When I Grow Up...

My BFF has gorgeous twin daughters, Beth and Muffy.

One is solemn, peaceful and even-kneeled. When asked at Thanksgiving what she was most thankful for, she said her sister.

The other is a Diva. When she was asked what she was most thankful for she said, "It's a tie between mermaids, unicorns and sunglasses."

Guess which one Baby Boy is obsessed with. Beyond obsessed, he tells me he wants to BE her because, "It would make her so happy to have two of her."

We were at the dentist today and the Doctor was asking BB what he wanted to be when he grew up. (As she had a mirror and Mr. Thirsty shoved in his mouth.)

"Do you think you will be a dentist?"

"Noh."

"Do you think you will be a fireman?"

"Ee donph pink so. I want be Muffy."

She looked at me for clarification.

"Yes," I said. "He will be an excellent teacher."

A Fantasy Wish List, of sorts

Hi everyone. This is Baby Boy. My mom is exhausted so I am letting her sleep while I hack into her computer. Your password is my birthday? Great security measure, Mom. I updated it to the geographical coordinates of Moscow, just because I can.

I didn’t find any big secrets worth sharing with you, dear reader. I did find her Christmas list, however. I think the Not Yet Invented division of Santa’s workshop closed because of union disputes but here is her sad wish list should any of you feel simultaneously creative and giving.

Maggie’s Wish List 2011.
1) Scented Markers. Baby Boy keeps asking for art supplies, which reminds me of when scented markers were all the rage in 1983. When else would art time turn into fight club? We had gang wars over the red one. Whoever got it would lock themselves in the bathroom inhaling cherry fumes like an addict. Beware if you crossed me! I would hold you down and make you smell the black licorice one until you cried.

I promise the art suppliers that if you make fantasy-friendly scents geared toward Mom, your profits, as well as quality crafting time with the fam, would skyrocket. Potential flavors: Orange/Mimosa. Black/New Mercedes Leather. Green/Angelina Jolie’s Emerald. Pink/St. Barth’s Sand. Yellow/George Clooney.

2) Vitamin Nail Polish. Moms chase their kids to force vitamins down their throats, but how often do we remember to take ours? But we always remember to do our nails! Vitamin fortified polish promises a gorgeous chip-free finish all while time-releasing calcium, B-12, biotin and vitamin D into the bloodstream. Ooo, maybe they can do a special one with time-released caffeine!

3) Mommy Seeking Missile. At some point these wars will be over and all those defense technicians will need projects. Start developing a small missile that attaches to the backs of kids. Anytime the wee one has wandered off at the park or is hiding under the clothing rack at the mall, the Mommy Seeking Missile activates zooming them safely back to their parent.

4) Designer Doggie Bags. Carrying around telltale plastic bags of dog poo is one of my least favorite activities. Right down there with hop scotch (see below). What if there were biodegradable poo bags that looked like the most fabulous designer purses? What better reward than fashion for scooping up steamy droppings? Sparkly Coach wristlets for toy poodles and Chihuahuas. Chanel leather shoulder bags for terriers and boxers. Hermes Birkin for St. Bernards and Sheepdogs. Walking the dog at 5am in the rain is your new runway!

5) Whine Activated Mouthpieces. à la the Grinch. “That’s the one thing he hated. The noise, noise, noise, noise, noise!” By noise I am sure he meant whining. Are you with me that something has to be done about whining? What about a device that detects whining and plays your favorite song instead? It regulates tempo to the rhythm of the foot stomping and arm waving. Now your little whiner becomes an endless, entertaining source of Madonna, Radiohead and Bob Dylan. (This also works for complaining spouses. “What’s that? I didn’t do the dishes? Well, let’s just talk about that while you perform California Gurls again, Miss Perry!”)

6) Depends Leg Warmers. Once you have kids, sneezing, coughing and jumping jacks are dreaded occurrences. God forbid all three happen at once. Since leg warmers are a big trend right now, designers should line them with extra-absorbent materials that discreetly wick away loose drips and drops. Jumping rope? Sounds super! Let me just grab my leg warmers, wink!

Here is my dad’s wish list:
1) Find way to get Maggie to stop eating granola in my car. (Doesn’t she know 50% of it falls between the seats???)
2) Find a way to get Maggie to make me more steak.

Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

The problem with Baby Boy finding the stash of Hannukah gelt, the extra Chuck E. Cheese tokens and my wallet all while I was distracted with a deadline is that you end up with a 20-something irritated barista who A) doesn't understand "how three-year olds are" and B) won't let me put my much needed chai on a tab.

Ittza Monday, fer sure.

Things That Go RRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGZZZZZZKKKKKKKKKK in the Night

I woke from a dead sleep at 3:32 AM last night to an earthquake shaking the very existence of my soul. Looking for the closest door jamb, I remembered that I live as opposite from California as possible.

Upon further investigation, I discovered an entire work unit, complete with flood lights, digging up the road RIGHT IN FRONT OF BABY BOY'S BEDROOM.

If you have never had the pleasure of hearing a jack hammer smashing concrete at 3 am, it sounds exactly like a jack hammer smashing concrete at 3 am.

Neither Darling Husband nor Baby Boy even flinched during this pre-dawn symphony from hell. Just another reason I am so glad to have a boy: It was probably exactly what he was dreaming about already.

The Pizza Man

My son is in that phase that most 3-year olds go through when they only eat one food. (At least I tell myself they go through this.) I wish I could I brag that his one food is avacado or sardines, but it is CHEESE PIZZA WITH CHEESE.

That's how he asks for it.

At every meal. For days and weeks and months now.

When my cravings co-exist with his, I let him have it. I order a salad and sneak bites of his when he isn't looking. That way, I can't possibly gain weight since I personally didn't order it. Do you see an empty pan with several discarded crusts in front of me, do you? DO YOU?

He always catches me nibbling at his precious pie. This is the ensuing scene, everytime:

"What's in your mouth, mama? What's in there???" As his sharp nails attempt to rip my lips apart.

"Eet's sawad." I say with my lips closed as I gulp the unchewed portion and the boiling cheese scars my throat. Again.

Then he sees some renegade sauce.

I hold my breath as he throws his head back and wails like his puppy just got run over. Today, it was so bad I had to lie to the panicked waiter and tell him BB had pinched his finger in the chair. (That got us a free dessert, so note-to-self...)

Afterwards, I wrapped up the rest of the pizza for him to take to school tomorrow. He flipped out that the teachers would all try to sneak bites, therefore he couldn't possibly bring it for lunch.

I have ruined this child, and more importantly pizza, for us all.

The List

I asked Baby Boy what he wants for Christmas.

"A new kitty," he said.

"Daddy won't let us have anymore pets until these guys go to Heaven," I explained.

Five minutes later I caught him trying to let our quite alive Janet Cat out onto the busy road.

(I am asking Santa for a dead-bolt installed six-feet up on the door.)

"Is there anything else you want?"

"A baby sister but not as a baby as a big girl," he answered. "And a penguin. And a snake. And a new red house with a dog."

Whatever happened to asking for cars and candy?

Jamma Jamma Jamma PJ!

Today was "Jammie Day" at Baby Boy's preschool. I may dub everyday as such since it chopped twenty minutes off of our morning routine.

We walked into the school and ran into an administrator and a group of parents.

"Oh! Look how cute you are in your striped jammies!" They cooed at Baby Boy, who quickly offered the following,

"My mom can't do jammie day because she sleeps naked."

Ah, the era of TMI is upon us.

The Basement Magician

We recently moved into a town house where one bedroom is on the third floor and the other is in the basement, or what the Hilton would optimistically dub The Garden Level.

There was no way I was letting my first born sleep in a cave two floor below me, so he got the top floor, or what Darling Husband bitterly refers to as The Penthouse.

My BFF stopped by the other day for a tour. As we descended into the subterranean realm, she said, "So, this is where the magic happens, eh?"

Guess who now wants nothing to do with his room because he is convinced that Criss Angel lives in my closet and when we put him to bed in the comforts of his suite, The Greatest Mindfreak Show on Earth is raging on without him?

Abracadabra! Go the ^%#$ to sleep!!

Music to Her Ears

I always had wanted to play the cello. Pre-Baby Boy, I took lessons. Then with everything that comes along with the first three years of life, my poor cello gathered dust with the ferocity of an ab roller.

This fall, I started playing again. For me, it was the opposite of the "just like riding a bike" sentiment I had hoped for. My teacher scrunched her face. "I hope you hung on to your beginner books."

But I have been practicing every night. I didn't know my neighbors could hear as I squeaked through Bartok until today.

"Well, it sounds like someone is learning an instrument!" Horrible Woman chirped.

I was about to say yes, until I saw she was addressing Baby Boy.

"If you keep at it, I'm sure you will sound so good in ten years or so," she continued as BB shoved a finger up his nose. "Practice, practice, practice...but not after 8!" She glared at me.

I pushed him toward the car as I lugged the cello which is easily three times the size of him, "Best be getting you to your lesson, Little Bach."

I can't wait until we see her after I do flat scales next to her bedroom wall at 6 am.

For the Love of Soccer

When Baby Boy was born Darling Husband and I pinkie swore he would never play soccer. We had lost scads of friends because all they do on weekends is drive 500 miles to Worchester or Hartford or Newark so their kids can sit on the bench in hopes that one of the good kids sprain an ankle so they can play and also sprain an ankle.

We couldn't imagine a deeper circle of hell.

All BB asks to do now is play soccer. I have no idea how he learned about it. But just in case, I bought him a ball and net. After I set it up, he burst into tears.

When he calmed down he sobbed, "Where are the swords and giraffes?"

Now that is a style of soccer I WOULD drive 5oo miles to watch.

A Riddle for Moms

Remember that old, "How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Roll Pop?" ad?

(Just in case, here it is http://youtu.be/Jhjb4P_jnKk)

I have a new one: "How many wipes of the Magic Eraser does it take before I have to repaint?"

The world may never know--but I am sure Darling Husband is bound to notice sooner or later the light patches in the kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms, halls and living room where I have scrubbed away evidence of everything not allowed in those rooms.

Including Tootsie Rolls.

Big Hair, Big Plans

I recently dyed my hair very dark and got bangs. I love it but still haven't found a style that works. The dark red isn't suitable for the "messy beach blonde" I could (almost) get away with before.

Darling Husband and I had a date a few nights ago. I dug out the hot rollers and decided some big, sexy curls would set the tone for a fun eve.

Of course Baby Boy's dinner and bath time took over. An hour passed. When I finally took the curlers out, my hair was frozen in giant boxy angles 4-inches in every direction.

"Holy Sh*t!" I screamed. Baby Boy threw that right back at me. (I didn't know he had come in for his toothbrush.) He skipped out singing his formerly favorite phrase that took us months to cut from his repertoire.

I had bigger things to worry about.

I went to work with a pick and a can of Big Sexy in hopes of smoothing it out.

I looked like an extra from Dynasty.

Darling Husband knew better than to tell me to dunk my head and start anew. So we drove in silence to the restaurant. With the top down.

He dropped me off close to the street the restaurant was on so he could grab a spot. I ducked up a dark hill and felt daggers scrape my skull. Convinced the demons were psyched they had found a suitable trollop for Satan and were dragging me to the underworld, I flailed my arms twisting the branches of the low tree I had walked into even deeper into my rat's nest.

I stayed hunched over and completely stuck until a group of 20-somethings pried me out. I am not even going to tell you what that escapade did to my hair, but needless to say we ended up with take out.

Poking Holes in Condoms isn't the Answer

Dear Maggie,

My husband doesn’t want another baby and I am a mess about it. I am 32 he is 41. We have a healthy 2-year-old boy and I really want to give him a sister. I have begged and pleaded (and even done more devious things) and he won’t budge. Now he won’t even touch me for fear that I am tricking him. I don’t know if I just suck it up or leave him for someone who wants a bigger family.

Thanks, One-and-So-Not-Done.

Those are your options? Be a One Baby Martyr or get divorced?

(Besides, you are too late for her to be the seven billionth person on the planet with all the glamorous Time magazine covers and lucrative Coke deals that comes with. You can wait and try for the eight billionth but I think a Kardashian already bought the rights for that.)

Imagine this scenario: You get your wish for a Baby Girl. She is up at 3 a.m. with colic. You are exhausted because Son has been up all night with croup. You shake Hubby awake to get some help. He says, “Why should I? You’re the one that wanted her.”

Resentment about a child does not a healthy family make.

“Oh, fiddlesticks!” you argue. “The minute he saw her he would love her.”

You wanna take that chance? God forbid she had health issues or some special need that required lots of extra time, attention and money. How would you co-parent with someone who was (potentially) not invested in it?

David Schnarch wrote a book called "Secrets of a Passionate Marriage." (A must read!) He states that in a marriage, when it comes to money, in-laws, sex and children, the lower-desire partner has the control. In this case your husband.

You can squeal, scream and seduce, but at the end of the day it is slim that he is going to make an authentic change about something so important. He is 41. The majority of men I spoke with are planning for retirement in their 40s not getting psyched about washing diapers.

You are almost a decade, and a generation, younger than your man. It is natural that your ovaries are ready to party. But you still married someone older. Did you talk about your vision for a family before you spent months finding the perfect dress?

I don’t want to stomp all over your dreams for more kids, but it is massively unfair when your husband is saying NO loud and clear for you to keep harassing him. “No” doesn’t mean “keep asking every hour or so for the next year and eventually you will kill all of my confidence that my opinion means anything.”

And for heaven’s sake, don’t be poking holes in condoms or flushing pills down the potty. That is Crazy Town.

You also do not have my blessing to throw away a man who was perfectly suitable to marry and have Baby No. 1 with so you can get knocked up by some new guy. Grow up.

However, you do have a maternal instinct that needs more stimulation. That is perfectly wonderful. You can channel that excess energy into volunteering at any of the child-centered organizations like Big Brothers, Big Sisters, the Boys and Girls Club or the Center for Grieving Children. When your baby is four (I wouldn’t take on anything too stressful until he is out of the three’s. You will be covered in gray hair) consider fostering a child whose parents are not capable of giving them the love that you can offer. There are SO many kids that need support, guidance and love. We need to start spreading good energy around to the people that are already here.

Your void could also be filled by giving birth to something other than a baby. A woman’s womb center is not only where life germinates, but also her creativity and fire. What is your passion (besides having another kid)? Are you a dancer, artist, chef? That pull you feel may be the drive to create a new business, endeavor or to acknowledge a talent that has been dormant for too long.

If you expand your thinking beyond, “I am only a mother” you may feel less pressure to procreate. One role, regardless of how vital, doesn’t define everything you are.

Be grateful for the healthy son you have and the husband you chose to make a life with. There are plenty of women that don’t even have that.

Hallo-What?

I have never been a big fan of Halloween (e.g. I hide when the doorbell rings).

Darling Husband thinks it should be a monthly event.

When I told him I was preggo, I could see the glimmering orange hope that Halloween would be reclaimed for his household.

Baby Boy, however, inherited my anti-Oct 31 gene.

He likes the IDEA of it, case in point the three fancy costumes he promised he would wear and are still on the hangers. (He hoards costumes like I do shoes. The problem with commercial costumes is that they disintegrate on Nov 1.)

This morning he told me he wanted to be a ghost. At Target, the closest they had was a Mummy. (I cut 800-thread count sheets for no one!) He told the cashier he was going to be a "Mommy."

He helped pick out Peanut Butter cups--the full-size ones. (I ate most of them yesterday and he hid the rest once I told him we had to share with the neighbors.)

It is 7:42. DH and BB are asleep. I threw a bowl of raisins and black toothbrushes (BB did a spectacular job hiding the Reece's) on the porch for latecomers and I am now sitting in the dark fully aware that the dog has discovered this surprise bowl of Treats.

I have only myself to blame when we get egged.

The Pull-Up Junkie

I started noticing the lack of potty trips a few days ago.

Every hour, after leaving strategically placed juices around, I would ask Baby Boy if he had to pee.

I always got a NO.

I also noticed his room smelled like pee. Under his bed were several used Pull Ups. (He has been potty trained for months.)

When shown the evidence, BB blanched.

"I think those Daddy's."

"I think they probably aren't," I said. "Can you tell me why a Big Boy like you are using your little guy Pull Ups again?"

He shrugged. "I don't like missing fun stuff to go pee."

I would lecture him but I know exactly how he feels.

I'll Scratch Your Back... if You Drop the Toothbrush

The whining went on incessantly. All day.

Baby Boy: "My back huuuuuurtsssssss."

"Sorry about that, Buddy. Can you show me where?" As his hands reached around to every reachable posterior surface.

Jealous of his flexibility, I soon panicked that he might have meningitis and should be taking his complaints seriously. I ran to find him and take his temperature.

I found him in the bathroom rubbing his new Spiderman electric toothbrush haphazardly across his lower back.

(Yes, with toothpaste.)

I couldn't even begin to guess.

Apparently, upon purchase, Darling Husband had told him the spinning toothbrush resembled a back massager.

Not being quite sure the bristles hadn't come exceedingly close to his bum, I gave him a quick lesson in the finer points of finger-brushing.

Apologies Run on Donuts

I totally effed up something DH asked me to do. He is going to be really mad, but I hope following up my admission with, "But I bought a machine to make donuts with!" may curb his yelling at me.

Any other suggestions?

Up All Night

Poor Baby Boy was up all night with Krupp. You know, that cough that makes the afflicted sound like a barking seal. (Without the red ball on their nose, fish or anything resembling a fun, circus atmosphere.)

Hence, I too, was up all night. I crawled into bed to cuddle with BB and to make sure he kept breathing. Around 2 am, he finally fell asleep. Half on me. I had to pee very badly, but I knew if I moved he would wake up and the crying and coughing fits would resume.

I have given "sleeping in the wet spot" a whole new (very unromantic) meaning.

Baby Daddy Sayz

Amongst the things Darling Husband never bet he would say once he had a son, I think this ranks pretty high:

"Babe, don't put the doll house right there. How is he going to get to his kitchen?"

Hmmmm mmmm, I love me some modern men.

The First Bite is the Best, times 1000.

The best part of an 80-degree day in October? Apple picking with Baby Boy.

The most interesting part? Finding a quick way to use four pounds of apples that all have one bite taken out of them.

Do You Take This Girl...?

We were at a fairly nice restaurant for dinner...and by "dinner" I mean 4:30 pm, which is when you must eat with a 3-year old if you don't want to be tarred and feathered.

It was us and about 25 old people.

One lady, (Baby Boy kept asking why Nana was there and not talking to him) asked him if he had a girlfriend and wanted to get married.

(I know he looks old for three, but seriously??)

BB screamed, "No, I not getting married. I not a girl!"

"Oh, you don't think boys get married," she asked. "What do boys do then?"

"GET NAKED!"

No one needed to turn up their hearing aids to understand that.

The check couldn't have come fast enough.

Mars vs Penus

Why is it that if Baby Boy wakes up at 3am screaming that BA fell out of bed, Darling Husband won't even budge from the depths of his slumber...

BUT

if my pinkie toe happens to enter the 3-foot zone of his body, he is wide awake thinking that McLovin' Fest 2011 is afoot?

Lost in Translation #245

I ran into a distant acquaintance at the grocery store today. I had heard through the grapevine she had adopted two children from Russia.

"So, how are the kiddies?" I asked.

Her face got sad. "Well, we had to put them down a few months ago. They got some sort of disease."

"Oh my god, I am so sorry to hear that," I wailed as I grabbed her hand.

"Yeah, it was hard, but we are actually getting two more this weekend. There is a place by our house that has a deal that if you adopt one the second is free."

I knew countries had an excess of orphans, but this...??

"Wait," I stammered. "What are you talking about?"

"Our kitties...what are you talking about?"

When it occurred to us, we had a good scream by the frozen pizzas.

"I thought you seemed a little lax about having to put your kids down," I laughed.

But the way she stared off into space at that makes me wonder...

Maybe it's Maybelline

I was away for a lovely yoga retreat over the weekend. When I came home yesterday, Baby Boy had a black eye.

That's a Zen-kill times 100.

Apparently, he and DH were wrestling on the couch and BB fell into the arm with his face.

I was horrified.

"Now everyone is going to think I beat him!" I shrieked.

There was no going around the fact that Mike Tyson and I had to go grocery shopping today. So, I slathered concealer around his eye.

He was so proud that I FINALLY let him wear my make-up he was sharing it with everyone we passed.

"Mommy covers my boo-boo's with make-up," he proudly repeated every 3 feet as I threw cookies in the cart to silence him.

I am waiting for Child Protective Services to pull in any moment if not to arrest me to the black eye but for forcing him to wear a shade that just isn't his color.

My Morning as a Stage Mom

Today was picture day at school. When I received the email and the flier to prep us, there was a silent prayer along with it that said, "In this, the several days you have, please teach your child how to sit and smile at the camera without bugging out their eyes, sticking out their tongue or screaming to see what they look like a second after the picture is taken."

Last night, I had Baby Boy choose from his three (very wrinkled) dress shirts. He picked a nice red one. Done.

This morning, he yanked at the shirt hollering that it was too tight (none of the buttons were done yet), flipped out when I couldn't find the belt "that my friend gave me," (???), and rolled on the disgusting dog bed. Then he put on Crocs (one cantaloupe one navy) and threw his toothbrush in the plant.

It was 7:20.

Pictures were at 8:30 sharp.

We live an hour away.

When we got to school, the preschoolers lined up on a bench (like herding cats) and the photographer sweetly began her art. I quickly licked my fingers and tried to flatten BB's hair and pushed him into the crowd.

Distracted by cars, bugs, the person licking their back, air and a forgotten Cheerio the kids looked everywhere but at the camera.

I, the only parent that actually stayed in hope they would tuck my disheveled son behind the biggest kids to hide his now ripped and extra wrinkled (but on!) shirt, tried to get the kids to focus.

Or at least my kid.

"Look at me! Buddy, whoo hoo, over here! Nope, here. Wait, take your hands out of your mouth. What? No, we aren't done! Get back over there and SMILE!...ooo there a bird on my head!" and so forth.

The photographer had the idea to have all the kids close their eyes and when she said "THREE" they would pop them open right at her. Most kids pushed their palms into the eyes and others scrunched them so tightly that when they opened them they were bloodshot, teary, had deep wrinkle lines or were blind.

"What are all these blue spots?!!"

I understand now why they make you pay for the packages upfront. I can't wait for my Super Delux Package of a bunch of little kids who looked super stoned.

She Wears it Well...for a Boy

Baby Boy and I are both lacking in cute shirts. Since upping his wardrobe is much easier (and less expensive) to do from the couch at 11pm, I found myself shopping last week. Half-asleep, I found him a few cute things, like a bright green shirt with a huge insect across the front that is screaming, "Beetle Mania!" It really isn't his color and it is a size too big, but for $3.99, it is good enough.

I washed the shirts when they came and forgot about them until it was time to pack up for a trip to the fair. Beetle Mania got dirty very quickly, so I grabbed "Elvis Had Left the Building."

It wasn't how skin tight it looked. It wasn't the pretty robin's egg blue. It wasn't the cap sleeves. It wasn't the look of horror on my husband's face.

It was a cross between the gold accents and how BB squealed with glee, "I sparkle like a STAR!" as he twirled around that lead me to believe it was a girl's shirt.

Thankfully, the dress code at the fair does include people sporting clothes that are way too small, so he was all in style.

The Petition

It's getting dark at about 5:30 pm these days. This throws off the circadian rhythms in our house. 8 pm? 2 am? There is no difference.

DH and I were half asleep on the couch tonight when the doorbell rang.

We stared at each other with a half-panicked look that can only mean, "Who did you forget to tell me you invited over?"

I threw the blanket over my head, defaulting him to answer the impatient visitor.

DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK

There better be a fire somewhere, I thought.

Rather, it was the 7-year old from across the street.

"Why, you are certainly up late for a school night," DH said into the pitch black night.

"Uh, it's only 7:15." the boy said. He went on to explain that he was gathering signatures to get the "No ATV's" rule scrapped from the association guide.

I imagine this rule exists for a reason, like to keep 7-year old boys with extended bedtimes from cruising by our house on their ATV's looking for trouble.

DH quickly signed his clipboard so he could get back to his midnight snack and go to bed.

I would have yelled at him not to sign, but I have a feeling this kid will come in handy when I want to build a tennis court or raise chickens in my yard.

Scrappin' and Stampin' at the Post Office

DH wanted me to mail a "certified letter." For $19.00 I would have driven it there myself...at these rates I cannot comprehend why the UPS is having financial troubles.

(Ironic side note: my friend Jess just texted to make sure we got her son's birthday invite. Seems over 50% got lost in the mail.)

Baby Boy was beside himself that he got to accompany me on this trip, figuring like the bank, dry cleaner and hardware store, there would be lollipops involved. The Mail Gal started the hard sell as to wether we required stamps but I refuse to spend more than $20 on something that I can't eat or wear. Then she went evil on me and pulled out a sheet, winked at BB and said, "I know which ones you will like."

They were a whole Pixar themed set of Cars, UP and Toy Story (and two others I have not idea of).

Seriously? His screams of joy were such I made a mental note for a future stocking stuffer.

Before I got arrested for disturbing the peace, I got the darn stamps.

Want to know where $8.80 worth of stamps are? Stuck all over his pants and the fridge.

I am ready to put him in the mailbox.

Speaking of Boys...

We went to a wonderful music festival yesterday. There were about 100 kids there having a ball--they were all playing together, running, yelping with glee...except for Baby Boy who was quite content eating apples. Or should I say, rummaging through the bins donated from local farmers, taking one bite from each and putting it back in a weird variation of "Slobbering for Apples."

As I dragged him away carrying enough half-eaten specimens to make 45 pies, I commented on a group of little girls who were all playing very well together even though they had just met five seconds ago.

I said as much to the moms as BB bolted away from the girls and back to the apple bins.

"Maybe it is a boy thing," I explained as to why my kid was acting like theirs had fleas. "But he can be around a ton of kids and he is just happy to sit there and play with himself. He just rolls around on the rug, flopping around. He can spend hours just playing with himself."

It wasn't until a while later I could translate the uncomfortable looks from all the moms-of-daughters.

Note to self: Next time, say "Play BY himself..."

Becoming Unstuck on Stickies

What does it mean that although I have a Smart Phone and an iPad, my house is covered in yellow sticky notes?

I have never gotten into the habit of putting everything into a gadget, because I a) never look at the calendar or b) usually forget to "save" my entry or c) leave them uncharged in a heap on the counter.

My phone died a few weeks ago and, since I never back anything up, I lost everything anyhow. (I had JUST beat the whole first level of Angry Birds, so that was a huge bummer to have to start over.)

I really like the idea of having everything nicely packaged in one tight place, but I think Sticky Notes are my fail-proof plan. Although, Darling Husband recently pointed out that both his 73-year old mother as well as Baby Boy slather post-its on every welcoming surface.

That definitely explains why I went to the store for and "E" made with 17 lines and a prescription for vertigo.

Green Thumb on Vacation

We took a lovely Labor Day vacation. Thanks to some well-timed flirting with the desk gal during check-in, Darling Husband got us upgraded to the Penthouse.

As I was trying to relax in the room, all I could see were the wilting plants that filled every corner of the massive space.

After two days of watering them, with no more perkiness on their side, I decided it was SUN that they needed to thrive. So I dragged all of the plants out on the deck.

The maids moved them all back. This plant dance went on for sometime. I finally caught the poor lady who was pulling them back to their proper spot.

"I just thought the plants would be healthier if they got a dose of sun," I explained as she mopped up the water spilling from the pots.

"But baby," she said in her Jamaican accent, "these plants are silk."

Guess my Green Thumb was on vacation as well...

Man vs Wild

I just overhead Darling Husband tell Baby Boy that "seals are fish."

This makes me second guess every "nature walk" they have ever taken together.

Eddie Says What?

We were at a dinner party last night. The topic of conversation for 99% of the night was, "When are you going to have another baby?"

My answers started innocently,"Whenever I can find a drug strong enough for Darling Husband, hahaha."

After a few glass of wine, "Geeeeeeerl, I am on my back with my legs in the air waiting for the stork to notice! guffawsnorthonk."

Certainly, DH was nowhere near these conversations as talking about more kids is as appealing to him as watching the debt counter tick up.

Toward the end of the night, a good friend of DH's, as well as a father to two gorgeous girls, was saying how much we neeeeeed to have a daughter.

"Well, you tell him then," I said. "I swore I wouldn't bring it up again until November."

I watched Ed talk seriously to DH, as DH (surprisingly) nodded to whatever his friend said.

Later I approached Ed and he gave me a big high-five. "He'sssssss in!!"

"Wow, I cannot believe that. What did you say?"

"Just that now is the best time to be looking for retirement homes and the Bahamas is the place so he is totally in to buying a house there! High five!"

I am not sure how "another baby" turned into a "beach house" but I feel I may be onto some leveraging points.

New Shoes...or Are They?

I knew there was a reason Baby Boy had agreed to the first pair of shoes I had picked out for him so quickly.

They have been everywhere except on his feet.

The Case of the Very Hairy Back

After a long day at the beach, I slathered Baby Boy down in some coconut oil to moisturize his skin.

A little while later he ran by me looking like he had aged 35 years.

"Get back here!" I said with a tone of confusion.

He whole upper body was covered in thick hair.

Gag.

Note to self: If you are going to put an oily substance all over your naked child, make sure you vacuum the dog hair up before he rolls all over the rug.

Do they make an anti-Rogaine?

The Marketing Genius

We live in the country. This means boys, at a young age, get some sort of ride atop motorized vehicle with which they rip up their mother's flowers gardens and make their dad's proud.

Baby Boy got a tractor last summer, which I imagined would last him until he got a driver's license. Well, the damn thing lost its Reverse gear and the now bare tires unapologetically spin on the pavement unable to get traction.

My favorite noise, followed by, "MAMA, I'M 'TUCK!!!"

The older boy across the street has a much beefier ATV. It is quite the envy of the neighborhood, and since my son is the only other boy on the street, you do the math.

The ATV appeared at the end of their driveway yesterday with an optimistic "For Sale $350.00" sign on it.

About every ten minutes the price either drops or it inches closer to the top of our driveway.

It is one of the few times I am glad Baby Boy can't read.

Really Sexy T-Shirts

Last night, Darling Husband's work hosted a booth at a community festival. There was a photo booth with costumes, frisbees and glow-in-the-dark jewelry. We were ready to rock.

I put on a super cute outfit: a safari-inspired shirt with short-shorts which to wear I have suffered through massive bouts of up-and-down the driveway lunge sessions. My bucket list for the summer was to wear those. The fact that I could check that off the list before Labor Day made the whole summer worthwhile.

When I got there, DH threw a huge, bright blue tee-shirt at me.

"Put that on," he instructed.

His logo blared from about 10-yards of fabric.

That is about as bad as asking me to slap a name tag on a cashmere sweater.

"I am not wearing that." I tossed it back to him.

The look he gave me made it clear that, yes, in fact, I was.

So, this damn thing (a Men's Medium) not only made me look 60-pounds heavier but hung to my knees. Since my shorts ended about a foot earlier, you do the math.

My options were to tuck the excess 5-yards into the shorts giving me an oh-so-flattering pregnant-with-a-tire look OR to let it hang down thus inciting a fantasy that I was wearing nothing under the shirt.

I went with Option B. I would like to think the line of old men at out booth was a coincidence, but maybe it was just for the frisbees.

We Get Blonde with a Little Help from Our Friends

Baby Boy has become quite curious lately as to why things are the way that they are.

To wit: "Why is it windy?" "Why does that tickle?" "Why does Daddy's tummy looks like it has a baby in it?"

Today he was asking why people are different colors.

"Well, that's the way god made us. Everyone is different, like you have green eyes and daddy has brown eyes."

He thought about this.

I asked, "So who gave you your pretty green eyes?"

"God."

"Who gave daddy his shiny brown eyes?"

"God."

"Who gave Mommy her blonde hair?"

"Lisa!!!" he screamed the name of my stylist with glee.

Even god needs help sometimes.

Summer Santa Sighting

I am on my fourth "smart-phone." Ironically named since mine are not smart enough to turn on, charge, or save any contacts.

I dragged Baby Boy to Verizon yet again yesterday to trouble shoot my latest issues. I think customer service newbie Sami was really just killing time by reading all my texts since she would burst into sporadic laughter from behind the desk as she fiddled with my phone.

After 45-minutes, BB started to get antsy. Then Santa walked in.

He was minus the suit, certainly it was too hot, but other than that he was a spitting image.

Perfect.

"See, Santa is watching you, so you better be reallllllly good," I whispered as BB pulled off all the purple phone covers from the rack.

"I need these," he yelled.

"Go tell Santa," I said as Sami approached with a this-isn't-going-to-be-good-news expression.

After a few minutes I realized my son had indeed approached Santa and was chatting away.

"Well, what do you think your mom would like for Christmas?" Santa asked as I ran sprinted across the store.

"Um, I think she would like to pee standing up."

O.M.G.

"You must get this all the time," I said mortified.

"Not quite like that," Santa screamed with laughter.

I hope he forgets by the time the elves get back to work.

You Bug Me

I am running out of summery things to do with Baby Boy. So today I brought him back to the Audabon, the scene of The Great Donut Debacle, for an hour long nature camp. I pulled his hat over his eyes so no one would recognize him from the '"Do Not Admit" posters the animals had hung around the property.

I thought I would drop him with the group then enjoy some reading time in the sun.

No such luck.

"Come ALONG all you MOMS and...(a quick scan proved all the men had escaped), well, KIDS! Let's go find some BUGS!" The uber chipper volunteer lady handed out nets and magnifying glasses to the kids with a list of 19 bugs they had to find.

I imagined this would somehow involve me doing the bug-finding dirty work but the car was in the other direction.

I stood deep in the woods trying to help pointing to various shadows calling "Perhaps that is a grub?" But as I stood there slapping whatever landed on my bare arms (I definitely killed number 8 and 12 on the list), it was quite clear I was not in my element.

America Runs on Donates

Baby Boy keeps asking for a Mater truck from the Cars 2 movie. We counted up his change (minus all the quarters I borrow for parking meters) and cashed it in for a crisp $20 bill, which he immediately shoved in his tiny shorts pocket.

Today was the big day to go buy Mater. But first, we made a stop at the Audabon for a nature walk. (Need to balance out the impending fluorescent hell of Walmart with some trees and gophers.) In the lobby, there was a giant cube with some loose change at the bottom.

"What's this do, mama?" BB asked as he smeared his mouth all over the outside of it.

"That is where people donate, sweetie," I said rather distracted by the gift shop. "They donate money to help the animals."

When I turned around, his $20 bill was deep in the cube atop the pennies and he was loudly asking the desk volunteer, who was obviously illiterate in 3-year old, where the donuts were.

It only took a second for me to A) see where the miscommunication took place ("That is where people DONUTS, honey...") and B) to realize a huge tantrum was about to occur.

I dragged him out as he was screaming for donuts and/or his money back. The surrounding animals we had spent the morning cooing at decided to take an early hibernation.

A Crime of Fashion

The 13-year old gal down the road watched Baby Boy while I went grocery shopping.

When I got back she informed me that UPS and FEX-EX had both come by.

My heart swelled. My eyes filled with tears of joy. All of my end-of-summer sale stuff had arrived!

"Good thing Darling Husband is coming home late tonight, so I will have time to hide the evidence," I said to Young Babysitter manically.

"Hide the evi...oh, is it his birthday?" her innocent eyes blinked at me.

Hadn't occurred to me she has yet to experience the fiasco of shared credit cards.

His birthday was in April, but she wasn't ready to hear how things are when you are married to someone who tells you to everyday to STOP BUYING CLOTHES. (EVEN when they are like 70% off...you think he would be happy I am saving him so much money.)

"Yes." I overpaid her and scooted her out so I could try on my goods.

The phone just rang. It was Young Babysitter's Dad asking DH if he had time for a birthday beer this weekend.

Ah, the tangled--yet fashionable--webs we weave.

The Dog Days of Summer

Baby Boy has discovered the hose. Sadly, our hose doesn't spew forth cool champagne, rubies or anything you would want shot at full blast in your general range--just the garden variety freezing, stinging, smelling slightly of burnt rubber water.

I was enjoying a few moments laying in the driveway under the sun when the prickles of cold spray jammed up my nose.

Stunned and blind, I heard Darling Husband yell, "Hey! That's not nice, buddy. Grab that towel and help me dry him off."

Oh, my hero! What a good hus....wait. Dry HIM off?

I sat up to see them tenderly drying the DOG as mascara and sunscreen dripped into my mouth.

Reality Moment #47. You know it's time to chop down the Family Totem Pole when the dog takes top billing in a water war.

(I bet no one chose drying the dog over the bikini gal in the banner pic. I hope they sprayed off her fake tan. Humph.)

The Secret to a Happy Marriage

Last night at dinner, a couple stopped by our table to comment on how "lovely the young people are these days."

(Darling Husband is 48 so that gives you an idea of their age.)

Norton and Lola had been married for 61 years. They even held hands during our conversation. I like to think it was because they were still so in love, but it may have been to keep each other from falling over.

"So, Norton," I whispered. "Married for 61 years...what's the secret?"

He smiled at me and nodded.

I asked a little louder.

Again, he smiled at me and nodded.

And....the Big Secret for a Happy Marriage?

Drumroll, please!

Deafness.

What Came First, the Chicken or the Cow?

There is a new French bistro in town, which I have been dying to try. It actually opened six months ago, but that is how long it takes to set up a date after you have kids.

I starved myself for a week to fit into a sexy dress, hiked up the twins and dug out the lipstick. I was ready for a D-A-T-E.

Giddy on freedom, I gulped down Champagne Cocktails as we waited for our table. After a few I really had to pee and wobbled (out of practice) on my stilettos (over a heating grate!) over to the bathrooms.

On one door was a sketch of "une Vache." Upon the other was "un Poulet."

The champagne, on my week-without-food stomach, was spinning around my head leaving little power left to figure out wether I was a COW or a CHICKEN.

The cow had a full udder, as did I, so that was appropriate. But the chicken was not a rooster, hence a baby bearing creature...my weak bladder from having a baby was proof that Door Number 2 could also work.

I could feel the eyes of the kitchen staff on me.

It finally came down to this: if someone were to see me trying on bathing suits at Target, would I be more offended if they called me a "cow" or a "chicken."

Je suis un poulet et l'aimant.

L, M, N, O, Pee

There is a beach/theme park not too far from our house. It is a tasty cocktail of equal parts Drunk Red Neck and Sun Burned White Trash with a twist of Scantily Clothed Biker. They try to promote this place as family friendly, which is about as ironic as when Vegas tried to do the same.

Nevertheless, we took Baby Boy there to cross off two vacation plans off in one day: get sand in every body crease and sit in metal rides on a 99-degree day.

They have a log flume there that called to me if for no other reason to splash the layer of grime off my face. Of course I got soaked. I topped off the experience with a zip on the roller coaster to dry my hair.

When I exited the ride, I saw the workers pointing at my former seat and smirking.

"Did I leave something there?" I called.

"I'd say you did," one laughed.

Apparently my post-Log Flume bum left a big, soggy print on the black plastic seats.

Ah, sweet youth. Let them think the old mom peed on the ride. They are just lucky I didn't fulfill my fantasy to buy every kid in their line an extra large fried dough and a blue slushie.

Daddy Tip 24

Dear Daddies,

When you take a week off from work and never leave the house, but tell everyone "you are on vacation," it is NOT a vacation for your wife.

You most definitely still owe her at least a weekend away when she doesn't have to cook 5 meals a day plus snacks, clean the bathroom, vacuum twice a day, fold laundry (several times b/c kids think warm clothes make lovely forts), walk the dog, water the flowers, glue something fragile back together, watch Olivia and/or Curious George, wash paint off the dog and be (somewhat) expected to look sexy and skinny...oh, yeah and make sure the kids are alive.

I'm just saying. NOT a vacation.

Parenting Tip of the Day, Brought to you by "Ka-Chow"

When you hear an approaching thunder storm, this is what not to say:

"OOO, that means lightening is on the way!"

Your child will not for one moment assume you are talking about the weather and will refuse to go to bed so he doesn't miss "Liten Qeen."

Until Disney apologizes to me, I am holding Owen Wilson hostage.

The Kids Are Alright: Wednesday Music Series at Space

SPACE Gallery in Portland is one of those places that just makes a city better.

Through the end of August, Space, in conjunction with the Maine Academy of Modern Music and the Portland Music Foundation, is hosting a noon-time music series (thank you for doing it BEFORE naptime!) geared toward kids and their parents. Local bands play fan faves at volumes suitable for little ears. There is even an instrument petting zoo. (Baby Boy got bit by a hungry goat last year at a petting zoo; I think we can assume the drums are well-fed.)

And it is only $3 to enjoy--less than a box of Annie's gummy bunnies.

Pack a snack, some dancing shoes and an extra diaper--this is a three-sippy cup date not to be missed. Tomorrow's featured artist: Theodore Treehouse http://www.theodoretreehou​se.com/

Here is a link for more info: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=236361233050204

Thank you to local sponsors Bull Moose and the State Theatre.