Happy Day, Mama’s!

bra-less and sunburned
eating donuts on the porch
feels like vacation

I’m usually good about not getting sunburned, unless I’m at a football game or on vacation. Yesterday, I was at neither and yet I still managed to scorch my back bright red like some kind of yankee hot dog.

So I’m enjoying my Mother’s Day slathered in lidocaine-infused aloe. It automatically makes me feel more relaxed, because the only time I use that stuff is at the beach. Ha. Who knew the secret to total relaxation was to cover oneself in medicated goo and sit on the porch, pretending that the train going by is really ocean waves?

I’m off to continue my beach bound fantasy. But first I’m going to grab a Krispy Kreme and my sunglasses. Call me hillbilly, if you must, but sunburned, porch rocking, donut eating is the ONLY way to spend a Sunday morning.

I hope y’all enjoy your Day of Mother’s as much as I’m enjoying mine….

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it’s not easy being green

offset emissions
maybe just stop eating beans
forget CFLs

Well, we went out and bought a giant box of CFLs, thinking that we are now on the road to being green badasses. Then I put the bulbs into my kitchen light fixture and -sigh- I HATE THEM.

It’s like living in an all night diner or an emergency room or possibly a dressing room at Macy’s. They are blinding and they hang down too long from the light coverings so it looks like my light fixture is made up of upside down nuclear ice cream cones. Did I mention I hate them? I HATE THEM.

We bought the "warm" kind, so they do kind of give off a faint pink glow, but that doesn’t offset the yucky fluorescent-ness. Boo. I’m with Kermit on this one.

I did find this site, though, that seems pretty awesome. You can search for exactly what kind of bulb would make you squeal in glee and then see examples and reviews.

I just blogged about light bulbs, didn’t I? My life is incredibly interesting and glamorous.

I’m that mom

selfishness wins out
innapppropriate music
plays loud all day long

Can I just say how incredibly fantastic Amy Winehouse is? Her blues-y, retro, emotion-infused music has become my soundtrack for the past week or so. It’s like listening to a really pissed off Sarah Vaughn – but you only hear the pissed off-ed-ness if you listen to the lyrics. Otherwise, it’s lovely 50’s girl band kind of music with a tad of Big Band and a sneeze of soul. That kind of smooth and then kicky melody, juxtaposed with sailor-mouth lyrics creates such a fabulous, hilarious irony, I can hardly stand it.

Any song that starts off with a slow-moving, easy big band sound with lyrics that coo, "What kind of fuckery is this?" is A-OK in my book.

I. Love. It.

I just hope I’m not ruining my kids forever by listening to it over and over again. Pesky kids.

Also? I apologize for my completely horrible way of describing music. I am a lame music describer (Describist?). What can I say?

momlarm clock

who needs normal time
when you have the momlarm clock?
mom time ALL the time

The wee one just told me it was past almost. He’s been trying to get me upstairs to play and I’m hedging… just trying to get a couple of things done on the computer, etc. But his comment struck me as really funny and clever. That’s what all mom’s need, isn’t it? The Momlarm Clock. Instead of having numbers, it has "In A Minute" and "Just A Second" and "Almost Ready" and "Give Me Two Minutes" and "TWO MORE MINUTES!" and "Just About There" and "Not Quite Yet." What else?

I could totally use a clock like this, front and center on my kitchen wall.

"I know I said I’d be there In A Minute, but it’s looking more like ‘TWO MORE MINUTES’ OK? When the big hand goes past Almost There you can eat your cookie and then TWO MORE MINUTES won’t be that far away. Sound good? Excellent."

a quiet sunday evening

looking for new love
fluffy, smelly, licky love
I must be crazy

So we’re on the hunt for a new dog. We toyed with the idea of getting a kitty, but we’ve never had a cat before and they tend to spontaneously attack me (maybe they can sense my uneasiness around them?) so cats are out.

Now the question becomes – puppy or older dog? I’m all over the idea of getting a rescued older dog. Preferably with three legs and one eye and a name like Beelzebub. I’d love to have a slower-moving, cuddly hunk of fur that will love us forever. The other two voting members of the family want a puppy.

Mm-hmm.

And who will be at home twelve hours a day with a piddling, nipping puppy, hyper pre-schooler and hysterical baby? NOT the grown-up person who’s voting for the puppy. I think this means my vote should be weighted. I’m not against having a puppy, but I don’t relish the amount of work it’s going to take. I’m already about four arms short of what I need to be able to successfully juggle my days. But then… then I remember being a kid and having a puppy. It was so fun. And I do love the idea of my kids growing up with a little fur ball; learning to take of him; loving him as he grows and mellows. But I think we could have that with a rescue dog who’s a little older and who’s urine I won’t have to clean out of my door frames.

Plus, we have the issue of the wee-er one being suddenly spontaneously terrified of anything furry. Wait, strike that. She’s terrified of anything furry that weighs less than 50 pounds. A tiny, tiny, tiny mewing kitten? Major screaming freakout. A mid-size terrier? Major screaming freakout. A golden retriever the size of a garbage truck? A brief frown and then all smiles. My husband gleefully takes this to mean we need a biiiiig dog. Well, a puppy that will quickly turn into a biiiiig dog. Maybe. Or maybe after spending more than a few minutes with a mid-size dog the wee-er one will calm down.

As you can tell, we’re not getting another dog any time soon. But we’re thinking about it, and that’s a good step, I think.

it’s not something that eats your lawn, though that’s what it sounds like

oooh evil grupster
individuality
a parent’s worst sin

Dear Today Show Producer,

Damn. It looks like I might be a grupster. And according to your segment this morning, this means I’m not only raising my children to be
sociopaths, I’m jeopardizing their values, character and "success
traits." (What is a success trait, anyway? Learning how to not choke on rocks? Cause if that’s one, you may actually be right.)

Also, because I selfishly like to listen to my own music and
prefer (though can not always afford) clothes that don’t come from the big
box stores I am – and I’m quoting here – "handicapping" my kids?

Right.

My own love for t-shirts that say things like "Reading is Sexy" and my
propensity to allow the chillins to wear novelty t-shirts makes me a
poor parent. Check. The fact that my son loves the Shins as much as I do means I’m damaging his future self. Check. The idea that because my ten-month-old daughter rides on my hip as I have professional meetings and phone calls means that by witnessing me in my non-mom environment she’s never going to have her own identity. Check.

I’m just following in the footsteps of generations of other moms, aren’t I? Traumatizing my kids by trying to do what I think works best for our family. Shame, shame. Guess I better bust out that Bedazzler and go to town on some smiley-faced low-low-low-priced Big Box denim fabric so I can make myself a skort and be a proper mom.

What kind of derisive, divisive, puffy, fluffy crap is this? News?
Advice? What is it’s purpose? You’d think you wouldn’t TRY to alienate
and insult your most popular demographic. (And by that I mean women
18-49 or whatever it is – not "grupsters." Obviously grupsters would never deign to click on their flat screen LCDs to watch such a plebian affair). Dare I even suggest that what the world needs now is love and not a bunch of ridiculous fuel added to the "mommy wars" fire?

I just love how at the very beginning of the segment
Meredith Vieira’s cloying voice says, "They’re hip, they’ve got their
own interests and stop the presses – they’re also moms and dads!" It’s
spoken so judgementally that I’m tempted to say it’s flat out vicious.
She is the real life, unctuous Dolores Umbridge, smiling as she encourages insults. Oh, wait, is that a comparison I’m not allowed to make because I’m a mom and therefore I’m not supposed to know who Dolores Umbridge is? I’m happy to admit the reference makes me a dork, but the mere suggestion that I’m not allowed to revel in and enjoy current pop culture because I’m a mom and it could somehow damage my kids… well… that makes me want to throw on my "WTF" t-shirt, grab my kids and wallow with them in some of Nirvana’s earlier music. Damn. I did it again, didn’t I?

Anyway, I appreciate the idea that because I’m sort of hip and trendy (but not really) I don’t want to be bothered by the spawn of my own loins. I mean, really, who does? The reality, though, is that my not-quite-punk rock shirts are covered in spit-up just like everyone else’s. My Chuck Taylor’s tread through smeared baby poo and flee down the aisles of Babies R Us when I need a baby gate. I am Every Mom disguised as myself. Or is that vice versa?

As I say to my son when he kicks his sister for no reason – "Hey, hey now, why are you trying to hurt someone just because you can? Time out, mister."

Well, time out to you, Today Show Producer. And just so you know I’m serious… no Shins for at least a week.

Sincerely,
Kari
concerned (yet selfishly a-typical) mother

The segment from this morning’s Today Show can be found here.

twistin the night away

nubbin like handhold
withstands stunning feats of strength
sometimes it fights back

For a while there, the wee-er one grabbed her crotch as she nursed. My teeny Michael Jackson would hold on for dear life while she suckled her dinner. Over the past few weeks, though, she’s turned her attentions to another bathing suit area. Specifically, my nipples.

She’ll nurse on one side and give me the most excruciating titty twister on the other. Every now and then she’s rewarded with an arc of milk that shoots across the room or into her ear. I, on the other hand, am rewarded with bruised nipples and a flinchy reflex every time I see a pincer grip coming at me.

I try swatting her hand away. I try saying, "Ow! Mama’s nipples don’t turn like radio knobs!" but the darn kid just won’t listen.

Between this and the constant, simultaneous head butt/open mouth/biting maneuver she’s perfected, I look like I’ve been attacked by a school of nipple-loving, shoulder-chomping, forehead-bruising piranhas.

There’s also the floor show that comes with the titty-twisting and head-butting and shoulder-chomping. It goes something like this:

[pain is inflicted on mama]

[mama yells/groans/weeps] "Ow! No Bite! [or, "Ow! No radio knobs!" or "Ow! Head butts hurt mama!"

[wee-er one, squealing with glee] "Mama! Mamamamama!" [begins clapping hands] "Bye-bye! Byyyyyy-eeeeeee!" [claps some more]

[mama tries to be cheerful, unless it’s 3 am, then mama makes a grouchy noise] "Mama loves that you have two words now, yay! Two words! BUT YOU HAVE TO STOP BEATING ON ME. Deal?"

[wee-er one, waving backwards then clapping] Mama! Mamamamamam! Bye-bye! Byyyeeeee!

[mama has a resigned sound to her voice] Excellent. I’m so glad we have a deal.

[deal is then sealed with a titty-twister and/or biting head butt.]

[mama groans] "ooowwww…."

Aaaaaaaand scene.