Bad Kitty

Lately there have been some things going on in my bed that are really hurting my feelings. No, it's not that Robert has been telling me that I look fat in my jammies. He wouldn't dare do that because it would reduce his chances of having sex from 1.2% to 0.002%. Also, if you remember, Robert's sleeping with Max in Max's room in an attempt to get him out of our bed. It's working, but it's also worked at getting Robert out of our bed.

So anyway. Let's get back to my hurt feelings. I've gotten used to snuggling Maeve's warm little body at night. I like to give her little kisses. And smell her sweet head.




But recently Maeve has been saying some pretty nasty things in her sleep.




Last night she rolled over, slapped me, and shouted, "No! Bad kitty!!!"

I figured she just had a bad dream. I mean I have bad dreams about my cats all the time. Usually they are meowing, scratching, or pissing.

So I snuggled back up to her, smelled her little head, and drifted back to sleep. For like 15 seconds.




She pushed me away again. I mean she really gave me a good shove. And said, "Nooo! Go. Bad candy!" She never opened her eyes. Did she think candy was trying to snuggle with her? I scooted over a bit, gave her a some space. I must have fallen back to sleep and found my way back over to her. But again, I found myself pummeled across the chest by Maeve's swinging arms and legs.




She yelled, "No Gamma!!" That's what she calls my mom.

At this point I've turned over and really hoped she just shuts the hell up so I can get some sleep. It's one thing snuggling with my two-year-old (almost). But with the cat, some candy, and my mom, the bed has become a bit crowded.



Maybe I'll start putting Max to bed instead. This cosleeping thing is a real bitch!

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I'll Blow Anywhere, Sweetheart

The other day, I finally realized that I'm a good mom.

Robert had brought home Mexican food for dinner, and we were all sitting at the kitchen table eating it. Well, to be more accurate, Maeve was standing up in her chair. She likes to stand up to eat. Not sure if that is a sign of her on-the-go personality or if she has figured out that food moves faster in an upright position thus decreasing the time it takes to expulse a poop. Either way, her habit of standing to eat really doesn't bother us.




On this particular night, I was helping Maeve eat some delicious pinto beans. Even by the time they got back to our house from the restaurant, they were hot. Too hot to eat. So, as any good mother would, I blew and blew and blew on Maeve's spoonful of beans. However, I couldn't be leisurely with this process either. My kids were hungry. Max said, "I want beans too, mommy." Maeve rebutted by banging her fork on the table. "No, Max!! Dem are my beans," Maeve shouted back in her pipsqueak voice. We all looked sternly at Max for demanding beans out of turn. But how can you discipline a pipsqueak voice? "Okay, guys! One at a time. Max, I'll give you a bite right after Maeve."

Meanwhile, in a far off land inside Robert's brain matter, he must have been dining alone without any sort of anxiety about taking turns with beans, because he managed to eat a good portion of his dinner while I was worrying about everyone else. Don't worry, I promptly roused him from his burrito haze.




So at this point, believing deep within my mommy soul that the beans were cooled down enough, I lunged the spoon in the direction of Maeve's mouth. She briefly clapped, as she so cutely does when she's about to get her way. She accepted the spoon into her mouth, took the beans, and I pulled out the spoon, already focused on preparing Max's bite. All was quiet for a moment. All I could hear was the sound of Robert chewing with his mouth open. Then, disaster struck. Maeve let out the most dreadful wail imaginable. It was like someone had just stuck piping hot beans into her sensitive little mouth. Well, in fact, that's exactly what had happened. You see, with beans, the top layer can be surprisingly cool to touch after blowing them off, leaving those mean, hot beans lingering underneath.




I took quick action. Instead of telling her to spit the beans out (that can get really messy), I simply leaned across the table and began to furiously blow into her open mouth. "See!! Mommy's blowing the beans off right now. It's okay," I said. The tears from her eyes began to retreat back into her sockets. Her little lip stopped doing that annoying quivering thing. And praise God, she swallowed those damn beans!

See, I'm a good mom. I blow off food when it's inside my kid's mouth.



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Cookie Monsters

Sometimes (like always), I go to the grocery store with the intention of getting just a few things (juice, bread, apples) and end up with a cart full of a shit load of other things (chocolate, goldfish, Oreos). I'm not a big fan of store bought cookies, but Oreos are an exception. They represent a sense of comfort, tradition, and simplicity. All will be well if I just eat an Oreo. And it has to be just like this:




So the other day, my kids were torturing me. Max has developed the habit of asking, "What's he doing?" or "What are you doing?" ALL day long. Maeve has become overly sensitive to Max's attention and screams when he enters her personal space (approximately a three foot diameter around her body). So I get a lot of headaches, and then I feel sorry for myself, and then I rummage through the pantry and find Oreos.




I envision sitting on the couch -- alone -- and taking my sweet time while eating my Oreos.

But it doesn't end up as I had hoped. Both of the kids were screaming for cookies. Why can't children ask in a soft, monotone voice: "Hey Mommy, I'd like an Oreo too please"? Instead they screech and carry on as if they were chickens during roundup time. As if I might run away to Idaho with the Oreos and never come back to give them one.

I know this might sound weird, but I always smell a freshly opened bag of Oreos. It's part of the routine, I suppose. The smell is kind of like mud and vanilla and salt.
We sat on the couch and I doled out cookies to the beggars.




No, actually they were all MY cookies. But of course I didn't say that (not this time anyway). Instead I said, "You need to ask nicely for a cookie or I will take them to another boy or girl who can ask nicely. Or even a squirrel who is having trouble finding acorns. Or a worm. Or an ant."

Max said, "I want to feed the squirrel. And worms and ants. And... Spiders too!"
Well that backfired big time. How good are those miniature people at finding loopholes in conversations that lead to fun stuff like earthworm hunting? Very good, I say. Especially Max.

I imagined us doing that for a moment, digging in the cold December earth, searching for an earthworm or an ant. Delivering to them a chocolate wonderland and creamy goodness.




But don't fret, we did not go to that extreme. I distracted them with a Tinkerbell movie. I had Oreos in my hands ready for them to ask for more. I decided to wait to eat my Oreo(s).

I watched the kids eating their Oreos and became quite disturbed. They weren't honoring any tradition. They were not treating the Oreo with the respect it deserves. Max was pretending that he was Cookie Monster (whom I dislike because of his impulsive need to destroy people's cookies).

Maeve has gotten her cookie apart but was now digging her finger into the vanilla filling as if it was a repulsive substance to put between two chocolate cookies.

I also started to notice crumbs, and lots of them. I don't deal well with crumbs. I don't mind somewhat larger items of food that have been dropped because I can easily pick them up. But crumbs require me getting the vacuum out.

How did my idea of sitting -- alone -- on the couch and eating an Oreo per my four step process turn into my kids fighting over who can hold the Oreo bag and subsequently pulverize the cookies?




Well I could answer that questions in many ways, but the bottom line is that ever since that quick moment in the shower four and a half years ago, I pretty much gave up my right to do anything alone anymore, including eating Oreos.

Or vacuuming.
Or peeing.
Or shitting.
Or showering.
Or cooking.

But that's okay. In the end it's all worth it. In the end it's all worth it. In the end it's all worth it. Yeah, I know I wrote that three times in a row. Just trying to convince myself.

How do you eat your Oreos? Even better, do you share your Oreos or are you a closet Oreo eater (there is no shame!!!!)?

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Working for Wings

Max has developed his very first crush. I can't blame him for his choice. This girl is special: smart, pretty, and very light on her feet. But unfortunately she happens to be a fictional character. Max loves Tinkerbell. He utters her name first thing in the morning while chugging his OJ and munching on bacon. He remembers her at night before he goes to bed. "After nap I want Tinkleboo." Apparently, that's her pet name because that's what he calls her. Maeve is still crushing on my boobs. If you ask her what she wants to do tomorrow, she will either respond with "nur nur" (nursing) or "goa oussite."




Tinkerbell is even now starting to enter Max's wardrobe. Max has completely blurred any stereotypical gender lines when he selected the jibbitz to decorate his crocs. On one shoe, Dora, Diego, and Boots are teaming up to help Max get through the day. On the other shoe he has a light up Buzz Lightyear. And, of course, Tinkerbell. I think it's quite the eclectic collection of preschool powerhouse cartoon characters. And let me just tell you Max gets LOTS of attention from the girls who live across the street. One of them said the other day, "He has Tinkerbell! I've never seen a boy shoe with Tinkerbell. That's cool!!"




I've come to the conclusion that my drawings of my little family could be considered cute, perhaps. My drawings of crocs and jibbitz can be described with words like "lame" and "juvenile". I mean Tinkerbell looks like a scarecrow and Buzz looks more like a clown than an action figure.

But oh well, you get my point. Max's crocs are perfectly reflective of his own hodgepodge personality.

So last night Max was standing on the couch while watching Tinkerbell on the TV. He likes to act out the movie as it unfolds. Impressively, he has memorized nearly all the lines of the 6-7 movies that he watches on a regular basis. AND he has memorized the characters' actions and facial expressions and moods. Max becomes one with the movie. He inhabits it.

Max looked at me for a moment and seemed a bit forlorn. He said, "I can't fly like Tinkleboo."




"Why not, Max?" I asked him.

"Because Max don't have wings." He stretched out his little arms as if to show me the proof.

"That's right, Max. Boys have arms. Boys don't have wings. But you can pretend to have wings!" I proceeded to flap around the living room like some kind of maimed pigeon posing as Tinkerbell. I didn't even have a bell to jingle so I just repeated "Look at me! Tinkle tinkle. I'm Tinkerbell!"




Max clearly considered this possibility for a moment but he had another idea in mind. "Mommy, you go to work and buy wings. Go get some money and buy wings for Max."

I stopped flying around the room with my imaginary wings and said, "Okay. I'll buy you some Tinkerbell wings."

Max seemed quite satisfied. He pointed his finger up towards the sky and said, "I'm flying way up there and then up up up AWAY!"

So if you happen to see Tinkerbell and Max flying around your neighborhood, please let me know. You could just send me a Facebook message or something.



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