Mama's new rules

There is way too much chaos in my house. So I'm going to reign it in. I do mean that literally, because, from now on,
1. Mama (hereafter known as We) is queen. No more of this cutesy I-poop-more-than-you-so-I-rule stuff. We won't talk about how many diaper changes We changed today in case Our readers are eating.
2. Only Our moods allow Us to indulge in Our bad tempers. This means that if you are small, you may not throw tantrums just because you are in a bad mood. That is Mama's job. Adjust accordingly.
3. If it comes from the parents' mouths, listen to it. If it comes from your mouth, keep it in (but don't swallow it if it didn't come from Our hand or the kitchen floor).
4. No candy before 4 pm. If you see the Queen trying to stuff candy in her mouth while your back is turned, know that We are only trying to protect you from the evil stuff and, if in doubt, refer to Rule 1.
5. Always clean your messes. If We don't clean up after ourselves, it's because you small children are corrupting Us with your bad examples.
6. Do not get angry when We spill, break, destroy, burn, or maim your toys. After all, when We ruin something of yours, it's purely accidental, but when you wreck Our stuff, We know it's because you have a secret personal mission to search out and destroy anything of value.
7. Go to bed on time. This you must do regardless of what events, TV shows, parental conversations, books, toys, or other distractions designed to keep small children awake are within your line of sight. We would never stay up late to do something more interesting than sleep.
8. Give the Queen her space. This means that when We are going to the bathroom alone or climbing Mount Everest (which are really the same thing), you make yourself scarce.
9. Stop growing! First, every inch you add to your height costs Us at least several thousand dollars. Second, it's much harder to get mad at your naughtiness when you're little.
10. When We've had a day so long and frustrating that stringing Ourselves upside down by the toes from your swingset seems more fun than dealing with you, do something really cute and funny that makes Us want to throw the whole list away.

Happy reject

Today I got my first official rejection letter. Now I feel like an bona fide writer. I submitted a query letter for my novel to an agency in September. I knew it would be a rejection when I saw the envelope today--I figured good news wouldn't come by U.S. Post. Here's the good part: at the bottom of the form letter which stated that she (the agent) was too busy to take any new clients, she complimented my writing and told me to keep submitting it. Pretty good for a first attempt.So I was happy today. Mark didn't come home until 7, and then as soon as he arrived, he worked for about three and a half more hours, but I survived the day (without hurting any children or defenseless animals) because of my good news.

Computer wars

OK, so I admit it. In my last blog, I lied. I am not happy with just my shiny red vacuum, even though I love it. I want more! I wouldn't mind getting that new computer monitor Mark wants. In fact, I wouldn't mind a new printer. OK, I really want a whole new computer. Then we'd have one for me, one for Mark.

Why such indulgent dreaming? Because even though Mark has a laptop for his work, he uses it only for work. And we fight over the other one.

Here's how it goes. I will say, "Honey, could you take care of the kids for just a minute? I have to go to the bathroom." But the bathroom trip turns into a detour by the computer. While Mark is watching the kids, I sneak into the computer room and take control. Pretty soon, Mark starts to wonder if I fell in the toilet and comes looking for me. "Did you steal my internet?" he asks. Well, yeah.

I justify it by saying that at least I'm doing something Really Useful (thank you, Thomas) instead of playing computer games. Then we exchange guilt trips. Both of us are nearly professionals at this. "But honey, if you need to use the internet, you can. I'll get off the computer for a little while." That, of course, turns into, "No, that's all right. I'll just read my book/watch the kids/sit in the corner and feel sorry for myself."

Using the computer when the kids are around is impossible. Kyle likes to crawl underneath the desk and turn the computer off just before I save my data. Both Liam and Kyle enjoy typing letters. "I'll just type an "n" to help you, Mama." Enter is another of their favorite keys. Especially if I'm not finished my email and the mouse is resting on "send". I'm sure my friends are thrilled to know that I think they're just fa.

Ah, for the good old days in the eighties when couples used to fight over the remote.

My favorite things

I decided today my blog will be a little more positive. So here are a few mama chores I actually enjoy.

1. Blogging. OK, it's not in the typical hausfrau job description, but it keeps my household running smoothly (as in keeps mama sane), so it counts. It's cheaper than therapy and/or drugs, and it keeps me smiling. I compose blogs in my head when I can't be at the computer, so it helps me to find the funny. Oh, I am so sick I feel like the middle of a steamroller sandwich--ha ha ha! My child threw his toys down the vent again--ha ha ha!

2. Vacuuming. We recently bought a new vacuum to replace the one that died. Our new vacuum is a shiny red color, and it's bagless. The front is clear so you can watch the cracker crumbs and dust bunnies go swoop! inside the dirt cup. New gadgets are so fun. My husband would rather have a new game system or computer monitor, but I'm happy with my shiny red vacuum. Considering that my job that rarely has tangible rewards, watching my dirt cup fill up gives me actual proof of what I accomplished.


3. Laundry. I love how you put clothes and detergent in, and then you go somewhere else, and poof! the clothes just get clean all by themselves. Just like magic. Next I'm going to invent a baby-changing machine. Poof! Baby could change his own diapers.

I was going to write more, but baby is crying. Silly boy! Thinks I should come get him or something. That reminds me, I love how mamas can make just about any baby problem all better.

Mama's Day Off

I took the evening off, actually. Just a couple of hours. I told Mark that I was going crazy. I knew I was because my first activity when he took over was creating imaginary fights with him. I couldn't imagine that someone else besides me could even be capable of supervising my children without disaster. My first hallucination was that Kyle escaped when Mark wasn't watching closely enough, climbed the stairs, fell down all of them, and got brain damage. I realized soon enough that I had only created this scenario in my overworked brain, so I decided to be more rational for the next fifteen minutes.

Then it was time to imagine more catastrophes. It grew dark and I realized I hadn't had dinner yet, and neither had the children. Oh, poor starving babies, poor starving me. Mark, in my imagination, wasn't doing anything about dinner at all. I ran through the house to check out the dinner situation. But there was no husband and no children anywhere. So I scrounged a piece of bread from the fridge and went downstairs to watch TV. Whoa! How's that for a colossal time-waster? Just think of all the useful things I could have been rushing around doing! I saw a pile of laundry sitting on the dryer and I had to slap my hands to keep them from putting those clothes away.

Mark and Liam came home. Kyle was already asleep in his crib, so quiet I didn't even know he was there. Mark had brought take-out for the two of us and he also warmed up chicken nuggets for Liam. We ate, while, predictably, I felt guilty about taking time off and spending money on take-out (Validation intervention: You go, mama! You're doing a great job!).

So maybe I'll take the rest of the evening to watch more dumb TV shows which keep me from making up things to fight about with my husband. He can handle watching the kids--they're asleep. The laundry and dishes will still be there tomorrow (Oh, no! That's what I'm afraid of. Deep breaths. Great job.). Tomorrow, though, I'll do some more Mama stuff. This time off stuff just wears me out.

Don't hate me because I'm skinny

More than once, other baby-toting mamas have looked me up and down, sighed, and said, "You're so skinny." They is usually followed with an inquiry about how old my baby is, how much I exercise, or what I eat so they can beat up on themselves.


While I don't advocate mamas beating up on themselves (see previous blog), I must say the following, loud and clear.


Yes, I'm skinny. I have earned it.


My children like to eat. And, while they're little, guess what their favourite food is. Fresh, imported from Canada, no added ingredients, instant, 24-hour mama juice.


Some babies get older and gradually lose interest in nursing. Not my kids. No, they are absolutely, 100%, no-doubt-about-it in favor of breastfeeding.

When they're little, it's not so bad. It's free (unless you include the extra fifteen hundred pounds of groceries I eat every week in your calculations), and it's easy. They cry, I whip out the Magic Mammary Gland, they're happy. And I'm happy, too. Until I try to go somewhere.

First of all, when I'm nursing, everybody knows. Even though I singlehandedly keep Gerber and Johnson and Johnson in business with my truckloads of nursing pad purchases, I still produce enough milk when I'm nursing to create a lake with its own ecosystem on my shirt. So I can't go anywhere without a year's supply of little white circles to stick in my bra and a change of clothes.

Then if I'm with the baby and he needs to nurse, where do I go? Feminism has done wonders, but the world still doesn't want to see me keep my baby alive. I could nurse in public, of course, but that carries the risk of getting kicked out, in which case I would call La Leche League to complain, after which they would stage a nursing protest, and who needs that kind of publicity? My next option is to visit the ladies' room, where I could lean my body up against the wall as far away from toilet splashes as possible and try to get baby to eat quickly before my unsupported arms turn numb and fall off. Gloria Steinem, couldn't you as least have gotten us mamas a nursing chair or even some place to sit in public places? I guess the stores figure they'll drum up more business if customers have to keep moving. Let me tell you, if they had a little lounge for me to drop my baby on my lap for a few minutes, I'd drop a few more dollars their way, too.

So now the baby is a year old and I'm starting to think it's not so fun anymore. I'm all about mamas nursing as long as possible. I know it will be a while before we quit. But the fun wears off a little when the child starts to play nursing games with Mama. Let's pull back when we're finished to hear how loud Mommy can scream. Let's act like we're done and then cry for more. Let's cry in the middle of the night so only Mommy can come soothe us. Let's refuse to take a bottle so Mommy can't go anywhere without us. Let's pull up Mommy's shirt in public when we're hungry.

This is why Mommy is cutting him back to nursing only about every 2-3 hours. Yes, this child is one. No, he didn't slow down to 4 or 5 feedings a day like the baby books said he would.

I know that when I stop nursing, I will gain at least five pounds and deal with PMS again. For now, I'm burning about 500 extra calories a day. Let's keep it that way. So unless you are ready to breastfeed your children for years at a time, don't envy my figure. I've spent many hours holding my baby in bathroom stalls getting it that way.

Guilty again

Here's another hypothetical contest I have not yet won. If someone followed all the mamas around with cameras all day, the one who makes it to the end of the day without feeling guilty (not me) gets the million dollars.

Let me tell you why it won't be me. Because when I wake up, I'm already feeling guilty. If I'd gotten up earlier, I could have exercised, made breakfast, caught up on my email, started the laundry, removed the squashed bug guts from the wall, and swept the crumbs from the kitchen floor before the ants found them.

But I didn't, and so now I must pay the price. Oh, yes, there are many possibilities for penance. I might skip the shower this morning. If I take one, I might make my husband late for work because someone has to make sure the children don't give each other bloody noses while I'm showering and the dishwasher doesn't do very well with that one. That reminds me, I have two loads of dishes stacked in the sink. Why didn't I do them last night? Oh, yes, that would be because I was so exhausted after waking up with the baby (who used to sleep through the night) every two hours that I fell asleep on the couch at about 8:30.

With guilt, you can't win. For example, I feel guilty that I asked my husband to help with the dishes because I know he's tired from not getting much sleep (He was up with the baby, too. He doesn't have boobs so baby goes to sleep easier for him. But that's another blog). And he had to be up on time to go to work. But if I don't ask him to help with the dishes, then baby will toddle over to the dishwasher because why play with expensive, educational toys when there are sharp knives so readily available in the kitchen? And then I'll have to rescue him from cutting open vital organs, stick him in his high chair where he'll cry his baby heart out his tear ducts because I have, yet again, cruelly removed myself to a place more than six inches away. And then I'll feel guilty that the high chair is his baby-sitter, making me a neglectful mama for introducing "substitutes for adult interaction" (Note: This quotation comes from one of those pediatrician information sheets that recommends children don't watch television. It, like many other mama-censuring phrases, stuck itself into my brain and refused to leave. I will say, in protest, that sometimes the television is preferable to the adult hand interacting with their non-adult bottoms.) .

I'm not sure why we mamas feel so much guilt. But, of course, I have a few theories. One reason is all the pressure from child-care "experts" who stick their nose into their books and watch rugrats from behind two-way mirrors and think they are more knowledgeable than me about how to raise my children. The information and advice I can't avoid gets to me, but what's worse is the dire warnings they give out--as if we are children ourselves. If we don't provide enough activities (or too many activities) our children will turn into brainless balls of mush because their tender personalities are already formed before they're three months old. So, the implication is, you better not screw up or else your children will Not Be Well-Adjusted Adults and it will be All Your Fault.

Some of the "experts" should really be our closest allies--the other moms. We ask about each other's children and each other's choices in a friendly way, but sometimes there's a little malice underneath it. I don't think we judge each other out of spite. I think we're all terribly insecure because we don't want to admit that we really have no idea what we're doing.

We all need a little reassurance. But we don't have to compare ourselves (or even listen to anyone else's opinion) to get it. I think we ought to make a practice of telling one another that we're doing a good job on a regular basis. Feeling guilty has gotten a little old. So I'll start.

You go, mamas! Let me know when you win your hypothetical million.

Publishers Cleaning House

I am a crazy, frenzied, cleaning mama. And now I've finally figured out why. It's because I'm trying to win the Publishers Cleaning House Sweepstakes. If I could just get my house clean enough, then they will show up on my doorstep with balloons and a large amount of money.

There can be no other logical reason for it. I used to think I would clean "in case someone else came over". Then I discovered the truth--people rarely come over, and if they do, they will come when my house is a wreck. I could have had my house white-glove clean for a week, but they will come on the day the dishes block the view out my kitchen window and the laundry is so deep a dogsled team couldn't get through.

Then I thought maybe I clean for sanitary reasons--to keep my kids from inhaling fungus that's bigger than they are. But I realized that was a lie when it didn't even bother me that my baby was licking three day old spaghetti sauce stains off the floor.

Then I thought it was to make me happy. Happy house=happy mama. That was another lie I told to the monster who stomped her feet on the floor and flailed her fists in the air like the four year old child who had spilled milk all over the fridge. I never knew until recently that the expression about not crying over spilt milk was for the parents, not the children.

So now I know the truth. It's all competitive. And I'm going to win. When I go over to another mama's house and it's a wreck, I secretly gloat when she apologizes. When I can actually see my face in another mama's bathroom mirror, it's not usually smiling. It's scheming. Because we're in competition, don't you know. I have to figure out how to beat her at her game. I have to rush home and clean some more.

Besides, if I don't hurry, I might miss the balloons.

Good Heads on our Shoulders

Liam has just inherited his daddy's toys. This means that he now gets to play with Star Wars, He-Man, Transformers, and G.I. Joe.



This is not always a bad thing. Take G.I. Joe, for example. There is a character called "Cobra Commander." Fit that into a Barry Manilow song (it sounds remarkably like Copacabana), and you've got a great alternative to Raffi stuck in your head for the rest of the day.


Unfortunately, Liam unleashes his destructive tendencies upon small children and harmless toys, so most of the new toys are no longer in one piece. If the next installment of Star Wars is called Decapitated Darth, Lifeless Luke, or Headless Han, you can say you knew us when.


But it's a little disconcerting to find toy body parts all over our house. I open the cupboards, and there's Luke's head staring at me from the shelf. Just his head. Not what I wanted to see just before breakfast. It could just as easily be a set of legs, or an arm.


Wouldn't it be convenient if we could all remove our own body parts and reattach them with no permanent damage? Oh, I'm busy today. I'll just borrow someone else's extra arm and attach it so I can have some extra appendages for cooking dinner and changing diapers while fixing toys and holding babies. Then I could give it back when I was done. Rent-an-arm--I could make millions with my ideas.

Knee-kisser

Time to get out again. This morning, I kissed my own knee.

Why would I do that? No, it's not to check for the hairs I missed when I was shaving (though I always miss a few since I shave in the shower at least once a year and I can't see a thing without my glasses on), and no, it's not because I am in love with myself (though I'm pretty cute and I always listen when I talk to myself).

It's because there is always a child there.

Children do not understand the concept of personal space. When Liam (big brother) sees Kyle (little brother) lying on Mama's lap to nurse, why wouldn't he want to be there, too? The more the merrier! "Mom, let's play babies," he says. "You be the mama and I will be the baby." Mm, now there's a wild, reckless fantasy I want to indulge in.

I ask Liam, quite often, to give his mama some space. He knows I love to listen to myself talk (I always do, you know). So that means when Mama's lips are moving, the best thing to do is ignore her. He always seems so surprised when he goes in for the baby attack and ends up on the floor.

It's gotten so that I stick them in their car seats just for the pleasure of having them buckled in a locked car.

I bounce myself to sleep when my arms are empty, make snacks for children who are in school, and, like today, kiss my own childless knee. My brain thinks there is a child there, even when there's not. I haven't yet changed any phantom poopy diapers, but I'm sure it won't be long. I'll let you know. After I fill out my admission papers to the loony bin.

Stay-at-Home Career Woman

Ever since I've been staying home to take care of children, I've discovered the cliché is true. The grass is always greener. When I was working and pregnant, did I hope to stay at my job for the rest of my life? No! I couldn't wait to quit. To think, I could just give it all up--office politics, business casual, supervisors, smelly breakrooms...

But now, what do I miss? Working, of course! Ah, I think nostagically, there was once a time when people gave me money. And when I worked overtime, they gave me even more! I may have fallen asleep over my paperwork some days, but there was that bank account balance that made it all worthwhile.

Who knew I would miss business casual on the days I don't get my shower? Who knew I would miss deadlines and responsibility and accountability? Who knew I'd miss the smelly breakroom that was a lot quiter and cleaner than my kitchen? And who knew I'd miss the sense of accomplishment I would feel when I got something finished, and it stayed that way?

It's not all horrible. It's really not. I sometimes need to remind myself of that. Like when I start watching the clock at noon, for example. Didn't I do that before, when I was in the "world of work" anxious for quitting time? (By the way, don't you just love that phrase? I bet no other mamas at home ever feel like gainful employment is a planet away).

Don't think I'm not tempted to go back to work. I am so jealous of my lawyer friend, my nurse friend, and my teacher friend, I'm green enough to be a tree. They all found ways to work part-time. They get real, actual money in their bank accounts.

I chose this. That's what I keep telling myself when I don't get any time for myself and I'm so bored but I can't do anything I like because the children destroy any of Mama's personal property they can get their sticky little fingers on.

I don't want a J-O-B full time, 9 to 5 gig. No. But I do want some money. So I've tried just about every way of making money from home ever invented. My husband and I bought rental property. And sold it. I advertised to teach music lessons. No takers. I started a multi-level marketing business. Got pregnant and couldn't handle it anymore. I wrote a novel--seriously. Waiting to hear about that. Designed a web site for my own music advertising business. Never launched it. If there's a money-making idea I haven't tried, you can bet for sure I've at least thought about it.

So I don't know what I'll do. I don't know why none of my ideas have worked out. Is the cosmos trying to tell me something? Like my place in the world is here at home forever?

I used to believe I could do anything I wanted. When I was in school, I double majored in music and French, and I graduated with Honors. That included a huge list of extra reading as well as a thesis which I wrote and defended. And now, well, I feel like I'm spinning in circles. Every day. I know it's not true, but sometimes I wonder whether I can do anything at all besides take care of kids (I know that's no small feat either, but it feels small since I do it every day).

You might think the obvious answer is to go back to work for a while. Get a real job for a few months or so, inject myself with a huge dose of self-esteem, and then come back to Thomas Tanky and Baby Cranky.

Nah. Because then I'd want to quit.