worst wife ever?

the hubby’s birthday
does cleaning kitchen count as
once-in-lifetime gift?

Today is my husband’s birthday. I didn’t forget – I knew it was coming. The wee one and I counted down the days. We planned to make cupcakes. We debated on a Roomba for a present.

Then, suddenly, the day was here. We did not make cupcakes. We did not buy a Roomba. Instead, my hubby took the wee one to the tire store and outfitted the car with four lovely new tires. He also got some windshield wipers. I stayed at home with the wee-er one, a cold, and my book. Who got the better deal? Toss up, I think.

Anyway, I feel like an asshole. He claims to have had a good day. And he’s happy to have new tires. And he got pizza and beer. But still, what kind of a lame wife am I?

I blame the cold. I was cranky and feverish and snotty and grumbly. I should blame myself, I know.

I wonder how well day-after-birthday cupcakes will go over? I can decorate them with little tires. 😛

a grumpy mama

is ceiling leaking?
had eyes closed, felt drip on face
oh, it’s wee one’s snot

I’m having this guilt problem right now. It seems like all I do is express irritation with the wee one. I’ve turned into one of those harpy moms, I think.

"Please don’t do that."
"Hey! Stop screaming when you talk."
"I don’t care if ninja turtles make that noise, that noise gets little boys a timeout."
"Don’t put your penis on your sister."
"Sit closer to the table when you eat."
"Why did you throw clean clothes on the floor?"
"Licking other people’s hands is gross. Stop it."
"Can you wash your stinky feet, please?"
"Tooty McTootsalot can’t sit next to me in the car right now. Sorry."
"Well, if you can’t find your shoes, you can’t go outside."
"Clean up the melted popsicle, don’t STEP on it."
"You have to tell me what you want, I can’t read your mind."
etc.

I feel like all I ever do is nag and point out things that drive me crazy. I try to make sure I compliment him when I’m not nagging, and I try to make sure I explain my exasperated harangues ("If you don’t sit closer to the table, the cheese from your pasta falls on the floor, and then the dog eats it, and it gives him an ear infection because of his allergies and we don’t want that, right?)

But frankly, I’m tired of of having to explain myself to a four-year-old. I want him to LISTEN TO ME. I only want to have to ask him things ONE TIME. I want him to learn from one day to the next to STOP DOING THE SAME THINGS OVER AND OVER. I, Me, Myself, The Grownup – I AM THE MOMMY.

But timeouts only go so far. And a timeout for dropping cheese on the floor when he seems to genuinely have forgotten to sit closer to the table seems ridiculous. So I nag. And I hate it. I hate how my voice sounds doing it. And I’m sure it’s just as unpleasant for other people to listen to, as well.

This is what you have to do though, right? This is what you do to raise a possibly upstanding citizen, right? You teach him right from wrong. You teach him about consequences. You teach him to make decisions on his own – to think about things before doing them. But I have to adopt that tone to get him to listen – you know the one, the mom-in-movies tone. The nag tone.

Bleh.

I hate the nagging mom tone. If the nagging mom tone was a cell phone ring, no one would have cell phones (note to self: investigate making this happen). But I guess I have to do it. It sort of works and that’s better than not working at all. And it’s better than raising a person who never thinks about other people. But I hope it gets better. I feel like such a drag. And don’t tell me moms have to be a drag. There has to be a happy medium somewhere. Right? Right?

hollaback

it is driving me
b-a-n-a-n-a-s
this song in my head

Gwen Stefani gets myriad props for trying to be the new Madonna, not freaking out when her husband found out he had a kid, looking non-shlubby while being very publicly pregnant, and for Spiderwebs, a song that the wee one adored when he was like 8 months old (and tring to dance even before he walked).

But, dammit, Gwen, I can’t take hollaback girl anymore. I know it’s not a new song, but it’s new to me. Except that it’s not. Because it’s been in my head for ’round about 48 hours now. It’s driving me b-a-n-a-n-a-s, Gwen.

Please.

Make it stop.

eat your heart out Lou F.

tricking and treating
what being four is about
every single day

The wee one has decided to be the Hulk for Halloween. I’m not sure how he’s even heard of the Hulk, but we’ve bought the costume so there’s no going back now. I tried to talk him into finding some too small purple pants at Goodwill and then ripping them up ourselves. Then we could paint him green, outline his muscles, dye his hair black… it would have been awesome. But he wants the Hulk suit with the built-in muscles. Sigh. What four-year-old boy wouldn’t? So mama doesn’t get to go crazy with the costume. Oh well.

I think the wee-er one is going to wear the Star Trek uniform my parents got in Vegas for the wee one when he was tiny. I can fashion up a bun for her head and she can be Captain Janeway. Either that, or she can wear this one-piece suit thing with a fake vest that the wee one never wore. A hat and some pearls and voila – Annie Hall in miniature.

I’m going to be Cylon. But not the hot one in heels and a red slip dress. I’m going to be one with frizzy curly hair and nipples that refuse to point in the same direction. Sexy.

it’s a new week!

rocking chair trouble
activated by full moon?
werewolf furniture

So on Friday, just to get back at me for canceling the week, the wee one’s small glider (not the one he got his leg stuck in, a different one) FELL ON THE WEE-ER ONE’S FACE. Just tipped right over and accosted her while she was happily playing on her butterfly blanket.

After that?

Chaos.

Oh she screamed. And when she screams her whole body turns red, so I couldn’t tell what part of her had been hurt. Finally she calmed down just a tad, and there it was… the beginning of a black eye. Inspidly growing, a purple lump appeared under her eye. And what was I going to do? Put ice on it? On a screaming three-month-old? When we all know ice actually makes it hurt worse before it makes it hurt less?

Well, I called a friend of mine (no, not the fire department). She recently graduated from AOMA and is my number one go to person for interesting herbal-y, organic-y, not-available-at-the-regular-grocery-store, bet you didn’t know THAT, kind of stuff.

She brought over a bunch of arnica montana stuff. We settled on Hyland’s Bump and Bruises ointment, which looked like a glue stick to me), and which seemed our best bet with the wee-er one being so young, and me still not fully embracing homeopathy because I am a western medicine, give me a shot in ass and make it all better kind of a gal.

Y’all… that arnica stuff is like a miracle in a tiny glue stick. We used the Hyland’s arnica glue stick right on the growing purple lump, and by the time my husband was home from work a few hours later, he didn’t even notice what was left of the bruise until I pointed it out.

So, yeah, it might not be a shot in the ass, but I’m all about homeopathy right now. At least the arnica part. I only wish we’d had some around when the wee one was little and ran a hundred miles an hour into the corner of the doorway.

Anyway, the week from hell is over. It ended with a bang, too. Shit.

Saying I’m happy it’s over is a bit of an understatement. Yet, I’m still suspicious of all furniture, especially anything that glides or rocks. I guess it’s time to buy my kids some motocross armour they can just wear around like everyday clothing. That and some helmets. Helmets that automatically squirt out little globs of arnica gel at fifteen minute intervals.

a little retail therapy

way too much money
and yet spending it feels good
when it’s spent on me

In celebration of the rest of the week being canceled, I went out with a friend last night and spent a kajillion dollars on books.

A quick rundown:

Spook, by Mary Roach
The Sea of Monsters, by Rick Riordan
Peter and the Starcatchers, by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson
The 9/11 Report, A Graphic Adaptation, by Sid Jacobson and Ernie Colon
Here Be Monsters, by Alan Snow
Pride of Baghdad, by Brian K. Vaughn, art by Nico Henrichon

It felt a little wrong to only buy things for myself, considering I’ve been mostly a bystander/nurse/911 caller/drama queen for the week, but maybe the wee one will get a trip to Sea World soon.

I briefly debated buying a tank of gas, a ticket to the TX-OU game and a breast pump, but I decided books would be better than running away. Hopefully.