Thousands of dollars worth of toddler toys remain dusty and unused, piled into the corner. I take them out every once in a while, replace batteries, reorganize them, putting missing pieces into the proper containers. I feign childlike excitement as I play with them in front of the kids, so that they can understand how absolutely thrilling it is to press a button and hear the alphabet, sung by a robotic voice. I'll make the choo-choo go around the track and when I get all the way around, I let out a little squeal to indicate to them how wonderful it all is.
Usually the kids don't get to see much of my antics because they are too busy playing trampoline with my couch or chasing each other in lightning fast figure eights around the living room.
I haven't decided that they are necessarily wrong in their play. It does seem more fun to play chase or see if it is indeed possible to touch the ceiling if you jump just a little bit higher. And the alphabet song only has limited appeal.
-Angryhousemom.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
She wants to kill me
She's 18 months. She has pretty, curly hair. She laughs and smiles. And she's a lethal killing machine.
I'm sure its my fault. Her brother was only 16 months old when she was born. He was discovering how much fun it is to break stuff. He hurt himself frequently. He was feeling a little threatened by the cute little ball of baby that I had just brought into the house. So, for too much time, his sister waited for the attention she deserved while I attended to her brother.
It got better for her around 6 months when I adjusted to the craziness that comes from having two kids close in age. But perhaps it was too little, too late. My daughter is angry.
She has major tantrums, taking her from sweet little angel to DEMONIC WILD THING. She throws her head to the hard floors in the store, kicks and punches me to properly convey how totally hurt and upset she is that she cannot continue to take merchandise off of the shelves. She will fight so hard when being put into the car (when she'd rather be let go to run into the street) that I have almost dropped her several times. I don't even want to get into what diaper changes are like for us. Lets just say that both mommy and baby consistently need bathtime immediately afterwards.
As harrowing as these experiences can be, I don't mind them because I know what to expect during her tantrum times. Its the unexpected attacks that rattle me to the bone.
Submitted as the latest example of said attacks:
My son hates eating. He would rather snap his plastic fork in half than place any sustinance in his mouth. And two days ago, that's exactly what he did. I was upset. I wished he could eat like his sister. She sits in the booster chair next to him, systematically placing ziti noodles into her mouth, without the use of a fork. I don't always give her one - it tends to make a mess. So as I come back to the kitchen table with seconds for myself and my husband, I fail to notice that my daughter has decided a fork would be nice - she had reached across the table and obtained the top half of the broken fork, sharp edges and all.
Time passes. Meals are cleaned up. And as I pick up my daughter, she secretly takes hold of the sharp fork-weapon - and like something out of a Hitchcock movie, makes a quick stab at my neck. Unfortunately for her, she only succeeded in giving me a 3 inch long scrape, extending from my ear downwards towards the center of my neck. If only she had used a newly sharpened steak knife, or used a different technique - more of a stab than a scrape. Or if she had only studied the locations of the major neck arteries...
This time around she only succeeded in giving me a lifelong scar. It only bled a little. And now she has to deal with me for a little longer until she can plan the next attack.
My daughter wants to kill me. And I'm not pleased. Perhaps I should give her a timeout?
-Angry Housemom
I'm sure its my fault. Her brother was only 16 months old when she was born. He was discovering how much fun it is to break stuff. He hurt himself frequently. He was feeling a little threatened by the cute little ball of baby that I had just brought into the house. So, for too much time, his sister waited for the attention she deserved while I attended to her brother.
It got better for her around 6 months when I adjusted to the craziness that comes from having two kids close in age. But perhaps it was too little, too late. My daughter is angry.
She has major tantrums, taking her from sweet little angel to DEMONIC WILD THING. She throws her head to the hard floors in the store, kicks and punches me to properly convey how totally hurt and upset she is that she cannot continue to take merchandise off of the shelves. She will fight so hard when being put into the car (when she'd rather be let go to run into the street) that I have almost dropped her several times. I don't even want to get into what diaper changes are like for us. Lets just say that both mommy and baby consistently need bathtime immediately afterwards.
As harrowing as these experiences can be, I don't mind them because I know what to expect during her tantrum times. Its the unexpected attacks that rattle me to the bone.
Submitted as the latest example of said attacks:
My son hates eating. He would rather snap his plastic fork in half than place any sustinance in his mouth. And two days ago, that's exactly what he did. I was upset. I wished he could eat like his sister. She sits in the booster chair next to him, systematically placing ziti noodles into her mouth, without the use of a fork. I don't always give her one - it tends to make a mess. So as I come back to the kitchen table with seconds for myself and my husband, I fail to notice that my daughter has decided a fork would be nice - she had reached across the table and obtained the top half of the broken fork, sharp edges and all.
Time passes. Meals are cleaned up. And as I pick up my daughter, she secretly takes hold of the sharp fork-weapon - and like something out of a Hitchcock movie, makes a quick stab at my neck. Unfortunately for her, she only succeeded in giving me a 3 inch long scrape, extending from my ear downwards towards the center of my neck. If only she had used a newly sharpened steak knife, or used a different technique - more of a stab than a scrape. Or if she had only studied the locations of the major neck arteries...
This time around she only succeeded in giving me a lifelong scar. It only bled a little. And now she has to deal with me for a little longer until she can plan the next attack.
My daughter wants to kill me. And I'm not pleased. Perhaps I should give her a timeout?
-Angry Housemom
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Adullt Proofing the House
People talk about "babyproofing" the house. Its a vague term before your kids are toddlers, and even vaguer before you have kids. I kind of envisioned going to 'babys r us' and purchasing a premade set of bumpers so that the playroom in the house would kind of resemble gymboree when done. Surely babyproofing referred to making sure there are no longer sharp edges and open electrical outlets. It would be the queen of all faux pas to allow either in the play area. This is common knowledge, even to the most inexperienced of all parents.
Here is what I didn't know: Babyproofing has less to do with keeping your kid safe and much more to do with keeping your stuff safe.
Playroom? Hah! We didn't have one anyway with our small home, but I had assumed the living room could double as the children sanctuary. (The kids would play quietly with their coloring books and Little People Toys and I would look on admiringly from the couch as I browsed through my magazines and bathed in the joy of parental ecstasy.)
The HOUSE is their playroom. My son figured out the mystery of opening doors at 18 months. My daughter was into my pantry and all of the spices and cooking supplies at 16 months. My bedroom and all of my carefully folded clothes has been common fodder for a long time. Its a miracle that my computer is still working after the daily abuse it gets from the kids. My piano keys are all chipped from the kids banging at them with various children toys. (all children toys can double as weapons.)
The list is unexaustable. Every material item I have ever loved or cherished has been broken beyond repair - my beautiful music note mug that reminded me of my life as a musician when I still had dreams for myself as I sipped delicious coffee in the morning - thrown to the floor and destroyed. The penpal collection of letters from exotic places that I will most likely never visit was thoughtfully thrown away. 4 cell phones and 1 digital camera have been destroyed. My 50 year old toilet with pieces that are no longer sold, is therefore no longer fixable after my kids discovered how utterly exciting it is to flush over and over again. They do not, however pee or poo into it. Instead they've done that on my couch, my throw rugs, my bed, my kitchen table.
It was too late that we discovered that instead of 'babyproofing' we needed to 'adultproof. This includes:
Double sided locks are installed on all doors. Key entry is required to enter or exit all doors. Keys are kept VERY high - too high for me, at 5'2''. If you've seen the movie, "The Others" with Nicole Kidman, you can imagine what life is like for us. Never unlock and open a door without first ensuring all other doors are closed and locked. If you need to use a bathroom very badly, you must first get a chair from the kitchen and bring it over to the bathroom door, stand on it, take the key down, and unlock the door. The chair in the kitchen is carried over the IMPOSSIBLE to open extra wide gate that has been installed into the wood. A gate that had to be placed so tight that it actually has loosened the stair banister prevents us from going upstairs to the attic. Latches seal the cabinets and drawers closed. Keyboard and mouse of the computer are not accessible unless you first reach behind the computer where we hide them from little hands. Curtains meant to hang down and look pretty to both inside and outside people are suspended way up high so that little Tarzans do not swing from them.
It has become so hard to move from one room to another, to plug anything in, to use any electronic devices, or to even just sit and read that I have been reduced to sitting and rocking back and forth on my couch for hours at a time while I contemplate why I became a parent in the first place.
This is the Angry Housemom
Here is what I didn't know: Babyproofing has less to do with keeping your kid safe and much more to do with keeping your stuff safe.
Playroom? Hah! We didn't have one anyway with our small home, but I had assumed the living room could double as the children sanctuary. (The kids would play quietly with their coloring books and Little People Toys and I would look on admiringly from the couch as I browsed through my magazines and bathed in the joy of parental ecstasy.)
The HOUSE is their playroom. My son figured out the mystery of opening doors at 18 months. My daughter was into my pantry and all of the spices and cooking supplies at 16 months. My bedroom and all of my carefully folded clothes has been common fodder for a long time. Its a miracle that my computer is still working after the daily abuse it gets from the kids. My piano keys are all chipped from the kids banging at them with various children toys. (all children toys can double as weapons.)
The list is unexaustable. Every material item I have ever loved or cherished has been broken beyond repair - my beautiful music note mug that reminded me of my life as a musician when I still had dreams for myself as I sipped delicious coffee in the morning - thrown to the floor and destroyed. The penpal collection of letters from exotic places that I will most likely never visit was thoughtfully thrown away. 4 cell phones and 1 digital camera have been destroyed. My 50 year old toilet with pieces that are no longer sold, is therefore no longer fixable after my kids discovered how utterly exciting it is to flush over and over again. They do not, however pee or poo into it. Instead they've done that on my couch, my throw rugs, my bed, my kitchen table.
It was too late that we discovered that instead of 'babyproofing' we needed to 'adultproof. This includes:
Double sided locks are installed on all doors. Key entry is required to enter or exit all doors. Keys are kept VERY high - too high for me, at 5'2''. If you've seen the movie, "The Others" with Nicole Kidman, you can imagine what life is like for us. Never unlock and open a door without first ensuring all other doors are closed and locked. If you need to use a bathroom very badly, you must first get a chair from the kitchen and bring it over to the bathroom door, stand on it, take the key down, and unlock the door. The chair in the kitchen is carried over the IMPOSSIBLE to open extra wide gate that has been installed into the wood. A gate that had to be placed so tight that it actually has loosened the stair banister prevents us from going upstairs to the attic. Latches seal the cabinets and drawers closed. Keyboard and mouse of the computer are not accessible unless you first reach behind the computer where we hide them from little hands. Curtains meant to hang down and look pretty to both inside and outside people are suspended way up high so that little Tarzans do not swing from them.
It has become so hard to move from one room to another, to plug anything in, to use any electronic devices, or to even just sit and read that I have been reduced to sitting and rocking back and forth on my couch for hours at a time while I contemplate why I became a parent in the first place.
This is the Angry Housemom
Friday, January 22, 2010
Swine Flu is better than being a Mom
1am - throwing up. me, not the kids
4am - throwing up again.
7am - trying desperately to get the kids out of their cribs and changed. feel like I'm going to pass out.
7:05am - throwing up
Rest of day: everything hurts. throat on fire. head set on explode. the pain. the aches. I've never felt so tired. I just want to sleep.
But so cold.
4:30pm - husband watches kids while I go to doctor.
And this is how the swine flu began for me.
But of course, as we already know from my previous posts, being sick doesn't excuse you from being a mom. That is, of course, unless you have a highly publicized illness that makes your husband stop and take action.
For the next two days, hubby woke up early and got kids ready (first time in 3 years that I can remember) while I slept. He took our son to preschool and occupied our daughter. He fed them, changed them, put them to bed. He cleaned up the living room so that when I emerged from the bedroom after the kids went to bed, I could walk right to the couch and sleep some more.
Which all leads me to conclude - Swine Flu is heaven.
Am I in pain? Absolutely. Do I feel like I want to die? Yup. Is it better than dealing with the two toddlers? Hell yeah.
day 3, sadly my vacation is almost over. swine, I will miss you.
ok, back to bed.
Angryhousemom
4am - throwing up again.
7am - trying desperately to get the kids out of their cribs and changed. feel like I'm going to pass out.
7:05am - throwing up
Rest of day: everything hurts. throat on fire. head set on explode. the pain. the aches. I've never felt so tired. I just want to sleep.
But so cold.
4:30pm - husband watches kids while I go to doctor.
And this is how the swine flu began for me.
But of course, as we already know from my previous posts, being sick doesn't excuse you from being a mom. That is, of course, unless you have a highly publicized illness that makes your husband stop and take action.
For the next two days, hubby woke up early and got kids ready (first time in 3 years that I can remember) while I slept. He took our son to preschool and occupied our daughter. He fed them, changed them, put them to bed. He cleaned up the living room so that when I emerged from the bedroom after the kids went to bed, I could walk right to the couch and sleep some more.
Which all leads me to conclude - Swine Flu is heaven.
Am I in pain? Absolutely. Do I feel like I want to die? Yup. Is it better than dealing with the two toddlers? Hell yeah.
day 3, sadly my vacation is almost over. swine, I will miss you.
ok, back to bed.
Angryhousemom
Monday, January 18, 2010
Spongebob is the new Football
Its 5 minutes to kickoff. Family and friends have filtered into our small house, said hello, and have migrated to the couch. Everyone is anxiously awaiting the game. Its a big one. It will determine whether or not there will be anymore quasi-parties thrown in our home this football season.
Chips and Dip: Prepared and put out
Beer and Wine: Available along with non-alcoholic refreshments
Stimulating Conversation: Depends who you sit next to on the couch. If you are near me, for instance, you will most likely get a lot of "mmm hmm, ok, yeah, that's what I thi......HEY!!! GET YOUR TOY CARS OUT OF THE @^$&$ DIP!!!!!"
That's the problem with hosting parties before 7pm. The two toddlers think get-togethers are just an opportunity for an audience while they destroy-destroy-destory.
I'm slightly ashamed at my voice level. I scream and scream like a dysfunctional mother on SuperNanny, the kind that ellicits those looks of disgust from the Nanny and America. But here's what I believe. Its happening all over. We are not alone, fellow last-straw, blow-our-top Moms! When the toddler pulls down the curtain rod because he wants to fly like Diego, or when the other toddler crawls under your computer desk and hits the power strip before you save your latest mommy-blog post, I know you aren't all sugary-sweet Brady-Bunch mamas!
But knowing I'm not alone in my screaming does not make me feel better about doing it in public. And in an attempt to stop my home from being ripped to shreds (toys have begun to be thrown in the air) I do the unthinkable.
"Lets watch a little SpongeBob."
In a one tv household, guests should just expect this. But the looks of horror from my football fanatic friends shake me a bit.
"Don't worry, the game is being dvr'ed. It'll just be for a few minutes while everyone calms down."
They resign themselves. And perhaps everyone is too depressed to move, or maybe everyone likes their placement on the couch, but the living room remains full of adults.
They came for football, they got Sponge Bob Square Pants.
"Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS......"
This is the Angry Housemom
Chips and Dip: Prepared and put out
Beer and Wine: Available along with non-alcoholic refreshments
Stimulating Conversation: Depends who you sit next to on the couch. If you are near me, for instance, you will most likely get a lot of "mmm hmm, ok, yeah, that's what I thi......HEY!!! GET YOUR TOY CARS OUT OF THE @^$&$ DIP!!!!!"
That's the problem with hosting parties before 7pm. The two toddlers think get-togethers are just an opportunity for an audience while they destroy-destroy-destory.
I'm slightly ashamed at my voice level. I scream and scream like a dysfunctional mother on SuperNanny, the kind that ellicits those looks of disgust from the Nanny and America. But here's what I believe. Its happening all over. We are not alone, fellow last-straw, blow-our-top Moms! When the toddler pulls down the curtain rod because he wants to fly like Diego, or when the other toddler crawls under your computer desk and hits the power strip before you save your latest mommy-blog post, I know you aren't all sugary-sweet Brady-Bunch mamas!
But knowing I'm not alone in my screaming does not make me feel better about doing it in public. And in an attempt to stop my home from being ripped to shreds (toys have begun to be thrown in the air) I do the unthinkable.
"Lets watch a little SpongeBob."
In a one tv household, guests should just expect this. But the looks of horror from my football fanatic friends shake me a bit.
"Don't worry, the game is being dvr'ed. It'll just be for a few minutes while everyone calms down."
They resign themselves. And perhaps everyone is too depressed to move, or maybe everyone likes their placement on the couch, but the living room remains full of adults.
They came for football, they got Sponge Bob Square Pants.
"Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS......"
This is the Angry Housemom
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Unless its to babysit, don't call me.
There are some phone calls I prefer to duck. I don't always want to talk to Aunt So-and-so and my husband's boss, and especially anybody collecting money.
At the same time, I need to put my phone in a place where I can charge it. So it charges in the morning while I get dressed and go about the general getting ready routine.
Ring-ring. Darn. Underwear not even on yet. Children in other room with Wonder Pets, but with only a few more minutes before they get bored and look for entertainment elsewhere, like picking the leaves off of my houseplants that spent so much effort getting as long as it did only to be tormented by my two toddlers.
Ring-Ring. Ring.....heeeeewoooo?
Uh oh. The Wonder Pets must have lost their wonder.
I run into my kitchen in the buff, with windows wide open, hoping my kids don't have the ability to make memories yet. I grab the phone from my son and begin speaking to my husband's aunt. She's over 70 and likes to talk. She doesn't like to get off of the phone. And she's childless, which means she doesn't get the cuteness of a toddler saying hewoooo and she certainly doesn't appreciate the difficulty of trying to have a conversation with toddlers in the room.
Oh, hiiiiiiii! I feign enthusiasm.
She begins chatting with her seemingly predetermined agenda of topics, none of which seem to need a lot of input from me. My son is quite pissed that I took away HIS phone and is now hell-bent on destroying everything that is important to me in the house. Things are flying around all about the living room. I try and stop him, while quickly running back to the kitchen to remove a knife from my daughter's hands. Where did she get that? My origami-a-day calendar goes flying off of my piano in the other room. Husband's Aunt stopped talking. Apparently it is my time to talk. Shoot, what was she saying? A door slams. My son is now unattended in the bathroom, and I'm pretty sure its not to do a poo in the toilet. I'm still in the nude.
"Yeah, now isn't a great time to talk. Can I call you back?"
"Suuuure, but I just wanted to ask you about next week. So listen, we are going to meet you on Saturday. Or Sunday. Now I've forgotten which. See, I'm pretty sure I'm meeting the girls on Saturday. Did I tell you I joined the Rotary Club? They meet on the 1st and 3rd week of the month. Or 1st and 4th. It could be the 3rd and 4th, actually."
I finally get the key for the bathroom to open it because my two year old knows how to lock doors. I open it and find out that while he is smart enough to navigate the ins and outs of locksmithery, he hasn't figured out that the toilet scrubber isn't a toothbrush.
"OK I have to go NOW. I'll call you later."
Bitch, she thinks to herself. His side of the family never liked me anyway.
This is the Angry Housemom.
At the same time, I need to put my phone in a place where I can charge it. So it charges in the morning while I get dressed and go about the general getting ready routine.
Ring-ring. Darn. Underwear not even on yet. Children in other room with Wonder Pets, but with only a few more minutes before they get bored and look for entertainment elsewhere, like picking the leaves off of my houseplants that spent so much effort getting as long as it did only to be tormented by my two toddlers.
Ring-Ring. Ring.....heeeeewoooo?
Uh oh. The Wonder Pets must have lost their wonder.
I run into my kitchen in the buff, with windows wide open, hoping my kids don't have the ability to make memories yet. I grab the phone from my son and begin speaking to my husband's aunt. She's over 70 and likes to talk. She doesn't like to get off of the phone. And she's childless, which means she doesn't get the cuteness of a toddler saying hewoooo and she certainly doesn't appreciate the difficulty of trying to have a conversation with toddlers in the room.
Oh, hiiiiiiii! I feign enthusiasm.
She begins chatting with her seemingly predetermined agenda of topics, none of which seem to need a lot of input from me. My son is quite pissed that I took away HIS phone and is now hell-bent on destroying everything that is important to me in the house. Things are flying around all about the living room. I try and stop him, while quickly running back to the kitchen to remove a knife from my daughter's hands. Where did she get that? My origami-a-day calendar goes flying off of my piano in the other room. Husband's Aunt stopped talking. Apparently it is my time to talk. Shoot, what was she saying? A door slams. My son is now unattended in the bathroom, and I'm pretty sure its not to do a poo in the toilet. I'm still in the nude.
"Yeah, now isn't a great time to talk. Can I call you back?"
"Suuuure, but I just wanted to ask you about next week. So listen, we are going to meet you on Saturday. Or Sunday. Now I've forgotten which. See, I'm pretty sure I'm meeting the girls on Saturday. Did I tell you I joined the Rotary Club? They meet on the 1st and 3rd week of the month. Or 1st and 4th. It could be the 3rd and 4th, actually."
I finally get the key for the bathroom to open it because my two year old knows how to lock doors. I open it and find out that while he is smart enough to navigate the ins and outs of locksmithery, he hasn't figured out that the toilet scrubber isn't a toothbrush.
"OK I have to go NOW. I'll call you later."
Bitch, she thinks to herself. His side of the family never liked me anyway.
This is the Angry Housemom.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The Lion Cage
I am a lioness, living before the time of environmentally friendly zoos. Old, tired, and cranky, I sit on my side of the cage. I remember the days before I was captured into this caged-in existence. I enjoyed the hunt, the adventure, the exhiliration. But now, I am content in my passivity. Four walls lock me in. Escape is futile.
The two younger cubs are full of energy. They are too young to realize their lot in life. Once in a while they look outside the bars of the cage and claw to get out. This morning, however, they are quite happy expending all of their energy here. The toys that the zoomaster put in here with us might as well be invisible. Instead, they turn over the water dish, swipe at each other and laugh maniacly, in that way that lion cubs do.
I wish they would be sent to be in their own cage so that I could live out the rest of my existence in peace. Or maybe they could put the Daddy-lion in here with us. He could play with them, clean up the water and food, organize the lion-toys, and rub my four paws.
This is the Angry Housemom. Aka, The Lioness.
The two younger cubs are full of energy. They are too young to realize their lot in life. Once in a while they look outside the bars of the cage and claw to get out. This morning, however, they are quite happy expending all of their energy here. The toys that the zoomaster put in here with us might as well be invisible. Instead, they turn over the water dish, swipe at each other and laugh maniacly, in that way that lion cubs do.
I wish they would be sent to be in their own cage so that I could live out the rest of my existence in peace. Or maybe they could put the Daddy-lion in here with us. He could play with them, clean up the water and food, organize the lion-toys, and rub my four paws.
This is the Angry Housemom. Aka, The Lioness.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Problem of Hair
I never was one to spend a lot of time on my hair. To me its a nice thing to have, I enjoy the fact that its there on top of my head, keeping me warm and making my face look more balanced, but I was never the girl blowdrying, adding product, crimping, curling, ironing, or whatever it is girls do to make themselves look all hair-tastic. Maybe its because my arms get really tired in that up position, or maybe looking in the mirror reminds me of all of the other things I need to get done, but hair never really made the top of my to-do list.
Kid #1. Boy. Sigh of relief. Not much to do there - just run a fine tooth comb through it and its done. The thing with boys is that other people don't tend to expect too much from their hair. Boys will be boys, as they take various gooey things and smear them into their hair. A trip to the store following one of those smear incidents would include knowing looks from passerbys, as they sympathize by the terrible condition of the terrible twos.
Kid #2. Girl. Uh oh. And its worse than can be imagined.
My daughter doesn't just have curly hair. She IS the electric socket girl. Not one strand of her hair goes in the same direction as the rest. Most of her hair is curly except for the pieces that stand straight out like they are receiving radio signals.
There aren't enough fine tooth combs on the planet to make her hair behave. Some mornings, I will bathe her and put in detangler spray . As I try and comb through, she shreiks and then she's off running. My son is usually right behind, pushing and kicking, having a wild good time being way too physical for my tastes. Playtime wins the day and the battle with the hair is lost.
Her hair can be clean and perfectly done with a pretty little ribbon and the people in the stores will stop and stare, wondering why I haven't taken that magic hair class that new parents were all supposed to take. (didn't get the memo, whoops.)
All of this was supposed to be in the "So you want to be a Parent Book." I never wanted to be a hair person. And now there are two reasons why I have to be. Being a parent changes you in ways you never wanted to change.
Angry Housemom
Kid #1. Boy. Sigh of relief. Not much to do there - just run a fine tooth comb through it and its done. The thing with boys is that other people don't tend to expect too much from their hair. Boys will be boys, as they take various gooey things and smear them into their hair. A trip to the store following one of those smear incidents would include knowing looks from passerbys, as they sympathize by the terrible condition of the terrible twos.
Kid #2. Girl. Uh oh. And its worse than can be imagined.
My daughter doesn't just have curly hair. She IS the electric socket girl. Not one strand of her hair goes in the same direction as the rest. Most of her hair is curly except for the pieces that stand straight out like they are receiving radio signals.
There aren't enough fine tooth combs on the planet to make her hair behave. Some mornings, I will bathe her and put in detangler spray . As I try and comb through, she shreiks and then she's off running. My son is usually right behind, pushing and kicking, having a wild good time being way too physical for my tastes. Playtime wins the day and the battle with the hair is lost.
Her hair can be clean and perfectly done with a pretty little ribbon and the people in the stores will stop and stare, wondering why I haven't taken that magic hair class that new parents were all supposed to take. (didn't get the memo, whoops.)
All of this was supposed to be in the "So you want to be a Parent Book." I never wanted to be a hair person. And now there are two reasons why I have to be. Being a parent changes you in ways you never wanted to change.
Angry Housemom
Thursday, January 7, 2010
You have a problem with my date?
I have become disgusted by the public's disgust. Having children and a frequently absent spouse means you now have conversations with little people. I wish the public would accept this and move on instead of giving me strange looks marked with pity, shock, and self-rightousness.
Today my husband took my healthy one-year old on a daytrip to visit relatives, leaving the sick (me and my 2 year old son) to recouperate at home. So we took the opportunity to reconnect while going grocery shopping. I spent a good deal of it chatting with my son, who for the most part doesn't really talk back. When I couldn't find the aisle with honey in it, I asked if he knew where it was. When I forgot that ingredient I wanted to add to my turkey cutlets, I inquired if he remembered. When the prices were ridiculous, I scoffed and remarked about it to him. Now, this is fairly normal behavior for me, but under normal circumstances, my attention is divided between two small children. Today, with only one to look after, I spent a little time noticing the others around me. They frequently shot me looks of disapproval, as if I was some psychopath who forgot to take my meds before going grocery shopping. Some of them had those tacky little wireless bluetooths sticking out of their ears, so I don't know where they get the nerve to judge me.
I had a chat with my son about them when we moved to the next aisle.
This is the Angry Housemom.
Today my husband took my healthy one-year old on a daytrip to visit relatives, leaving the sick (me and my 2 year old son) to recouperate at home. So we took the opportunity to reconnect while going grocery shopping. I spent a good deal of it chatting with my son, who for the most part doesn't really talk back. When I couldn't find the aisle with honey in it, I asked if he knew where it was. When I forgot that ingredient I wanted to add to my turkey cutlets, I inquired if he remembered. When the prices were ridiculous, I scoffed and remarked about it to him. Now, this is fairly normal behavior for me, but under normal circumstances, my attention is divided between two small children. Today, with only one to look after, I spent a little time noticing the others around me. They frequently shot me looks of disapproval, as if I was some psychopath who forgot to take my meds before going grocery shopping. Some of them had those tacky little wireless bluetooths sticking out of their ears, so I don't know where they get the nerve to judge me.
I had a chat with my son about them when we moved to the next aisle.
This is the Angry Housemom.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Life through the drive-through
Last night's 11:30pm run to the pharmacy for Children's Motrin has done the following: 1) made me super tired, and 2) emptied my already empty gas tank. (yes there is a pharmacy open that late on Sunday - I only have to drive 20 minutes out of the way to get to it while my friend grudgingly watched my children, one of who is running a 104 fever. The good news is I discovered they have a drive through. More on that later...)
Which brings me to this morning:
9:15am - Kids are hungry for breakfast. I kinda want coffee. Dunkin Doughnuts Drive-through it is. As I order a doughnut for the kiddos, my son drowns out my voice by screaming "NO CHOCLAT D'NUT. WHITE D'NUT!" Tears actually stream down my 2 year old's face. My daughter (18 mths) is terrified by the outburst and starts screaming, drowning out the little electronic speaker. I decide whatever they give me will have to do.
10:30am - Doc says kiddo #1 has pink eye and an ear infection and dehydration from diaherrea. kiddo #2 has pink eye and a virus. Both need antibiotics.
11:00am - kids are hungry for lunch. Stop at Burger King Drive-through for french fries. I ignore the fact that the 1000 calories in the whopper jr. with mayo is not going to help me lose the pregnancy weight that I haven't begun to lose yet.
11:30am - Walgreens thankfully has a drivethrough. But prescription isn't ready. Come back in 10 minutes.
11:35am - Gas. Pay the full price to have someone pump for me. The temperature with the windchill is 4. That's too cold to hold anything metallic without gloves (i can't confirm but I think the kids threw one of them out on me.) I keep handing french fries to the backseat while little hands take them from me.
11:45am - Back to Walgreens to pick up prescription, though the drive-through of course.
12:30pm - Dairy barn for OJ. (hooray for drive-through grocery stores!!)
1pm - collapse on my couch at home. I'm utterly exhausted, and I've only been pushing the up and down window button on my van. Imagine if I had to leave the vehicle once in a while!
Whoever invented drive-through probably was a parent of a toddler or two at one point. Getting in and out of a vehicle - especially in snowy, ice, and frigid conditions (see current weather report) is SO HARD! There's crying and throwing and scratching and biting. Sometimes there's an escape followed by a small parental heart attack. All of the time there's the manipulation of the 40lb double stroller that is responsible for quite a few injuries all around. Yes, drive through is the way to go.
Now if they can only bring back house-call doctors, then the life of the mother would significantly improve.
This is the Angry Housemom.
Which brings me to this morning:
9:15am - Kids are hungry for breakfast. I kinda want coffee. Dunkin Doughnuts Drive-through it is. As I order a doughnut for the kiddos, my son drowns out my voice by screaming "NO CHOCLAT D'NUT. WHITE D'NUT!" Tears actually stream down my 2 year old's face. My daughter (18 mths) is terrified by the outburst and starts screaming, drowning out the little electronic speaker. I decide whatever they give me will have to do.
10:30am - Doc says kiddo #1 has pink eye and an ear infection and dehydration from diaherrea. kiddo #2 has pink eye and a virus. Both need antibiotics.
11:00am - kids are hungry for lunch. Stop at Burger King Drive-through for french fries. I ignore the fact that the 1000 calories in the whopper jr. with mayo is not going to help me lose the pregnancy weight that I haven't begun to lose yet.
11:30am - Walgreens thankfully has a drivethrough. But prescription isn't ready. Come back in 10 minutes.
11:35am - Gas. Pay the full price to have someone pump for me. The temperature with the windchill is 4. That's too cold to hold anything metallic without gloves (i can't confirm but I think the kids threw one of them out on me.) I keep handing french fries to the backseat while little hands take them from me.
11:45am - Back to Walgreens to pick up prescription, though the drive-through of course.
12:30pm - Dairy barn for OJ. (hooray for drive-through grocery stores!!)
1pm - collapse on my couch at home. I'm utterly exhausted, and I've only been pushing the up and down window button on my van. Imagine if I had to leave the vehicle once in a while!
Whoever invented drive-through probably was a parent of a toddler or two at one point. Getting in and out of a vehicle - especially in snowy, ice, and frigid conditions (see current weather report) is SO HARD! There's crying and throwing and scratching and biting. Sometimes there's an escape followed by a small parental heart attack. All of the time there's the manipulation of the 40lb double stroller that is responsible for quite a few injuries all around. Yes, drive through is the way to go.
Now if they can only bring back house-call doctors, then the life of the mother would significantly improve.
This is the Angry Housemom.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Sick of taking care of the sick
Taking care of sick kids while you yourself are sick is especially fun. Gone are the days of resting all day, getting up only to get some nyquil cold medicine and get some chicken broth. Even on those days when you have a high fever, crazy ass scarlet fever throat, and paralyzing muscle aches, you still take the backseat to them.
7am comes and they don't care that every body part of yours is on fire and that you only found the escape that only comes in dreams at 3am. All they know is they are awake, their diapers are full of pee and poo, and they want to get up NOW. So you change them and notice that while you certainly have a fever, one of your babies is curiously hotter to the touch than you. This doesn't bode well. You stick that thermometer up the butt. Surprise, surprise, they have what you have.
Yes, there was that tell-tale cough last night that you tried to ignore after 3am while you squeezed in some sleep. And sure the runny nose has been turned to the on position for a few days. But now a fever? And is that green discharge coming out of the eye?
Shit. This can't wait till you are better. Your babies are your responsibility. When they get sick its up to you to get them better, no matter what you feel like.
So you bundle everyone up and get out the door. Its 8am, and if you leave now, you can beat some of the rush hour traffic and be the first person in line at the doctor's office.
Crap, you realize half way there that there are no tissues in the car, and you are dripping. You rub your nose on your sleeve, since it doesn't really matter anyway. The days when being proud of your wardrobe and appearence are over.
To your dismay, when you get to the doctor, there are 3 people in front of you. You let your kids loose in the play area, even though you know that they will probably catch some swine flu or croup or something. The other mothers give you a dirty look because they are the type of mothers that actually love their babies enough to protect them from those disgusting germ infested toys. You cough in their general direction.
Finally you are seen - a doctor's assistant confirms that its pink eye and strep throat. The good news is only one of your kids is sick and the other seems healthy - for now.
You wish they would just give you double the dose so you are ready for kid #2 when the time comes. But that would be unethical.
After a 30 minute drive to the pharmacy, you find out they are backlogged and cannot get to your prescription for an hour. You drive around aimlessly, still with no tissues in your car and counting the hours till your own bedtime.
The days never seemed so long till now.
Finally, you get your 'scripts and get home. One kid goes down to nap. The other is cranky but not going to sleep anytime soon. Your husband is sound asleep because he has to go to work tonight. Damn nightshift. He refuses to ask for a dayshift because he "works better at night." Good for him.
While sleeping beauty gets his rest, you clean the disgusting mess that has taken over the house, make mac and cheese for the awake child, and throw in some soup for yourself. By this time you just want to shoot yourself, but instead you put on Noggin and let the kid fry their braincells while you curl up with a blanket on the couch. The chills go deep into your bones and you don't think you will ever be warm again.
Shit. No really. The smell of crap overwhelms you. Since your nasel pasages are infected and dripping with virus, the smell must be very strong to be sensed by you.
Up you go. Diaper time. But you aren't quick enough. Your toddler has taken off their own diaper. Poo is now all over the floor.
Cleanup is a joy. Toddler needed a bath. Being splashed while running a fever is torture.
Toddler is calm and ready for a nap. You put them down, go back to the couch hoping to grab just 10 lousy minutes of rest, but then the other baby wakes up. You administer medicine, and set them free to destroy the house, since the thousands of toys that clutter your living room clearly are not as interesting as your carefully organized file cabinet.
Hubby finally wakes up and goes straight for the computer to check his email. He doesn't like to talk when he first wakes up. He likes to being his day (its 4pm) calmly without too much distraction.
You tell him you are sick and need a nap. He says he does too. He apparently thinks he might be coming down with a little cold. He's thinking of getting another half hour of sleep in before work. Otherwise, it'll be too difficult to make it through his shift.
Somehow you make it through the rest of the evening. 7pm rolls in like a knight in shining armor. Babies go to sleep. You curl up on the couch with House reruns and start empathizing with the sick patients. You wonder what the symptoms are of all of those weird illnesses. And somehow, you end up staying up way too late instead of getting the sleep you so desperately need.
Tomorrow's another day. Maybe the kids will be healthier. Maybe you will feel better too.
Either way, you are relatively sure that hubby will be too sick to get up at all and will need to get a good 12 hours of sleep (straight through) until he is better.
Yeah.
This is AngryHousemom.
7am comes and they don't care that every body part of yours is on fire and that you only found the escape that only comes in dreams at 3am. All they know is they are awake, their diapers are full of pee and poo, and they want to get up NOW. So you change them and notice that while you certainly have a fever, one of your babies is curiously hotter to the touch than you. This doesn't bode well. You stick that thermometer up the butt. Surprise, surprise, they have what you have.
Yes, there was that tell-tale cough last night that you tried to ignore after 3am while you squeezed in some sleep. And sure the runny nose has been turned to the on position for a few days. But now a fever? And is that green discharge coming out of the eye?
Shit. This can't wait till you are better. Your babies are your responsibility. When they get sick its up to you to get them better, no matter what you feel like.
So you bundle everyone up and get out the door. Its 8am, and if you leave now, you can beat some of the rush hour traffic and be the first person in line at the doctor's office.
Crap, you realize half way there that there are no tissues in the car, and you are dripping. You rub your nose on your sleeve, since it doesn't really matter anyway. The days when being proud of your wardrobe and appearence are over.
To your dismay, when you get to the doctor, there are 3 people in front of you. You let your kids loose in the play area, even though you know that they will probably catch some swine flu or croup or something. The other mothers give you a dirty look because they are the type of mothers that actually love their babies enough to protect them from those disgusting germ infested toys. You cough in their general direction.
Finally you are seen - a doctor's assistant confirms that its pink eye and strep throat. The good news is only one of your kids is sick and the other seems healthy - for now.
You wish they would just give you double the dose so you are ready for kid #2 when the time comes. But that would be unethical.
After a 30 minute drive to the pharmacy, you find out they are backlogged and cannot get to your prescription for an hour. You drive around aimlessly, still with no tissues in your car and counting the hours till your own bedtime.
The days never seemed so long till now.
Finally, you get your 'scripts and get home. One kid goes down to nap. The other is cranky but not going to sleep anytime soon. Your husband is sound asleep because he has to go to work tonight. Damn nightshift. He refuses to ask for a dayshift because he "works better at night." Good for him.
While sleeping beauty gets his rest, you clean the disgusting mess that has taken over the house, make mac and cheese for the awake child, and throw in some soup for yourself. By this time you just want to shoot yourself, but instead you put on Noggin and let the kid fry their braincells while you curl up with a blanket on the couch. The chills go deep into your bones and you don't think you will ever be warm again.
Shit. No really. The smell of crap overwhelms you. Since your nasel pasages are infected and dripping with virus, the smell must be very strong to be sensed by you.
Up you go. Diaper time. But you aren't quick enough. Your toddler has taken off their own diaper. Poo is now all over the floor.
Cleanup is a joy. Toddler needed a bath. Being splashed while running a fever is torture.
Toddler is calm and ready for a nap. You put them down, go back to the couch hoping to grab just 10 lousy minutes of rest, but then the other baby wakes up. You administer medicine, and set them free to destroy the house, since the thousands of toys that clutter your living room clearly are not as interesting as your carefully organized file cabinet.
Hubby finally wakes up and goes straight for the computer to check his email. He doesn't like to talk when he first wakes up. He likes to being his day (its 4pm) calmly without too much distraction.
You tell him you are sick and need a nap. He says he does too. He apparently thinks he might be coming down with a little cold. He's thinking of getting another half hour of sleep in before work. Otherwise, it'll be too difficult to make it through his shift.
Somehow you make it through the rest of the evening. 7pm rolls in like a knight in shining armor. Babies go to sleep. You curl up on the couch with House reruns and start empathizing with the sick patients. You wonder what the symptoms are of all of those weird illnesses. And somehow, you end up staying up way too late instead of getting the sleep you so desperately need.
Tomorrow's another day. Maybe the kids will be healthier. Maybe you will feel better too.
Either way, you are relatively sure that hubby will be too sick to get up at all and will need to get a good 12 hours of sleep (straight through) until he is better.
Yeah.
This is AngryHousemom.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Hell
My two year old boy is standing on top of my cooler. Its two days after New Years Eve, and my husband still hasn't put the cooler back in the basement. Its one of those nice ones that we bought with money we don't have. We used to take it with us every year to the convention where we first met - it would sit beside us, filled with alcoholic beverages while we enjoyed a three-day weekend of carefree partying. Its the same cooler he takes now with his friends to the football stadium, while he relives his glory days. Men seem to be like that - they can spend an evening or two out with each other and completely forget that they have responsibilities at home. Sometimes I'll go out for a Girls Night Out, but we usually talk about kids the whole time. And we don't take the cooler with us. These parties we throw in our tiny house are my only real ties to that pre-kid world. We'll put out lots of food, play games, bring out Rock Band for the Wii, and have plenty to drink. People are always invited to crash in our living room rather than drive. Of course, they tend to act grouchy when I wake them up at 7am the next morning. What they don't understand is that I wake up at 7am EVERY morning without a break because that's when my daughter (18 months) and my son (34 months) wake up. Yes, they are 16 months apart. Yes it was planned. No that wasn't a good idea.
So here I am, in hell. My son is standing on top of the cooler because its much easier to access the stuff I keep out of his reach when he is 5 feet tall instead of 2 feet tall. He is naked. He no longer likes to wear his diaper, even though he still doesn't see a need to pee and poo in a toilet. His sister is discovering the joy of toilet paper. My living room is now a sea of white. I know eventually I will have to fix the messes being created on my right and left. But at the moment, I prefer to tune out. To write this blog and hope it finds meaning somewhere. Because I have to believe there is more out there than just this. Kids were supposed to be a joyful experience. Being a mother was supposed to be the most wonderful thing to ever happen. And yet, somehow having all freedom, identity and personal space stolen from me makes me feel deflated. And angry.
I am the angry housemom.
So here I am, in hell. My son is standing on top of the cooler because its much easier to access the stuff I keep out of his reach when he is 5 feet tall instead of 2 feet tall. He is naked. He no longer likes to wear his diaper, even though he still doesn't see a need to pee and poo in a toilet. His sister is discovering the joy of toilet paper. My living room is now a sea of white. I know eventually I will have to fix the messes being created on my right and left. But at the moment, I prefer to tune out. To write this blog and hope it finds meaning somewhere. Because I have to believe there is more out there than just this. Kids were supposed to be a joyful experience. Being a mother was supposed to be the most wonderful thing to ever happen. And yet, somehow having all freedom, identity and personal space stolen from me makes me feel deflated. And angry.
I am the angry housemom.
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