Time After Time Or How Cyndi Lauper Kept Me From Posting For Three Whole Days.

Preschooler handed me a toy clock that had pictures of analogue clocks of various colors, pointing to each hour of the day.  Per her request, I carefully went through the series of clocks, explaining “This hand points to 2.  It’s 2 o’clock!” etc.

At the end, she pondered this new found knowledge for a few minutes.  Finally, she looked at me and said:

“I want the purple clock.”

Sometimes I don’t understand time either.

Like when both of my children have done nothing but scream all day, and God it’s only 2:30 in the afternoon, and WHEN is my husband coming home again?

Like when I look at Preschooler and have a hard time remembering her newborn face, so thank God for photos.

Like when I start writing at 8:00 in the evening and all of a sudden it’s 11:30, and then Baby wakes up at 4:00 in the morning, and she’s all “It’s 4:00 in the morning! Let’s Play! I’m a baby!”, and sleep? huh? what’s sleep?

Like when it’s 4:00 in the morning, and the coffee is taking 10 whole minutes to brew enough for one cup, and IT’S NOT HAPPENING QUICK ENOUGH!

Like when it takes me days to get a new post up because I’m actually kind of working on 3 or 4 at once, and it’s taking a long time because I’m sort of a perfectionist.

Sorry.

No One Dreams About Banking. We All Dream About Man-Eating Bear-Sharks Instead.

On his way out the door today, Husband says, “Don’t forget to stop by the bank today to deposit that check.”

“Bank? Maybe if I had the power of flight or invisibility or something..."

“What the heck? You told me last night you’d go to the bank today.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”

“I asked you when I came upstairs to bed! I said, ‘Will you go to the bank so we can finally deposit that check,’ and you said, ‘I’LL DO IT TOMORROW.'”

“You have to stop starting conversations with me in my sleep! That’s how we end up in situations like this!”

“What, situations where you go to the bank and deposit a check so we can have money and pay rent, and also do things like not starve?"

“Exactly!”

I lose in the sleep-talking department. But dreaming is a total WIN.

Because unlike Husband, who remembers maybe one dream a year, I remember my dreams at least 3 or 4 times a week. The easiest to remember are the bizarro recurring dreams. I have about 4 recurring dreams, all of which I’ve dreamt about 193,482 times.

What’s especially awesome is that now, when I have one of these dreams, it’s like I’m watching the 3rd rerun of a mediocre television show, and it’s getting kind of old. For example:

“Oh, I know this one. Ok, first you have to fly over the building. Now’s the part where the man-eating shark-bears try to destroy your soul. But don’t worry, they don’t get around to it because you breathe fire on them, etc.”

Unfortunately, I don’t dream about man-eating-shark-bears ALL the time; that would be AWESOME. But I do have reoccurring dreams that....

1) I’m on stage for a dance recital, and I realize I haven’t been to class in about one million years. The music starts, and although I somehow know the steps, I can’t lift my leg past knee-height. I think this is somehow related to the fact that my elbows naturally hyperextend. Therefore, anytime I fall down and catch myself with my hands, I get stress fractures that prevent me from performing basic human functions like brushing my hair and eating.

I could do this. I just don’t want to.

2) After I earned my law degree, It would be found that I was 2 credits short of obtaining my high school diploma, and in order to retain my J.D. I have to go back to high school to earn the missing credits. And as if going back to high school isn’t EVERY PERSON’S WORST NIGHTMARE, I also can’t find my locker. Except now that I’ve had this dream so many times, I know that my locker is actually in the library stacks, and direct myself there post-haste.

*Note: This is actually better than when I really WAS in high school, where in the first week of each year I’d inevitably forget which locker was mine, and I’d have to go to the administrative office to find out.

Congratulations. We now bestow upon you the title of Juris Doctor.

3) Then there’s the dream where I’m flying over a city, but I have to make a quick pitstop in the ghetto, and flying down is apparently very difficult and kind of dangerous - think trapeze-artist difficult. Then I have to try to get out of the ghetto, which is kind of like jump-starting myself airborne. Also, I’m dressed sort of like batman.

$29.99 is all it takes to make my dream a reality...

In conclusion, sleep + talking = FAIL. But sleep + dreaming = WIN. Especially when you can just tell yourself what to do in the dream so it is over as quickly and painlessly as possible.

A Tale of Two Princesses. Actually, There's Just One Princess. And Her Cynical Mom.

All princesses have their 15-minutes of fame in Preschooler's life. Currently, it's Sleeping Beauty. There was a 2:15 viewing in our living room today. I'm not sure I like where this is going.

First, the three fairies enter the birthday celebration...

Preschooler: Look! They're wearing shoes!

That's my girl.

Next, Fairy Merriweather bestows her gift upon the princess...

Preschooler: What's happening?

Me: The blue fairy is giving Sleeping Beauty a gift.

Preschooler: What is it?

Me: The power to sleep....forever.

Preschooler: Oh!

This seems promising!

Next, Prince Philip meets Sleeping Beauty

Preschooler: Look! It's the prince!

I don't know, it looks like he might drug her.

After that, Prince Philip and Sleeping Beauty snuggle.

Preschooler: Look! He loves her!

No hon, he just slipped her the roofies...

After that, the kings toast to the impending wedding by getting smashed...

Preschooler ignores the entire part. SEE? I'm a great parent!

Now Preschooler is galloping around the room, pretending to be Prince Philip because, "He gets to ride a fast horse!" Gender identity issues aside, I can relate. I like horses too.

Next, Sleeping Beauty blindly follows a ball of bizarre ball of green light to the fabled spinning wheel.

See? She's on drugs..

Finally, Sleeping Beauty lives up to her namesake.

Preschooler decides she wants to be Sleeping Beauty again, because she gets to sleep forever.

If only....

Then, Prince Philip falls down fighting the dragon, Malificent.

Preschooler (slightly alarmed): What's happening?

Me: It's OK! The prince is fighting the dragon.

Preschooler: Oh. He lost.

Eventually the movie ends (on a high note I might add). Preschooler is thrilled. She wants to watch it again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again. She has been dressing up as Sleeping Beauty all day, and even wore the dress-up clothes to bed one night.

I'll let her go on with this. It's fun!

As long as she makes sure to always keep an eye on her drink at parties, discards any drink she's lost track of, and takes a cab ride home at the end of the night.

People Should Really Not Let Me Blog While I'm Parenting On Crack

I substantially edited my previous post on this blog. It had so many grammatical errors that it didn't make sense, even to me.

Also, I took out the part about leprechauns. Because really, there were no leprechauns. If there were any, they were invisible, which would actually be kind of cool. At least it would explain why random things go missing all the time in my house.

Anyhow, I started writing the post last night. It was in the form of a "Dear John" letter. But when I looked through the draft I realized I'm a crappy letter writer, which is probably why I never hear back from my local Congressman.

So I tried to edit it into a normal post while my two children hung off my arms and screamed in my ears. Also, I had one too many vials of crack cups of coffee. It didn't work, the post was still not normal. But face it, when have I ever been normal?

So, if you already read that earlier post, you might want to take a second look. This version has a picture of Cailou in it, which should make up for the lack of leprechauns.

Enjoy! Or not. I'm still not sure whether I like it.

The Reading Rainbow Isn’t All Sunshine And Roses.

I read. A lot. Two days worth of my Christmas break were devoted to plowing through The House Of Mirth, by Edith Wharton. This book was written back in the day when a strip tease involved lifting a skirt to reveal an ankle. I cried at the end, but only because I'm kind of lame.

We are not amused

I worshiped libraries since I was a kid. This was back when card catalogues still roamed the earth. I saw some of these relics lately, being recycled as scratch-paper.

The original search engine.

But my new library and I got off to a rocky start.

The library is beautiful, and located right in downtown. Sure, the entrance ramp is about 3298 miles from the actual door, but I was willing to forgive this snub towards the disabled, elderly, and my GIGANTIC STROLLER.

It doesn’t get good gas mileage either...

Of course, I want my kids to develop a love of reading. Since Reading Rainbow no longer airs, I took them to the library. This was a mistake.

Preschooler cried during the well-structured story time. Sure, it made sense that one time when the story was The Shining. But it was unacceptable when the story of the day was Peter Rabbit.

Peter Rabbit is not the same as the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog.

Baby's alias is Destructo. When we roam the aisles in our GIGANTIC STROLLER, she chucks every book in her reach to the ground, while laughing.

Then there was the incident with the Cailou DVD. I checked out the DVD for one week, and then promptly placed it somewhere in the universe. Or my living room. Whatever.

Two weeks later, I couldn’t find the DVD. To my credit, I knew I placed it somewhere in the universe, and the universe is a REALLY BIG PLACE.

Now where’s that book...

Another two weeks went by and I still couldn’t find the DVD. When I finally found the DVD, I shoved it in its case, and proudly walked through the library doors, only to be told...

It wasn’t their Cailou DVD. It was one of my own.

Sigh. It's not like the kids can tell the difference between one episode of Cailou and another, right?

Cailou discovers something new. Cailou cries.
Cailou's parents comfort him in their bizzaro primary-colored house.
The end.

I Could Cook Dinner, But I’ve Run Out Of Repression. And Butter.

I love old cookbooks. I love how, through food, we get a glimpse of social and home life at the time of the cook book’s publication.

Recently, I inherited a Betty Crocker cook book from my Grandmother. It is the 1956 2nd edition, and full of useful information on how to be a pleasant housewife and a good hostess.

Let’s take a look at some of these gems, shall we?

The first page is titled “Special Helps.” In front of that Grandma paper-clipped instructions for making 15 different cocktails. Even the Cappuccino contains an ounce of Brandy. “Special Helpers” indeed!

The tips on measuring and cooking techniques are still useful today. And strongly enforced.

Measure that pan, lest Officer McShane beat you within an inch of your life.

Betty Crocker shares more meal-planning wisdom. For example:

“Why are some mothers tired all the time and some children fighting colds all winter? Probably because they don’t eat the right things.”

It certainly can’t have anything to do with having to chase after children who squabble and and lick things. It has nothing to do with the elaborate meals this cookbook recommends she plans three times a day, every day. It can’t be staying up all night with a colicky baby. Nope.

If only I fed my family the right things...

Now, since you want a well-nourished family, Betty Crocker lists some suggestions for everyday dinners:

“Roast Beef, Browned Potatoes, New Peas in Cream, Mixed Green Salad, Dinner Rolls, Fruit Ambrosia, and Yorkshire Pudding.”

It’s the least you could do.

And let’s not forget dessert! The “Cakes” section opens with the following fanfare:

“We now proclaim you as a member of the Society of Cake Artists! And do hereby vest in you all the skills, knowledge, and secrets of the “gentle art” of cakemaking.”

The first rule of the Society of Cake Artists is
don’t talk about the Society of Cake Artists.

And while whipping up those cakes, keep in mind:

“A butter icing is like a favorite cotton dress ... simple and easy to put on.”

Not this kind of dress...

Let’s move on to Main Dishes...

“Poorly made main dishes have come to have a bad reputation, especially as a substitute for meat."

[Forced smile] I know it’s not steak, but I’ll forgive you. This time.

Frankly, this cookbook is an embarrassment. It makes no recognition of or advice for women working outside the home. It is a useful resource to bolster the arguments in favor of the women’s rights movement, a movement that is still being fought today.

But I can’t address that right now. It’s 10:56 p.m., and I have to put on my cotton dress and start preparing tomorrow’s three course dinner for my husband and children, or they’ll come down with Ebola or something.

I think I need one of those Brandy Cappuccinos.

The Same Demons That Prick My Ass With Pitchforks Also Won’t Let Me Shop

Now that I stay at home, I no longer have to make a mad-dash to the mall during my lunch break to buy the kids’ clothes.

Instead I get to go to the mall dragging two screaming children around, while I desperately try to grab at whatever looks about their size as quick as possible, so we can leave without causing the other patrons permanent psychological damage.

I try to look put-together. Really, I do. I’ll shower and style my hair. I’ll even wear makeup. But by the time I walk into the store I end up looking like I’ve been blown in by a tornado.

I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore....

I always look windswept, even if it’s not windy. Somehow, even if I left the house with clean clothes, I arrive with snot, or spit-up or some other fluid on my jeans.

I walk around the store in a state of confusion, since I never know where anything is kept. I fall down escalators. I’ve paid for my purchases and then left the bags sitting on the cashier’s stand more than once, AT THE SAME STORE.

Yet every time I walk into Gymboree, or Baby Gap, or, heck, Target, I encounter mothers wearing clothes that are clean and stylish. Their hair is glossy. They can still wear high-heel boots while shopping. Their kids are nowhere to be seen, but when they’re around they’re quiet and complacent and sort of fade into the background. Mine are usually screaming. One may have fallen out of the cart. WHO KNOWS?

So, how do all these put-together moms stay...put-together? Is there some sort of elixer I’m not aware of? It can’t be booze. I’ve tried.

Maybe their kids are in pre-school or grade school, so they don’t puke on their mothers every day, and their mothers get to take uninterrupted showers?

My personal demons mock, “The only problem is you. If you tried harder, you’d be put-together, and beautiful, and no one would ever puke on you.” These demons also stab me in the ass with tiny pitchforks, but that’s the least of my worries right now.

But it can’t be just me. There has to be other mothers of preschoolers and toddlers and babies walking around with frizzy hair and wearing puke.

I just wish I knew where they were, so we could go shopping together.