About these ads

Monthly Archives: November 2011

Anthony Wiggle is Making Eyes at Me, or My Descent into Madness after Becoming a Stay-at-Home Mom

I have been watching a significant amount of preschool television for quite some time now. I generally put it on for noise (because, hey, it’s not noisy enough here), and its presence actually helps me savor the silence more when I turn it off, after the babies go down for their naps. We’re okay with the TV being on here, for the most part.

The Wiggles have been around for several years, and through the magic of Sprout (playing gobs of really old, outdated shows), I’ve had the honor of watching the transformation of Anthony, the blue Wiggle, from somewhat of a caterpillar to a beautiful, possibly surgically-enhanced butterfly. I’ve also become fairly convinced that he’s undressing me with his eyes.

Forgive me for saying this, but in really early Wiggles shows, he’s rather, well, without mincing words, not so attractive. Not my cup of tea. Though he did a wonderful job entertaining children, and for that I respected him.

I’ve watched Anthony’s transition from puffy, brushed out curls to a fade, to having mutton chops, then losing the mutton chops, all as his jaw became more square, his teeth whiter, his eyes brighter, and his skin more tan.

(My husband and I have also psychologically profiled all of the Sunny Side Up Show hosts and “Nina”, the host of the Good Night Show. So, there’s a chance this all may have gotten slightly out of hand.)

Along with these transitions, Anthony Wiggle has definitely developed more confidence. It may have to do with the fact that the entire group must have more money than God by now, or that he may have retained both an excellent cosmetic dentist and plastic surgeon. Whatever the case, though, I would swear he’s licking his lips and winking at me through the screen.

Here’s an example:

Maybe it’s the porn ‘stache, or the fact that there are ladies dancing around him, or the fact that his shirt’s unbuttoned just a little too far. Or it’s me. It might be me. But I feel like I need a shower to wash off the twelve kinds of wrong every time I see this.

Sure, it’s a winning formula, right? Hook the moms, hook the kids. And far be it from me to interfere with the bottom line.

But he’s a little hot, uh, I mean, gross. He’s gross. Phooey.

About these ads

Posted on | Image

Organized Religion vs. My Disorganized Life

Pop Quiz: What are the two things one should never talk about?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Well, I am going to talk about one of them today. Not from a soapbox, but from my own experience. And I hope no one is offended.

This past weekend, we had the twins’ baptism. My family is Catholic, and my husband is Coptic, which is basically Eastern Orthodox Christian.

My husband and I are not very religious in the I-need-to-get-myself-up-at-8-on-a-Sunday-to-prove-my-faith sense. We’re both admittedly motivated by guilt and repeated questioning and/or requests from our families.

When we got married, we had a civil ceremony, and six months later had the marriage convalidated, which basically means we’re now married in the eyes of the church as well. Thus, we have two anniversaries. Cha-ching! In our defense, though, we both did want to do that.

I do not personally agree with some of the Catholic church’s views, and my husband, he, well, has a bit of an anti-establishment bent to him, you know, when he’s not trying to please his parents, so, between the two of us, we don’t exactly scream devout.

Nonetheless, we’ve ceremoniously made all of our sacraments and completed the requirements necessary to be part of the church. Except actually going to church.

The past few church experiences we’ve had have been, uh, noteworthy. The night of our convalidation, an old woman hit my car in the church parking lot on the way in, causing my entire family to be late, walk in the wrong door after the mass started, and trample across the pulpit to our seats while the priest was talking. That went over famously.

After we had our son, we ‘switched’ churches to one much closer to our house. My son’s baptism went quite well, no issues there, but with my twins’ pregnancy right up on its heels, we didn’t really give much further thought to church, and didn’t step foot into one again until yesterday.

We were one, ONE, (literally ONE) minute late to the ceremony, and the priest was outside, tapping his foot, calling us on his cell phone. I know this because I was there, in the parking lot, taking my 3 children out of their carriers, watching him call us. The message on my home voicemail from the priest was received at 1:01pm. Really.

Again, my family tramples in, like a herd of elephants, to another waiting family, none-too-pleased that we were one minute late for the baptism. I don’t want to be self-righteous here, but I have three babies to get ready, and no matter what time we get up and start, we’re still dictated by sloppy high-chair meals, naps, and bad moods. So, though I was sorry, part of me wasn’t.

To make matters worse, my sponsors (the babies’ godparents) had gotten lost, and were late. The priest, nine minutes later, informed us that he was going to begin, with the other family, and would hopefully continue with us if our sponsors arrived. I spoke out of turn and explained to him that they were most likely lost, and would arrive soon. Five more points for Stephie!

Now, mind you, for my son’s baptism, we waited, not unhappily, a good thirty minutes, for another family’s sponsors to arrive. No one complained, and there was no foot- or watch-tapping. We just waited. Patiently.

A few moments later, the tardy folk, again, herding elephant-style, charged in and took their seats.

We fumbled clumsily through the ceremony. I had mixed emotions throughout, which, unfortunately, were aggravation mixed with resentment. I know. Not what I should have been feeling for my babies’ baptism, but I was aggravated at the whole time issue, being rushed, and not being able to actually settle in and take in the event. I also felt guilty that I wasn’t really into it, that I knew our babies were fine, baptized or not, and that no one could really understand (or appreciate) the epic struggle it is to get us all out of the house, much less bathed and in coordinated clothing.

When we drove from the church to the reception venue, my husband and I had a pretty serious discussion about what we wanted to do going forward, religion-wise. I pointed out that we’d probably be the family whose kid was late to CCD class every week, would enter through the wrong door for their First Communion, would be wearing the wrong shoes, and would line up in the wrong spot, and he pointed out that he once fell asleep holding a candle when he was an altar boy and burnt his ear with hot wax.

I had to bribe my husband into wearing a coat and tie to the church. His argument was that God didn’t put Adam in a suit when he created him, and that we were all lucky he wasn’t going naked.

Clearly, we’re not cut out for this racket.

I don’t necessarily want to go along with all the pomp and circumstance associated with being Catholic. My liberal view isn’t really compatible, and my husband, well, doesn’t like coats or ties. I think it’s easy to see that between our shenanigans and lack of commitment, the Catholic church isn’t really a great fit. Not now, at least.

But we’re not without faith.

Soooo…

We’ll probably be pondering life’s great mysteries for a while. In the meantime, please enjoy some super cute baptism pictures.

Love the sunlight on him!

With her (Fairy) Godmother

Ready to rock and roll!

Matthew: Post-Cake

Posted on | Image

Yeah, I Said It…I’m Excited About Christmas

Nov 22

Posted by

I was really, really trying to sit on this post until the day after Thanksgiving. It’s been in my Drafts folder, whispering minty, Christmasy nothings into my ear. And, if this impatient, fat, lazy, hedonistic society has taught me anything, it’s not to delay gratification. So here we are. I won’t beat around the proverbial holly bush…

I’m so excited about Christmas this year!

I know, I know. You probably want to stone me or tie me up and lock me in a closet until January 5, and that’s alright. I’ll just celebrate in there.

I can only speculate as to why I’m so excited, but I’m pretty sure most of the reason is that this is the first holiday season since 2008 I’ve not been third-trimester pregnant, or, hey, third-trimester pregnant with twins and on bedrest. You’d be damn near giddy, too. Trust me.

What does my holiday fervor encompass, you ask? Everything from baking (and begging people to store in their freezer) an ungodly amount of cookies to the Jingle Cats. Yes, the Jingle Cats. I’m getting all itchy now, just thinking about which Jingle Cats YouTube video I’m going to post on Facebook and how soon I can do so without people deleting me. Not familiar with Jingle Cats? No? Well, here you go! You’re welcome. Really. And just give me a shout if you want to see more. *Wink*

I can’t lie. I was not-so-secretly thrilled when I noticed this past weekend that one of our local radio stations started with the full-on, 24/7 barrage of Christmas music, because this meant that I could simply hide behind those scoundrels if I got called out on my premature holiday cheer.

And I’ll let you in on one of my family’s lesser-known traditions: Every year, after Thanksgiving dinner, for as long as I can remember, my family rounds out the holiday by blasting (and I mean blasting) Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas is You while doing The Swim throughout the house. Sure. Chuckle. See if I care. Try it. You’ll find that there’s really no better way to usher in the Christmas season.

Tacky outdoor displays? Yes! Improperly and artificially flavored holiday coffee drinks? Yes! Candy canes that taste like SweetTarts? Oh, yeah. Ninety-three renditions of Blue Christmas? Bring it! Old Navy commercials? Hmm…no. Not those.

And I’m looking forward to baking this year. Really baking. With all the requisite standing up and sitting down. The year before last, I baked about half of what I usually do, sitting down. And last year, my dear, dear husband was in charge of climbing in and out of the oven to put in and take out pans, mixing batter, rolling dough, and setting cookies out to cool. So, basically he made all the cookies.

I pulled out my Pomegranate Cider and Christmas Tree candles from Yankee Candle two days ago, and I am wringing my hands in anticipation of putting Christmas lights up outside on Friday, while you all beat each other senseless for Let’s Rock Elmo.

What I have not planned at all is Christmas gifts. Don’t worry. I’ll get to it. And since my living room has been transformed into a McDonald’s PlayPlace, I really need to do some logistics about where we are going to put our ginormous artificial pre-lit tree. (Don’t judge. I can’t be picking up pine needles until July.) Did I mention half of my sectional is in the garage? Space is definitely at a premium here. Still, you can bet there’ll be an overly enthusiastic smirk on my face as we decorate it, all jammed in the corner, halfway into the fireplace. (They make those trees fire-retardant, now, right?)

So, there you have it. The Christmas season is upon us. I’ve got my cocoa, music cued up, and natural pine extracts wafting through the house. Poke your fun.

Now, go enjoy that turkey. I’ll be here when you’re through, doing the YMCA to Mariah Carey in my mother’s dining room.

Posted in Family, Holidays, humor

15 Comments

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Devolving Friendships and Other Consequences of Having a Family

Friendship Devolution: (n.), the process by which seemingly solid, time-tested relationships devolve into infrequent platitudes and insincere gestures towards joint social activities, inevitably unraveling altogether, following changes in relationships status(es) and/or the arrival of children (See also: Demotion from real friend to Facebook friend)

I once had several small pockets of friends, from college, work, graduate school. It was an impressive bunch. With some I would dine, others I would see movies, go to mini golf, take road trips, and concoct other adventures I care not to mention here…The friendships were solid.

Enter my husband after a long, drawn-out, soul-sappingly hilarious dating adventure. He was a quiet man, one of those oysters you had to tread water and wait for the shell to open to get a glimpse of the pearl inside. I didn’t feel like explaining.  Time marched on.

Through sheer luck (poor planning, and super ovaries) I was pregnant two weeks after our wedding. I resigned from my job. Everything changed.

All of my friends were single, newly single, or divorced, and I was suddenly an ‘us’. You know how that goes. No one wants to be a ‘third wheel’ or party to canoodling, plus I was pregnant (with all the requisite boo-hooing) with a numb right leg I dragged around like Quasimodo for the entirety of the pregnancy. We weren’t exactly Super Party Funtime couple.

I was no longer working. My well of new friendships had all but run dry, unless I wanted to buddy up with the nurses in my OB/GYN office, and, for the record, I didn’t.  My husband, a West Coast transplant, now had his friends scattered haphazardly about the country, and he didn’t wish to socialize with his current coworkers. Plus, again, I was pregnant.

About halfway into my first pregnancy, I may have lost it a little, about things changing between myself and my friends. I never imagined pregnancy had such power to polarize, but it did. I whined, I bitched, I cried. And I tried. I rushed, through my tears, to hold sandcastles together as the tide rushed up around me. The mud slipped through my fingers. They slipped through my fingers.

I let it go.

A few months (4 1/2 to be exact) after the birth of my son, I learned I was pregnant again. There was a temporary, enthusiastic upsurge of activity between myself and them. There were a few visits, a few outings. I felt a bit better about everything. Surely, I haven’t changed. Maybe it was just pregnancy hormones, bad timing, blah blah blah. I went into the pregnancy happy, with renewed faith that everything was alright and things would be back to normal soon.

I learned I was having twins a month later. More excitement, the thought of twins, the craziness of the whole situation. I was whole and healthy (i.e., able to walk and go about my business) until after Thanksgiving 2010. I enjoyed every moment of every day until then. Then I crashed. Hard. The babies had grown, were breech, in my ribs, punching my gallbladder, and stepping on my pelvic bones. I was put on partial bedrest for reasons I can’t remember, went into labor prematurely, which was stopped, and my life, again, ground to a screeching halt.

I had no interest in walking from the living room to the bedroom, never mind going out, or calling, texting, or emailing anyone. Every day was a struggle. I was miserable. I cried because I couldn’t make myself a sandwich or tie my own shoes. I couldn’t take care of my son, I couldn’t take care of myself, and I couldn’t take care of my home. I was not me. I was a clumsy, exhausted, aching incubator, who only left the house for once- to twice-weekly doctor’s appointments.

The old cliché would pass through my consciousness…If they’re not here for you, they’re not your friends to begin with. Then my mind took over, trying to find reasons it was my fault. But I was exhausted, and, frankly, all I could think about was getting through the day (or week, or counting down the weeks until it was all over), so I had no choice but to let it all go again.

Fast forward to today, I’m up and going, we’re sleeping (Ha! Fine! Got me! We’re still not sleeping, but we’ve adjusted), my house is somewhat in order, and I am able to get out again.

But I am different now. In body, mind, and thought, I’ve changed. I now have no patience for anyone who doesn’t understand (or care) what the challenges are to my situation, anyone who can’t deal with rescheduling twenty-seven times, or anyone who can’t see past his or her own nose.

Family plus 1

I’ve got kids. And I love my kids. And I love my husband. And I love my home, the glorious mess that it is.  And if you can’t find a way to squeeze yourself in there somewhere, I can’t (and won’t) do it for you. My bus is leaving – it’s rolling, in fact – so if you value me, the things we’ve been through, the things we’ve laughed and/or cried about, who I am, and the beautiful chaos that my life’s become, by all means, jump on. But if you don’t, or can’t, consider this a fond farewell.

Because I’ve got things to do, and ruminating is no longer one of them.

Posted on | Image

Pete and Repeat Were on a Boat…

We’ve entered the lovely period in our lives as parents when our darling toddler son begins to repeat everything we say.

Which is good, especially when we prompt him to say thank you, hello, Bless you, goodbye, or please. Makes me proud.

When is it not so great?

-When you realize you’re at the end of the last can of Enfamil and it’s 9 o’clock on a Sunday night, and you parted ways with your bra hours ago.

-When he decides to jump in and give you a hand changing his diaper by wiping his tush with your freshly changed sheets.

-When you’re busy digging in the cupboard for a container lid and turn around to find he’s winding up to smash his 7th consecutive egg on the floor.

-In the mall parking garage.

-When a loving family member says something like, “Well, her feet were soooo cold. I felt bad, but I just couldn’t find any socks in the diaper bag…”

-When your walk into the corner of the Pack n’ Play, barefoot, for the thirty-third time.

-When a telemarketer calls.

road rage

And I’ll admit it. I’ve got just a touch of road rage. Just a touch. In my defense, though, you should drive here. It’s infuriating. I have gotten considerably better since I became the Maven of the Minivan, because, hey, if I’m driving an Odyssey, I’ve pretty much forfeited any semblance of free spirit already. When you sign the contract at the dealership, a service guy comes by with a Shop Vac and sucks out your soul. Didn’t know that? Well, you do now.

Anyway, I try to stifle my instinctive responses to those who cut me off, drive too slowly in front of me, text while they’re driving (Um, the light? Coming from your crotch? That’s not natural), or otherwise commit crimes against nature in their automobiles. I’ve modified my response to banging on the steering wheel and making noises that SOUND LIKE four-letter words, but aren’t. Except Matthew then imitates me banging on the steering wheel and makes the same sounds.

So, I haven’t quite figured this out yet.

A few things have slipped out my (his) mouth over the past few weeks, none of which he has any real recognition, but soon I will have three eager little parrots, and all I can picture is us rolling them around Target as they shout profanities in the round.

Sooo…I need to find acceptable substitutes, and fast. Or a mute button. Or stop being so gosh-darned dynamic.

Either way, though, I don’t see this going very well…

Posted on | Image

← Older Posts
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 5,097 other followers