Tag: motherhood

Rant

I have often read how writers have a designated time of day where they can write without interruption.  Writers who work from home have routines whereby they get up, get their families ready and out the door, and then write in blissful, contented silence for the better part of the day.  Sounds like nirvana to me.  As luck would have it, I have to write when the mood strikes. Even if I had an office in which to lock myself, designating the hours of 9am to 3pm to just write — however delicious that seems — is setting me up for a major fail. If I feel like writing, I write.  Of course, that means, if I’m in the middle of washing dishes, I stop, flip up the laptop and go.  There can be several pans on the stove, the whites in a for a soak or a cupcake pan that’s only half filled; if I’ve got an idea, everything comes to a crashing halt. I’ve got to write. When I’ve poured out a few paragraph, I pick up at whatever task I’d left off and keep it moving.  It’s getting increasingly frustrating to keep up that routine, though.  

DH said “Let’s go out,” when he came in from work the other day, but the nuances of life crept up on us.  The girls got busy coloring, he got busy surfing the ‘net and I was sifting through mail and magazines. Everyone was occupied, and a little nugget of a potential post started to grow.  I put down the mail, fetched the computer and started writing. I was typing furiously. The sun started to set, cars started turning into driveways signaling the return home from the end of another day.  Kids playing outside were, one after another, being called in for dinner. Our kitchen was growing dimmer in the fading light.
The kids were still playing. Coever was singing, Morgan was banging on a toy drum. The decibel level was steadily creeping towards 140.  I couldn’t write like this. I was making mistakes; I lost my train of thought, jumped back on and was tossed back off. Trying to concentrate was harder than trying to make a left turn into the mall on Black Friday.   Suddenly, Morgan announced that she was hungry. Coever chimed in with her constant refrain as well.  But guess what?
I wasn’t hungry. 
I’d had a big lunch and a Coke Zero in front of me that I had been nursing for the better part of the afternoon.  
But my girls were hungry.
But I was writing. 
What to do? What to do? 
DH was deep into whatever he was doing, his Mac and his work computer like conjoined twins in front of him.  My audible sigh went unnoticed (at least I think so).  The offer to go out to eat hadn’t been repeated, so I saved my work, shut the laptop,  got up, and I. Made. Dinner.  

I opened the freezer, the fridge, the pantry and started creating something out of nothing.  I had pans going, oil popping, water boiling and within 20 minutes, a very nice dinner. 
But I still wasn’t hungry. 
I just wanted to finish writing.
DH, bless him, came into the kitchen to ask what he could do to help, just as I got popped in the forehead with some stray oil spatter. Now,  I was angry that I had had to stop what I was doing. I was angry that I just got scorched. I’m a woman who will say, “Nothing,” through gritted teeth when asked “What’s wrong?”.  So, it should come as no surprise that I was considerably less than polite in my response to him. I just wanted to finish what I started. 

Dinner was made, presented lovingly in Tupperware so it could go from table to fridge. No mess, no fuss. I even leapfrogged over the inevitable, “I don’t like this”, and I made Coever a separate dinner of a cheese stick, grapes and turkey slices, just so that she would eat it and we could avoid drama.  Yes, I am officially a short order cook.  
And now here I am, about to clean up the very dinner I have not even eat because (say it with me) I’m not hungry, and I’m struck by this, this situation.  If I’m not hungry, do I still have to cook? If I’m in the middle of something do I still have to get up and wipe a butt? What if I stop mid-sentence and lose the thought,  that million-dollar idea, that would make us independently wealthy?  I mean, I’ll stop if we’re talking blood and broken bones, but for all the times there’s been a primal yell for me to wipe a nose, tie a shoe, wash some hands, or dress a Barbie?  Yes, these formative years and precious moments will be behind me before I realize, but in the here and now, the very moment in which I’m living . . .I. Just.Want.To.Finish.My.
Hang on, somone’s calling me.

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IN: ON: December 1, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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How to Get It Done

Recently, I’ve been complimented on being an outstanding mom, and I really appreciate that.  We all know it ain’t easy, but I’m doing the best I can, the best way I know how.  I was talking with another mom about how women are in constant “mom-petition” with one another. Always trying to one-up one another over things that really have no bearing on whether or not the world is going to keep turning.  The recent rash of articles on mean girls and bullying made me realize that our kids will stop pushing eachother around when we stop pushing eachother around.  So, I thought I’d help out my fellow moms (or more appropriately, fellow care givers) on what it is that makes things go a bit smoother for me on a day to day.  

1.  I keep a stack of the girls artwork on my desk.  I love to look at the wonderful crayon and pencil renderings of our family.  But guess what? All of the art, all of the pieces of paper with but one swipe of magenta or one scribble of robin’s egg blue make for handy scrap paper.  Need a paper for a grocery list? Bingo! Need a sheet to write yet another to-do list? Shazam!  And my all time favorite? Have to dash off a note to a teacher but can’t find that Vera Wang stationery your scored from Tuesday Morning a few weeks ago? Grab that watercolor Princess and the Frog reproduction and away you go.

2.  Getting the kids in their clothes before they outgrow them.  My girls are fortunate enough to have a nicely stocked wardrobe.  The thing is, often times, they don’t get into all of the clothes they have because they like to keep the same couple of outfits in rotation week after week.  We’ve had several instances where I pull out an outfit, only to find it doesn’t fit because it hasn’t been seen since we bought it!  The consignment shops were getting several sizeable bags of stuff that we’d forgotten we had.  But, no more.  Now, I’ve got a new plan.  The girls wear their clothes.  When the hamper is full, I wash the clothes and I fold them, but I DON’T put them away.  You heard me right.  I leave them all nicely folded in the bucket until the girls have used up (worn) the remaining clothes in their dresser and closet.  When the hangers start clacking when we open the closet door and when the dresser drawer flies open because there’s nothing in it to weight it down, then I replenish.  I’ve saved on time — less washing, less time spent putting stuff away, and all the outfits get worn before they’re outgrown.

3.  The wardrobe struggle, part II. *Le sigh* My girls like to wear dresses. EVERY. DAY.  That’s just not possible.  And the thing is, even though they have lots of dresses, they want to wear the same two or three dresses over and over (see above).  I’ve tried various systems — mandatory pants, pants days twice a week, alternating dress days. Nothing worked; it’s was a constant struggle. But then I was talking to a friend who has a little girl and she has a genius idea.    She and her daughter pick out 5 outfits for the week, which the mom irons (um, no), and the child sets up in a visible spot her room.  Every morning, the kid knows what she can wear based on the 5 pre-determined outfits.  No more struggles. No more mandatory pants days!  Though, I do say you  have to have 2 pairs of pants on gym days. But she picks the pants, she picks the tops, and the other three outfits. When breakfast is over and I send her up to get dressed, it’s all up to her as to what she’s going to wear. No mess, no fuss.

4. Bribery.  I guess this isn’t a trick, more like a tip.  I got tired of making the girls beds in addition to the other slew of things that I took care of during the morning routine.  And I was tired of the incessant whining that burbled out of them when I asked them to use the toilet before they came down for breakfast.  Pausing in the middle of my shredded wheat to wipe some buns was getting really old.  Something had to be done and here’s what went down: bribery.  Plain and simple,  I got a jar of change and every time they 1) use the toilet and 2) make their bed (i.e. pull up the blankets; I’m not looking for hospital corners), they get a nickel.  And it’s not like they’re saving up for something.  They just like idea of having some kind of currency to stick in a piggy bank.  Beds are made, bladders are empty, breakfast is consumed and all is right with the world.

5. It’s okay to turn on the TV.  Man, this is a big one for me.  You know what an anti-tv advocate I am (well, at least for the kids).  But sometimes, when I need to catch my breath or do something without a  running commentary from a 5 year old, it’s okay to turn it on.  Sure, turning it off my bring some tears (theirs, not mine), but Moose E. Moose and Zee can babysit my kids for 30 minutes every now and then.

So, like a said, just a few things that keep the wheels turning and the children alive over here.  It’s not much, but hopefully one of these little nuggets will help your days move along a little easier.  The thing is, you’re already a Superwoman. 

 
Sometimes, you just need to be reminded. 

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IN: ON: October 14, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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If You Give a Mom a Moment. . .

If you give a mom a moment, she’ll probably take a deep breath before picking up her “to-do” list.

Taking that deep breath will make her wrinkle her nose at the stink wafting out of the diaper pail.

Once she’s taken out the bag of dirty diapers, she’ll probably collect all of the trashes from the rest of the bathrooms.

In the master bathroom, she’ll notice this morning’s towels laying in a pile on the floor.  She’ll replace the old towels with clean ones and decided to run the dirties through the laundry.

Not wanting to run half a load, she’ll strip the beds and empty the hampers.

Once in the laundry room, she’ll see that she is low on detergent, so she’ll head to the kitchen to grab the magnetic pad off of the fridge to make a grocery list.

She’ll write down detergent, open the fridge an check to see what else she need to pick up.

With her head in the fridge, she’ll spy the chicken breasts she took out the night before to defrost for dinner.

Thinking of dinner makes her hungry and she’ll realize that the breakfast table hasn’t been cleared.

She’ll clear the table, crumb the table, and wipe down the table.

All of that cleaning has given her an appetite and she realizes that she hasn’t had breakfast.

She’ll brew a pot of coffee and reach for her favorite mug, but the mug isn’t there.

She’ll open the dishwasher to find it wedged between a milky sippy cup and peanut-butter smeared Hello Kitty plate.

Once she has the dishwasher off and running, she’ll de-crumb the kitchen counters and sweep the kitchen floor.

Sweeping the kitchen floor will remind her of Cinderella, which will make her think of the Princess themed birthday party the kids will be attending this week-end.

Thinking of the birthday party, she’ll head to the hall closet where she keeps emergency party gifts.

On her way to the closet, she’ll wind her way through two coats, four pairs of mis-matched shoes, a doll-carriage, a doll missing its head, several books overdue at the library, and a Netflix DVD.

She’ll reseal the DVD in the envelope, slide the library books onto the mail table by the door, strap the headless baby into the carriage, place the shoes at the foot of the stairs to be taken up on her next pass, and hangs the coats in the closet.

Once in the closet, she feels around for the party gift and gives herself a pat on the back for her proper prior planning.

A pat on the back makes her think how nice a massage would be, so she decides to add that to her “to-do” list.

And chances are, before she reaches for that “to-do” list, she’s going to take a deep breath, if only for just a moment.

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IN: ON: May 30, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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You’re Killin’ Me, Smalls. . .

You’d think by now I’d have learned my lesson by now. You’d think that because I’m the adult, I’m making the decisions. And yet once again, here we are, and all I can do is shake my head.
Foolishly, I sometimes ask the girls what they’d like for lunch, often giving them a choice between different sandwich choices or chicken nuggets vs. hot dogs. Today, though, I just couldn’t even wrap my mind around all the choice left overs in the fridge and asked them flat out, “What do you want for lunch?”

Morgan, just as sweet as you please, asked for tuna fish and chips. Done and done. Coever asked for grilled cheese. What? Whose child is this? Certainly not mine. We don’t eat grilled cheese in this house. Let me re-phrase, I don’t eat grilled cheese, and if the numero uno, executive chef ain’t eatin’ it, it ain’t gettin’ made. But of course, Coever looked at me with those Bambi eyes and saw this. . .

I got busy making grilled cheese.
For someone who doesn’t eat it, I sure put a lot of thought and love into this thing. I toasted the Oat Nut bread, which, by the by, if you haven’t had the Oat Nut bread, do yourself a favor and get it. It’s beyond good. It’s like a hug in your mouth. But I digress.
I toasted the bread, I spread it with butter — I think I read that’s what you do when you make grilled cheese. I shaved — yes, you read correctly, I shaved off several layers of cheddar cheese from this hunk o’ cheddar we had in the fridge. I laid the thinly sliced cheese over the buttery- oat-nutty-bready goodness and threw another layer of bread on top. I wrapped that mamma jamma up in some foil, fired up the iron and commenced to press it to death.
Coever wove in between and around my legs, chanting, “Is that my grilled cheese, Mom? Is that my grilled cheese?” I half expected her to break out in song and dance like Bill Cosby’s kids when they had chocolate cake for breakfast.
I unwrapped the sandwich, placing it on her plate with some orange slices, and some chips. By now, the girls were in the living room, looking at library books, so I called them to the table. They seated themselves just as I placed their plates in front of them.
“Thanks, Mommy,” said Morgan, taking a monstrous bite of her tuna fish. Mmmm, oat nut bread.
I go back to the kitchen to fetch (yes, I’m from the Mo-tea-suh tribe) the girls’ drinks, when I hear Coever ask, “What dis, Mom?” She’s picking up her sandwich between two fingers, “Is dis my grilled cheese?”

“Yes, Coever,” I begin, seeing that she’s somehow managed to shove the orange slices and the chips down her throat. “That’s the sandwich you asked for.” In my head, I’m thinking, “Oh no. She better not even think about it.”

“I don’t like grilled cheese,” she wrinkles up her nose and lets the sandwich fall back onto the plate.
Of course. . .
Hi, my name is Hilary with one “l” and I’ve been duped by my two year old.
Again.

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IN: ON: March 9, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Breakfast of Champions

Einstein said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” Yeah, I’m manifesting that definition every day.
Every morning, I get up while it’s still dark to savor a few moments by myself. I usually throw on my gym clothes and head downstairs. My routine is pretty much the same: check email, check my buddies’ blogs, toss in a load of wash and empty the dishwasher. I’ve even started making lunches and prepping dinner (yeah, I’m kind of Type A). At about quarter to seven, I set out making breakfast for the girls. Once they get up, I’ve got a pretty tight routine that carries us right up to pre-school drop off.
Take yesterday morning:
6:45 – get breakfast ready
7:00 – get the girls up
7:40 – wrap up breakfast and get dressed for school
8:15 – playtime for Mo and Co/tidying up for me
8:30 – out the door, into the car, off to school
And despite all of my micromanaging, the one thing I haven’t figured out is why is it that by the time I get the girls settled down for breakfast, I realize I haven’t gotten anything for myself? I mean, they’re happily munching away and I haven’t got anything on my plate. I haven’t even got a plate!
Part of this stems from my relentless devotion to Weight Watchers. In the not too distant past, I wouldn’t let anything cross my lips that hadn’t been weighed, measured and calculated for it’s caloric impact on my body. Just grab some toast and slather on some jelly?! Not unless it’s Nature’s Own White Wheat Bread with 7 squirts of I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter and 1/2 tbs of Welch’s Sugar Free Jelly per slice (points=2). Bacon and eggs? Only if it’s two slices Jennie-O turkey bacon and a quarter cup of EggBeaters cooked in a non-stick pan that has been lightly sprayed with olive oil cooking spray (points=2). Weight Watchers can make the even the most sane turn into Sally Albright.
Another part of the problem comes from the fact that I am a notoriouly finicky eater. I eat pizza and baked ziti, but I don’t like cheese. No grilled cheese, cheese and crackers or cheeseburgers. I like shrimp, but not when it’s cooked. I like tomatoes, but on my sandwiches and salads, not in chunks in my spaghetti sauce. I drink fat-free milk, which is the equivalent of water that a cow has walked past, but only with cereal. Milk and cookies? Why desecrate the goodness of the cookie with a sub-par beverage? I like my Cream of Wheat with about a tablespoon of water in it so it’s the consistency of paste rather than soup. I can eat yogurt and bananas, but when I get down to the last bite, I start to gag (I know, I’m starting to make Sally Albright look normal).
Anywhoodle, when it dawns on me that all I have is air-pie while the girls chew on Cheerios, I get up to remedy the situation. The minute my buns break contact with the chair I’m peppered with requests:
Mommy, can I have milk?
Mommy, can I have apple juice?
Mommy, can I have more milk?
Mommy can I have more apple juice?
Mommy, can I have toast without jelly?
Mommy, can I have toast without butter?
Mommy can I have toast with jelly and with butter?
Mommy can I have waffles with bacon and side of French Fries?
I spin and whirl between the fridge and the toaster, each trip pushing my own breakfast that much farther from my grasp. No wonder my stomach to think my throat has been cut. Truth be told, I should know better than to indulge Mo and Co with every breakfast request. On the one hand, I don’t want them to be hungry at school and unable to concentrate. On the other hand, let’s face it: they’re in school from 8:50 to 11:50. 3 hours without nourishment does not a famine make.
I’m only re-inforcing bad behavior with my up and down, up and down antics. I only have myself to blame when my reminders that “I’m not a short-order cook!” bring up snorts and snickers. For Christmas, they’ll probably get me a plastic name badge and a matching hairnet.
By the time I’ve gotten them sufficiently satiated and pull together some kind of semblance of breakfast for myself, they’re done and trying to pull out puzzles, crayons, finger paints, dress-up clothes, and bicycles.
So, I’ve begun a new regime after running through a couple of options. I was tempted to just put the milk, the cereal, the bread, the butter and all les accoutrements on the table during breakfast, but who wants to schlepp it out only to schlepp it back? Besides, I’ve got this thing about milk being left out (gross!), even if it is only for a 20 minute breakfast. I thought about prepping breakfast the night before, but I kept forgetting until I was already in the bed for the night. So I’ve come up with three suggestions rules to keep our morning routine machine well oiled.
1. Breakfast is what is. There are no exceptions, no substitutions, and definitely no returns.
2. Eat what’s on your plate, not what’s on my plate, your sister’s plate, or anyone else’s plate. Quelle surprise! We all have the same thing.

3. Eat what you’ve been given before you ask for more.

4. Half a spoonful of yogurt cannot possibly constitute fullness, so don’t even try it.

5. A courtesy taste is required of all foods. This includes a small portion of the food on the tines of the fork/in the bowl of the spoon going into your mouth, being chewed and swallowed. Touching the tip of your tongue to something for 0.007 seconds and declaring, “I don’t like it” isn’t the same thing.
3. When Mommy sits down, she ain’t gettin‘ up until her plate is clean. In other words, chew slowly and take small sips on that apple juice, ya dig?

I’m thinking this little list can be modified for lunch and dinner, too. What with Thanksgiving dinner all but here, I’m about to xerox this and affix it to everyone’s water glass. Then, when I sit down to eat, I’ll sit down and stay down. And we all know thankful I’ll be for that.

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IN: ON: November 11, 2009 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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hair

Hairy Situation

I’ve always had trouble pronouncing the word hirsute. It sounds like “here-soot”, but I want to say “hair-suit”, which I think makes more sense. Thankfully I never had to use hirsute in a sentence that described myself. For those that haven’t cracked a Merriam Websters in a while, hirsute refers to excessive hairiness or as Wikipedia so eloquently puts it, “excessive and increased hair growth on female humans in locations where the occurrence of terminal hair normally is minimal or absent. ” Think Barnum and Bailey’s Bearded Lady or perhaps the cafeteria lady that dished up your Taylor Ham & Cheese lunch in elementary school. You get the idea.
Now, I have to admit, I have been pretty negligent about my eyebrow maintenance as of late. I’m getting a little Frieda Kahlo to be perfectly honest. Co was out of school the other day for a teacher in-service so it was her dubious pleasure to accompany on this little junket. I knew I didn’t have a whole lot of time as I spent the better part of the morning working off those Reese Cups from Halloween, so I opted to hit up the little nail/waxing hut in the mall.

I’ve got Co strapped in the stroller, plied with Goldfish and apple juice and we make our way past the nail tech benches and rows of pedicure chairs. The young lady directs us into the waxing room — more like closet — and instructs me to lie back on the reclining chair. Co has been wheeled and parked out of the way on the left hand side of the chair, but she is in an excellent spot to see what’s going on and throw out two year old questions and concerns about my welfare.

Now, you all know I’ve got big hair and often times the curls fall forward onto my face. The tech brushes my hair off of my forehead and then turns to get her wax applicator (I’m being generous here– we all know it’s a Popsicle stick). When she turns back, the hair has moved back to my forehead. She turns and puts down the wax applicator, turns back, pushes my hair aside, albeit a little more forcefully, and then turns to get the wax. Guess what happens with my hair. Seriously, when she turned around again, I swear she gave an exasperated sigh before using both hands to push and scrunch my hair away from my face. I think she put her foot against the wall for leverage.

With my hair semi-secured off of my face, she begins to apply the wax and the strips. Co cranes her head around, straining against the stroller straps to see what’s going on. With every step of the wax and rip process, she wants to know:

“What dat?”

“You have a boo boo?”

“Ow, Mommy. Ow, ow, ow, right?”

“Your face is hurting! Your face is hurting!”

I assure her that I’m fine, though ripping hair off of one’s face using hot wax is probably about as far from fine as you can get. Part of me wonders if exposure to this beauty regimen is going to burrow into her brain and then when she’s 11 years old, she’ll have brows and a ‘stache like Madonna’s daughter and demand electrolysis.
Speaking of mustaches, I never likened myself to Tom Selleck before, but the waxing tech must have thought he and I were twins separated at birth. As soon as she finished my brows, she asks, “You want me to get your mustache, too?”
My hand flies to my upper lip, fingers probing around expecting to feel an outcropping of hair. “What?!,” I stammer “Get my what?”
“Your mustache,” she says, waxed covered Popsicle stick poised and ready to go. “I can take care of that.”
I grab the handheld mirror lying on the counter and look at my face. It’s bad enough that the ripping of the wax from my brows has raised puffy red welts around my eyes and along my brow bone. Forget about my hair preceding me when I enter a room; now my inflamed brows had that pleasure . Did I really want to add a pink puffy upper lip? No, not really.
So, I thanked the tech, tucked my chin down to my chest, pulled my curls over my brows and wheeled us out of there. As we boogied on out of the mall, I ended up walking past several of those kiosks that sell skin and hair care products, including as kiosk for threading. The young man was holding some thread between his hands as he leapt out at me. “Excuse me, Miss? Can I just ask you a question? You look really familiar.”
“No,” I said striding past. “I am NOT Tom Selleck!”

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IN: hair ON: November 4, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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