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.

Vom, Frogs and Other Lovely Things

We spent the weekend at my MIL's house. For the better part of one morning, I played the I-got-the-frog-out-of-your-ear-and-am-going-to-eat-it game with Baby Boy. The fact that he laughed with the exact same level of glee for 3 hours makes me think he has no short term memory. (This could come in handy in the future when I have yet to make it to the store: Yes, honey you already had a popsicle. Don't you remember?)

My migraine started around 4. I sucked it up until 5. I went to the medicine cabinet and grabbed at the Excedrine, until I saw it had expired in '05. By 7, I was in a ball on the floor in the dark wishing I was dead.

Did I mention there was a dinner party of 15 people in the next room?

When the nausea became unbearable, I crawled into Baby Boy's room and woke him up.

"You need to go get your Daddy and tell him Mommy is sick," I groaned. Then I threw up in his wicker trash can.

I heard him announce to the dinner guests, "Mommy has throw up in her mouth. She ate too many frogs."

I think he will be a doctor.

A Deeper Shade of Gray

You all are aware of Baby Boy's lovey, BA. Over three years of constant companionship, this thing has practically melded itself into the skin on his palm. What was once a lovely, velvety light blue lamb, it now a cross between a dim polishing rag and a frazzled napkin--even after a wash on hot and an anti-bacterial dry.

My niece was here for the day, and come nap time, it was discovered her dad forgot to pack her Ny-Ny (pig). Oh, a fuss ensued.

Then Baby Boy handed her his cloth soul mate and said, "You can sleep with BA, Nenny."

It was one of those moments as a parent when you know you did something right.

After nap, we were practicing colors.

"What color is BA, mama?"

I am sure Crayola has a crayon named for this tepid grayish, brownish hue, but it escaped me.

"BA is most certainly the color of love."

Rolling in the Deep/Toddler Remix

A woman knocked on the door the other day to compliment me on the landscaping. I never answer the door unless I am expecting UPS or flowers, but it was hard to pretend I wasn't home as a very naked and filthy Baby Boy went screaming past her.

Our yard has no grass. The people we bought the house from decided that 2-acres of mulch was as low-maintenance as they could get. Darling Husband sees all the money he saves on mowing. I see a fire hazard smooshed together with a house that always, ALWAYS has mulch tracked all through it.

Baby Boy decided the button of mine that gets the most attention is the one marked "Don't Roll in the G*&^$@M Mulch!"

So in an ode to what a long and dirty summer this will be, here is my version of Adele's song, renamed...

Rolling in the Dirt.

There's a young boy rolling in the mulch

Tossing handfuls at me when I call him in for lunch.

Finally I had the floors shining crystal clear

Here's the mop, I'll wring it out and put it 'way, my dear.

I see how you leave, naked as a bee

Diving headfirst into the pile 'neath that tree.

There's a young boy rolling in the dirt

Reaching such a filthiness, the bathroom drain will hurt.

I'll never have it clean,

Rolling in the dirt.

You brought the yard in the house

And where is your shirt?

Baby, I hate to keep you locked inside

But this constant dirt is impossible to hide.

Why your father is go against the grass,

I will never know, but mulch is up my...

I'll never have it clean,

Rolling in the dirt.

Mulch is wall to wall

I'll buy stock in Pine-sol.

But you play in it, you play it in, you played it to the deep.