Saturday, February 28, 2009


We’re in Indianapolis for a dear friend’s wedding; hubby arrived about 2 hours before me. His pal picked him up from the airport first, and then they tooled around town. When I arrived, I thought we were going down to Greencastle to get GCB (garlic cheese burger for those of you out of the loop) but learned that the famed Marvin’s restaurant was closed. So I announce to hubby and pal that I’m ravenous.

I notice our pal drinking a soda from a Chipotle cup. “Mmmmmmmm. Chipotle. Come to mama.”, my stomach says. I agree. But then it dawns on me that they rudely went to Chipotle without me! Without even as much as a half-cold chicken-black bean-heavy-on-the-pico de gallo-please-green Tabasco-laden burrito. With a side of chips.

When I inquire, pal tells me that it’s cup from much earlier today. I inspect the said cup and inquire as to why the cup still has condensation on its sides. And why does it still have ice in it if its so stinkin (I really thought F’in here, but I’m keeping it clean for the kids) old.

My Spidey sense kicks in. “You bastards went to Chipotle without me!!!!!”

"No, no, no, no, no, no and no", I’m told. It’s an old cup from way earlier today, etc. I let it drop.

(I must interject here and explain that I love Chipotle and there are no Chipotles in Little Rock. So whenever we go out of town, one of my first considerations is do they have a Chipotle, how far will I be from Chipotle and how quickly can I get there. Dunkin Donuts and Jamba Juice are also on this short list.)

So I ask them if we might go to Chip-po-po. I learn that it’s too far, way too far away, not on the way, out of way, blah blah blah so I’ll have to settle for a fast food joint. I acquiesce, and eat a Burger King hamburger, a ketchup-mustard-heavy pickle-please hamburger.

Then, last night, at a pre-wedding party, I hear my husband recant the day’s events to another friend and he tells her that they ate at Chipotle.

I turn, in slow motion, like a bad-80s TV special effect, to hubby. “You ate at Chipotle!” I yell.


I hear, “I didn’t bring you one because I didn’t know if you’d just eaten and we can go tomorrow” and more blah blah blah.

So, this morning, I’m lying awake, up at 5 am Central time, and I’m thinking through the fun of the night before. And I remember hubby's Chipotle oops.

I got so mad that I almost woke my husband up and confronted him about the Chipotle lie. I almost shook him awake, after he had one of the longest weeks of his professional life, when we’re out of town without kids, to jump down his throat about lying to me about putting Chipotle down his throat and not bringing me any for my throat. It was a lie-inconsideration combo.

I decided to let him sleep. Sleep on, unsuspecting hubby. You’ll have your moment in the Tabasco-laden hot-seat.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Yesterday Sucked

Yesterday sucked. I am generally a positive, glass half-full, mind-over-matter person. But yesterday, well, it blew. But it didn’t blow chunks, and that’s the best thing I can say about yesterday—no one threw up on me or my bed. I know that in several years, I’ll lament the times I wished these days away; when Henry starts Kindergarten, I’ll reminiscence wistfully about the toddler years. (If I have any doubt, all I need to do is reread my blog entries about Abby’s first days of Kindergarten.) But yesterday, well, it sucked.

Abby has been practicing some new skills she’s picked up from her school friends. One talent she’s floating is the “I’m-the-final-authority” skill. The other, equally charming trait is lying, masquerading as very long jokes. This manifested itself in a battle of wills:

“My teacher told me to hang upside down on the back of the couch. Really.”
“Abby,” I postured, “are you sure that you’re telling me the truth?”
“Yup. Mrs. LaGory told us to do this.”
“Abby. Come on. Please tell me the truth.”
“She did she did she did she really, really, really, really, really, really, did.”
“So,” I countered, “I’ll email her (thank you technology) and ask her why she recommended this odd behavior.”
“No, mommy, don’t ask her. But she did tell us to. Really.”

I eagerly sauntered to my Blackberry to shoot off a trump email to Mrs. LaGory.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” screamed Abby.

A long discussion (the fifth of many) ensued regarding jokes, lying and the truth.

The fun continued (does it ever stop?) with day six of sick Henry. The combination of the plague, potty-training and full-blown two-year-old tantrums rendered me numb. Normally, at this point, I’d enlighten with some illustrative examples. Instead, I will say that I have never, EVER wanted to smack a child as much as I wanted to smack Henry yesterday. (Ok, maybe that urge has been there before…) I had a can of whoop-ass with his name ALL over it. And things haven’t really improved. This morning, when I took a screaming Henry into the bathroom at his preschool, I wearily looked at his teachers and asked them if the bar was open yet. Luckily, they have a sense of humor.

Many times over the last 36 hours I’ve waged guesses as to who has been raising these children. Their behavior couldn’t possibly be any reflection of me or my parenting. Could it? I mean, I gratefully take credit for the wondrous things they do. But the icky, tiring, embarrassing, sassy, loud, tempering, trying and rude stuff? Nope, not me.

Am I really so shallow?

Yesterday, I was. Shallow as the day was long.

Thursday, February 12, 2009


Henry woke up at 11:30 pm crying for Mommy. I went to him and found a red-cheeked, fevery boy. Take temperature? Check. Clean diaper? Check. Give Motrin? Check. Jammies off? Check. (Henry likes to be naked, especially when feverish.) He wanted to sleep with Mama, so off to the big bed we went.

An hour later I awoke to the sounds of choking. Luckily, I brought the sick bucket with us. Sick sick sick. Then some more. Clean sheets? Check. Clean child? Check. Prayer of gratitude for sick buckets? Check. Helicopter? Negative.

From the dark I heard, “Mommy, I wan my hewicockter.”

I zigged back to Henry’s room, procured his hewicockter and zagged back. Favorite toy? Check. No more vomit? Check. Happy child? Check.

Wide awake mama? Double check.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009


I glanced into the kitchen the other day and saw Abby reaching up to the kitchen counter. Since I recently hid the step stool from her brother (who uses the stool to reach the butter and then eat it), I wondered what she was standing on to reach the counter.

When I got to the kitchen, I was shocked to see that she wasn’t standing on anything, except her feet, which were firmly rooted to the floor. She wasn’t even tippy-toeing. She was just standing there, lifting the top off of the cake plate, licking frosting off of her finger.

The moment made me feel like a visiting relative rather than a day-in-day-out parent. The “Oh my how you’ve grown” and “I remember you when you were this high…” thoughts danced through my head while simultaneously piercing my heart. I looked at my baby girl and surprisingly found a Kindergartener. She’s no longer a baby—she’s a stretched out, dish-clearing, about-to-tooth-loosing, go-into-school-by-herselfing, “whatever”-momming, I’m-going-to-read-a-chapter-by-myselfing big, big girl.

Wasn’t she just pushing the step stool through the kitchen to reach the goodies?

At times, I look at Abby and struggle to remember her as a baby, tiny and sleeping in my arms. At others, I vacillate between who she was, who she is and who she will become, all her memories twisting a fabulous tale. At others, I’m struck by the oldness of her. Luckily the present slaps me around every once in a while and brings me to now. So I can live in the present with my daughter. And so I can get to the frosting before she eats it all.