Geeky little meme

lifted from Mom 101.

“Everything You Need to Know About Me You Can Learn From My Toolbar”

1994: IRC (Internet Relay Chat. That? Was the shit back in the day.)

1996: partying offline

1998: IVillage, AltaVista, Hotmail, Yahoo

2001: Kazaa, Hotmail, Yahoo, IVillage, Amazon, PBS, NickJr

2004: Google, Hotmail, CNN, Amazon, Ezboard, Old Navy, Blue Fly, AE, Gap, (I prefer to do all my shopping online), countless kid sites

2005: Google, Ezboard, NetFlix, KellyMom, La Leche League, zefrank, Go Fug Yourself, Shopzilla, Post Secret

2006: more of the above mentioned with a little Sitemeter, Blogger, Network54, MySpace, Freecycle, Air America, Technorati, and The Onion

Tag. You're all it.

I called my husband an idiot.

And judging by the severely emotional wound he immediately displayed, one might have thought I accused him of having only one ball. Not that being called testically challenged is nicer than being called an idiot, but honestly, it just slipped. I had reached a point of frustration that only a mother of a cranky baby in need of a nap might understand. We had arrived at our destination of The Annual Family Picnic in cloudless 90° weather and amongst a throng of enthusiastic grandparents driven to cover as much of the Papoose’s face as humanly possible with kisses. Miraculously, he had fallen asleep during the course of our 30 minute drive and I created a Grand Master Plan in which he would stay asleep in the parked car for another 30 minutes, thus producing a baby less likely to hurl himself towards the ground in a fit of despair when things didn’t go his way, which they invariably wouldn't at some point. The Husband thought my plan was a good one. I thought we were in agreement, on the same page, speaking the same language, of the same mind. Until he parks the car, turns off the engine, unbuckles his seat belt, and opens the door. And the Papoose abruptly wakes and resumes protesting. “Uh,dude? During which part of this vehicular symphony did you assume the baby would sleep through?” He mumbled something to the tune of “How was I supposed to know to leave the car running?” Right, in 90 effing degrees we turn the car off. To which I mumbled in return “Idiot.”

The entire incident resolved itself rather quickly beginning with my apology and ending with him snuffling like a sad puppy and reminding me of our no name calling Rule. I suppose it’s funnier in retrospect and like he said to me following my apology: “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” You have no idea how right you are Husband ‘O Mine. Next time? I drive.

Slowly put down the spoon

and gradually step away from the most lip-smacking plastic tub of creamy goodness y’ever did taste. Papoose loves him some Cozy Shack® rice pudding and I’m finding it ever more challenging to place that heaping baby spoon into his mouth as opposed to mine. My heart leaps for joy and a little dribble forms at the corners of my mouth whenever he shows me the ‘eat’ sign. “Oh? You’re hungry? Hmmm…..what can Mama feed you? Apples? Nah. Cheese? No. Peas? ‘Course not silly. Oh….how about some PUDDING?!” It’s slightly lumpy, always cool and rich, and just the right summer snack for Mama baby.

No wonder these last ten pounds are so determined to remain firmly affixed to my posterior.

Aw, he gave it a name.

My darling 14 month old officially refers to breastfeeding as ‘nun-nuns’. I assume his recent dubbing sprung from my asking him to go ‘night-night’ at bedtime. Now that he’s figured out what the heck his beloveds are called, he’s been practicing his communication skills by asking for them in perpetuum. He takes extra pleasure in tilting his little head sideways and sweetly asking ‘nun-nun?’ when I’ve just positioned myself on the toilet with wasted hopes of actually getting any business accomplished. Or when I’ve got a peeler in one hand, a potato in the other, and one hour to get these puppies mashed, he presses both dimply hands against my knee and with big brown eyes he murmurs ‘nun-nun’.

With one hand to the side of my head and a quiet whisper of night-night, he responds in his special bobble-headed way and leans in to have at them. He knows exactly where they are too, in very much the same way his father knows where they are. He knows where they are when we’re grocery shopping. He knows where they are in line at the post office. He knows where they are while I chat with a Very Important Business Man in line at subway restaurant. He’s surprisingly adept at the grab-for-the-strap-and-yank technique. Otherwise known as oops-sorry-stranger-you-just-almost-saw-my-boob.

Although there are days where I swear I hear cowbells when I walk, I enjoy nursing this little baby. This last little baby I’ll ever have. I’ve come to understand that weaning will happen when it’s right for both of us; not just me. And as all babies do eventually, he will let me know when it’s time. Until then I’ve got my Papoose and he’s got his nun-nuns.

Why????????????????????

I'm so tired of being ashamed of my nationality. I'm so tired of justifying why I haven't fled to Canada or New Zealand. I'm so afraid for the future of my grandchildren. This is not new. I'm just feeling frustrated and defeated tonight. I miss my daughter and I hate my president.

The Silent Killer

Every woman needs to watch this.

I'm bursting but haven't the time

or the inclination to devote my attention to blogging. Not to mention the Papoose’s newest quirk; screaming with abandon every time my butt is parked in the computer chair or my back is turned to him. His invisible toddler sensors perceive any of my futile attempts at ignoring him in hopes of writing something. No matter, his increasing cuteness very much neutralizes his present distemper.

I could pull oodles from the reaches of my brain but today? I’m waxing lonesome for my Girl. She’s at her bio-dad’s for six weeks; standard visitation agreement and all. I may have caught an audible gasp from you and for that I don’t fault you. Six weeks is a very, very long time to be away from your child. A mother and child aren’t intended to be so far from one another during this chapter of life. She and I both realize this and have spent hours deliberating over our broken hearts. I want to encourage her relationship with her father but it’s not that simple when, in a very honest and pleading voice, she asks to stay for only two weeks. I have no control over this. I cannot make him listen to her. This is an emotional dilemma I’ve had to confront for three consecutive summers and I suppose I’ve filed the pain away under P for powerless because again, I cannot make him hear her voice. I wonder if he relates her desire to come home as a personal insult toward his paternal abilities? I don’t doubt I’d feel the same way. We both cherish her and enjoy being with her but 500 miles and one child mix as do oil and water. Sharing her is inevitable and with such a distance comes long stretches of loneliness and waiting.

My Boy is with his bio-mom for the same length of time and I also miss him. He’s such a good child filled with the best of intentions and a helpful spirit. I can only hope she gives him what he so desperately needs; touch from the woman who gave him life. I hold him and it feels good, it feels warm, but it’s not the same. He and I understand and accept this. So for the next six weeks I hope beyond hope that she can give him enough to sustain his maternal longing another year because it’ll be at least that long before they are together again.

Overall this little hodge-podge family we’ve created preserves its familial soundness and we’re always blissfully reunited with our children at July’s end. But the journey we take to our destination fills our hearts to bursting and when I am finally able to wrap my arms around her little bottom, it feels so comforting, safe, and relieving. I will bury my face in her small neck and silently thank the courts that I don’t have to do this again for 11 months. And when she returns to me I can only imagine the ache her father feels as he begins his journey of waiting for next summer.

Either way, we all have a wound to lick. As do all blended families.

That's gotta hurt.

Former bush-bot turned realist apologizes for his vote. It's too late but whatever.

Remembering Nicholas Berg

"Well, you know, I'm not saying Saddam Hussein was a good man, but he's no worse than George Bush. Saddam Hussein didn't pull the trigger, didn't commit the rapes. Neither did George Bush, but both men are responsible for them under their reigns of terror.

Iraq did not have al Qaeda in it. Al Qaeda supposedly killed my son. Under Saddam Hussein, no al Qaeda. Under George Bush, al Qaeda. Under Saddam Hussein, relative stability. Under George Bush, instability. Under Saddam Hussein, about 30,000 deaths a year. Under George Bush, about 60,000 deaths a year.

I don't get it. Why is it better to have George Bush be the king of Iraq rather than Saddam Hussein?"

This was the omitted portion of Soledad O'Brien's interview with Michael Berg on June 8th. These powerful words from Michael Berg, the father of Nicholas Berg who was beheaded in Iraq by al-Zarqawi on May 7, 2004, cut deeply to the core of this war. Iraq is under no less evil leadership than it was before Shock And Awe.

Al-Zarqawi is now a martyr.

My hatred and fear of George W. Bush's inescapable madness intensify each day.

"War is the terrorism of the rich; Terrorism is the war of the poor." Peter Ustinov

We will we will rock you!

"Rock you!
Drop you in the toilet!
Hope you will enjoy it!"

"Your’s is a weenie, mine is a wee-wee."

"Get your feet off me butt-face!"

"Smell my finger."

"I’ll fart on you if you don’t give it back."

I LOVE summer vacation.

Yet within minutes I’m discussing with them evolution versus creationism and which orbit reaches farther: that of Pluto or Haley’s Comet.

The dichotomy that represents my two older children is immeasurable.

Who needs some MeMe love?

Lemony? PreTzel? Momma Star? Go.

One body part you’d like to change? My feet. Erg. I identify people by the shape and appearance of their feet. No it’s not sexual or kinky, I’m simply attracted to feet in a very platonic way. I’ve always wished for smaller, narrower feet with long toes.

Describe your ideal Saturday. I would soundly and dreamily sleep in until 10:00 am, yawning and stretching my way to consciousness. I would sip my steaming cup of creamy Kenco coffee while lounging in bed and listening to the breezes as they gently tousled my curtains. I would plan grandiose shopping trips to all the boutiques I normally avoid while towing the three small destroyers. Manis and pedis abound, lunch with wine and without hasty departures involving a tantruming one year old. I would find time to read, write, and use big words. Of course I’m kidding. I’d spend all day sleeping.

What have you got for leftovers in your fridge? One giant bowl of pasta salad, beef stew, assorted ziplock containers filled with canned peaches, black beans, kiwi fruit, and something green and furry….

You get to travel back in time for one day. How far back do you go and why? I travel back to November 25, 2005 and I find a way to save her.

If you had one hour with the President, what would you say to him? I’d probably just glare at the idiot for 55 minutes before asking him how he sleeps at night.

One body part you’d never change? My lips. My bio-dad blessed me with full pouty lips and I’ve always embraced them.

Your most favorite thing about motherhood? Being called Mama and being so very needed by these amazing little creatures I once carried inside my body.

Ultra-violet rays or tan-in-a-bottle? Neutrogena sunless bronzing crème baby.

You have an unlimited expense account; what three things do you purchase first? I’d flat-out purchase our house, I’d purchase tuition to a suitable university for the Girl, (the Boy and the Papoose are members of the First Nation so they’ve got prearrangements), and lastly I’d purchase a big honkin’ RV.

Your least favorite thing about motherhood? Worrying.

It’s 10:00 p.m., do you know where your children are? Yep, last I checked they were still folding laundry and scrubbing toilets.

Ain't that the truth?

Baby loves him some tractor.

This here's my tractor. I LOVE MY TRACTOR!

I LOVE MY TRACTOR!

I LOVE MY.......zzzzzzzzz

Man, that's a rough life.