Shopping Is Not As Fun As It Pretends To Be
Posted: February 6, 2012 Filed under: Crazy Lady, Motherhood, Stress, Widdle Debil | Tags: bridesmaids dresses, children, flowergirl dresses, parenting, shopping, weddings 7 Comments »I woke up this morning with the skin of a 14 year old, which is…not good. I don’t really blame my skin, though, as stress can cause breakouts and I really put that theory to the test this weekend. It was good stress, I suppose, but stress is stress nonetheless.
Anonymous Husband has started a project at home that will consume his free time for the next few months, best case scenerio. I estimate by the time the last finishing touch has been put in place, we’re looking at mid-summer before he’s done. This is a good thing, in that the project is finishing our basement and, when complete, we’ll have added a few rooms and many additional square feet of living space to our home. But it’s also not a good thing because for the next few months, best case scenerio, the vast majority of parenting will be done by me in a solo parent type situation. Wherein from the moment they wake until bedtime, I’m it. Hundreds of thousands of families are run in this manner every single day, so I am in no way saying this is unusual or that I’m making some sort of unique sacrifice. I’m just saying, that’s all. Sure, the work AH is and will be putting in in order to convert the lower floor of our home into usable living space will be strenuous and the hundreds of hours he’s already put in to designing and researching every single minute detail is nothing to shake a stick at, but as many parents, many of you reading, can attest – there is no job as difficult and stressful as taking care of children.
On Saturday, I took the girls to gymnastics, to the bakery, fed them lunch, and then we went, with my mom and later, my sister, dress shopping. My sister’s getting married in the summer and Eirinn and Avery are her flower girls. With my mom changing one girl and me with the other, we tried on no less than 30 different dresses at several different stores. We kept telling them that we were playing Barbies and they were the dolls. However, Barbies, last I checked, didn’t wiggle and use outdoor voices and insist on wearing snow boots with their pretty dresses and smear snot across their faces, coming dangerously close to the clothes they don’t own. But, despite all that, which I’m pretty certain gave me a mini stroke, we came away with complete outfits fit for a wedding.
AND THEN on Sunday, I took the girls grocery shopping, to the bakery again, fed them lunch, and then we went, with my mom and sister and aunt, dress shopping. This time for me, who will play the role of bridesmaid. I bought the very first dress from the very first store because I had seen enough of the inside of changerooms to last a lifetime, thank you very much. The dress fit, didn’t look hideous. The only two requirements. I even bought shoes and a cardigan, all at the same store.
Dress, orange cardigan and flats from H&M. The other two bm’s will be in a different bright colour, similar to this.
THAT is how shopping is done.
I love my kids (obviously; who would say otherwise of their children?) and I love spending time with them. They’re hilarious and adorable and who wouldn’t want to spend time with cute things that make you laugh? But if I never go shopping with them again, at least until they’re of an age where they don’t require snacks and don’t hide under racks of clothes and can go a couple hours without getting “tired from walking”, I will not complain. But then there’s next week, and there are groceries to buy and a gift to purchase for a birthday party I’ll need to take Eirinn to after gymnastics, so there is no relief in sight.
To be fair, they were both shockingly well behaved. I mean, for them. Like I said, there was the ultra loud voices and the snot-nosed peek-a-boo through the very expensive ladies dresses and the relentless need for sustinence, but overall, I can not complain about how they handled it all. I mean, what kid likes shopping for clothes? Not mine, I know that much, and we didn’t have even one temper tantrum. I’m exhausted, though, and so are they. They’re both sick (so, yeah, my apologies to anyone who was at the mall yesterday) with nasty coughs. Avery has a leaky faucet for a nose, Eirinn keeps barking until she cries, and I CAN HAS SLEEP NOW, PLEASE? Bedtime could NOT have come quick enough.
I found my very first gray hair last night. I am…not at all surprised.
The Devil Made Me Do It
Posted: January 25, 2012 Filed under: Behavior, Crazy Lady, Motherhood | Tags: catholic school, children's behavior, discipline, God, parenting, Satan 1 Comment »Eirinn, being a Catholic school kid, has been told by her teacher that when we do bad things, it’s not us doing them, but the devil. Satan-atan-atan. Being a supportive mother in all things, including their semi-religious upbringing, I can get behind this theory. Especially if it gives me an excuse to do bad things. “It wasn’t me; it was that asshole, Satan. Jerk gets everything blamed on me. I’m innocent of all charges relating to this crime. Talk to Satan. He’s the one who’s got some explaining to do.”
Every once in a while, I’ll catch Eirinn with a tear in her eye after she’s been scolded for some misdeed. “What’s wrong?” I’ll ask. “It wasn’t me, mom. It was the devil.” Now, my kids are master manipulators, so don’t think for one second I’m not completely on to her deal. But still… If she’s committed enough to this concept to produce real tears and everything, I’ll hear her out.
However, this morning I decided to elaborate on her teacher’s version. Sure, I can support “the devil made me do it” … to an extent. There’s just that pesky free will that puts a wrench in the thing. If we’re Team God, then we acknowledge that He gave us free will; the ability to choose what we do and say. Our behaviour is our own doing. Sure, the devil may sit on our shoulders and whisper sweet nothings about pinching our sister or making a Barbie accessory hurricane or taking a VERY inappropriate tone with our parents, but our free will allows us to decide whether or not to act upon these thoughts. The devil can be very loud and very convincing; with free will, we have the ability to be good people because we can choose to ignore what that asshole says.
Eirinn thought free will was a stupid idea. Unaccountability sounded much more appealing to her. Take this morning, for example. She most certainly did NOT tell me within earshot of her sister that she wishes Avery would just shut up already because she didn’t want to hear her talk. She would NEVER do such a thing. It was Satan. So obviously it’s not HER who should be getting in big trouble because SHE didn’t do it. Put Satan into time out.
Catholic school is awesome.
No, YOUR Mom Is A Winner
Posted: January 23, 2012 Filed under: Crazy Lady, Skool is for nurds, The world is full of crazies, Widdle Debil 2 Comments »So the kids were in the bath yesterday afternoon with their bathing suits on (as one does), playing with their Barbies and erupting in hysterics whenever one of them tooted (bonus points for bubbles!). I was on my laptop because a) it totally counts as proper bath time supervision as long as you’re in the same room (I know because I asked Twitter) and b) of course I was, so I was only 3/4 paying attention (ok, fine, 5/8). I was busying myself with whatever it is I do with my time (probably really important grownup stuff), when I heard the Barbies talking.
“Your mom is the winner,” said one particularly naked brunette.
“No, YOUR mom is the winner,” retorted an equally naked, save for a painted on swim suit, Belle.
Now wait just a minute, here. YOUR mom? YOUR mom? Spoken with the exact inflection and amount of forceful sarcasm as one would use while delivering a Yo Mama joke. No, yo mama’s the winner. Granted, being a winner isn’t necessarily the greatest yo mama punchline, but the intent was clearly there. And seeing as I am the mama to both parties, I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or do a victory lap. Should I be insulted? Was being a winner in this situation a bad thing, seeing as they were arguing over who had to be said winner?
I was about to ask for clarification when the tub exploded in giggles again when the oldest blew air bubbles into the water and made a farty noise while doing so. Given my extensive experience with these two, I’m pretty sure I should have been insulted, but I was kind of proud. I can take a joke.
“Hey, Eirinn, that water your just put your mouth into is the same water that touched Avery’s bum and I’m pretty sure her toots weren’t pretend.”
I’m not sure where all of the class went, but I am positive there is none left at my house.
Hair. Long Beautiful Hair. ::curses the heavens::
Posted: January 10, 2012 Filed under: Crazy Lady 4 Comments »Kids should be bald until they’re old enough to brush their hair themselves. Eirinn gave it the old college try, refusing to sprout a follicle until the was nearly a year, but now things have gotten out of hand. What started out as a few thin, fluffy tufts has thickened and lengthened and organized itself in a plot to kill me, I’m sure of it. She’s always wanted princess hair, which is, according to a Person Of A Certain Age, long. Like, LONG long. And, unfortunately, LONG long hair doesn’t come without a battle, daily, to brush through the rat’s nests that form during sleep or play or rigorous breathing.
Eirinn is a Grade A, First Class Wimp and the effort it takes to calm her riotous hair causes nothing short of a complete and utter physical, mental and emotional breakdown on her part. And, hand to God, I do my very best to be as gentle as possible. I brush as I was taught – start at the bottom in small section, working your way up, holding the root to ease the pulling. We use industrial strength conditioner (for real; it’s salon-grade) and put it into French braids overnight to reduce the chance of knotting. But despite all this preparing and planning and strategizing, it’s a ball of dreadlocks, every morning.
What you can’t tell from this picture is that
that hair houses a family of mice and two orphan squirrels.
And I think I lost my keys in there once.
The crying. OH! the crying. By brushing her hair, as gently as humanly possible, remember, I’m obviously killing her slowly. The pain is like nothing she’s ever experienced and she might as well pass out from it all. Or at least continue to scream and cry and whine and make me feel guilty for not letting her head go completely rastafarian.
The solution to such a problem is simple – cut it all off. Shave it. Bald her, or at least shorten it with some layering. But, no. Apparently princesses don’t have short, layered hair (AHEM, Snow White and Rapunzel obviously didn’t get the memo). I had LONG long hair when I was Eirinn’s age, but not because I wanted princess hair. My dad liked my long hair. Which is hilarious because he didn’t have to a) endure the torture that is having your hair brushed, or b) do the brushing.
After weeks and months of subtle hinting (“I’m going to shave your head bald so you’ll stop whining, you wimp.”), Eirinn finally concurred last night as I was trying to sort out the mess after a bath. “Ok, mommy. Let’s cut it.” I cheered! Hurrah! The end is near, but it’s a good end, not the Mayan kind! She’s going to look so CUTE in a little bob! It’ll probably be curly again and most certainly knot-free!
But it must be a father thing because Anonymous Husband killed my buzz. Like my dad, he loves her long hair. He remembers the last time she got a haircut, which was totally cute, in the end, but completely accidental.
Sure, she’s only two, but how cute is that hair?
Her long hair really is pretty and she really does love it and who am I to force her into altering her appearance when she’s clearly happy with it? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be teaching our children? I guess as long as she’s fully aware that the pain she feels every time her hair needs brushing, and with long hair, it ALWAYS needs brushing, is a result of the length and that it can all go away if we just cut it. Not off, but shorter. With layers. And maybe double the amount of conditioner we use.
And start drinking in excess. Me, not her, because let me tell you, there is nothing fun about princess hair upkeep.
Everything In Its Place
Posted: December 5, 2011 Filed under: Crazy Lady, Sleep | Tags: bedtime routines, nightmares, Sleep 9 Comments »Eirinn sleeps with a stuffed cat, a knitted bunny, her snuggie blanket she’s had since she was born, and a pink unicorn pillow pet. Her pillow pet must sleep to her left, the cat sleeps on the left shoulder of the unicorn, the bunny on its right, snuggie blanket across the top of it all, horizontally. All of this, including Eirinn, head and all, is tucked beneath her sheet and quilt. A place for everything and everything in its place. If any one piece of the puzzle is off even by an inch, it’s all wrong and Eirinn won’t settle until it’s right.
That’s fine. If there’s one thing I can understand, it’s being particular about things. The problem doesn’t lay in the routine, but in the disruption in the routine. See, Eirinn doesn’t settle immediately at night. Avery is down and out. Once she gets her kiss and hug, a “bye and I love you,” she’s out of sight until morning. But Eirinn won’t give in that easily. She needs her music. For years it was the Jersey Boys soundtrack, but for the last few months it’s been Rio. ”Wanna take you to Rio, Rio. Fly over the ocean like an eagle, eagle.” She needs her nightlight. She needs a hug and a kiss, too, but she also gets nightmares, or bad thinkings, as we’ve come to call them because they generally occur before she’s technically asleep. And so, with her hug and kiss, she needs help with good thoughts to combat the bad thinkings. Nightly we play bedtime Coffee Talk (Cawfee Tawk) and I give her a few good things to think about. Our theory is that if she’s busy thinking about good things, she won’t have room in her mind to think about bad things. Usually I list everyone who loves her, talk about a special upcoming event, or remind her of some of her favourite memories. Lately all I’ve had to say is “think about Christmas” and she’s content, thinking about the ten million things she’s asked for from Santa.
But sometimes these good things don’t work and her bad thinkings scare her out of bed. She sometimes forgets, or she hears an unusual noise, or her bad thinkings are just too strong for the good thoughts I gave for her to think about. Rare is the day that she doesn’t get out of bed at least once. We’re working on twice thrice so far tonight. Each waking would be far less painful if she didn’t insist on dragging her entire menagerie with her down the stairs. Then I have to figure out what’s wrong, take her back upstairs and reassemble the very specific and very time consuming arrangement of stuffed things, hug, kiss, good things.
While this is all so very frustrating, I understand what it feels like to have nightmares. I suffered with chronic nightmares throughout my childhood and I, too, had to have everything exactly right or else I’d wake up terrified. Some nightmares were so terrifying, I still remember them in vivid detail; some from when I was as young as 6 or 7. With me it was more about body position. I HAD to sleep on my stomach. I HAD to have my head turned toward the door. I HAD to have the blankets over my head. I HAD to have a light source, if only a hall light peeking under my door. I HAD to have my door LOCKED. And, you know what? In all honesty, besides the locked door, I still have to have all of these things in place or I’ll have a nightmare. I can tell, within my dream, the moment my physical body rolls to my back. It’s at that point in my dream that it turns dark, that the villain appears, that something terrible happens. So I know where Eirinn is coming from. Everything has to be exactly right or night time can be very, very unpleasant.
I don’t do a very good job at hiding my frustration. When I see her come down the stairs, dragging her blanket, arms filled with plush, I can’t help but moan in annoyance “Eiriiiinn…” As we walk back up the stairs, I mutter “why don’t you just leave your stuff upstairs?” As I tuck her back in, I hiss “you need to stay in bed and go to sleep.” I kiss her and hug her little tucked-in head and whisper “you’ll be alright. I love you.” And she will be. Night time can be scary when your mind plays mean, cruel tricks against you; showing you dreadful things, speaking to you in voices that frighten and unnerve. The only way to get through it, sometimes, is for everything else to be exactly the way it is supposed to be. A place for everything and everything in its place.
Even if that means driving your mommy bananas in the process.
