and less of a baby by the day. And yet, still only six.

Happy Birthday to my first child, who taught me how to be a mom.

I couldn’t possibly love him more.

 

 

 

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Post-Vacation Adjustment Disorder: Know the Signs

March 18, 2013

 

Ohmygod, guess what? Turns out that it’s totally possible to type while pinned under a pile of laundry that can be seen from space. I didn’t think it was — I figured I’d suffocate down here — but I’m pretty psyched to have found this air pocket.

That’s pretty much how post-vacation adjustment to real life goes.

I’m not complaining. I’m so glad we got away. But I do think that there is a clear and compelling business opportunity to help people slowly acclimate back to reality. It would entail someone unpacking your bags, cleaning the clothes, reintroducing you to the basics of driving and then cooking a few initial starter meals. For an additional fee, the Deluxe Surrender to Reality Package would also include Hazmat removal of the contents of the fridge and putting the kids through a medically-approved sugar detox program. Homework help would be billed on a per-assignment basis.

Yes, my kids are disoriented back at home and totally confused by the concept of structure. And sleep. And protein.

Iioulruiwoarjoejiuyby. Wetow[pei  Uiyualrjpf

{Sorry, I was trapped under the unlaundered socks and briefly lost the oxygen supply to my brain.}

Of course, it’s nice to be back in my own bed. And, hell, I’m lucky that, with this weekend’s snowy temperatures, I barely had to adjust from the Orlando climate we experienced. But still, Disney is a tough place to come down from. I thought I was doing pretty well but then I realized it’s a process and I have to be patient.

It’s important to recognize the signs of Post-Disney Adjustment Disorder:

  • You wait outside your house for the monorail to pick you up.
  • You continue to attempt to use your room key as currency.
  • You call any outings going “off property.”
  • You try to use your Fast Pass to get to the front of the school pick-up line.
  • You are continually disappointed that your meals are not in the shape of a mouse’s head.
  • You look for a “wait time” sign over the grocery store check-out lines.
  • You are shell shocked that nobody has wished you a “magical day.”
  • You look for the nearest Stroller Parking sign.
  • You assume that trash on the floor is going to magically disappear.
  • You steel yourself for the inevitable Rascal scooter running over your foot.

But don’t worry, we’re doing OK. I’m back to SUV road rage and excessive profanity, which are comforting signs. And my kids have finally stopped asking which characters are showing up to breakfast. Probably when they realized that Non-Caffeinated Pregnant Mom was other-worldly enough, and possibly material for a horror movie.

If someone could just send about 784 dryer sheets down to me in the basement — along with a plate of Mickey waffles — I’ll be all set.

 

 

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It’s Vacation — What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

February 27, 2013

We’re pretty excited about going to Disney World in a few days.

And while I have been using the word vacation, I think it’s widely understood that the presence of children — even in the world’s happiest fucking place — still does not a vacation make.  Let’s call a spade a spade, because you know and I know that this whole trip is more accurately called An Overpriced Change of Scenery.

But still, it will be a world away from laundry, dishes, homework and the like.  So I am totally looking forward to it.

I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

Well, if I’m being honest, I do have a few possibilities on my mind.

1) We could be detained by the Department of Homeland Security. My son has announced his intentions to bring his pirate sword onto the plane. When a simple explanation of “no weapons allowed on commercial aircraft” didn’t suffice, he considered the various ways to smuggle it on board, undetected — ninja-style. I really didn’t feel like getting into a discussion of anti-terrorism and The Patriot Act with him, so if you guys see my picture on the news with a headline like “Family of Four Placed on No-Fly List For Sword Possession,” you’ll know what happened.

2) We could end our non-vomiting streak.  This is always a concern of mine, given that my kids have puked in every state down the Eastern Seaboard in the past two years. After a brief and miraculous respite from the Vacation Travel Gods last year at Disney, I fear we are overdue for some Fordeville public vomiting. After all, it’s what we do best.  The real question is where.  I’m thinking either on the plane, in the buffet line or in a full hotel elevator.  Or maybe on Cinderella.  Because we don’t mess around.

3) We could waste a shit-ton of money.  If the past two years prove to be any indicator, my son will be obsessed with the only thing at Disney that is free — the monorail. This would be great news if we hadn’t already purchased all of our park passes at the cost of a home mortgage.  Now, endless monorail loops will fall under the Setting Money on Fire category.  I keep telling myself he’ll be over it this year.  But, the reality is that he may want to spend several consecutive days — again — just circling the perimeter of the actual money-sucking attractions. Damn it, kid, you will enjoy the rides that cost me some money. Now go check out the New Fantasyland before I ground you.

4) We could set a world record.  Not a good one.  Yeah, Orlando is going to be — in official meteorology terms — unseasonably cool.  As in, 30s and 40s overnight. My unofficial terminology for this temperature range is Fuuuccck, That’s Too Cold For Our Winter Vacation. Damn you, central Florida in March. So fickle, so unpredictable.  You think that gets us off the hook for sunscreen, don’t you?  Bwahahaha. You poor, naive souls. My husband will fall into the same trap, lulled into the comfort of frosty mornings and laughing at me for breaking out the SPF 5 million.  He will forget that we are freaks of nature and apparently lacking any and all melanin cells. And then, at least one of my kids, and probably me, will somehow become the first person on record to sustain an ER-level sunburn in 55-degree weather. While wearing long pants and a fleece.

5)  We could be mistaken for swingers.  At the end of the Disney stint, we’re heading over to visit my aunt and uncle in The Villages.  If you’re not familiar with this place, it’s basically a micro-city for the active 55+ population.  And I do mean active.  Not only do they have music piped into the streets and have a bar on every corner, but they also have the prestigious distinction of having one of the country’s highest STD rates.  And if I wear the wrong shoes on the wrong day, I may inadvertently send a signal to someone cruising in a golf cart that my husband and I are, uh, looking around.  This will be my first trip to The Villages, but something tells me it is begging for a future blog entry. Or a documentary.

 

So, as I pack our shorts and sandals jackets, sneakers and family pack of Dramamine, I’m hoping for the best. I probably won’t blog while I’m away, but you can find out if we’ve been incarcerated or picked up by swingers by following the fun on Facebook and Instagram.

Or, worst case scenario, look for us on CNN.

 

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A Valentine’s Day Fling

February 12, 2013

Ah, Valentine’s Day is coming.

I remember when I used to anticipate this day of love and romance with visions of flowers and candy in my head. I would hope for a beautifully written sentiment in a card. I would maybe even wear something red.  Because, under my snarky exterior, I’m really a sentimental sap at heart.

Please don’t tell.

Anyway, I feel a little differently about Valentine’s Day now.

Not that I don’t value romance — I totally do. And I am still a secret sap {sshhhh}. It’s just that, as a mom of two young kids and a current vehicle of gestation, my priorities have changed. What I find truly thoughtful has evolved. Or maybe devolved.

Sure, I love flowers. I’ll still be tickled if I see the delivery guy at my front door with something for me.  And, let’s be crystal clear — OF COURSE I’LL TAKE THE CANDY. Especially if it has the handy little map to help me navigate past all the bullshit fillings and straight to the dark chocolate/coconut combo. {Hands off, you guys. You can have the marzipan and cherry.}

And if my husband really wanted to buy me jewelry, I can’t say I’d stop him.

But, the truth is that I really want one thing:  A brief affair. No, not with another man — but with my long-lost loves named Time and Sanity. Like most flings, it would be fleeting and very different from my real life.

I mean, what would you do with the gift of time to yourself? An entire day void of obligations or an agenda?  I think we can all agree that the very first thing is obvious: Have your mind utterly fucking blown by this foreign concept.

After that, I have a few ideas about what I’d do with my time. Here are just a handful of thoughts — in no particular order:

  • Sleep.
  • Sit somewhere quiet — hell, even in my car — and read back issues of Us Weekly. See? Stars really are just like us after all.
  • Complete at least ten consecutive entire thoughts and/or sentences.
  • Get sucked into Pinterest, guilt-free, and emerge with 17 new and life-changing party dips.
  • Have coffee, lunch and dinner with friends. Or alone. Either way. As long as multiple meals in which I do not play the role of the waitress are involved.
  • Set a state record for the longest single spa visit.
  • Catch up on my ongoing quest for current family photo books by getting 2011 started.
  • Figure out, once and for all, the difference between the 34 settings on my new dryer. I just want it to dry and self-fold, damn it.
  • Set the contents of my kitchen junk drawer on fire.
  • Make real, measurable progress on my worldwide ban of Taylor Swift.
  • Casually stroll as many retail aisles as I please without fear of displays being knocked over. If you don’t think this is indulgent or luxurious, you’ve clearly never had your children be the subject of an intercom announcement for “Urgent clean-up in Aisle 5.”
  • Submit recommendations for the Pope’s replacement to the Vatican.
  • Sleep more.

All, or even some, of this? You can’t put a price on it. But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s about four million coconut-filled candies, give or take.

Sounds like a great fling, right? So much so that I may even wear red for the occasion.

If a ketchup stain on my shirt counts.

 

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Groundhog Day, Motherhood Edition

February 5, 2013

 

 

The dishwasher.  That’s where all the days start and end.

Barely awake, waiting for the brewing coffee, I’m unloading the dishwasher first thing in the morning.  And I feel like I was just here.

I was.  Six or seven or eight hours earlier.  Right before bed.  That’s when I’m loading it up with any remains of the day.

In between, the dishwasher is gradually filled and tells the story of how we spent our day.  What we ate.  What color plates were the subject of arguments {“I want the green one today.  It’s my turn for the green one.”}.  What I cooked.  What they liked and what they refused to eat.  The meal-time negotiations.  What I didn’t cook or what I meant to cook.  The blue thermos that tells me we were at karate.

The details vary slightly day to day.  The fight over the purple plate and not the green one.  The proclamation that today we don’t like grilled cheese, whereas yesterday we did.  The pink thermos that tells me it was ballet day and not karate.

Sometimes it feels like that’s all that changes in a day.  Plates and meals.  The rest can seem like Groundhog Day.

The same angle of the street lights I can see out of that one corner of my kitchen window when I load the dishwasher at night.

The same sound of my Keurig brewing my coffee as I empty the dishwasher the next morning.

In between, yes, there is a lot of the same.  Load, unload.  Rinse, repeat.

And then one day, someone spells her name when I’m unloading the dishwasher.  Something she couldn’t do yesterday.

And then one day, someone tells me he’s too big for the kid-sized fork and spoon I give him.  He wants to use same ones as Mom & Dad.

And then one day, there is a different color belt to wear to karate.  And bigger shoes for ballet.

And then one day, I can only have one cup of that brewing coffee, instead of two. Because of the baby coming in June.

And I realize that things do change, more often than I realize.

Big things beyond the plates and the meals.

That’s the funny thing about time.  Despite the daily routine, which brings the predictable hum of the dishwasher and, at times, the Groundhog Day effect — somehow, the big things, the ones that really matter, always seem to happen in the blink of an eye.

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Disney World Planning Fail

January 23, 2013

Every December 26, I get the Post-Christmas Blues and, to combat them, I begin to plan our family trip to Walt Disney World in March.

I followed the same timetable this year and got my flights/hotel squared away.  Then I made the mistake of blowing off the dining reservations until last week — an ungodly seven weeks prior to our arrival.

This is pretty much Disney Armageddon.  The End of Days.  The Death of Tinkerbell.

Now, before you Disney veterans begin breathing into a paper bag, I should tell you that I know better.  I’m a seasoned WDW traveler.  And while I’m not the WDW Extremist who books my trip six months in advance, I have found that two months out is generally OK if the dates don’t coincide with Spring Break.

I just procrastinated with the dining this year.  And now I’m paying for it.

I don’t believe in planning every single meal at WDW in advance, but there are key restaurants/experiences I want to nail down ahead of time.  And then there is some ratio where I’m willing to wing it with some fast food-ish (aka Quick Service Dining) options.  That’s OK.  If it’s part of the plan to do that.

Let me illustrate exactly what you don’t want:  No plan at the stroke of 5pm, when your kids declare they are starving at the same moment that everyone else in Central Florida reaches the same realization.  

Because, at that point, you are left with these choices:

–Accept a hot pretzel as your fate for dinner, served by some 15 year-old in an awful costume who chirps, “Have a magical day!”

–Wait on some line for 45 minutes to eat at The Craptastic Desperation Buffet.  {I don’t think that’s the official name, but I’d have to check.}

 

Not willing to fully embrace this destiny for three meals a day over five days, I have come up with some alternate coping mechanisms for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

1.  Research a secret loophole for using FastPass in restaurants.  Screw Space Mountain, I want the front of the line at Chef Mickey’s breakfast.

2.  While in a crowded, enclosed space {presumably, waiting to go on a ride}, start a loud and highly plausible rumor about “those unfortunate findings” in the kitchen of Cinderella’s Royal Table.  “I mean, at first I thought the mice were part of the act, but…”

3.  Begin to fabricate false memories of how tasty the buffets were.  Maybe that dried out meat and side of Goofy pasta really was worth the $30 per person.

4.  Wonder how long the family can subsist on the illegal stash of cereal bars I have smuggled into the park {ssshhhhh, they’re watching}.

5.  Drop hints to the kids that eating lunch with a Disney character is overrated.  Suggest that Mickey and Cinderella are egomaniacs who  steal children’s french fries.

6.  Rationalize the money we are saving by sacrificing sit-down meals.  After all, a series of $8 hot pretzels is way more economical, paving the way for the irrational purchase of various overpriced memorabilia in the shape of mouse ears.

7.  Secretly scheme a pregnancy-related blood sugar crash in front of my favorite Disney restaurant during peak dining hours.

8.  Tell my family that, starting on this vacation, we’ll be juicing as part of a new health kick.  Assure them that the dizziness will pass.

9.   Consider cheating on WDW with dinner at Universal.  Risk being locked out of our WDW resort upon our return.

10.  Embrace the Vacation = Ice Cream philosophy to an extreme by feeding the family those delicious Mickey-shaped ice cream bars at every meal.  Praise myself for the parenting knowledge to offer significant dairy supplemental value to my growing kids.

 

There.  I feel better already.  I think these strategies will work, if it comes down to it.

But, just in case, I’m on hold with the WDW Dining Reservations Line as I type this — ready to execute my alternate plan:  Begging.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Family, Food & Drink, Holidays 8 Comments

Pimp My Ride

January 18, 2013

The lease on my car is up next month, and so I find myself looking at what my next vehicle should be.  Given the amount of time I spend in my car, I feel like I’m shopping for a house.

Thankfully, my husband — the King of Research & Due Diligence — has narrowed our search down to approximately 26 different models based on our criteria.

And what are these criteria, you ask?  Well, of course we are looking for the typical things like safety, comfort, convenience and affordability.  And room to fit the expanding family.  But, really, I have a wish list of other features that are perhaps a little harder to come by.

And that’s where the search gets challenging.  What do you guys think of some of these features I’m hoping for?

Eyes in Back of Head Feature.  Like all moms, there is only so much of my kids’ shenanigans I can safely view in the sliver of the rear view mirror while driving.  So I’d like to upgrade to a model that gives me a full view of who really started it so I can respond accordingly.

Extending Limb Feature.  Mom, I dropped my {insert item here — book, snack, shoe, etc}.  Mom, can you hand me my {insert item here}?  Mom, I need to put my mittens on.  What I need is that extending robotic arm that can retrieve and distribute said items with precision and safety.  Also, if needed, the Extended Limb Feature can swat a misbehaving kid on the head who is seated in the third row — all without me taking my eyes off the road.

Time Suspension Feature.  This may be out of our price range but it’s a worthwhile investment, in my opinion.  On the 365 days a year I am running late, I would simply activate this feature, which would set all clocks back to a desired interval in order for me to appear to reach my destination on time.

Snack Mold Disintegration Feature.  You know how you find remnants of old snacks and — gasp — sippy cups of milk tucked under the seats, maybe weeks later?  No worries.  My new car will swiftly locate such items and prevent mold from forming.  I know you want to carpool with me now, don’t you?

Music Ban Feature.  Certain overplayed artists make me want to hit a tree and are, therefore, unsafe for my driving experience.  With this feature, my car will pre-emptively detect and block any and all music by Taylor Swift and Adele, for starters.  I will add to this list over time, but these are the primary safety essentials.

Eject to Time Out Feature.  This is really reserved for top-of-the-line vehicles — I need to save up to make it part of my next ride.  As tempting as it can be every now and again, we all know that you can’t safely eject an annoying child from the vehicle.  BUT, what if — with the push of a button — you could have a misbehaving kid’s seat repositioned to a time out spot in the car?  Why I’m not working in vehicular R&D is a mystery to me.

Husband Navigation Lock Feature.  It’s true that many cars have navigation systems, but do husbands ever use them?  Notsomuch. Their DNA forces them to resist.  So, what if navigation was automatically locked in the ON position when the car detects your husband in the driver’s seat?  And, what if that navigation was programmed to a voice he would listen to?  I mean, he will tune out the annoying standard navigation voice, but if, say, Bob Costas was giving him directions — he might actually stay on course.

So that’s what I’m looking for in my next car.  Just a few extra conveniences.

I’m not sure why every dealership says I’m so picky.  I think, next time, we will do a three-hour test drive with a car salesman and my two kids — and then we’ll see if I’m still being “unrealistic.”

 

 

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I Was Here First

January 11, 2013

M E M O R A N D U M

TO:            Residents of Fordeville

FROM:       Señor, Head Household Pet and Chief Bacon Officer

DATE:         January 11, 2013

SUBJECT:   Family Expansion

* * *

I know the last time I wrote a letter, I got a little heavy-handed and involved my legal team, which may have been overkill.  I admit, I did that in a moment of rage.  This time, I’ve decided to take a more personal approach with my plea by using the family member-to-family member approach.

{But please know that I will call in counsel if I have to.}

Sooooo, I hear that you’ve decided to bring a third human child into this household.  Congratulations.

I’m sure remotely hopeful that we can all live together in peace, but you won’t mind if I suggest a few ground rules, right?  Because, honestly, I don’t remember you ever mentioning any of this family planning when you brought me home nine years ago and I was the center of the fucking universe.  You remember those days, right?  Treats on demand.  Long walks in the park.  Saturday afternoons at the dog run.  Birthday presents that entailed more thought than a crappy drive-by at Petco on your way home.  Yes, the glory days.  Or, more specifically, The Bacon Years.

 

Anyway, shortly afterwards, you went on to marry that nice guy who always gives me treats.  And he has been a very good addition.  We totally have a mano-a-mano thing going.  But then, things changed.  To be precise, it was at the moment the two of you started bringing home unauthorized human children.  And I really thought that two was plenty, but clearly my vote counts for nothing anymore.

The point is this:  I think I have been fairly adaptable up to this point.  But, I am aging, and I have become a little more ornery over the years.  So let’s just get a few things on the table about how I’ll survive this new arrival.

1)  I’m going to need my own room.  I mean, I totally appreciate the various beds I have stationed throughout the house for my personal comfort {that last one, at Christmas — the memory foam gig — nice touch, but it’s not going to keep me out of your bed at night}.  But, look, much like the concept of the man cave, I just need my own area to relax and decompress from the events of the day.  Ever since your kids became mobile and vocal, I can barely get in 20 hours of sleep a day.  Do you know what that does to my mental health?  So I was thinking — that new basement you guys pimped out?   I’ll just take that and make it my own.

2)  Again, I’m not a pony.  I hear you, now and then, casually telling your two children to remove themselves from my back and that I am not, in fact, a passenger vehicle.  It’s a nice gesture, but maybe you could put some real effort behind that message — you know, like when they try to scale the Christmas tree?  Surely you realize they both outweigh my 22 lbs.  Are you trying to kill me?  Let’s just nip this in the bud with the third kid and give me a three-foot radius of solitude on a 24/7 basis, OK?

3)  More bacon.  I hear that, in your pregnant state, you are craving bacon.  This is good news that warms my little heart.  It seems that we’ve finally found an aspect of this situation that is mutually beneficial.  As you know, bacon is my favorite thing on the planet.  And yet, you deny me in an ongoing effort to have me maintain a healthy weight.  Lady, we both know that ship has sailed.  I don’t want to hit below the belt, but can I assume that I won’t be the only one around here with a few extra rolls soon?  So let’s just enjoy the next five months of Fordeville Baconfest together, shall we?  It may be an opportunity for us to re-establish our bond, like the good old days.  And don’t try to fool me with that bullshit turkey substitute.  I want the real deal.

* * *

I don’t mean to be harsh.  It’s not that I don’t get any enjoyment out of your kids.  In fact, I’ve really come to appreciate the benefits of their horrific table manners — because they result in a gold mine buffet for me on the floor {I believe you call it The Swiffer Effect}.  And they are total suckers for my “go get me a treat” face.

We’ve reached a pretty good place, I think, overall.  Even if they have no concept of volume control.  I count my blessings many days that my hearing is going.

Anyway, I think my requests are simple enough.  We can all co-exist if everyone remembers one important thing:  I was here first.

Otherwise, I’m so out of here.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Knocked Up 11 Comments
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