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As often happens during the winter, critters move inside. And our house may as well have a flashing Vacancy sign over the roof! All winter long, we’ve shared a house with a mouse. A pregnant mouse. We know she was pregnant because about a week after we discovered she had eaten through a half of a loaf of bread, we discovered her babies!
The daughters were very generous – albeit unknowingly – and fed the little mouse family with their crumbs and morsels and crusts that they tossed behind the couch when they weren’t even supposed to be eating in the living room in the first place! But I digress.
Initially, The Dad and I were humane about their departures, then the little varmints ate through an entire package of The Dad’s peanut butter cookies and the game was on!
One by one, The Dad delighted in his mouse disposal and slowly we regained control of our grain products. Or so we thought…
One morning, we awoke to a half-eaten English muffin and evidence that the lone remaining mouse was still alive and … um, regular! The Dad mumbled a few choice words and the hunt was on – again!
This last mouse, however, was a slippery little devil. It would eat the hot dog buns in the bread basket, the crackers in the box on top of the microwave AND the peanut butter off of the trap. It was a taunting thief to The Dad!
One evening, I noticed The Dad slathering camo-make-up on his face.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
“You can’t handle the truth!” he shouted at me, then he crouched in the corner of the kitchen and muttered, “I love the smell of canned cheese in the morning…”
I heard a little high-pitched snickering coming from behind the fridge.
A few days went by and we hadn’t seen any evidence of our furry little boarder. Of course, we had placed every morsel of food we had in a metal footlocker that The Dad found at the Military booth down at the flea market. We thought we had starved the little carb-addict out and he’d moved on the house next door.
We were wrong.
The next night, Mighty Mouse made his boldest appearance ever. While The Dad and I were watching Desperate Housewives, the little hair ball moseyed right into the living room and paused in front of the TV. (Edited to add: The Dad was NOT watching Desperate Housewives. He does not watch such mush; however, he does have a very distinct opinion on Mike’s recent return to Susan – but, again, he doesn’t watch this trash…let’s be very clear on that point!)
Since I, too, have very strong opinions about the Mike & Susan relationship, I was totally engrossed in the show and didn’t notice the little creature feature teasing The Dad. (Later, The Dad would say that he swore the rodent said, “Wussies watch Desperate Housewives.”)
Without any warning, The Dad threw the remote in the general direction of the TV and shouted, ala William Wallace, “Freedom!” Then he bounded from the recliner and dove under the entertainment center. He then grabbed a shoe that Daughter 2 left in the living room (because she thinks the whole house is her shoe box!) and slammed the shoe into the floor behind the TV. Then he jumped up and jumped onto the mantle all the while wildly swinging the karaoke microphone. When the cord from the microphone went tight, he rounded the corner into the front room and grabbed the quilt off the wall slamming it down and sliding under the dining room table. He then emerged holding a chair in the style of a lion tamer and ran into kitchen screaming, “I’ve got him now!”
Still. I had no idea he had even seen a mouse. I was poised to call 9-1-1 and request the loony bin send a wagon right on over to Bedlam, via our house when I heard S N A P. The trap had been sprung. At that point, I realized that The Dad had apparently been warring with the mouse. And the war was over.
Then the screaming began.
It seems that our little mouse had played The Dad just as the Road Runner played the Coyote. Somehow, our mouse had finagled The Dad’s heel right into the trap. Man, nor mouse, was injured.
But The Daughters do wonder why The Dad has moved the refrigerator to the middle of the kitchen and is crouched in its place mumbling, “Be vewwy, vewwy quiet! I’m hunting!”
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© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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The Dad and I are equal partners in our relationship. We always have been and I foresee that we always will be. We have one checking account that we each share equal responsibility with. While I cook dinners, he’s in charge of breakfasts and lunches. Please – don’t say, “WAIT! That’s two meals!” Because by breakfast, I mean the unwrapping of a cereal bar. And by lunch I mean a yogurt, cheese stick and box of raisins tossed into a sack. If he has extra time, maybe he’ll pour cereal into coffee mug. It’s equal!
When The Daughters are sick, we take turns staying home with them. The Dad puts them to bed and gets them up. I work the night hours. If he does the laundry, I put it away. If I load the dishwasher, he unloads it. We even take turns mowing the lawn. We both dust and vacuum and clean the toilets. We even share the pool chores: He maintains it, and I use it.
Fair and equal distribution of all things within our marriage.
OK. Fine. Let’s revisit this on one tiny subject: The bed.
Don’t worry! This is still a family-friendly post. Keep reading!
See, The Dad and I do equally split the bed. We each have our sides. I’m just not certain it’s as fair as The Dad thinks it is.
See... The Dad’s half is the TOP half.
The early years of our marriage, this was perfectly acceptable because I’d snuggle right up with him and lay in the crook of his shoulder. It was quaint. It was cute. Our friends who had been married longer than we had complained and moaned about their partners not sharing the bed. The Dad and I scoffed at them. We’d never be that way.
I’m not sure when I began to think twice about my part of the bed being the sides that I clung to every night. I think it might have been sometime around my 38th week of pregnancy with Daughter 1, when a little nudge from a sleeping Dad sent me and my belly right over the edge – figuratively and literally. The Dad wrote off the swift kick to his backside to pregnancy hormones.
By the time Daughter 2 was on her way and Daughter 1 had taken to sleep walking right into our bed, we made a joint decision to get a king-sized bed. And by joint decision, I mean that The Dad agreed with me after yet another pregnancy-hormone-induced swift kick.
It was heaven. Right up to the point when The Dad claimed the top half as his own. I realized this was a bigger problem than I cared to admit when I woke up with my head on the night stand using the lamp as my pillow.
“Something’s got to give! You have to stop pushing me out of bed!” I shouted early one morning. At 3 AM.
The Dad snored. Nothing wakes him up.
When we had a more rational and aware conversation the next morning, The Dad had a quick solution. “Just wake me up.”
This, my friends, is one of the many reasons I love him. What a crack up! He just makes me laugh. Of course, he had no idea why I was laughing. I reminded him that once, early in our marriage, a drug bust occurred on our front lawn – complete with a high speed chase and eight law-enforcement vehicles: lights, sirens and bullhorns. He slept through the whole thing. Including my play-by-play commentary, nudging, slapping and poking!
When faced with this accurate and damning information, he offered another solution: When he pushed me off of one side, just get on the other side. It wasn’t ideal, but I was willing to try just about anything to get more than an hour’s worth of sleep at a time!
The next night, I had been asleep about an hour when I felt the first nudge. I got up and went to his side of the bed.
An hour later… another nudge. Again, I switched sides.
An hour later… another nudge. I noisily switched sides.
An hour later… another nudge. I got up and watched DVR’d episodes of Dr. Phil.
That night, I didn’t get any sleep, but I did lose 3 pounds! Still. Not my idea of a good night’s sleep.
The next night, I decided to fight back. He nudged. I nudged. He nudged. I nudged harder. He nudged and I point-blank punched! He thought it was foreplay and began whispering sweet nothings in his sleep. Dream on, Mister; Dream on!
The next night, I had it all figured out. Before I went to sleep, I wrapped myself in the sheets and comforter and then tucked it under the mattress. I was going nowhere that night.
And, truth is I didn’t ... go far. The good news is that the wrap-and-tuck acts as a hammock off the side of the bed – and while it’s not ideal, I like to pretend I’m on a tropical island, lounging in the rope-braids of a hammock hung between two palm trees.
Hey! A girl can dream … just not on the bed!
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© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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Contrary to what the title suggests, I have not been graced with any alone time at my own home. You’ll know when this happens because you’ll experience the sigh heard round the world, right before I stretch across the entire bed and snooze!
No… No time alone for me. See, Daughter 1 has been sick. She woke me up about midnight telling me that her tummy hurt. She had already sat on the toilet for 24 minutes (she’s a bit obsessive like that, so I believe she really did sit there for 24 minutes!). Nothing was helping. I told her to get a wet rag (a cure-all, am I right?) and put it on her head once she was laying back in her own quiet bedroom.
“Alright, Momma,” she softly and sweetly agreed right before she puked all over me. Quickly, we got cleaned up and retreated to the sick chair to watch some late-night Olympics (another cure-all, Amen?). Every half-hour, we’d race to the bathroom. This went on all. Night. Long.
The Dad – who can hear me whispering about a girls-night-out plan from the garage – slept through the entire adventure, waking at 5:30 wanting to know what was going on. Daughter 1 finally dozed off. Exhausted, I headed back to bed and mumbled instructions for him to wake me when he left for work.
When he left, I mumbled for him to call me every 30 minutes until I was awake so I could take Daughter 2 to school. He would be my living-breathing snooze button.
And then his phone lost service. And I got no more calls. And so I slept.
About 15 minutes before Daughter 2 had to be at school, Daughter 1 wakes me up because she’s throwing up again. Daughter 2 is back in bed asleep. School is about 12 minutes away.
I sat Daughter 1 on the toilet with her throw-up tub; tossed Daughter 2 a cereal bar for breakfast and sprinted to the van in my lovely blue plaid pajama top, my black plaid pajama bottoms and my copper and beige mules. I was a lovely sight. I quickly tossed in the snacks for Daughter 2’s class that I had forgotten to take to school the day before and off we sped toward school.
With Daughter 1 still sitting on the toilet at home.
That’s right. It was a real-life Macauley Caulken movie.
Only, I was not in Paris.
I decided that Daughter 1, while only 8 years old, is very mature and could handle it, and she would realize that the rapture hadn’t come and she hadn’t been left behind by anyone but her very tired momma.
I squealed into the school parking lot, slid the van door open and pushed Daughter 2 out, who enlisted the help of Emma’s dad to help her carry all of her stuff into her room, since I had pushed it out right on top of her. She was at least on school grounds.
As soon as I saw Daughter 2 struggle and fall into the classroom door, I Nascar-ed the van back toward home. At the first stop sign, I noticed that the tires sounded different when I paused (notice I didn’t say “stop” – let’s just let that one “slide” if ya know what I mean!). I thought about calling The Dad and reporting weird tire sounds when I discovered that I didn’t have my phone with me. This caused me to feel great concern and relief at the exact same time. At least Daughter 1 had my phone at home in case there was an emergency; however, if she thought being left home alone - sick and on the toilet - was indeed an emergency, then I’d have a lot of explaining to do to the nice police officers who may or may not be waiting for me at my house.
When I turned onto the main road away from school and back toward the house, the tire noise got louder and weirder. I’d never heard this sound before. I slowed down and the noise slowed down. I sped up and the noise sped up. Really: With a sick child at home, I didn’t have time to deal with tires!
I glanced toward the back of the van only to discover that … the van door was still open.
This has only happened to me once before (that I’ll admit to!) Right after Daughter 2 was born, my mother was convinced that I was not capable of navigating the Wal-marts and two kids at the same time. So, as soon as she left town for a cruise, I packed up Daughter 1, who was 2 years old at the time, and a three-week old Daughter 2 and headed to the Wal-marts, just to show her!
As we pulled away from the house, Daughter 1 said, “This is fun! I’m gonna tell Nana.”
I said, “That’s right, Baby Girl. You tell your Nana that your Momma took you AND your sister out and we all survived and even had fun!”
“Yes!” giggled Daughter 1, “Nana never lets us ride in the van with the door open!” We didn’t tell Nana that part.
But I digress. I immediately pulled over, shut the door and continued my speed-qualifying drive home. I pulled in hot and ran into the house to discover a naked Daughter 1, who had started a load of laundry (“because there are germs on that old pair of pajamas”), watching everyone’s favorite feel-good show, Phineas and Ferb.
Not once did she mention my hasty retreat, leaving her fending for her sick self. Not once did she use my phone to call 911, the neighbors, her friends or even her Nana. The house was not on fire nor was it flooded. And, actually, I’m not even sure she realized I was gone!
Please, do not call Child Services; I am fully aware that she’s still much too young to stay home alone, but it’s good to know that she’d be alright if it were an emergency situation. It makes a momma proud.
So proud, that I’m gonna celebrate with an emergency pedicure. Be back soon!
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© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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The first Valentine’s Day The Dad and I spent as a married couple found me without a voice.
Do you hear that? All the other Dads out there are saying, “Wow! How’d he score that??!? No nagging about the lack of flowers and chocolate. A DAY OF SILENCE FROM HIS WIFE? He’s one lucky man!”
And let me just stop that particular little story right there and say, “Hardy-har-har!”
Let me also say that The Dad is not a traditional Valentine’s Day-giver. From the day we began dating, he made it clear that He did not give into the commercialism of V-day. He would send me flowers for other occasions, just not Valentine’s Day.
For example, on our one-month dating anniversary, I got one single yellow rose. On our two-month dating anniversary, I got two yellow roses. By our third-month dating anniversary, I got three yellow roses. Once we were engaged, I got a roses and a Lindor chocolate-countdown to our wedding day.
We eloped and on the day I returned to my classroom, after we were married, I got a dozen yellow roses and a card that read, “I just want you to know that these will not stop coming just because you’ve married me.” And I haven’t gotten flowers since.
OK – that’s not true. Once, we were out to lunch with friends and I told them that he hadn’t sent me flowers after making that promise and he sent me flowers the very next day. He also emailed my friends to let them know he did it. And just last month, when I was bragging about a friend’s husband who had gotten her a NEW PHONE and one who had got her tickets to NORAH JONES, he sent me flowers just to maintain his spot in “The Good Husband Notebook” that my friends and I maintain. (Not really. That’s not true. It’s not a notebook. It’s a blog.)
I don’t tell you all this so you’ll think, “Oh! Poor Minivan Momma! What a dork she’s married to!” Because he does so many other really nice things for me in the meantime.
I mean, really, when I holler that I need some toilet paper, he always brings me to two rolls. Really!
And one time, he told The Daughters to tell me to stay in bed because breakfast was coming. And an hour later – after they had eaten – I got a cold egg sandwich. It’s the thought that counts, right?
He’s sat through the stage version of Mamma Mia! not once, not twice, but three times! And he’s only fallen asleep twice! (The third time, I purposefully sang along loud enough to keep him awake. And then after the usher – or rather the husher – told me to be quiet, he stayed awake for fear of being escorted out!)
He lets me warm my cold feet on the back of his knees. He makes me popcorn and adds extra butter just for my bowl. He matches the socks – ”matches” isn’t the right word – he FOLDS the socks. He warms up my van in the morning. AND (this one’s a biggie!) he knows where I hide my stash of cool mint oreos and he doesn’t sneak any! He’s a great guy!
Let’s return to the original story: Our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple…I woke up without a voice. I couldn’t even mutter, “I can’t talk!” The Dad, who drove a bus in addition to teaching and coaching at the time, left our apartment an hour before I did. I would usually wake up enough to go to the bathroom and kiss him goodbye, then I’d hit the snooze button six more times.
On this particular Valentine’s morning, when The Dad came back into the apartment after starting his truck, I wrote out a note asking him to call in for me since I couldn’t talk.
And right after he called in sick for me, he called in sick for himself. Of course, he wasn’t really sick; he was LOVE-sick. We were newlyweds still, for goodness sake!
And we spent the morning just enjoying ourselves as only newlyweds do!
At about noon, our doorbell rang. We honestly felt like truant school kids who had been caught at the arcade.
The Dad answered the door. It was our neighbor. The cop. That couldn’t be good, right?
“Are you OK?” The cop asked The Dad. Really? Did our schools send a COP to check out whether or not we were really sick? Weren’t there drug dealers on some street corner he could bust? Wasn’t there a jay-walker wrecking havoc on the lunch-time traffic that he could harass?
The Dad stammered our excuses, “Well, uh… my wife has laryngitis and she can’t talk. Feels just fine, but can’t talk and that won’t work too well in a middle school classroom. And ummm… Me. Well, I, uhhhhh, ummmmm, I have a headache. Well, I had a headache and um… My stomach. It’s kind of hurting. And uhhh…. I have a low-grade ear ache and ummm… my pinky toe has been cramping. I feel much better than I did, but still, ummm… not good. Ya know?”
“Sure,” the cop said with just a hint of skepticism in his voice, “But, your truck’s been running since I left the parking lot at 6:00 this morning.”
And that half-tank of gas that The Dad wasted for me our first Valentine’s Day was worth all the roses and chocolate in the world…
Well, maybe not the chocolate part!
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Daughter 2 FINALLY finished her birthday celebration this weekend and all I have to say about that is Whew!
I do this to myself every year. Daughter 1 celebrates her birthday right before Christmas and Daughter 2 celebrates right after Christmas. So, from November to February we do nothing but celebrate! And as soon as Daughter 2’s celebration wraps up, we start planning for the Birthday/Christmas celebration again! (For those of you keeping track, yes… I’m a bit obsessive. What of it?)
Daughter 2 decided that she wanted a beach birthday party (in January!). She would wear a coconut bra, a grass skirt and hand out leis as her little friends came in the door. I LOVED it! I researched cakes and party favors and we were sitting on go by the time Christmas was done. Sort of.
The weekend before her birthday party, I remembered that we didn’t have the coconut bra nor did we have a grass skirt. Nor did we have the leis. Or the umbrellas and palm tree picks for the cupcakes. Oh. And I hadn’t ordered cupcakes.
Luckily, as hard as this is to imagine, I was out of town that weekend at a conference. The “luckily” part is that I was in a much bigger city than our own and they had much more opportunities to shop! The first day of the conference, I asked around to see where I could buy a coconut bra and a grass skirt and other “party favors”. One nice-enough-looking grandmotherly-type conference go-er gave me great directions to a “cute little shop” where she gets all of her costumes and party favors called, “Let’s Party!” (The exclamation point was part of the official name.)
That night, I walked into “Let’s Party” and was greeted by an amazing array of party favors and costumes… most of which were endorsed by Pamela Anderson and/or Kid Rock. None of which would be any kind of appropriate for any kind of party which would involve any kind of mixed company (unless, of course, that mixed company was Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock!).
The next day, I steered clear of Loose Grandma and asked around again and got decent directions to a one-stop party shop (that was appropriate for all ages). I was able to get everything we needed at one stop!! (This left me with enough time to make a stop for The Dad back at “Let’s Party!” – but that’s a totally different post!)
The actual birthday-DAY arrived and Daughter 2 insisted on going to The Taco Place because when it’s your birthday, they’ll bring out “sopapillas with whipped cream and smear the whipped cream on your nose, Momma!” (Maybe I should have gotten her party favors at “Let’s Party!”) Since we had a few extra kids with us, The Dad decided we should go to The Taco Joint instead – because kid’s eat free! Daughter 2 pouted the whole time (even though their menus are EXACTLY the same) right up until they brought out the birthday sopapilla and smeared whipped cream on her nose. AND… that was just celebration numero uno, mi amigos!
Since Nana didn’t make it to The Taco & Whipped Cream show, we met her at The Coloring Restaurant, because they give you ice cream. After the birthday song (and total disruption to every other diner in the establishment!), Daughter 2 was served the biggest bowl of ice cream which she refused to share with Daughter 1 because remember that one time that Daughter 1 didn’t share her ice cream and Daughter 2 only got one bite that was half melted. Remember? Good ol’ Nana – who thinks that there really is a “World’s Greatest Grandma” contest and tries to win it every single day – purchased another biggest bowl of ice cream for Daughter 1. And then another for The Dad. And, that, my friends, was celebration number 2!
The day of the party brought us 8 inches of snow, one party cancellation and 14 hours of whining and crying because it just wasn’t fair. The party was rescheduled for the next weekend. A WHOLE WEEKEND AWAY. Really. Not. Fair.
Good news, though, that Sunday at church, they sang Happy Birthday to Daughter 2 and a little friend of hers brought her a present and all was good again. The sun rose; the sun set; Celebration number 3. Amen.
FINALLY, a whole week came and went (but, if you ask Daughter 2, it was a whole month away because her birthday is in one month and her party had to be in another month), and it was party day. Oh, wait. It was PAR-TAY DAY!
We had the itchy grass skirt on and the scratchy coconut bra on. The juice boxes were defrosting in the sink. The ice cream was softening in the fridge. The cupcakes (which looked really cute when Martha Stewart made them, but somehow looked like our dumb dog Bo decorated them!) were ready with cocktail umbrella and palm tree pick strategically placed on each on. And by “strategically placed”, I mean slapped on at the last minute because I forgot where I put them after I postponed the party in the first place. We lei’d each kid; we passed out sunglasses, we hula’d; we limbo’d; we opened presents (To the friends who brought the fart-maker and the tie-dye kit: You have birthdays in your family coming up. Be prepared!) We passed out the tattoo party favors and sent the last kid out the door. Whew!
End of celebration 4.
Finally.
Daughter 2 has sufficiently and excessively celebrated her birthday. She was completely and utterly tuckered out after this two-week long birthday celebration. But that was nothing compared to how exhausted I was!! I do it to myself! I allow myself to get caught up in the excitement of a birthday and all the merriment that follows. This year, however, I vowed to scale it back. No more endless birthday parties.
Daughter 2, sleepily hugged my neck as I tied the coconut bra on over her pajamas, “Momma, I had a great birthday!”
“Oh, Daughter 2, I’m so glad!”
“Next year,” she dreamily mumbled, “How about having a pony birthday party?”
“Next year, honey, we’re scaling back, so we’ll only be able to get 2 or 3 of the little devils, OK?”
I do it to myself!
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Even before Al Roker predicted an Arctic Winter Snow Blast for my neck of the woods, I made the call. Keep in mind I have no meteorology training. (Really, I couldn’t even spell it without spell check!) I don’t make it a hobby of studying climate transitions and low pressure systems. I’m more of a high pressure system myself. (Ask The Dad.) I don’t read The Farmer’s Almanac nor do I stalk the weather station at 8:08, 9:08, 10:08 or any other :08 time! I don’t have any special gift.
How did I predict the weather, then? I use two very accurate devices: The Daughters. They have a very special gift. It’s better and more precise than a barometer!
Let me explain…VERY early last Monday morning, I woke up to The Daughters sword fighting with the Wii. Not ON the Wii – with the Wii … slicing and dicing each other with the controllers. When I calmed that squall, I noticed that Daughter 2 had her hair done (in pigtails – her specialty), had her boots and pants on, was eating breakfast (a cheese stick dipped in yogurt) and had applied blue eye shadow to her eye brows. She announced that she was ready for school, so they could play the Wii – “That’s the rule!” she reminded me. Oh. She also was not wearing a shirt.
Meanwhile, Daughter 1 was convinced that it was pajama day at school and she was wearing her polar bear pajamas and what was I going to do about it? Then she adjusted her flip flops over her mismatched socks and took a bite of bread with butter and raisins. “It’s fruit, Momma! That’s good for breakfast!”
I shook my head at The Dad and said, “6 inches.” He looked hurt and murmured something about it being cold in the winter and that I needed to cut him some slack.
I shook my head and explained what I meant to him. ( OK - I explained what I meant after I showered and dressed and put on my makeup and dried my hair. I thought it would be good for him to meditate on the phrase “6 inches!”.)
“See?” I offered as he lay in bed with the covers over his head, “The Daughters are little barometers and this weirder-than-usual behavior means one thing: Snow. If it were spring, I’d be clamored down in a bathtub somewhere with a mattress over my head! They have a gift!” I kissed him through the down comforter to assure him that it wasn’t personal.
And sure enough, that evening on the news, the local weatherman predicted that we’d have an outpouring of snow by week’s end. At least that’s what I thought he said because The Daughters were drying their roller blades in the dryer.
The Daughters (or kids in general) are not the only predictors of extreme weather. If you miss the evening forecast, head to your local Wal-marts! The crazier-than-usuals head to the Wal-marts when the weather’s about to get hairy.
Bread, milk and cereal apparently ward off bad weather. And there’s always a run for these perishable good-luck charms. Personally, when I know that bad weather is coming, I stock up on chocolate, frozen pizzas and toilet paper. Because even if he power goes out, those frozen pizza pies are still really yummy! And if you run out of toilet paper, the end is very near. Very near.
And, just as I predicted (prior to the Weather Channel, I might add!), we got well over 6 inches of snow. Here’s where the difference between The Daughters and the Doppler Radar 42 really becomes apparent: The radar clears up after the storm passes. The Daughters? Not so much. As evidenced by the 27 naked Barbies in our bathtub!
After the snowfall, we were given a snow day… I found out about this snow day at about 6 AM through a text. So, I turned off the alarm and went back to sleep. Five minutes later, Daughter 1 came running into our room announcing that it snowed! It snowed! It snowed!! Daughter 2 came running in behind her chanting, “Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh yeah!” Then they looked at each other and said, “Scream contest!” And they proceeded to have a scream contest! At 6 AM. In our bedroom.
The Dad slept through it all. What do you know? He does have a special gift.
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Over Christmas break, The Daughters had several of their friends over quite a few times for “play dates.” I love play dates. They give The Daughters a chance to play with their friends outside of school. They get to play games that require more than 2 players (and none of the players HAVE to be me or The Dad, gah!). They get to make crafts and projects. They get to share jokes and books and riddles. They get to be creative and imaginative… They get to have fun!
The biggest advantage to play dates, however, is that it gives me a chance to catch up on my DVR’d episodes of Friends and Desperate Housewives. Because of this little momma break, I thought play dates were a gift from heaven… manna for the momma.
Then I got a magazine this week and one of the cover articles was “Games and Activities Everyone Will Love at Your Next Play Date!” I excitedly turned to this article thinking that if I had a really great activity, then not only could I get caught up on my shows, then maybe The Daughters and their friends would be so enthralled with their time together that I could sneak a Twinkie out of my secret stash and eat it without having to share!
Then I read the article.
Apparently, the momma who wrote this article believes it’s important to actually play WITH the kids during a play date.
To that, I say: WHA--??
I was appalled that this woman had totally missed the magic of a play date: Someone else to entertain your kids! Really. She should have asked me first; I’d have gladly tuned her in to how it was done in the real world.
I giggle-snorted as I read the article. The Dad asked me what I was giggling about.
“This woman says that when her kids have play dates, she turns the TV off and plays with them!”
Then a little voice piped up and said, “CiCi’s mom does that.”
I jumped and just about pee’d my pants, “Wha--? Who said that?”
Daughter 2 said, “CiCi’s mom always plays with us. Always. And there’s a no-TV rule at their house when they have guests.”
Under my breath, I murmured, “Does CiCi’s mom also make you organic granola for a snack?” And that sharp-eared little devil said, “She does! Do you have the recipe?”
This was all news to me. My play-date world was crumbling down around my taco-flavored Doritos bag (hidden beside the recliner, so I wouldn’t have to share).
That afternoon as another mom dropped her kids off to play with my kids, I asked her what she did when my girls came to her house. She quickly looked around and whispered, “Why? What’d they tell you?”
I related the highlights of the article to my friend and (thankfully) she was just as appalled as I was.
“But, when will I check Facebook if I’m playing Scrabble with them?” she cried.
“I know, right?” And I poured us both a glass of red wine (disguised in a coffee cup, so the kids wouldn’t think they had to have a drink).
We agreed that it was a totally new concept to us and that probably our kids wouldn’t really want us to play with them and their friends, right? Then she quickly excused herself because her crops are not going to plant themselves on Farmville, by golly!
I finished reading the article and then decided to give it a whirl. Really, how bad could it be to play with my own kids?? The first project was a bird feeder. I could do that! I found Styrofoam cups, sunflower seeds, yarn and peanut butter. I began gathering the items, then quickly made myself a sunflower-seed-and-peanut-butter sandwich and decided that maybe that wasn’t the best project for us after all, especially since I had just used up all the peanut butter.
I think a game would fare better. I called the kids into the room and announced that we would play a game all together.
They announced that they were playing all together and started to leave the room.
“No! I mean with me!”
Daughter 2 said, “How about you call up CiCi’s mom and see if she’ll come play with us instead?” To which all the girls screamed, “YEAH!”
“Look,” I said, “I’m a good game player! What game do you want to play?”
Daughter 1 looked at the rest of the girls, smiled slyly, and said, “We love hide and seek. I’ll be it!”
So, quickly, I secured my place in the corner of the linen closet. This was not an easy task because I had to wrestle with a king-size mattress cover. And I was sure they’d find me in no time because I had to move the suitcases into the hall in order to squeeze my dainty self into the hole. And then I held my breath and I waited.
You know what? This was kind of fun. I will admit that I giggled like a little girl on more than one occasion when time passed and I still hadn’t been found! And then my left foot went to sleep… and the sleepiness crept all the way up my leg and into my hip. I was able to grab my phone from my back pocket and check the time! I’d been in this closet for almost 20 minutes!! HEY! I don’t think they’re playing right! I tried to stand up, but the whole left side of me was asleep. I tried to crawl out, but every time I did, I hit my head on the shelf so hard that I saw “Estrellas!” And then I heard Dora singing about “estrellas”. And then I knew: The kids had duped me.
When The Dad arrived at home, he knew something was up because they were singing Pink’s “Rockstar” on the Wii Karaoke and eating my secret stash of M & M’s. He came and removed the shelf from the closet and helped me get out.
“I was trying to be a good mom – like in the magazine!” I whimpered to him.
“You are a good mom,” he assured me. “You just need to find a different magazine to take inspiration from.” What a smart guy! And so sweet... He immediately went out and got me a different magazine.
He brought home Playboy.
Too bad he won’t be playing hide and seek with me anytime soon!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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Daughter 1 & I (and this year Daughter 2) had this conversation. We've had it almost every year since Daughter 1's started school. It starts with this question:
Mom? Why is Martin Luther King's birthday a holiday?
Daughter 1 (and now Daughter 2) doesn't get that there was a time in this country that we thought of African Americans as inferior human beings. They don't understand that there was a time when they would not have gotten to go to school with some of their friends just because their friends look different than we do. They don't understand that there is hatred - not based on personality or actions - but on looks alone.
They dont' understand.
I'd like to think that The Dad and I are raising them to have open minds and open hearts to their fellow man.
I'd like to think that it's all because of mine and The Dad's desire to have all human beings treated with dignity and respect. ALL human beings.
I'd like to think that it's because of our own practices within our own lives that reflect our desire to accept and be accepted as people of value.
However, I know all of our "so-fine parenting skills" would not be possible if it had not been for the pathway paved by many of our civil rights advocates, namely Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
The conversation always rolls around to this question:
Is Martin Luther King, Jr. still alive?
And I tell them that he was shot down in the prime of his life by a man who hated him and his message of equality and respect and freedom.
After the understandable shock and horror and sadness over a senseless killing, our conversation always ends the same way too:
I just don't understand...
And for the sake of generations to come, and so the work of Martin Luther King, Jr. will not be in vain, I hope and pray they NEVER understand...
...When we let freedom ring,
when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet,
from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day
when all of God's children,
black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics,
will be able to join hands
and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual,
"Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
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I have just returned from my 15th trip into Daughter 1’s room this evening. We put her to bed about 45 minutes ago. The first time she called me back to bring her a glass of water. She’d already had a large glass of water right before she went to bed. I know this for a fact because it was MY large glass of water. I told her no. Goodnight. Sweet dreams. And as I walked out the door she called out her mantra, “You NEVER let me have a drink of water!”
Over the course of this evening, I NEVER let her pick out all of her outfits for the next two weeks. I NEVER let her call her Nana just to tell her one little thing. I NEVER let her rewash her hair and dry it with gel in it. I NEVER let her bring the dog in to sleep on the foot of her bed. I NEVER let her have a kitty. I NEVER take her on an all-inclusive vacation in Puerto Vallarta. I NEVER let her call her BFF to see if she’ll bring her green bow tomorrow to school and the BFF will “bring her blue bow and they can do their hair together and be twins, but not really because one will be green and one will be blue”. I NEVER let us paint our toenails the exact same color before bed time. I NEVER let her have a campout around the firepit roasting marshmallows on a school night and singing “Camptown Races”. Oh. And here’s one for ya: I NEVER taught her the words to Camptown Races! I NEVER. NEVER. NEVER.
It wears me out.
I know. I know. I can hear all you good mommas saying, “Don’t keep going in there! Say goodnight and ignore her.” Oh. I forgot. It’s just that easy.
And honestly, when she was a baby and would fuss and cry out, it was much easier for me to ignore her. Basically because she was confined to her crib and had no way to marching herself into my office and scaring the bejeezes out of me while I am trying to type!
At any rate, now that she’s older and has access to markers and papers and a street-facing window, I feel the need to check on her in case she really does need me. Or in case she’s placed a “My mom NEVER lets me out of my room” sign in her window again. (The policeman understood. He had an 8-year old daughter of his own. And we only let her play with yellow markers anymore.)
I’m sure that if I did ignore her, she’d learn to go to sleep that much faster, but it won’t stop the constant use of the word NEVER.
Just last week I was listening to my Jillian Michaels CD while driving home from work. It was late, and I was tired, and I needed The Daughters to just be quiet so I could learn about balancing my time and prioritizing my health with Jillian, so I drove us through McGaggles. (I got The Daughters a “healthy option”: apple dippers – with caramel dipping sauce… geez!)
Then, we drove past Burger Scream. And Daughter 1 – with her mouth full of McNuglets said, “Why don’t you ever take us there?” I thought I had caught a break – she didn’t use NEVER!
“I just got you a super-deluxe ecstatic meal, Girlie!” I reminded her, while still trying to listen to Jillian tell me how 3 hours of cardio would do wonders in clearing my mind. (Or was it 3 hours of waiting for hot fries would make me lose my mind?)
Then Daughter 1 dropped it: “Yeah, but you NEVER take us THERE!” Oh. Sure. NEVER.
I’m an educator. I have advanced degrees. I have studied child and adolescent development and learning styles and cognitive abilities and processes. I know brain-based research inside and out. However, I have YET to come across anyone who can fully explain this NEVER-complex that has invaded my child!
Wait. I said that wrong: I have NEVER found anyone who can explain this to me!
I’ve paid very close attention to Daughter 1’s NEVER statements and I am the only one in the house who receives these sentiments. I mentioned to The Dad that I found it not only odd but frustrating that he NEVER gets told that he NEVER does whatever for Daughter 1.
And he, of course, had a ready explanation. His actions are always pleasing to Daughter 1 and my actions are always lacking. I reminded him of a few actions that would be lacking for him if he was NEVER supportive of my cause again.
Finally, Daughter 1 is asleep. When I look at her sweet, peaceful face, I’m tempted to forget the NEVER-fight that we seem to be engaged in constantly. And I wonder how I can ignore her constant requests and I vow to myself that tomorrow is a new day. I will wake up and see to it that Daughter 1 has every single one of her needs met. And then some.
Then I grab a dark blue marker out of hiding and scribble this sign for her window: My mom NEVER does anything wrong!
It’s a preemptive strike…
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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The Dad & I rang in the New Year with some great friends while the kids played the Wii in the other room. (Santa ROCKS!) And as we bid our friends a “Happy New Year” with kisses and hugs all around at about 12:13 (because we lost all track of time playing Battle of the Sexes), one of my friends dared to utter those dreaded words: What are your New Years Resolutions?
I kicked my former friend in the shins and then pushed her out my front door. I’d had a bit of sangria.
The next day – much later the next day – The Dad asked those same words: What are your New Years Resolutions? OK… he didn’t really ask them with his VOICE. He texted them, from behind the locked bathroom door. He knows what I’m capable of.
It’s not that I don’t WANT to make resolutions. I do! I want to be better, skinnier, more organized, sexier, an early riser, a better exerciser – wait… just an exerciser. I want to be all those things! It’s just that I make my resolutions and they last until noon on January 2… if my mom doesn’t call and offer to take us out to the Golden Cow Super Buffet for New Years Day. Then? All bets are off!
This year, because I’m feel so much pressure to make resolutions, I have decided that why not? I will make resolutions… just not for me. For everyone else.
For starters, since I seem to lose about 50 pounds a year (and gain about 49 ½ pounds), everyone else should gain 10 pounds. If everyone else associated with me gains 10 pounds and I just maintain my current weight (Easy enough!) Then hey -- Won’t I look good next New Year’s Eve compared to all of you who have gained the poundage?
Secondly, for all of you runners out there: from now on, if you’d trip over your own feet about every other step it would sure make me look good. Wait. You know what? It wouldn’t make me look good, per say, but it would make me look normal. Nope. Not even normal. Really - It’d make me feel a tiny bit better about my running skills. Yeah. That’s it.
In terms of KIDS, I want all other children to start whining the phrases “Pleeeeease!”, “Now!!!!”, “Gah!” and “You never…” when they are out in public. That way, my own kids will be so distracted by these public displays of whiny-ness that they will forget that THEY are the ones who usually pick up the crapola displayed on the bottom rack of one of the three lanes open at the Wal-marts and snivel, “Please Momma? Can I have it NOW? Gah! You never buy us ANYTHING!” This is usually moaned while I’m loading the stuff I never buy them onto the belt. (And, is it only when I go in there with The Daughters that the Wal-marts decides to have only three lanes open??!?! Is it???!?!)
This one, I’m certain, will help out all of mankind: There shall be no appointments, start times, meetings, or any other such nonsense before 10:30 am. This time change, I realize, will cause a disruption in most people’s schedules; however, I will be one happy camper. I will be able to sleep until 9:00! I’ll be able to do more than throw cereal in a coffee cup and tell The Daughters to drink up as we make a mad dash to the minivan while brushing our teeth. No more rinsing with the cereal milk and spitting out the window! And by starting this late, we’ll make great strides in our grooming: We’ll be able to brush our hair! Did you hear that? BRUSH our HAIR!
Finally, I think no one should ever do laundry again! Just think of the possibilities, my friends! If we ALL wore dirty laundry, then when I show up at a party wearing ketchup on the sleeve of my un-ironed shirt and socks that I found on the floor of Daughter 2’s bedroom, then I certainly won’t distract from the party itself. As is normally the case when I go to someone else’s house wearing ice cream on the knees of my jeans. (Don’t ask!)
Clearly, if you want to have a great new year, you’ll follow my resolutions. No. I said that wrong. If you want ME to have a great new year, you’ll follow my resolutions and we’ll all be happier for it. Because, there is truth in the saying, “If Minivan Momma ain’t happy, ain’t NO body happy!” Or something like that!
Happy New Year, my friends!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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The following is an actual transcript of a conversation that happened at our house on Christmas morning:
Daughter 1: {in an excited but hushed tone} Momma! Momma!
Me: {in a mumbled, half asleep grumbly, mumbly mumble} Wha--??
Daughter 1: Momma!
Me: Say --- Wha --- ? Who ---??!!?
Daughter 1: It’s me, Momma! Daughter 1, Momma! Are you awake?
Me: O. M. G! {really, I said “O. M. G.” I’ve not had much adult time recently.)
Daughter 1: Mom! It’s important. Please! Wake Up!
Me: OK! OK! What’s the matter, Honey?
Daughter 1: I need to know what time it is. The clock in my room says 4:32. The clock on the microwave says 4:35 and your watch says 4:33. What time does your phone say?
Me: My phone? Ummm…. {checking phone. Later, I’ll be glad that she didn’t ask me to lick the walls or do sit ups or something really weird because apparently, I’m pretty impressionable during the 4:00 hour}
Me: It’s 4:38 on my phone, Honey.
Daughter 1: So, is it too early to get up?
Me: Get up?
Daughter 1: Get up out of bed. Well, I already am out of bed. Is it too early to get up and go see if Santa’s been here?
Me: Who?
Daughter 1: Santa. Santa Claus. It’s Christmas morning, Momma!
Me: Wha---?
Daughter 1: Momma. Can. We. Please. Get. Up. And. Go. To. The. Living. Room. To. See. If. Santa’s. Been. Here? {end with a huge, big sigh}
Me: Wha---? No. It’s too early.
Daughter 1: But, I can’t go back to sleep!
Me: Fine. Get in bed with us. And be quiet.
{another voice from the hallway} Momma?
{voice gets closer}: Momma?
Daughter 2: Momma? Is it morning?
Me: Wha---?
Daughter 1: It is morning, but SHE won’t let us get up yet.
Me: Who’s talking here?
Daughter 2: But, MOM!
Daughter 1: She won’t! She’s being stingy!
Me: Be quiet! It’s too early to get up! Get back in bed!
Daughter 1: C’mon, Sister! Get in bed with us!
{Daughter 2 climbs in bed with us. Now there are a total of four people in our bed. Three of us are awake.}
Me: Girls, I’m pretty sure that Santa doesn’t come to our house until 5:59, OK? So, be quiet and go back to sleep.
{silence for 4.3 seconds}
Daughter 1: What do you think we’re gonna get?
Daughter 2: Maybe a pony! Or a 4-wheeler! Or … I know! Moon Sand!
Daughter 1: Moon Sand… Yeah!
Me: Be quiet! If I hear your voices again, I will go start a fire in the fire place and Santa won’t be able to come down the chimney. So, just BE QUIET! TRY to go back to sleep? OK?
{silence for 57.4 seconds}
The Dad: Babe?
Me: {ignoring him thinking that he’ll be quiet and go back to sleep}
The Dad: Babe?
Me: What?
The Dad: What time is it?
Me: Wha---? Wha---? Why?
The Dad: When did The Daughters get in bed with us?
Me: Wha---?? Wha---?? What?
The Dad: Did you know The Daughters are in bed with us?
Me: Yes.
The Dad: Why?
Me: They want to get up and see what Santa brought!
The Dad: Oh. Well… Can we?
Me: Can we what?
The Dad: Can we get up yet?
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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Several years ago, Natalie Cole – in what must have been a collaborative effort with Miss America-wannabes – released a Christmas song called, “A Grown Up Christmas List.” I adored this song. I thought the message was well thought out and spoke to the universal heart of every person who had ears to hear. “No more lives torn apart! Wars would never start! Time would heal all hearts!” Honestly, there’s no more sincere prayer out there than this of Natalie’s!
Then I had children.
And while the sentiments in Natalie’s timeless holiday treasure (which may now be purchased through 1-800-Time-Life-Something-Or-AOther for $19.99, if you call within the next 30 minutes!), are beautiful and goose-bump-producing, the momma in me says, “Really?”
So, for your listening pleasure (imagine that I sound just like Natalie Cole), here’s MY grown-up Christmas List. (And, please, remember, Grown up does NOT mean mature.)
No more Saturday mornings before 8 AM. There’s nothing good that can happen before 8 AM on a Saturday morning. Unless it involves a tray of scrambled eggs, a glass of mimosa and a bud vase with a rose in it. And then only if that tray is delivered after 8 AM.
No more socks left unmatched. Daughter 2 has recently begun having an issue with socks. None of them fit. As in fits how she wants them to fit. Please be aware that they all FIT her… just not how the princess wants them to. Therefore, we have no less than 20 dozen unmatched socks on her bedroom floor.
No more calories in chocolate. I’m certain that at the E-Z peace summits, talks were heated because some secretary of state of some well-meaning nation set out a plate of chocolates and everyone started frettin’ over getting back to the hotel and the fitness room and if there’d be enough elliptical machines for both the Prime minister AND the chiefs of staff (or state… whatever!).
Every house has a housekeeper. You know, though. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure I would want a stranger coming into my home cleaning the messes that I obviously can’t clean… because if I were cleaning, I wouldn’t have time to watch Modern Family and Eastwick, right? Besides, what’s the guarantee that this person won’t go snooping? Especially snooping in the top drawer of the night stand? Not that there’s anything worth snooping for in there… just saying… So, I change this request: I do not want a housekeeper; I want a magic wand. (And, truth be told, I probably need a housekeeper WITH a magic wand to make a dent in our humble – and hectic – abode!)
Every mom has 10 hands. Could you even IMAGINE??!! I could drive, take away the headphones-turned-lasso, change the CD from Taylor Swift to … um… Taylor Swift, talk on the phone to The Dad who is at home wondering what I’m fixing for dinner (in the van??? Uh --- nothing!) AND put on chapstick! 10 hands, I tell ya!! The possibilities would be endless!
And speaking of endless, the Twilight saga would never end! I am one of those women who have fallen in love with a vampire. And the thought of never meeting my Edward ever again after Breaking Dawn? … well, let’s just not go down that winding, rain-soaked, Washington-state road during the holidays!
And speaking of Vampires, how about a whole station devoted to Vampires? There’s a whole station devoted to History, to Weather, to Shopping, to Poker, and to Game shows even! Why not Vamps? Wait – what’s that you say? Oh, right. I forgot about CW… never mind.
All exercise would be graceful and effective. I would like to be able to do the Carmen Electra Aerobic Striptease without cracking myself up during the warm-up and without tripping over my own feet during the walk down “the stage.” Oh, I hear ya. Maybe I could try a different tape, but then I’d probably actually exercise, break a sweat and I can guarantee you that I would not giggle like a 13 year old boy through the whole thing. (Apparently a 13-year old boy with a big, ol’ honking behind!) And isn’t laughter the best medicine?
Last, but not least, Bedtimes would be mandated as soon as the first yawn graces the beautiful face of the smart-alec-y Daughter who whines about … anything. And really? I don’t care if THEY go to bed as soon as the whining commences or if I go to bed as long as someone is in a nice warm and quiet bed when the whining winds up.
I realize that my list is long and really far fetched (read again the paragraph about Carmen Electra). But a girl can dream, right?
I’ll end with this: Christmas morning, I’m sure I’ll open up a bottle of my own perfume (wrapped in toilet paper), a macaroni necklace stuffed in my stocking – which I’ll never wear because the maker will wear it until the macaroni all breaks off, and a card that reads: Merry Christmas to the World’s Gravest Mom! I’ll be the happiest Momma on the planet, and I’ll love every minute of it … even though it’s guaranteed to happen before 8 AM. WELL before 8 AM!
And I still hope that Natalie gets everything on her list too!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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I love my cousin Whitty dearly. She’s a lot of fun to hang out with and we always end up laughing… Mostly I’m laughing AT her, let’s be clear on that point, but we’re laughing none the less.
Whitty has three boys: A pair of twins (set of twins? Two twins … would that be four?) … ANYWAY, twin boys who were born one year after Daughter 1 and an ornery little booger born one year after Daughter 2. This spacing was a lot of fun for me: At her baby shower for Thing 1 and Thing 2, I announced to her that Daughter 1 (who wasn’t even a year old yet) was completely potty trained! Even at night! And that Whitty should try to have her boys – both of them – potty trained before they were 1. However, Daughter 1 was not potty trained. This was just a little bit of humor to lighten her pregnant-with-twins load. She, however, did not see anything to laugh about. (Some women just don’t handle pregnancy hormones well, as my bruised shin could attest.)
To be totally honest, Whitty is a much better momma than any of our family ever imagined. (Really, Whitty! We’ve all talked about this fact at family gatherings!) You know those horror stories of new moms who place the baby carrier on top of the car at The Wal-marts and then drive off with the carrier still on the roof? Well, when I heard those stories, I saw Whitty’s face in my mind.
The point is she really is a great momma (even though she laughed at getting a minivan and prefers to deplete the Earth of a small layer of ozone over Dallas by driving her big ol’ honkin’ SUV to touch football games all over The Big D).
At Christmas, I like to get her boys things that will make them say, “Man, Cousin Minivan Momma ROCKS!”
Last year? I got them a 1 pound chocolate bar. Ornery Little Booger boy had the whole thing swallowed before we even finished opening presents! I rocked!
The year before? 2 ½ pounds of small chocolate candies designed to melt in your mouth and not in your hand… Unless you are Thing 1 and Thing 2 (the aforementioned twins). Then these candies melt in your grubby little hands! Again! I rocked!
This year? I’m getting bandages for the boys. Uh-huh. That’s right. Adhesive strips with all kinds of kiddy propaganda emblazed on them in neon colors.
See, last summer at our family get-together, Thing 1 fell and half of his leg was left on the asphalt. He couldn’t even walk and was losing blood by the minute! He could barely catch his breath to whisper – nay, gasp - the words, “Help me, Momma!” Whitty took one look at him and said, “Get up. You’re OK.”
And, truth be told, he was OK, but to him it sure felt like he’d just lost his leg to a land mine. He begged her for a bandage and she said - are you ready for this? – No.
Now I will give Whitty this: The bleeding had slowed (or maybe it had stopped… or maybe it really hadn’t started at all) and Thing 1 was no longer crying. But, because I like to have fun with Whitty (or have fun at her expense – either way!), I took Thing 1 to my cabin and gave him TONS of bandages! He loved me, and I rocked – which is why I do anything!
Imagine my disappointment when Whitty emailed and said she and her fam would be with her in-laws and wouldn’t be meeting with OUR fam for Christmas. I shot her an email right back that said, “Yeah, well… you can run, but you can’t hide! I’ll FED EX the boys their SpongeBob and Transformer Bandages! I can rock in Chicago, too!”
Then she shared with me a little story that she’s sure will get her a nod as Mother Of The Year: Ornery Little Booger went to school when it was 30 degrees outside without mittens. He had to borrow some from the school so he could go outside and play!
Small potatoes, I say!
I received this email from Whitty, who was feeling right smug about her M.O.T.Y. act while I was still at school. I received it at the school where I teach and where The Daughters go to school. I received it at school on the same day that Daughter 2 announced to me that she had not only gotten new shoes from the school, but also new mittens and a new hat from her “grand friend”!
And just how did Daughter 2 score such a haul? She got the new shoes because the flip flops she had been wearing almost non-stop since May finally broke when she was outside playing at recess in 30 degree weather. She got the hat and mitten set from her “grand friend” who wanted her to be warm since she’d never seen Daughter 2 with mittens or a hat and this was about day 8 of temperatures, as Al Roker likes to say, “hovering around the freezing mark in our neck of the woods!”
So, Whitty, you run a good race… you come close, but when you’re competing against the likes of me, you’ll never get Mother of the Year!
So, Merry Christmas! You’re not Mother Of The Year! I’ll miss ya! (And be on the lookout for that ant farm-drum set combo I’m sending your boys!)
I SO rock!…
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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I’m a night owl. Plain and simple: If the world would start at around 11:30 and let me sleep in until about 10:30, I’d be one happy momma. I’d stay up late and do my thing and life would be good… assuming that The Daughters still go to bed at 8:00, of course, and then sleep for 14 hours. Life would be GRAND!!
I do my best work late at night. This is not just because I’m a momma and it’s the best time for me to get stuff done without wiping snot or refereeing wrestling matches. It’s been the way I’ve always operated. I love the night life. I love to boogie on the disco floooooor, yeah! (Not really. I’m not a good dancer – but that’s a whole different column!)
Since we are 20 days away from Christmas, I have presents to wrap. Normally, I do my Christmas wrapping late at night after The Daughters have long-since dozed off and The Dad is NOT sleeping in the recliner while watching the game. (No. Really. He wasn’t asleep. He was resting his eyes.)
I love to wrap presents. As I wrap each one, I imagine the look of pure joy that the recipient will flash to me as they say, “Oh, Minivan Momma! I couldn’t have selected anything better if I had selected it myself and had a budget of a million dollars! Again, you – alone – have made my holidays utterly perfect and completely memorable!”
Hey! It could happen. Besides, it’s my gift wrapping fantasy; I can imagine whatever I want!
This weekend, however, I temporarily lost my mind. (Yeah, I hear ya, friends. It is TOO a temporary condition!)
I got out the Christmas presents, the wrapping paper, the tape, the scissors, the gift cards and a DVD of fabulous and favorite Christmas movies. I settled The Daughters in front of the TV and set up my gift-wrapping station. At long last, I selected the first gift of the season to be wrapped. I held it high above my head a la that crazy monkey in Lion King and sang, “Joy to the World” (Three Dog Night’s version) and commenced to wrapping.
No sooner had I cut the perfect amount of neon green Santa paper than I lost the tape. It was just here … Oh, Daughter 2 had it and was already taping the paper to the “French Bistro Cookbook and Ambiance Music CD” that I was giving my sister. (This is what’s called a gag gift: My sister cooks grilled chicken and green beans and listens to her husband cry, “Again??!?! Really???!?!!”)
I reach for the tape and whimper, “Please don’t” to Daughter 2 as she now has the gift taped to her night gown. I reach for the scissors and discover that Daughter 1 has them and is helping me by pre-cutting the entire roll of paper into 6 x 6 inch squares. Which would be GREAT if I were going to quilt my wrapping paper. Which I wasn’t until she did that and I had nothing else to wrap with.
I manage to somehow get my sister’s gift wrapped and am in possession of the scissors and tape once again. I set The Daughters in front of the TV wondering why we, like Aunt Bethany, don’t say the pledge of allegiance before our meals. The Dad, despite his stream-engine-like snoring, is NOT sleeping. Let’s be very clear on that point.
I turn to select the next gift of the season and pull out one of The Dad’s gifts. I carefully place it in a box before anyone catches a glimpse of his much-hinted for gift and tape it up tight and tidy. I begin to piece together a large enough patchwork of paper to wrap the box. I finish the entire wrapping and place the gift tag on it when Daughter 1 (the smart one) hollers out, “For Dad? This one’s for Dad? That’s not fair!” (She’s 8; nothing’s fair!)
This yelling wakes up The Dad (despite the fact that he’s not asleep) and the present is tossed from Daughter 1 to The Dad who violently shakes the present. Daughter 2 decides that this is a game of monkey in the middle and her sister is the monkey, at which time the monkey – I mean Daughter 1 - commences to yelling that she is NOT the monkey, and grabs the present from The Dad to prove that she’s not the monkey because she’s now in possession of the package. “And now Dad’s the monkey!”
And thus begins the 20-minute fight to get that one single present back in my glitter-glued hands in one piece. This quest ends when my gift wrapping station (aka a card table with a cute Christmas table cloth spread out nicely over it) goes spilling from its spot in front of my cozy couch into the front hall.
“Ummmmmmmm, I’m tellin’!” The Dad screams out to The Daughters.
Calmly, I take the present back and set it gently under the tree – tattered paper and all. I pick up my gift-wrapping station and put everything back in it’s place. I go to the garage and collect three items: Wal-mart sacks, duct tape, and a Sharpie marker.
This year, my wrapping is going green. I’m reusing the Wal-Mart sacks as my gift wrapping. I’m recycling that old Sharpie that The Dad used to mark which tools were his to use and which were mine to use. (basically, if it has a cord, he thinks I don’t use it. Key word: thinks.) And I’m reducing my stress level by saving my late nights for DVR’ed episodes of Modern Family – without The Daughters.
(Technically, without The Dad, too… but really, he’s not sleeping!)
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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I let the Turkey Day have it’s 24 hours of glory and then I break out the dozens – no, hundreds – of Rubbermaid boxes that hold my most precious items (please, don’t call Human Services; The Daughters haven’t been kept in Rubbermaid boxes since they started school!): I get out my Christmas decorations!
Each year, I pack the ornaments into specific boxes designated for each Daughter, and then I pack the family ornaments into specific boxes designated Not-Breakable and Breakable. These boxes are not labeled because when you open the Not-Breakable box, the ornaments are just stacked and smooshed on one another. The Breakable box contains newspaper, bubble wrap and fleece protecting each ornament. It’s a sickness. I know.
As we decorate for the season, I like to pretend that I’m Martha Stewart, and I’m the star of a TV-special documenting how families decorate for the season. I have Bing Crosby singing, “White Christmas” in my mind. Usually, though, our decorating ends up being more like the dogs barking, “Jingle Bells”!
After The Dad gets done cussing the tree and making sure that each *$@!&# light is on and that each %#$@* branch of the tree is connected properly, I’ll hand The Daughters their own boxes of ornaments. While they are tinseling up the tree, I’ll finish putting out the rest of the decorations throughout the house. By the time I’m done, The Daughters are also done and then in the quiet of the night (or the Will Ferrell as Elf-induced coma), I’ll gently unwrap the fragile (that does not mean they are Italian!) ornaments and hang them on safe and sturdy branches. Then we bask in the glow of the lights (or the TV-screen) and sigh. Life is so good once the tree is decorated!
This year, however, I was slow … or The Daughters were fast… and I didn’t put the Breakables out of reach and just as I spread the evergreen garland with red-plaid ribbon o’er the piano, I heard the first S H A T T E R. (Yes, I said first.)
The Daughters are standing over a little Madeline ornament all of her smashed against the tile of the kitchen… except her head.
Deep Breath In. Deep Breath Out.
The Daughters didn’t lay blame. They don’t offer excuses, they just mumbled their “I’m sorrys” as I went to the garage to fetch the dust pan. Daughter 1 hung Madeline’s dismembered head on a branch anyway.
As I dumped the shards into the trash, I heard that sound again: S H A T T E R!
Deep Breath In. Deep Breath Out.
This time it was followed by soft whispers: “I told you not to.” “I didn’t! You did!” and the ever-famous, “Na-huh!”
I re-enter the war zone and see a formerly glitter-filled ball all over the tile. I still have the dust pan in my hands and bend down to sweep up what had to have been 3 pounds of glitter and 2.5 million pieces of glass ball.
Instead of “I’m sorry” this time I get, “It was an accident.”
“I know it was an accident,” I say in my best “Mommie Dearest” voice, “Please: No more breakables.”
I see two very remorseful heads nod and run right back to the boxes. I return the dustpan to the garage and open the door just in time to hear it once more: S H A T T E R.
My eye began twitching and my ears began ringing. This time, the fight was on!
Deep Breath In. Hold it. Hold. It.
Daughter 1 starts by throwing her arm, finger pointing, right into Daughter 2’s chest. “SHE did it. I told her not to. I told her you said no. SHE didn’t listen.” Daughter 2 has her leg raised and her arms cocked as if she’s channeling the Karate Kid, “It wasn’t my fault! I was trying to take it back from you to put up and not mess with it, JUST LIKE MOM SAID.”
And that’s when it started. Fists were flying! Feet were kicking! Bodies were slamming! Voices are screaming.
I step over the latest shattered casualty (with only a Santa nose left intact) to try and separate the two when I get caught not only by a flailing arm, but also by, what I believe is called a round-house kick. (Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.) I aimed for the couch, but found myself flying right into the… Tree.
Deep Breath In. Deep Breath Out. OK. I’m still breathing. And if I’m still breathing, I’m still alive. But, I must have gone deaf because I can’t hear a thing.
I can’t hear anyone saying, “See what you’ve done?”
I can’t hear anyone saying, “It’s all your fault!”
I can’t hear anyone saying, “I told you not to!”
I can’t hear anything…The Daughters have cleared the room! (The Dad told me that he later found them in their bedrooms reading their Bibles!)
I try desperately to untangle myself from the tree, but no matter what move I make, I become more and more tangled. I finally hear something: The Dad is coming in from outside. I look to him for help. He stands at the edge of the room grinning at me.
“What?” I ask.
“That How-To-Pole-Dance DVD is really paying off, Babe!” he smirks before helping me (and the tree) to a stable, standing position.
The tree looks just fine tilting at that angle… besides, it hides the section where we don’t have any decorations! The Dad, on the other hand, is walking with a little limp…
CHRISTMAS GIVEAWAY!!!
To spread some holiday joy around, Minivan Momma is giving away one red sleigh candle from Keepsake Candles in Bartlesville, OK. The candle is small votive size and will be shipped to you wherever you are! All you have to do is email Minivan Momma (minivan.momma.2@gmail.com) and tell her which column is your favorite. The Daughters will randomly draw an email out of a hat and that person will win the candle! The contest will end at midnight on Saturday, December 5. Only one entry per email will be entered. Good Luck!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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