Lack of Sleep + Whole Foods = Spilled Milk

Tonight I went to Whole Foods for milk. Just milk. Nothing else.

Silly mommy.

So I go in, and first I have to exchange some tomatoes that were completely rotten less than a day after I bought them. And then I have to get new tomatoes, which reminds me we need cantaloupe because right now all Dane will eat are cinnamon raisin bagels, blueberries, processed cheese and cantaloupe (and COOKOO MAMA, COOKOO). And next to the cantaloupe is some tasty looking humus, which reminds me we need some sort of soft bread (other side of the store), and then from there I can see the hot bar and the bakery and I’m STARVING, and next thing I know I’m checking out with replacement tomatoes, three crab cakes, a cookie, a pint of cantaloupe, a loaf of oatmeal bread and, that’s right, attentive reader… no milk. So: back to dairy, get the milk, checkout, head to the car with milk precariously balanced on one arm and just as I’m at the car I stumble and BAM. MILK. EVERYWHERE. So on my third time through the Whole Foods checkout line the same very nice girl looks at me and says, “Hard night?”

And just as I’m about to complain, I remember:

Mommy, your finger’s in the picture.

And this:

COWABUNGA!

And let’s not forget this:

What? At least I didn’t get a tattoo.

And I realize I have much better problems than a little spilled milk.

Thank you Whole Foods, for perspective. And also, you know, crab cakes. And cookies.

Smooch -s

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Today in the Mommyhood, Day 488 (Part OMG Y’ALL WORM)

DUDE(S).

So today, Dane leans over and picks up what I think is a dead worm from the driveway. Because I’m, you know, supermommy and all, I go running over to take the carcass from him before it becomes (ugh, shiver) a snack, and as I’m trying to remove it from his sweet toddler hand, it… WIGGLES, Y’ALL. WITH IT’S CREEPY PLUMP WORM HEAD. AND THEN WIGGLES SOME MORE. AND I JUMP BACK AND SCREAM AND LEAVE MY POOR, DEFENSELESS TODDLER HOLDING A PLUMP, WIGGLING, NON-DEAD WORM AND OH MY GOD YALL DID I MENTION WORM.

So. Of course, Dane drops the worm and starts crying, and then my neighbors start laughing HYSTERICALLY (I live in the best neighborhood ON THE PLANET), and then (since my toddler is crying and also, you know, WORM FREE) I pick him up and on we go with our day.

EXCEPT FOR THE PART WHERE I SUCK AS A MOMMY.

Oh y’all. I am so screwed.

WHAT. NOW. MOMMY.

Smooch -s

Karma. WHATEVER.

So. Back to our regularly scheduled programming.

A few days ago, I was busy cursing Britax and Lexus because they blew up my uber-scientific hypothesis about the convertible car seat’s ability to keep Dane more awake in the car. I have a THING with karma (I have a lot of THINGS, actually. I’m certain this is because of some deep-seated childhood trauma from watching the movie House as a kid. That’s right, Hollywood, I BLAME YOU.). Anyway, karma just smacked up my you-know-what again BECAUSE:

1. After Day Two of the great car seat switcheroo, little man is so engrossed by everything out the window (even in the rear-facing direction, THAT’S RIGHT, BABY COPS, I FIGURED IT OUT, HAHAHA.) (Also, TRUH! BAH! BUH! TRUH! MAMA! PUFF!) that he hasn’t fallen asleep in the car seat SINCE THAT VERY DAY. Now, let me clear. Because I just wrote that for God and the entire internet to read, he’ll fall asleep in it tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m going to pound my chest and make manly mommy Tarzan noises and pretend like I TOTALLY KNEW THAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN AND NEVER DOUBTED IT FOR A MOMENT. Right. Also, FINE, Britax, you rock. But only in cowmooflauge.

2. Secondly: Lexus, you and I have had a few problems. You got mad at me for driving like an Earnhardt and leaked some oil. You threw a shoe in the form of a bad tire and then told all your service people to treat me like a dumb blonde mother of a newborn (it took three, THREE service calls for the dealer to figure out I had a tire with a broken belt, all the while I was TRANSPORTING MY SMALL BABY.). And my issue with your putting my baby to sleep has been well documented. But. BUT.

Yesterday, I was a part of a small auto accident (that was, yes, COMPLETELY MY FAULT and for which I feel terribly, terribly terrible). No-one was hurt and by some miracle Dane was not in the vehicle at the time. Our insurance company is going to be thrilled, because Ed, the guy I hit (who, luckily for me, gave up being angry for Lent), has a badly smushed, broken-in-half bumper. My vehicle? TWO SCRATCHES. Nary a dent, even. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the dealer will find a way to charge me roughly half my life savings and my second and third childrens’ souls for the repair. Still, I have to say, fine, begrudgingly, YOU TOO ARE FORGIVEN.

I believe that is all for today, other than:

Ah-hah, y’all. Jester’s dead.

smooch -s

p.s. A little perspective in the wake of my VERY MINOR FENDER BENDER IN WHICH NO ONE WAS HURT BUT LEXUS AND MITSUBISHI STAND TO MAKE A MINT: When I got home from the accident, I found out that a friend of a friend’s son, a senior in high school, was in an accident that has left him in a coma, and another friend of that friend was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer despite being a non-smoker. So (1) WHATUP WITH THAT, GOD? (2) For real, please pray for them both and (3) We are so, so lucky. -s

The Godmother (Subtitled: This is a long, personal, wordy, non-offensive post about God.)

So you’ve heard about Aunt Brookie and her fab three kiddos on this here blog, but I haven’t mentioned that I’m their godmother (the kiddos, not Aunt Brookie.). On an every day basis, this means acting less like a jerk than usual, but this year, the oldest (Bub) is going through an important church event, so I’m all consumed with how to be the best darn godmother ever.

My goal is to support Bub in his journey in faith, and, to do that, I’m trying to map out exactly what my role is. I know there are 14,000 websites that tell me the EXACTLY CORRECT ROLE OF THE GODMOTHER IN EVERY RELIGION KNOWN TO MAN, but as long as I’m adhering to the general rules of godparenting in our church, I’m not so concerned about the “what I’m supposed to be doing” as the “what’s important to our family, and how we can share and grow and learn together in our faith” part of things.

There’s the obvious: I need to share and be open (and knowledgable) about our religion. I need to agree on the values held not only by our church but also by his parents so that we present a united front on the who and how and what and why and all those other logistical components of raising a child in a religion. And I need to understand that this is his journey and be focused, respectful and supportive of his choices, and let him know how proud I am that he’s developing his own ideas about faith and his relationship with God.

What else? Being godmother means being a role model, in faith and life. It’s being the kind of person I perceive God wants us to be: kind, compassionate, always putting others first, sharing what we have with those less fortunate and remembering our blessings. In this sense, I’m lucky, because Bub inspires me to be those things, anyway. He’s an exceptional kid, and I’m not just referring to the fact he can build the death star out of duck tape, chewing gum and his sisters’ toothbrushes, and then use it to rescue the neighbor’s kitten from a tree. He’s one of the most thoughtful and helpful people I know (and he’s SEVEN, y’all), a kid to whom doing the right thing comes naturally. Actually, as I write this, I realize he’s kind of my hero. Which is a pretty big accomplishment since that list includes Winston Churchill, Jason Bourne and the founder of Chik-Fil-A.

Being Bub’s godmother also means I get to share some really special parts of his life (this is an “I” paragraph. At least it’s less than 700 words, okay?). I get the singular privilege of watching an already exceptionally thoughtful and intelligent child apply his empathy and intellect to our faith, and see how it changes him and how he changes it. Actually, I get to do more than watch. I have the privilege of sharing that journey with him. I get to be there when he has questions or thoughts or just wants to sit and watch the stars or the wind blow or his sisters playing, and marvel at the gifts God has given us.

Being a godmother to Bub means helping him understand that we’re always with him but even more so, God is always with him. It’s helping him not be uncomfortable  talking about God (like his godmother), and understand how special and lucky we are to be part of a global community of faith. It’s helping him see that he can always depend on (in order of importance), God, J.C. and associated cronies, his faith, his parents and sisters and family, and me as his godmother. It’s remembering how lucky we are to walk in God’s light and that our actions and not just our words represent that, and that we’re blessed to have not a particular tangible thing, but each other.

So.

I’ll admit something else, internet peeps, that makes me nervous. See, I’ve always been cool Aunt Su-Su, and it’s important to me to remain cool Aunt Su-Su. This is not because I think he’s going to need someone to buy him beer when he’s seventeen and wants to look good in front of his friends (really, A.B. I promise), or because I’m so desperately clinging to the last three people in the world who still think I’m cool (which, of course, I am). This is because growing up, I never had an adult outside of my parents to whom I could talk (this is not a criticism of my parents, btw, who are in fact AWESOME). But boy howdy, could I have occasionally used a place to go or a shoulder to cry on or a logical engineer who could set me back on the straight and narrow AND show me how to build that damn toothpick bridge for physics. And so, in a really wordy way, I want to be cool Aunt-Su-Su because it is vitally important for me to continue having such a close relationship with Bub and the other two smushies up in A.B.’s ‘hood, so that they always have someone to go to, cry with, laugh with, play with, build bridges with (literally and metaphorically) – in short, so they always have that one extra person they can depend on and trust in and know will always love them and believe in them. Their godmother.

Love that boy. The hair much less. HEY IT WAS 2004 YO.

Love – Aunt Su-Su

Danish

Conversation between P.A. and myself at Dane’s 15-month well check:

P.A.: “So how many words is Dane saying?”

Me: “Oh, I think he has five or six.”

P.A. (with wide-eyed, you don’t know? bad mommy look): “Are you sure?”

Me, flustered: “You know,” I say. “He says:

Mama, Dada, and Bumpa (which I’m pretty sure means Grampa)

UPUPUPUPUPUPUP. Up. Mama. UP.

(Not to be confused with) BupBup (Puppy)

(Or to be confused with) Bah (could mean ball, or what a sheep says)

(Ditto with) Buh(n) (Jellycat Bunny)

(Also not to be confused with) Buh (which most definitely means bus, and very weirdly at exactly the right times that the school bus is coming. Sometimes I listen to his tummy for a tick-tock a la the crocodile in Peter Pan, WHAT?)”

P.A. sighs. I continue. “Also in the B’s are:

Booh (unrelated to Halloween, usually when he’s carrying around an Ugg or one of our cowboy boots, shortly followed by) Ahn? and then AHF! and then a wail of disapproval, followed by Ahn! Ahn! Ahf! Ahn! and then Coffee, Mama?

At this, P.A. cocks his head and opens his mouth, but by then I’m on a roll and so I say, “And there’s:

Cookuu (cookie), coffee (literally, just like he was ordering at Starbucks, see above), coco (open), GoGoGOGOGOGOGO (sometimes to be confused with open until it’s paired with a garbled OUTSIDE, MAMA), Ju (if you don’t know what that means, you don’t have a toddler), and my two personal favorites, tea (almost always followed by Mama and a disapproving look) and teekle-teekle (usually accompanied by his hands on his tummy and chest or sometimes by him rolling over on his back and looking at me expectantly. Either he’s Cheech Marin or part basset hound, I don’t know.)”

Here I take a breath, and the P.A. opens his mouth again but I see where this is going, and quite frankly I’m still annoyed by his earlier look and enjoying my little soliloquy, so before he can get anything out, I launch again:

“And then there are the randoms:

‘Patula, potty, teetee (last two related), locked, unlock, yuckee, yuckee diaper (pronounced more like yu-eee di-er), trash, ‘Dis?, ‘Dat?, yeah (followed by nod of self-approval), Luke-Laura (our neighbors), sp-sp (spray bottle) and lately we’ve also been getting the occasional reh (red) and various other garbled colors. And the rest of the foods: nana, buhbuhbuh (blueberry), PUFF. PUFF. PUFF. PUFF. PUFFPUFFPUFFPUFF,cheetoh, chicka, CHEEEEEEEEEZE, vacah (avocado), papa (pasta, not to be confused with BupBup, especially if pasta in mouth when spoken), tita (tortilla, thanks, A.B.) and then there are the animals and their sounds, starting with – ”

But before I start mooing and quacking and hissing, the P.A. holds up his hand and waves it in front of my face.

“Great,” he says, but now he’s got even more of a funny look on his face, and I’m so self-satisfied that Dane not only knows five or six words, HE HAS A WHOLE FREAKING LEXICON, Y’ALL, that I don’t realize until I’m walking out the door that I’ve just told our doctor that Dane is a soap-opera addicted Cheetoh hound who thinks Starbucks is a food group, gets locked in and out of the bathroom and cross-dresses in his mama’s shoes, or in short, that I’m Britney Spears circa 2008. Because, well, YES, THAT’S MOSTLY TRUE.

Cookie, anyone?

Smooch -s

p.s. (a week later, don’t hate me, I have a toddler and a cold and a cheetoh/soap habit to feed) – I’m going to participate in “yeah, write” for a few weeks here, so if you’re one of my three or four lurkers, go on over, check it out (there are lots of good writers over there!!) and (DUH) vote for me!

Reasons Starbucks Should Deliver, Part MOOOOOO, Y’all

So I had this theory, right, that once I changed Dane into a convertible car seat from his infant car seat (into which he still fits, because he’s a wee smushy 10th percentile kind of guy), he’d stop falling asleep in the car. Because, you know, the manufacturer of my SUV lined my air vents with Valium and every time we go anywhere between the hours of wake-up and nap-time, I’m doing acrobatics trying to keep his eyes open. So, pursuant to my hypothesis (heheheh SMARTYPANTS), I spent two hours this morning switching out his car seat while feeding him puffs and juice to keep him placated (which alone should have kept him awake for, say, three days), and then we ran a super quick errand and were in the car for all of, say, TEN MINUTES, and of course you know what happened next… Not only did he fall asleep, but now I can barely reach him in his new seat because of these damnable newfangled safety regulations about keeping your child rear-facing until roughly their 23rd birthday (really, baby cops? CAN YOU PLEASE THROW ME A BONE HERE?) and thusly could not wake him up for the last two minutes of our drive home, and instead of naptime, I’m now witnessing (via the infernal, addictive video monitor), a WWE SMACKDOWN FEATURING PUPPY THE DEMOLISHER VERSUS GREAT DANE THE NONSLEEPER, also featuring THROW BUNNY FROM THE TRAIN, AN ELECTRIFYING DISPLAY OF PILLOW SMASHING and finishing up with THE TEN MINUTE OR POSSIBLY ONE HOUR LONG TRAIL OF TEARS.

So in conclusion: 1. Britax, you suck. 2. Lexus, you, too. 3. I should never theorize again, and 4. I NEED A MARGARITA.

What now, Mommy?

Happy Friday, y’all.

Smooch -s

You’re damn right it’s my party.

Today, friends, is my birthday.

I’m not going to tell you how old I am. It’s not so bad but it’s not so great either and all in all, I have a pretty good thing going here, so I probably shouldn’t bitch about it. Instead of writing a wordy, whiny, grumpy post about crow’s feet and hip thickness and my inability to remember words like disconcerting, I’m going to do one of my favorite things and make a list. Yep, I’m a regular Dave Letterman up in here, only with, you know, more hair. And not so funny. Anyway, I present, for your reading pleasure:

THINGS I REFUSE TO FEEL GUILTY ABOUT ON MY BIRTHDAY

1. Two grande Starbucks. Yes, TWO. And that for the first one I accidentally left my wallet at the house and the girl gave it to me for free and I’m totally not going back to pay for it. Happy Valentine’s Day to me.

2. At least one piece of Starbucks marble cake, a Gigi’s cupcake, the Italian food I’m planning on for dinner, and putting Sweet Baby Ray’s on my turkey sandwich. Because y’all, that stuff is GOOD, and because, well, I CAN.

3. Reading gossip blogs while Dane’s having lunch. Also, that I skipped book club not because I had a previous engagement but because the memoir of Queen Noor sounded as interesting to me as a turkey sandwich without Sweet Baby Ray’s.

4. That I no longer fit into my favorite jeans without doing the hairband trick at the button. Similarly, that I’m going to spend upwards of $70 bucks on a pair of Spanx leggings, because, let’s face it, that’s an INVESTMENT IN MYSELF, people.

5. The five baskets of laundry on my couch, the sheets and towels possibly molding in my drier, the curtain rod hanging limply off my dining room window, and the 7,000 other things on my to do list that are just not getting done today.

6. A possible third Starbucks as a chaser to the Italian food.

7. Ditto #5 only substitute “piles of stuff on my desk” for the household chores.

8. My lack of churchgoing, frustration with slow drivers, gossipy-ness and in general, all the moral shortcomings that, at night, I pray for the strength to overcome, and to which I immediately succumb during the day.

9.  Toddlers & Tiaras, Teen Mom 2 and all the other crappy reality television shows that I’m going to waste countless hours and brain cells on over the next year just so I feel better about myself in comparison.

10. And finally, most importantly, today I will not feel guilty about my screw-ups as a mom, especially my propensity to get over anxious, which I am certain will create a long term complex in my child requiring years of therapy and hundreds of thousands of dollars to overcome. You’re welcome, baby.

IN FACT: Not only am I not going to feel guilty today, I’m going to instead congratulate myself on (completely inexplicably) raising an awesome wee smushy who thinks bodily functions are hilarious, Anna Dewdney is a rock star, does the twist at any hint of music (Brad Paisley! Sam Cooke! A USAA commercial!) and who loves his daddy, his family, Puppy and Whole Foods chocolate chip cookies just as much as I do.

I think.

Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all. Smooch -s