Sexy Monogramming

In order to semi-spruce up the downstairs bathroom, I ordered two monogrammed hand towels each with a fancy black "P" (the first letter of our last name) on them, in case there was any doubt as to who would be cleaning up after the guest peed.

I hung them over the toilet in all their starched glory. I turned and walked back in to see the effect from a first-timers perspective expecting to be blown away by the subtle class of monogrammed towels.

It was then I saw the error: P P

Even my 2 year old didn't miss the humor in that.

Sexy Leash

After yesterday's post, my friend Matt suggested that I put Baby Boy on a leash so he can't dash off while I am peeing.

I used to mock those who would drag their kids through the Mall on leashes. That, however, was before I was a mom. Now it only comes down to what color I should buy and if I can get a matching one for the dog.

We are flying for a vacation next month and I can't say I haven't pictured tying BB up by the luggage so Darling Husband and I can enjoy a peaceful vodka tonic before the flight.

Sexy Stall

There is always that awkwardness of taking toddlers into a public bathroom with you--there is really no easy way to accomplish this task. But outside of peeing in empty Dunkin Donut cups in the car, sometimes there is no choice.

Taking them into handicap stall makes the most sense because they have room to stand and stare at you while you A) make the toilet paper nest upon which to perch or B) attempt the quad-strengthening squat- and-pee.

Of course by this time they have lost all interest in your project and have A) crawled into the stall next to you (no doubt an unwelcome surprise for the neighboring stranger) as you try to grab their clothing or hair and end up peeing all over your shoes and purse OR B) what Baby Boy did today: as I was doing the thing that we do once a month, BB had flicked open the latch on the door exposing my plie-insertion stance to the line of people.

Thankfully, a understanding lady zoomed into action and held the door shut as I finished. Meanwhile BB had managed to drench himself by the automatic sinks.

Is there any question as to why I rarely leave the house?

Sexy Salsa Vom

Ok there is nothing sexy about vomit. At all. I hate it. But we had guests up skiing for the weekend and one of the boys spent the day eating--I kid you not--two bagels and butter, a pizza, bacon, an entire bag of Blue Chips and jar of salsa, a 1-lb bag of Easter colored peanut butter M and M's, 2 hot dogs, 3 hamburgers, 1/2 of a loaf of garlic bread and lasagna. And that is just what I witnessed.

Any guesses how the night turned?

It brought me back to a night when I was 10 and my friend's mom brought us to the movies. I cannot recall the movie, but I spent the night curled up in the fetal position in their clawfoot bathtub shaking with sugar withdrawals.

I guess an occasional binge and following aftershock is a right of passage as a kid--carpet cleaning bills notwithstanding.

Sexy Polygamy--maybe?

I am being a sloth on this Friday and catching up on back issues of National Geographic--so technically I guess that is the most intellectual type of slothing...

The cover story in the current issue is an investigative report on the FLDS ranch in Colorado City. Despite my judgement for all the "godly" reasoning they have for "sealing" themselves to several (albeit underage) wives, I am thinking the idea of polygamy may not be a bad idea.

I could use a wife to do all the cleaning and landscaping, another for the food shopping and preparations, the hot toddy wife for the nights I feel fat or "have a headache," one for being pregnant (as we know that isn't my thing), and one whose only job is comic relief and rubbing my feet (what Darling Husband used to do).

Basically what rich people pay servants for but this is better because I automatically increase my wardrobe by 5--I missed out on all those shoes not having sisters.

With a new group of wives I can focus on being a mom without all the excess shit that gets in the way.

Of course to balance it out, I am going to kidnap Tom Brady for an extra husband--I don't think Darling Husband would get too mad about that...

Un-Sexy Snack

Wanting to make Darling Husband a lovely dinner, I stopped with Baby Boy at the local gourmet shop to grab a bottle of wine (another reason every store needs a drive-thru. These 4 minute errands end up taking 35 minutes with toddler in tow).

To distract the kiddo, I gave him a container of yogurt covered pretzels while I compared two bottles of Spanish red. Within seconds not only had he disassembled the iron-clad package but had vanished.

At this point I am waiting to hear the SMASH signaling I now own hundreds of dollars of broken wine but it is silent, which mothers of toddlers know is often a worse sign.

I creep through the aisles trying to find him. I see his little form hunched over something on the floor. He is unawares of my presence. I pounce.

He is hovered over a drooly, wet, nasty pile of half-masticated yogurt pretzels, apparently decided that he hates the yogurt part, and is trying to pick out the un-chewed pretzel part.

Horrified, I grabbed him and we fled. I guess Darling Husband will have to be happy with water with his (fake meat) pot roast.

Sexy Reminder

I love seeing musicians in small venues mostly because they tend to reveal the secrets behind their songs. Many people don’t like having the curtain pulled back from the wizard, but the story behind an artist’s Why is often more fascinating the actual product.

We saw the lovely Dar Williams perform over the weekend. She introduced my favorite, “The One Who Knows,” saying it was written after spending time with a friend and her two children. She added that to this day it surprises her that she had created it before she herself had children seeing that she had captured so accurately what she now felt as a mother.

Before I had Baby Boy, I interpreted 99% of songs to be about romantic love, obvious odes to pick up trucks notwithstanding. Now hearing this anew from a mother’s point of view, it had me in tears as no song has done before.

This is the chorus that ran through my head all weekend:

“You’ll fly away, but take my hand until that day. So when they ask how far love goes, when my job’s done you’ll be the one who knows.”

Is that not just so beautiful?

What those words awoke in me is that despite all the stress and struggle that raising children can be, it is such a short amount of time that we have them beside us. It is easy to shuffle through the days letting the laundry and homework and diapers and crumbs outshine the gorgeous light that surrounds our children. If we ignore this light though, it is going to vanish. (Long before they make us drop them off two blocks from school so we don’t embarrass them.)

I see too many parents resigned to the fact that their kids “are brats” and they complain about them and all the work and live an endless sigh.

So this is my love letter of sorts to the slices of precious time amidst the rigamarole; you know, the real reason we had children in the first place.

Parenthood is living for the moments in between...

Feeling the excitement in your changing world

in between guessing for a boy or a girl.

The adoration you feel upon first seeing their face

in between wishing the house had more space.

A full body snuggle with a soft and sweet kiss

in between making piles of lists.

Having a charged camera right at your side

in between moments you’ve sadly let slide.

Reaching out to stable the shaky first step

in between the falls where both of you wept.

His actually eating a few bites of food

in between throwing it, “Honey, that’s rude!”

Her using good manners at a play date

in between your being constantly late.

The first time baby correctly calls, “Mum!”

In between using the dog as a drum.

The most melodic giggles galore

in between mountains of toys on the floor.

The pride that comes with sharing their dreams

in between working through struggles and screams.

Wrapped in a blanket under the moon

in between locking themselves in their room.

Keeping faith that their souls are true

in between the phase of “Dad, I hate you!”

Watching them dress for their very first date

in between their coming home way too late.

The years in between birth and eighteen

it went by so fast, like clouds in a dream.

Sending them off into the world on their own

in between heartbreak at your baby birds flown.

In between the longing and sadness and fears

knowing you’ll love them for ten thousand years.