Dreaming of prison

Prison is sounding good to me today. So I’m sitting here trying to figure out a good way to get myself there. The problem is that I’m not a huge risk taker, don’t like violence, am really bad with confrontation, don’t want to risk harm to my kids and would prefer not adding more kids to my brood so scaling a NYC building, getting in a bar brawl, robbing a bank, leaving my kids home alone and kidnapping are all out of the question. I think I’d have to either pee in public more than 100 times or pee ON a cop to land myself in a cell ,which takes too much time and is pretty nasty. I don’t have very impressive boobs so flashing or streaking won’t work. I’m really running out of ideas here.

You’re wondering why it is that I’d like to be in prison? Easy. I’m having a tough go today. I feel like all I do is argue, make meals, clean up meals, wipe noses, try to prevent spills, accidents, and tumbles, argue some more and then feel bad about arguing. (Yes, there are moments of happiness in there too but today, they are few and far between). Prison actually sounds like an improvement over all of this. I would never have to think about what I’m going to put on in the morning (let alone getting anyone else dressed), I’d have ALL my meals brought to me in a timely manner, I’d have no choice but to rest all day, I’d have an actual BED TIME where I had to go to bed no matter what anyone else says, I assume they don’t allow barking, yippy dogs in prison, I might get screamed at but I could just stay quiet and not feel like I HAD to scream back, I could pee without someone asking me to read a book to them while I peed, and I probably wouldn’t feel quite so bad if I didn’t get to shower every day. Sounds blissful doesn’t it?

So help me out here. What crime can I commit? I only want to land a few days in jail. Not a life sentence or anything. Just a long weekend stay at a minimum security prison. Maybe I could be a Peeping Tom for a few days? I’ve been curious about what goes on in the house across the street. They seem a little sketchy so if I take my binoculars and stand in my front yard and just take a quick look there’d be a good chance of getting caught and I wouldn’t really hurt anyone… thoughts?

Third Degree

Anyone with a four year old knows that it’s a time of asking a bazillion questions a day. From the moment Hannah hops herself out of her bed into mine she is shooting questions at me with little patience for hesitation in my coming up with an answer and with no understanding of how “I just don’t know” could be an answer from “know-it-all” mommy. Some of Hannah’s questions make me second guess how smart I usually think she is and some make me second guess how smart I think I am. And some are just not meant to be answered and I need to try all my best tricks to shrug them off and change the subject.

I’ve discovered recently the answer to why Hannah is a terrible sleeper. Based on the questions that she asks me before the sun comes up in the morning, I can assume that that little brain NEVER shuts off. Yesterday morning she bounded into my bed at 6:02 am desperate for the answer to two very important questions.

1) “How do babies change their clothes when they are in their mommy’s belly?”. This was an example of a question that makes me wonder how smart she really is. Before she hears an answer does she REALLY think babies wear clothes in utero? “They’re naked Hannah” I wearily responded to her hoping that this doesn’t come as too much of a shock. “ALL THE TIME?” she asked in disbelief confirming my disappointment that an Ivy League school may not be in her future. “Yes, sweetie, all the time.” And then she was off to her next question that had woken her from her sleep so early in the morning.

2) “I know that Barack Obama is the boss of our country but I’m wondering, does that mean he’s the boss of Jesus too?”. This question made me pry my eyes open and roll over to look at her. A few days ago she had asked me besides celebrating Christmas, what made Christian people different from Jewish people. I (someone who embarassingly doesn’t even really know what my religion is “all about” let alone other religions…) had tried to simply explain that there was a man named Jesus who lived a long long time ago that Christian people felt was the most important person in the world. They believed he was a miracle and honored him more than anyone else. They celebrate his birthday and the day he died every year. Jewish people do not. After a few why’s and why nots from Hannah, I thought the discussion was over and wiped some sweat from my brow feeling lucky that no one else was present during this half assed explanation. And then came this Barack Obama question. Luckily I was able to answer “no, Obama is not the boss of Jesus because he’s not alive anymore” which satisfied her but then came, “Well, what about Santa Clause. Is he Santa Clause’s boss? Santa is alive. I know he doesn’t come to our house but he’s alive.” I told her that yes, Obama is Santa’s boss too. The wheels kept turning… I saw them turning as though her head was transparent. “He must get good presents” she said.

Yes, yesterday was a hard day of questions. But today was harder. I have mentioned that Hannah is obsessed with Halloween. She reads the Halloween costume catalogs over and over and over. Memorizes every detail. Wants to know what everything is. She gets lost in them, imagines being every character that they show. And then this catalog came.

I left it on the counter in the kitchen without looking at it first because I knew it would keep Hannah busy for a few hours allowing me to have a few minutes of peace. I should have looked at it first because this morning she walked into the kitchen showing me the page with her:

“Mommy, I want to be Dorothy but I’m afraid this Dorothy outfit might not fit me. And I’m thinking that skirt is so short. Why is is so short? Is this a different Dorothy? I like the bows on the socks that go over her knees. Do you think I can try that Dorothy?”

And then the page with these:

“MOMMY, her boobies are totally about to show out of her shirt! Why doesn’t it cover her boobies? Is the shirt broken? Who IS she? And HOW would Wonder Woman run to save people in those boots? I didn’t know Wonder Woman wore such high shoes!”

And worst of all the page with these dudes:

“Mommy, why does the fire man have a hose coming out of his pants? Shouldn’t he be holding the hose with his hand? And what is that snake coming out of that other guy’s pants playing the flute?” If you could have seen that little, precious face, examining this page, trying to figure out what she was looking at… All I could say was, “I. Don’t. Know.” and she just had to accept it.

And my one question through this torment of questions was, “Why the fuck would they put these costumes in with the kids costumes? Because yes, there were about 6 pages filled with cute, fuzzy, APPROPRIATE costumes. But she didn’t seem to care much about those.

I wish I may, I wish I might

Hannah has a new little Lion that she has named Lilly. Lilly has “magic powers” and can make any wish come true if you stroke her mane. So this morning I asked Hannah what she’s been wishing on Lilly. Since I have nothing interesting to talk about today, I have decided to let you all in on her wishes too…

– I wish I could stay up as late as you. I think all the fun happens after I go to sleep.

– I wish I was five.

– I wish I could see the tooth fairy. It’s not fair that she doesn’t let you see her.

– I wish I could stay with you every day. I’m already smart enough. I don’t need to go to school anymore.

– I wish I could go on an airplane to see what everything looks like from the sky.

– I wish I could eat cream cheese and jelly on raisin bread for every meal (which she almost does).

– I wish I could wear my jeans with the heart pockets and rainbows every day.

– I wish I could have a bunk bed.

– I wish I could go to Her-waii.

– I wish summer was the only season. The only things I like about winter are that I can have hot chocolate every day, I can wear my feetie pajamas and there aren’t as many bees.

– I wish Dracula was a girl because Dracula sounds like a girl’s name. I also wish she wasn’t supposed to be scary. I think she should be nice.

– I wish I could sleep in the front seat of the car. I promise I would hold on.

– I wish I was mommy already. I think I’m ready.

– I wish to always be taller than Luke. Even though he’s a boy and boys are sometimes taller than girls.

– I wish I could sleep until 7:00. I’m just too excited to see you. And my tummy tells me it’s hungry. And I don’t want to miss A THING.

So there you have it. The wishes of a 4 year old. Strangely, many of them are the same from a 37 year old.

Soccer Goals

Two years ago we bought Hannah a soccer ball and soccer goal and had visions of her instantly falling in love with the sport. I pictured myself the soccer mom cheering on the sidelines, carpooling a pack of sweaty girls from one end of the state to the other. That day she kicked her pink ball twice, ran into the house, grabbed a blanket, a bottle and a book, ran back out, and proceeded to wrap the ball in said blanket (she actually did a mean swaddle), placed it in her arms, fed it a bottle, read it a book, rocked it and placed it in the goal. Oh and then she blew it a kiss and said, “night night”. Tim put his arm around me and said, “there’s our daughter, the athlete”. Ok, I just realized that I already told this little story in a past post… sorry for the repeat but this one is going somewhere…

I realized after this happened that I may need to direct my efforts elsewhere in what might interest Hannah. I thought maybe drama or piano lessons could suit her better. Maybe she’d just be a book worm and learn French at an early age. All of this would be fine but I really always had such hopes that she’d be an athlete. I’M an athlete (or I was back in the day when I didn’t have achey joints, and a constant headache). Tim’s an athlete ( at least he talks a big game about his days on the football field, and basketball court). Our kids should be athletes right? It’s all that made sense to me. But, this putting-the-ball-to-sleep episode threw me for a serious loop.

And then Saturday happened. We decided to give soccer a REAL chance. Signed her up for a soccer team. Got her a real uniform. Drove 30 minutes for the league that we knew friends kids loved. Let me back up a moment to explain the uniform drama. There was only one store that sold this uniform so I went on a day that Hannah was in school to get in and out as quickly as possible. I was handed the reversible white/red jersey, black shorts, red socks and miniscule shin guards and without a choice I shelled out the $40. I was very anxious to show the new uniform to Hannah that night knowing full well that telling her she HAD to wear something especially something that had NO pink, NO lace, NO “jewels” and NO flowers was not going to go over so well. I worked up all the excitement I could find inside me when I showed it to her. “Look Hannah, isn’t it SO cool that one day you can wear white and the next (quick reverse of the shirt) you can wear red? And you know, white and red make… PINK!”

“It’s not pink though, it’s white and red. Why red?” she asked.

“Because that’s what EVERYONE has to wear. It’s the RULE.” I told her. “And look at these AWESOME shorts” I said quickly pulling them out of the bag and just as quickly putting them back in before she could realize they were (gasp) black.

“EWWWWWW!!!” she spewed as she realized they were black. “Black is so ugly!”.

“Well, Hann, if you want to play soccer, you have to wear these shorts.” I stated and that was that.

I was told she didn’t have to wear cleats although it was recommended. I usually am the first mom to go out and buy what is recommended for any occasion but when it comes to tight, ugly, black, stiff shoes that I knew Hannah would hate and complain about, I chose to stick her in her princess sneakers, knowing she’d be happier in the end. Smart, savvy shopping mom here.

This brings us to game day Saturday. She woke up excited actually to put on her new uniform. First the shorts. Whoever decided that these shorts that came down to her ankles were the right size for 4 year olds must have been on drugs. “They’re HUGE.” she sniffled. “They seem like pants not shorts”. Next the shirt which made the length of the shorts seem perfect since it came down to her knees. This actually made her happy since it looked more like a dress, bringing up the feminine factor. Next the socks which if I had pulled them up as high as they could have gone would have most likely reached her nose. I had to roll them over three times so that they would only cover her calves. And the heel of the sock was approximately at the backs of her knees. Perfect fit. And then there was the issue of stuffing these socks into the her princess sneakers. Let the whining begin. I didn’t know Hannah had so many vocabulary words to describe how uncomfortable she was. Somehow though, I was able to quiet her down for the car ride and as she walked on the field. I was sure that would be the end of it but somehow, someway she pulled through.

The field. The cutest thing I’d ever seen. Dozens (looked like hundreds) of 4-5 year olds spread among 12 teams, all in their far-too-large uniforms. All these kids with soccer balls up to their knees, running in swarms all trying to get the ball in the goalie-less goal. The first 20 minutes was spent naming the team (Hannah came up with the winning name “The Kickers”. The only other option was Philip’s suggestion, “The Nothings”), learning the rule of Getting the Ball In the Goal and being told not to touch the ball with their hands. They did a few little games to get the hang of kicking the ball and who to pass to and then it was Game Time.

I actually was impressed during the practice time that Hannah held interest for so long. Besides falling down three times on the slippery grass because she wasn’t wearing cleats (ok, bad idea savvy shopper mommy), she was able to dribble better than I would have expected and seemed to really enjoy it. I was pretty sure when the whistle blew to start the real game she’d get all shy and stand back as an observer but I Was Wrong! The whistle blew and there she went, running forward, ball at her feet and before I even knew what was happening she kicked the ball and scored the first goal! I jumped like a crazy mom screaming and cheering and wanted to run out there and put her on my shoulders and parade her around the field (but I restrained myself). It was amazing.

Pride. That is what pride feels like at its best. When your child does something that they may not be comfortable doing and does it so well on their own. Who knows if she’ll be a “soccer player” but she could be. She didn’t ask to stop. She didn’t complain (much). She had fun.

I was proud. And thrilled too that we saved all of those balls scattered about from a very early bed-time and not so beautifully sung lullabies.

It’s in the "Jeans"

The picture you see here was the last time that Hannah wore jeans. The minute that she learned to walk she started refusing to wear them. Or anything with a button and a zipper on top for that matter. She aged about 75 years at that point and would ONLY wear pull on pants with a stretchy top. The others she told me were too itchy, too tight, too uncomfortable. She also refused to wear tights (didn’t like pants that covered her feet), empire waist dresses (the line above her belly was uncomfortable), 3/4 sleeve tops (the sleeves were broken) or boots (couldn’t move her ankles). So, you can see what I was dealing with here. High maintenance at its best. But it was ok… leggings and long tops have been a good look for a few years now and leggings are much cheaper than jeans anyway.

Fast forward three and a half years. We were shopping for some new school clothes since somehow Hannah grew 2 inches over the summer and all of her pants became capris. We were at Target and I asked knowing the answer already, “Hannah, would you like to try some jeans this year?”. I was already yards past the jeans section when I heard a quiet, “ok.” I stopped abruptly in my steps and turned to her a few feet back eyeing lovingly a pair of jeans with embroidered rainbows on the front pockets, hearts on the back pockets and a multi-colored heart belt. Embellishment at its best. These were NOT the jeans I had imagined but to a 4.5 year old, they were as good as seeing a real-life Unicorn walking down the street.

“Really Hannah? You want to try them?”

“Oh, they are so beautiful Mommy. Maybe they won’t be itchy.”

I grabbed another less “fussy” pair of jeans with a cool little swish on the back pocket and into the fitting room we marched.

She pulled them on, did the belt and they fit. And they were comfortable. And she caressed them adoringly. And a new denim wearing era began. And she all of a sudden looked and ACTED, well, old. (Not to mention the fact that when she crouches down her butt hangs out and although I giggle because it looks so cute, I picture a thong peeking out and cringe).

Something about wearing jeans has brought out a new “I’m a big shot, don’t mess with me” attitude in Hannah. She now walks with a new swagger, stands with one hip out and with a hand in a pocket, and talks to me like she’s got the hippest new pair of denim out there. I mean if you’re anything like me, you KNOW how a cool new pair of jeans makes you feel. And if you’re not like me, stop rolling your eyes at me and work with me and PRETEND you know what I’m saying. This morning after pulling on her jeans and leaving her pajamas on the floor I asked her to please pick them up and put them in her hamper.

“MO-mmy” she muttered exasperated. “You know, you have to help out around here too” she said.

“Excuse me?” I said, after picking myself up off the floor from her comment knocking the wind right out of me.

“You’re the mommy. You need to be BUSY all the time. I can’t be the one picking things up all the time.” she said with a slight smile across her face and a bit of a worried look in her eye that she was crossing the line. Which she was.

I picked her denim covered self up and placed her denim covered tush on the naughty step. “Sit and don’t move one muscle, Miss Sassy”, I warned her.

“I was just saying” I heard her saying under her breath as I walked away to be “busy” with something else.

Then on the drive to school today she announced that she’s “taken her last bath”. I gasped as I thought I was now going to have the stinky girl in class as my daughter. I wondered who put the idea in her head that not showering was a good idea? Was she doing some sort of “sit in” where she wouldn’t cleanse until I allowed chocolate milk with each meal? I braced myself as I looked at her in the rear view mirror and asked, “why is that sweetie?”.

A feeling of relief rushed over me for a moment as she said, “I think baths are for babies. I now will ONLY take showers”. I then pictured what this meant for me. I had three choices with showers. 1) Shower with her so that I could be sure she was actually clean and was able to get all of the soap out of her hair or 2) Get soaking wet reaching into the shower to help her or 3) let her do it alone and know that her hair would remain stiff from soap not being rinsed out and not know if she even washed most parts of her body. Choice 1 actually seemed like the best idea since then I would actually get to shower more than I do currently, although I’d have a little person staring right into my Las Vegas and commenting about every aspect of it. But is a 4 year old supposed to be showering? Aren’t baths still supposed to be fun? I’ll blame it on the jeans.

I’m not ready to have a sassy speaking, showering, eye rolling tike on my hands. I want my pudgy faced, cow costume wearing, can’t get enough of mommy baby girl around still. Maybe I need to secretly remove the jeans from her drawer and buy some more pull on pants which keeps her tush and herself in their place.

Halloween: let the countdown begin

Halloween. It’s here again. It’s one of the holidays that Hannah frequently asks when it will be here. She told me it’s one of the only reasons she’s happy that summer is over (along with there being less bees around, being able to eat snow and not getting sweaty as quickly). Throughout the year she talks about what she’s going to be for Halloween but only around now does it become a serious topic of conversation most days, actually make that every day. All Day.

Right after Halloween last year Hannah told me she was going to be a Rock Star next year. She was going to wear a costume that consisted of a short skirt, and a shirt off the shoulder (according to the picture she saw). She was going to have a high ponytail off to the side and carry a microphone. AND, she told me, she was going to have ATTITUDE because that’s what Rockstars have. I noted to myself that I had 364 days to change her mind on this costume. The Rockstar costume continued to be costume of choice right through the winter and even into spring. Even with all of the princess hooplah, the fights with her friends over who was going to get to “be” Cinderella during playdates, her Princess birthay party, etc, Rockstar still held strong.

She then went through (and is still actually in) a superhero stage. Her favorite superhero became Flash (“he’s super duper fast”), her movie of choice became The Incredibles (one that I didn’t actually mind watching alongside her) and Tim introduced her to the X-Men and Wolverine. My mission (or my “job” as she put it) was to find her a either a Flash Girl or Wolverine Girl costume. I thought to myself that this was not going to end well when she got to her school Halloween parade and there were ALL of her girl friends dressed in their flowing, taffeta princess dresses and ridiculous, life threatening heels and she was adorned in a masked Wolf costume and a cape. Not that I wouldn’t WANT her to be different and be so proud of her not caring what her friends thought but knowing her, she would end up upset that no one would know what she was and she’d have to explain through her mask and wolf teeth the story of Wolverine. Thankfully, before I shelled out any money or even had to look very hard, she was on to the next thing.

I finally found the Wizard of Oz movie. One of my all time favorites. One she had been begging me to get for her. And she watched it. And watched it. And watched it. She asked me to pause it so she could stare at the red sparkly shoes. She became obsessed with Linda (“No Hannah, it’s GLINDA.” “But mommy, I like how Linda sounds more…”). And she turned to me 2 months ago and said, “Mommy, THAT is what I want to be for Halloween. Dorothy. And I want Luke to be Toto. Because he’s smaller than me and Toto is smaller than Dorothy so that works.”

So here we are about 6 weeks before Halloween and I’m wondering if it’s too early to actually buy the costume. In a way I want to seal the deal so that she doesn’t come home wanting to be Snow White because all of her friends will be princesses but at the same time shelling out the dough and then having to deal with her not having ANY interest in wearing it would not be good either. I’m leaning toward buying it and just continuing to sing “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” to her each night to keep up the excitement.

She asked me last night what I’M going to be for Halloween.

H: “Mommy, what do you think you’ll be?”

Me: “I’m not sure yet. If you’re going to be Dorothy and Luke will be Toto, maybe I should be a witch?”

H: with a look of terror on her face, “NOOO Mommy, you can’t be something scary!! No. No. No. This family does not DO scary.”

Me: “Ok, how about the Good Witch?”

H: “No, she’s blonde and you’re not, that doesn’t work.”

Me: “Ok, how about the Tin Man?”

H: shaking her head in frustration, “Oh, Mommy, he’s much taller than you and a BOY! Tsk Tsk”.

Me: “Well, Hannah, why don’t you tell ME what YOU think I should be.”

H: “Either a Big Little Bo Peep or a Teenager Dorothy.”

Me: “A Big Little Bo Peep huh? Not sure I can find that costume.”

H: “Well you can try and if not, I saw a teenager Dorothy in the magazine I’ve been looking at with all of the costumes. She’s wearing socks instead of tights and has pony tails instead of braids. And she’s wearing HERMENDOUS sparkly shoes!”

Can you tell she’s been STUDYING this magazine for weeks now?

Me: “Ok, sweetie, sounds like a plan.”

H: “And I’ve decided that Luke will be the lion instead of Toto because I want to carry Toto in my basket and Luke is too big for my basket and I don’t want to have two Toto’s. And even though the Lion should be bigger than Dorothy, I’ll let it happen just. this. time.”

So, there we have it. 6 weeks and counting. I’m thinking I’ll wait on my costume considering I’ve started the Eating of the Candy Corns and I’m not sure what fits me today will necessarily fit me then. But if I’m going to be a BIG Little Bo Peep, that just might work.

P.S. That’s me at 6 years old as Dorothy in my first grade play. And Toto of course.

I’m Siinnnkkking…

Hello??? Can anyone hear me? I’m down here… throw me a life ring QUICK! You can’t see me? You can’t see me flailing about? I’m drowning, I’m drowni…

This is how I feel. And I need help. I need some assistance digging myself out from the endless piles that get moved from one spot to another, from counter to counter, room to room, bin to bin, closet to closet, chair to dresser to bed.

I have been quite self deprecating (mother of god did it really just take me 4 tries to spell that right? And it still looks wrong…) in this blog about the fact that I am not the neatest person. I’m clean but not neat. It’s one thing that if I could wiggle my nose and change one thing about myself it would be this (or my toes). I try, I really do. The day my cleaning lady comes I promise myself that I will keep it just as she left it. But then Hannah comes home with art work, I get 43 new catalogs of which 17 of them I MUST keep just.in.case, Hannah’s Polly Pockets get dropped and the bathing suit ends up in the kitchen and the dress ends up in the family room, Luke carries off three puzzle pieces to the dining room, Hannah HAS to buy silly puddy which then requires saving newspaper, etc.

And why the hell can’t I throw ANYTHING away? Do I really think Hannah will want to read one day every single report her daycare teacher wrote when she was 1-4 years old? Will I really frame every piece of artwork that she’s done to date? Yes ladies (and maybe a gentleman), I have saved every.piece.of.everything. I have Hannah’s cast from when she broke her leg. I have both kids first locks of hair that were clipped off. I have the EPT that showed a positive finally after far too many months/years of trying (although it doesn’t show positive anymore… it’s blank but it’s still sitting in my drawer.) (How gross is that? I saved a peed on stick that doesn’t even say anything anymore?). (Why am I using so many parentheses?) I have the sweater I wore on my first date with Tim. It’s stained. It’s HUGE. It’s hideous. It’s still in my closet. I have clothes that even if they did come back into style I can’t imagine I’d wear again but just in case, they are still there. I have instructions, warranties, directions, recipes, pamphlets, brochures, invitations, and receipts overflowing from more than one “misc” drawer. I have every birthday, anniversary, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Columbus Day card that I either gave or received from the past 10 or so years. I have every article of Hannah and Luke’s clothing and I’m NOT having any more kids. I even have Bella’s doggy sweaters from when she was a puppy.

I never know where anything is. I crave minimality (is that a word?). I dream of being one of those moms whose counters are sparse.

I Need To Purge. If I don’t purge, I may vomit.

But I don’t even know where to begin. How do I find it within myself to just DUMP everything? I’m worried that one day Oprah will surprise me at my door with video cameras rolling to record “How a Hoarder can live and still care for her two children amongst the chaos”. Or maybe it will be Jerry Springer and Tim will be dragged off to share his woes of discovering that his wife has birthday cards from long lost lovers from her past. And. She. Didn’t. Even. Know.

This week I’ve become clean obsessed in the kitchen because of Mr. M. Everything is now in containers. I hear choir voices when I open my cabinets and pantries. My counter tops are SPOTLESS. I catch food that Luke throws before it hits the floor. If Mr. M does return, he will head quickly back to his hole shaking his head in disappointment. And I feel a sense of calm. Hannah doesn’t know what to make of it. I was cleaning up tonight right after dinner and she wanted me to help her with a puzzle and I said I’d be there in a minute, “I’m Cleaning Up.” I told her. I saw her poke her head around the corner into the kitchen, “You’re what?” she asked.

“Cleaning up.”

“Why?”

“It’s what I do after dinner.”

“No you don’t.”

And then I realized I usually do it after she goes to bed. “Well, now I do”, I told her.

“That’s good mommy. It’s good to be neat.”

Maybe I’ll just have her give me a gold star every time I stay neat. That might be just the incentive I need. I the meantime… if there are any lifeguards out there, trained to save a drowning mom…

Like mother like daughter

Have you ever had someone in your life who you think wants to be JUST like you. Who buys the same clothes as you, decorates her house like yours, starts talking like you, listening to the same music as you, even their mannerisms start imitating yours? Yes? Wow you think you’re pretty cool don’t you? ;0 I’ve never had a friend like this but I DO have a daughter like this. And it’s weird. Creeps me out at times actually because she literally does or wants to do and say everything like me. And I KNOW I’m not the only mom out there with this predicament (may it be good or bad). Everything I say or do gets thrown right back at me by this little thumb sucking clone of mine.

I hear her scolding her baby dolls with the exact same words I use. “I. Have. Had E-NOUGH.” she sternly says. “I am THROUGH with this conversation” she states, shaking her head. “That’s fine, you don’t have to eat anymore. I don’t want to FORCE you to eat but if you don’t, then NOOOOO dessert!” she threatens. “Wow, you’ve made a HERMENDOUS mess in here!” she says.

In Mystic, the water was about 20 degrees colder than she’s used to in our pool. She wanted so badly to go swimming in it, but each limb that touched the frigid water turned her off more than the last. Tim, being the fantastic father that he is (no one was getting my ass in the water that first day), was waiting patiently in the water freezing his boys off so that he could be there when in fact she was ready. It was literally 20 minutes when she finally got herself lowered off the dock into the water and she said shaking her head (as I am assuming I have said to her in the past), “I cannot believe I’m doing all of this for you daddy.”

She also takes on my pain as if it’s her own. She was holding her lower back with one hand yesterday and when I asked what was wrong she said, “it’s nothing… just my back is sore. I’ll be ok, it’s just from carrying my baby around all day.” I am prone to headaches and she now after a tantrum will grab her head and say, “I now have a SPINNING headache!”. Her lips were a little red over vacation and she explained that all the sun gave her “chopped lips”. She plops herself down on the couch at the end of the day and with a winded voice states, “Woooph, what a LONG day.”

She takes some good things from me too. She is a fantastic gift receiver (what can I say? I love getting gifts and I figure the more excited I am, the more I’ll get!). No matter what it is that someone has gotten her she says, “Oh. My. God. I just LOVE it. It’s PERFECT.” It isn’t until the gift giver is gone that she’ll say to me, “mommy what is it?”.

There are certain things that I don’t notice are similar to me but Tim shakes his head in amazement when he watches her. When she tells a story she repeatedly pushes her hair behind her ear which supposedly mimics me. When she looks in the mirror she looks at her butt (what little of it there is) first (come on, who doesn’t?).

There are some things she does that worry me because I haven’t nailed down where she gets them from. Like the possessed, Carrie face she makes when she’s really mad where all I see are the whites of her eyes because her head is down and she doesn’t want me to know she’s looking at me. Can you picture that one? It’s frightening… and I hope it’s not one I do. The piercing, “WHAAAAAT?” that she screams when I say something she doesn’t believe. It’s painful and I’m on the hunt for her preschool friend who started it. I’ve prided myself in teaching her to have some kick-ass manners. And when she says things like, “Someone want to get me something to drink, maybe?”. I look around and wonder who took my 4 yo daughter and replaced her with the 14 year old sassy-one.

She has her first tennis lesson tomorrow. I was telling Tim that I couldn’t believe she chose to not take gymnastics again to instead “try something new”. Tim was like, “what do you mean you can’t believe it? You’re playing tennis… of course she’s playing tennis!”. I just hope she is able to come close to hitting the ball and doesn’t get all pissy when she can’t. Like. Mommy.

I remember

My husband is the one who remembers everything. He actually can freak people out with his memory, being able to recollect the smallest detail of the first time he met them or where he had seen them in the past. I usually stand by as he’s introduced to someone and I see the glimmer in his eye as he realizes that 15 years ago he had met them at a beer fest in Nowheresville. And I’ll roll my eyes thinking “oh here we go…” as I hear him asking them things like, weren’t they wearing a navy shirt and white shorts when they met? And didn’t they have a younger sister who had gone to Peduka U? And wasn’t their favorite food sardines but they had had an allergic reaction to sardines and spent most of the evening throwing up at the beer fest? And hadn’t their hair been a lighter shade of auburn? Yes, he has a fantastic memory (for totally unimportant things). I usually don’t remember all the details. I don’t recall faces quite as easily or know what movie theater we saw our first movie together in. I don’t remember what football team won two Columbus Days ago.

But today… I remember. I remember EVERY detail of this day 8 years ago. I remember what I was wearing. I remember the phone call I had with my mom that morning as I walked down Madison Avenue in Manhattan on my way to work and actually said to her, “mom, is it going to rain today? It looks really cloudy downtown”. Little did I know that those “clouds” were actually billows of smoke from the first plane that had JUST hit the Trade Center. I remember the confusion and disbelief I felt when I walked into my office that I had only worked at for 7 days having just started this job. I didn’t have friends yet at work. I didn’t have anyone to hug or anyone to hug me as I worried about all of our friends and family that also worked and lived in NYC. I didn’t know what to say to my co-worker whose fiance to whom she was supposed to marry 4 weeks later worked on the 92nd floor of the Trade Center. I can still taste those tears that I cried that day as she realized that that wedding was not going to happen.

I remember not being able to reach Tim for a couple hours after everything happened because all of the lines were down. I also remember the relief I felt when I did actually hear his voice, my husband of only 4 weeks at the time. I remember the look on his face when he finally made it to my office having walked from his, and the feeling of his arms wrapped around me and the comfort I felt knowing we were ok. I remember finally getting in touch with my brother who worked downtown and actually had to run from the debris as the tower fell. I remember the candlelight vigils we attended for weeks afterward. The vigils we were a part of on street corners with complete strangers but who we all of a sudden felt a bond with having gone through this trauma together.

I remember the anger I felt at the Upper East side ladies who were upset that day that their favorite shoe store had closed early. I remember sitting on the couch hours upon hours in a row not being able to unglue my eyes from the TV. Hating watching it all but not wanting to miss a second of it. I remember the pit in my stomach each time I heard someone ELSE knew someone who had been there. I remember wanting to give every fire fighter and every police officer a hug and applauding them as they drove down to ground zero for the recovery missions. I remember waiting in line for hours to give blood only being turned away because there was no one who would need it. I remember reading every single day for months and months after in the NY Times the stories of those who lost their lives so quickly, so tragically.

I remember all of this as if it happened only months ago, not years ago. I watched the memorial this morning and for the first time since 2001 didn’t cry tears. I was able to watch it without crying. And that was hard for me because I don’t want to forget one thing about that painful day that changed the way we all live. It has made me have a new appreciation for life, but has made me a little afraid of the world we live in.

I wonder how I will share my story of that day with my kids. I want to be able to portray the bravery of those who fought to save lives both in the air and on the ground. It will be hard to explain it because there just isn’t any explanation for how hideous the day was, but even though my kids were not even alive, I don’t want them to forget either.

Mouse in the House

“Keep the mouse in the house”. It’s a saying that can make anyone laugh if referring to the embarrassing situation when you just can’t help but notice that a guy’s weiner is in full view when he’s sitting inappropriately with his legs spread. Or when it’s peeking out of his boxer shorts. You try to cover your eyes but you just HAVE to look. Well, I can say for sure that this little saying ONLY applies to penises. And I can say that because I have a mouse in my house and I would prefer to not keep him here.

Yes, last night after both kids were securely in their beds Tim handed me the dog and said, “Hold her. Tight.”. I heard him rummaging around, and then I saw him with his tennis racquet enter the kitchen and start banging around, smacking things around and when I returned I could tell from his face that whatever he was hunting for and hoping to pummel with his racquet was still on the loose.

“What is it.” I stated

“We have a friend” he said.

“What sort of friend?”

“An “M” friend.”

“What, a Moose? A Mongoose? A Muskrat? Could you be a little more specific?”

“A mouse.” he said.

“Did you get it?”

“No, but it ran behind the radiator so it’s gone.”

Yeah right. A mouse running behind anything is not gone.

“Call the exterminator tomorrow” he said and took the dog, put her leash on her and walked out of the house.

He left me. He left me sitting alone on the couch in the room adjacent to the room with the M word. I couldn’t breathe. And I really wanted a Reeses Peanut Butter cup from the freezer. I wanted it badly enough in fact that I got up and STOMPED into the kitchen all confident to get one, and as soon as I reached into the freezer… I saw it. It was absolutely, by no stretch of the imagination behind the radiator. Or behind ANYTHING for that matter. It was scurrying by my feet. I screamed and I’m pretty sure my superpowers took over because I think it only took one leap to get back onto my safe spot on the couch.

10 minutes later Tim returned and he knew from my grimace that Mr. M was back.

“Get it”. I said. “Do something. It ran into the laundry room”.

So again, I heard some banging and moving of furniture and a door close and that was it.

“Did you get it?” I again asked knowing that it was not the case since I didn’t see him holding a dead little thing by its tail.

“No, but I closed the door to the laundry room so when the exterminator comes tomorrow he’ll find it.”

He closed the door. Had he not learned in middle school that mice can flatten themselves completely to get under any door and through any hole a fraction of its size? He closed the door. Hurumph.

“Can you at least put some towels on the bottom of the door so it can’t crawl under?” I asked.

“Fine.” he said knowing in the back of his head that he’d be skipping off to work in the morning leaving me with two unknowing kids and a mouse that might as well be a python considering how scared I was.

And then he went up to bed. And I tweeted my situation so all my “friends” could commiserate and lend me some advice and give me internet hugs and share some tears. And I got an “Ewwww” from one friend and some helpful advice from my sister in law. And that’s it. I guess everyone else was in my husband’s camp… not their problem.

And then I saw it again! Back in the kitchen! How did it DO that?? Pssssssst!! I shouted up to the bedroom so as to not wake the kids. Back downstairs trotted my husband to where I was crouched down pointing under the kitchen curtains. “See it? It’s right there. Get. It.” No luck. Back behind the radiator he went. And back up the stairs my husband went stating that our show was starting in 10 minutes and I should hurry up to join him.

“You don’t care.” I tearfully told him as I crawled shakily into bed after having taken a Zanax to calm my nerves.

“I do care. But what do you want me to do?” he asked?

“I don’t know but your the HUSBAND. You’re supposed to take care of things like this for your WIFE.”.

“And you’re supposed to give back rubs to your husband when he asks and you don’t.” he retorted.

Really? He was comparing mice scampering around my house, possibly crawling on my sleeping kids to BACK RUBS? End of conversation.

So here I am. It’s morning. No sign of Mr. Mouse yet today. No, take that back. There were mouse droppings on my counter and a little hole in my bag of bagels with some bagel actually missing (hungry bastard), so I know he was around. But I haven’t seen him yet. But I open every cabinet like I’m entering a drug den and go around each corner peaking first (which Luke thinks is the best game). And I’m still awaiting a call from the almighty Exterminator who will do nothing but put down poison all over my house and give me another thing for Luke to want to pick up and either eat or throw in the toilet.

So please lend your thoughts to me today. I’ll be chanting to “get the mouse out of the house, get the mouse out of the house”. And if I see a few penises in the process… fine.