The Human Pacifier

My early evening bitch/wisdom from the small one.

How difficult is it to actually place the dishes in the dishwasher?  Is it any more difficult, really, than dumping it in the sink and trying to cover it up with wet paper towels, in the apparent hopes that I will not notice there are dishes in the sink?  What the hell.  That's all I have to say about that.

On the other hand, the Small Person has some wisdom for me today, that I feel it's imperative to share with other parents out there: there's no reason to be upset by a diaper explosion containing undigested food bits (ew. ick. gag me with a spoon.), because, as she stated to me earlier....

"Spotty poop!  Mama! What a great idea!  That's funny. Let's read a book now."

And so we did.  Sometimes the simplest philosophy is the best, in these cases.

Friend Mama.

I have recently been designated 'Friend Mama' by my 2 1/2 year old daughter. 

It may be lack of sleep today (I went to bed at 4:30 this morning, only to be awakened 3 hours later by this same small person shouting with glee, "Good MORNING, Mama!  Lesss geddup now!"), but I am overwhelmed with emotion.

As I type, this little character is climbing in my lap on the computer chair, alternately looking for 'more nacks' -- her favorite term for nursing (read: more snacks) -- and kissing me with the Matchbox cars she holds in each hand, while using alternating low and high voices to represent the little ambulance and the cool, purpley Corvette with actual opening doors.

Each car says to me, "Love you, Mama!"  and "Love you, too, Mama!"  *kiss, mwah*

I thought I was going to have a bad day today, but there is just no way to maintain a bitchy attitude with so much love pouring from the short one. 

When she plays with her 'guys', her action figures, there is often a 'mama' figure, and a 'baby' figure, and anytime I wonder if I am raising her with enough care and love, all I have to do is listen in on the simple conversations these figures hold:

Mama Action Figure (winged superhero): Sweetie! Sweetie!  Where are you?

Baby Action Figure (transformer car dude): Right here, Mama.

MAF: Do you need help?

BAF: Yes, help, Mama.

MAF: It's okay, sweetie.

BAF: Thanks, Mama! 

MAF: Love you, sweetie.

BAF: Love you, Mama.  Do you need to go pee?

10 Ways Not to Leave Your Husband, or: Somebody Get Me A Black-Belt AlAnon Guru and Fast.

1. Open a joint checking account and give him access to your savings.
2. Ship all your furniture and wordly goods from coast to coast, in anticipation of following him because of the latest and greatest "it will be different this time" speech.
3. Actually get on a plane and follow your furniture.
4. Buy into the thought that he will certainly have everything ready for you when you get there; find out your savings has been 'expended elsewhere'.
5. Move into a crappy house belonging on America's Most Wanted 10 Fixer-Uppers list.
6. Rescue him again, by finding an actual, livable apartment for the family.
7. Hope to the gods he doesn't crash the moving truck on his errand of delivering the boxes from the old place to the new on Christmas Eve.
8. Spend Christmas Day in admiration of his new sucked-up, redneck, down-home scumbag look, as you attempt to make a real holiday for your daughter in spite of your own idiocy.
9. Marvel at your 3 foot plug-in tree, the only bright part of the whole stinking day, aside from the Tonka Truck fun.
10. Generally keep hoping that "Today it will be different.  No, today it will be different... well, maybe today it will be different..." ad infinitum.

I AM the human pacifier.

When my son was born in 1992, I said to myself, "I'm definitely breastfeeding. It's so much better for the baby."  Not to mention cheaper.  Hey, it's not shallow, it's practical.  Less formula = more baby toys, anyway.

He nursed for 8 months, and then basically decided he wasn't all that interested anymore, which came as a shocker to me -- I wasn't quite done, yet.

Oh, man, have I ever made up for lost time this time around!  Simone is 28 months old now, and there is no end in sight. 

Now, some days I say this proudly, i.e. "Look at how long we've been nursing!"

Other days, I say it forlornly, i.e. "Look at how long we've been nursing!"

Today is definitely one of those 'other days'.  I sincerely hope that people remember never to take for granted the ability to sit down in a chair (or on the floor, or in a restaurant booth, or on the toilet) all by themselves, without having a short, demanding (and extremely strong) person throw themselves sideways into your lap at a reckless speed, putting you in a position where it is impossible to keep them from latching on and commencing to climb backwards up your arms while completely exposing your breast to whomever happens to be nearby.

Someday, I dream of sitting in a chair, somewhere all by myself, with a relaxing mommy-of-a-high-need toddler-appropriate beverage like tea (read: strong alcoholic drink).

It's amazing how being other people's pacifier can really begin to lower your own personal physical boundary expectations.  But I'm getting off-topic now; I'll talk about my husband later.

Well, technically it's two kids, not three...

...however, I have to say that it can feel like three kids when you're married, even with the best of spouses (I'm imagining that last part, really). 

Some days, let's face it, I am the only 'grown-up' in the house (using that term fairly loosely, mind you).

For example, if there's food all over the floor, and cupboards and drawers are open, can we always naturally blame the pre-teen?  Or if the muddy footprints all over the sheets are a men's size 11, is it a given that the baby must have done it?  I think not.

Actually, toddlers make less household work than husbands do, although I'm not certain why that should be.  I have tested this theory, though, so there is some factual basis. 

After kicking my husband out of the house for a week last year, I was absolutely amazed at how little time the housework actually took, even considering I have a child in the 'terrible twos' and a child in the 'terrible tweens'. 

There was significantly less laundry, as well; a big bonus in my book.  Plus, I didn't have to dig out of pockets all the old bits of paper with random scribblings, finishing nails, or women's phone numbers and other questionable items such as empty prophylactic containers (always a favorite laundry-shocker for me, perhaps this last one gives you a clue as to why he got kicked out that time).

I go through cycles; sometimes I have two kids and a husband (very briefly), and then others I just have three kids.  But I swear, give me an extra set kids (toddler twins, even) any day, over a husband who reverts back to needing a mama to care for him in the midst of his personal dramas.