Cooking Up a Brainstorm

Mothering involves a tremendous knowledge of a variety subjects. Today it was cooking. Probably because D3 was feeling hungry.

"What do you make when you mix fruit snacks, ice cream and cucumbers?" she asked.

"Funny Salad," I answered, hoping that didn't sound tasty enough for her to want to actually make it.

"Hmmmmm. What do you make when you mix bananas, Krabby Patties and popcorn?" D3 ventured.

"Sweet Krabby Pattie Pop" I quickly replied, feeling pretty proud of that response.

"Oh," D3 said, dejected. "I'm trying to make soup, but I guess I'm just not a good cooker."

Fraidy in Waiting

Waiting is not my forte. Whether it is waiting for a baby to be born, a missionary to come home, or a football game to end, my obstetrician, a certain young man that served in South America, or my husband, can all provide corroborating testimony that in this regard, I lack even a glimpse of talent.

I believe it is because I dislike (am afraid of?) the unknown. Since the bulk of the future is unknown, the sooner it gets here, the way I see it, the better.

Today D3 and I found ourselves in one of those dreaded lingering situations. As she and I sat, I tried to console ourselves, "Waiting is no fun, huh?"

"What? No, Mom. I love it. I just like to sit here...in the quiet and the peace. It's fun."

Proof that she was switched at birth continues to grow.

Search and Eager

This morning, D3 was unable to find the Band-Aids®. Which is a shock because we have a gallon-sized Ziploc of 1,879 of the life-saving stickers.

I admit that the quantity of Band-Aids® in our home is enough to supply a small country for the remainder of 2011. But I can't help but buy more when they are on sale and I have a coupon that will be doubled at the cash register. These continued purchasing decisions of the minuscule patches are based on adrenaline and are irrespective of our overflowing home inventory. (Acknowledgment is the first step.)

My only real mistake was to organize them and place all 1,879 of them in a single bag. Because as of 8:43 this morning, the said bag is AWOL.

Undeterred, D3 came up with a search plan.

"We'll split up!" she ordered with the pointer on her right hand denoting east and the pointer on her left, directing west.

I couldn't help but crack a smile. D3 noticed.

"Mom, it works all the time on Scooby Doo," she assured.

Do You Adore Me? Because That Would be Super!

Most of my children are teenagers or are in the process of evolving into that species. In part this means they will no longer admit, despite my awesomeness, that I am the most amazing person they know. I don't necessarily need the verbal accolades, but some respect for the assistance I can provide them would be nice. For example, allowing me more than ten seconds to help them with their math homework before cutting me off mid-sentence and refusing to listen any further - that would be something new and fun to try.

So while giving birth to a tail-ender like D3 at the ripe old age of 37 was torture on my hip joints, it has since proved to be very good for the ego. Because D3 is still miles away from the dreaded teen-age years.

Yesterday, I was "helping" D3 clean her room. This means she picks up one toy for every 27 that I put away. I sent her to put a cup in the kitchen while I continued to work on the myriad of miniature Polly Pocket accessories, Barbie sandals, and Happy Meal toys. When she finally returned, her room had seemingly been transformed right before her eyes.

"Mom!" she shouted in amazement, "Are you some kind of superhero or something?"

Why yes! I am! Thank you for noticing.

It should be no wonder to her older siblings why I act like she's my favorite.

I Wan Fwen Fwies

When D3 was born I insisted that I was going to raise her as a vegetarian. For the first few months no one gave me much trouble, except in theory. I suppose it is possible that the lack of conflict was due to the fact that her life was sustained by milk alone for those first few months.

However, as she grew, we naturally starting adding solids to her diet. And the pressure from my family to let her decide whether or not to be a vegetarian for herself increased. I argued that I could raise her to smoke cigarettes too and when she is older, let her decide for herself if she wanted to be a smoker or not. That logic, to me seemed perfectly sane, and yet the reasoning escaped DH and my childrens' thought processes entirely.

When D3 was 1 year-old, DH "accidentally" fed her a chicken nugget. When I found out I was furious. However, with increased pressure, I soon relented and let them feed her animal flesh. Her diet has increasingly deteriorated from there.

However, I had not realized to what degree the deterioration had occurred until I went to fill a prescription at Rite Aid via the drive through. Or at least I attempted to fill the prescription.
D3 was settled comfortably in the back seat of the car, when we pull up in the covered drive-thru lane. I believe it was the shade for the overhead cover that first alerted her to something a little abnormal in our errand running afternoon. Then she heard me roll down the window as the outside traffic noise became more apparent.

"I wan fwen fwies!" she yelled.

"Hello?" the pharmacist asked.

"I wan fwen fwies!" she repeated.

"Hi," I began, "I'd like-"

"I wan fwen fwies!!"

"Sorry. I'm needing to-"

"I wan fwen fwies!!!"

"I came from the doctor's office and I have a -"

"Fwen fwies!!!!" "I wan fwen fwies!!!!"

"Um..." I briefly contemplated my limited options.

"I WAN FWEN FWIES!"

"You know what? I'll come back, in a few minutes-"

"FWEN FWIES! I WAN FWEN FWIES!!!!" She continued. All the way to McDonald's.

A Picture's Worth Three Words

One of my necklaces has a photo holder charm, inside of which I have a small picture of DH. The photo was taken on vacation, and with his relaxed face framed with an uncommon-for-him and slightly sexy goatee, the picture has become one of my favorites.

Tonight when I leaned over to zip D3's pajamas, she spotted the necklace and shouted in surprise,

"Is that Dad?"

"Yes," I confirmed, "Isn't he cute?"

"No!" she exclaimed while looking at me like I had just suggested she drive the car.

"I'm cute," she emphatically corrected.

Folks, it Doesn't Get Much Worse Than This

This afternoon my cell phone rang.

"Hello, Tonia!" I answered my neighbor's call energetically, after noticing the caller id.

"Mom, it's me, "D2 clarified.

"Why are you calling?" I asked.

"D3's ears are hurting her. I think it is because you never clean them and now they are all dirty inside."

"Ok, I'll come right home," I promised, as I began to wonder what my neighbor thinks about babies with dirty ears.

"And why are you calling me from Tonia's house anyway," I mistakenly inquired before she had a chance to hang up.

"You never paid our phone bill, so all our cell phones were shut off today," she shouted, although no one ever has any trouble hearing her at her normal volume.

"All right then. Thanks, Sweetie," I mumbled as I pushed the receiver closer to my ear hoping no one around me could hear her.

"So you're coming home? And you are going to look at D3's dirty ears?"

"Yes. Love."

"And you'll pay the phone bill and get our phones turned back on?" she repeated.

"Of course, Sweetie," I replied.

Then I listened to D2 hang up. I imagined my neighbor kindly smiling as D2 handed the borrowed phone (one with a paid-up bill) back to her and then I expect she gently walked D2 and her little sister with the dirty ears to the her front door, all the while full of pity for the neglected little ones.

Boogers Bug-her

While driving in the car, D3, buckled in her lounge recliner/car seat, suddenly shouted, "Mom!"

It is a little odd to me that someone so young calls me by that name. Even D2 and D1 still call my "Momma" and "Mommy". I am fairly certain that "Mom" is something your children call you when they become arrogant teenagers. Not when they turn two and start to talk.

Since I was driving and focused intently on the snowy winter roads, I ignored the salutation.

"Mom!" she shouted again - very distinctly. I continued to drive.

"Mom! she burst with even more gusto.

"What, Sweetie?" I finally replied.

"Here! Hold this for me," she demanded.

Musing to myself at her unusually mature speech, I briefly glanced over my shoulder to see what she needed to me hold. However, I declined taking the little "gem" she had pulled from inside her nose that was perched at the tip of her finger.

Spoiled Dinner

With an uncanny ability to speak with skills that would not normally be expected of a 28-month old, D3 often elicits chuckles as we hear ourselves in someone who is only 30 inches tall.

The other night D3 and I sat at the kitchen bar eating dinner. As she crawled up, down and around the eating area, I cautioned her that she needed to remain seated and hold still. But she continued to fidget, oblivious to my advice.

Eventually her fork fell off her plate and tumbled to the floor. With an animated look of surprise, she crawled off the edge of the counter and back onto her bar stool. There she perched on all fours and peered down to the floor from the rattan seat.

I sat in silence watching her think. Soon she looked up at me, shook her head, and distinctly confessed,

"That's not good."

I Am a Great Parent (BYKT)

Tonight I am the proud owner, or at least custodian, of two additional cell phones. While I already have a cell phone of my own, in this world of technological advances, three must surely be better than one. What I plan to do with them comes later. First, I must divulge how they came into my possession.

This afternoon D1 and S1 were specifically assigned to watch, tend, and otherwise care for precious, helpless, baby D3 during two one-hour shifts. When I arrived after their two hour split shift, I found the front hall table's contents strewn across the floor, adjacent to which were broken glass shards from a dropped jar candle. Piano books from the piano bench were placed along the stairs. I followed their path passed the kitchen where the pencil tray had been dumped out of the drawer onto the floor. Then I heard my D3's jibber jabber, so down the hallway I traversed into my bedroom. There she sat in a pile of pillows from my custom made (read expensive non-washable fabrics and trims) master bedding, smelling less-than-fresh.

After changing a diaper and enlisting S1 and D1's assistance in picking up the house and sweeping up broken glass, I sat contemplating a strategic response.

"I will take your cell phone now," I offered with an outstretched hand to S1 while he played on the PS3.

"Why?" asked S1 completely clueless as to how painful this was going to be.

"Because you failed in your responsibility to tend the baby, your cell phone privileges has been temporarily suspended," I explained.

A similar conversation was then held with D1 upstairs.

Now while this all happened only a couple hours ago, S1 and D1 have already asked if I was serious and when they get their phones back.

Naturally I am as serious. Completely serious. But that doesn't mean I don't plan to have a little fun. I understand that they are very concerned about their friends having no knowledge as to their unfortunate predicament. I assured them, that I will personally answer and respond to all calls and text messages. Somehow this has not had much of a calming affect.

I expect it to go something like this:

Friend Text: Where r u?
My reply on behalf of my dear child: DIKU
Friend Text: AYSOS
My reply on behalf of my dear child: Sorry OT. Have u heard of POS? PIR? PAW? PAL? or P911?
Friend Text: Yeah. WYP
My reply on behalf of my dear child: Oh, NP. BTW this is more of a PICOCP
Friend Text: PICOCP???
My reply on behalf of my dear child: Exactly! LOL. CYL.

IMHO, I am so on track for Mother-of-the-Year award, B4N!

Text Speak Dictionary
(for those of us not born after 1990):

BYKT = But you knew that
DIKU = Do I know you?
AYSOS = Are you stupid or something?
OT = Off topic
POS = Parents over shoulder
PIR = Parents in room
PAW = Parents are watching
PAL = Parents are listening
P911 = Parent alert
WYP = What's your problem?
NP = No problem
BTW = By the way
PICOCP = Parent in Control of Cell Phone (I made this one up, pure genius doncha think?)
LOL = Laughing Out Loud
CYL = See you later
INHO = In my humble opinion
B4N = Bye for now

Holy Guacamole!

10:15 A.M. - I begin loading the dishwasher as D3, who is freshly changed and dressed for the day, is in her high chair finishing breakfast.

10:21 A.M. - "Mom," D2 interjects, "Where did D3 get guacomole?"

I glance over at D3 who has wiggled out of her belt fastener and is standing in her high chair with a greenish, creamy, slighly clumpy, glob on her hand.

Let me just say that while the resemblance was uncanny, it was not guacamole. And I have no plans for eating Mexican for lunch.

10:22 A.M. - I begin a major diaper overhaul on D3.

10:45 A.M. - The "guacamole" outfit is rinsed and placed in the washing machine.

11:05 A.M. - The "guacamole" baby is given a bath and redressed for the day.

11:45 A.M. - We were right back where we started.

Only now it was time to consider what was for lunch. And the dishwasher was still not loaded. And this is why I get nothing noticeably accomplished in a day.

Some More and Laughter

I've always been a sucker for before and after shots. Whether it is a weight loss story or a home rennovation, they can be inspiring. However, with one-year olds it seems to work in reverse:

BEFORE

and
AFTER

Liza Look-alike

While I have suspected the resemblance for some time, these photos prove my suspicion. Born seven years after our "baby," last summer we were blessed with a new baby in the family. Just like Liza, our D3 is beautiful. And the similarities don't stop there. The most obvious, of course, is that each has a beautiful and famous mom. Okay, I admit, I'm no Judy Garland, not even close. But D3 is a deadringer for Liza, and like Liza, D3 is also the center of attention wherever she goes.

We have known D3 to be a show stopper almost since the day she was born. DH did not believe me one morning last June when I said today is the day I'm having this baby. He had a restaurant only one week from opening and knew the baby could wait until after opening day. So off he drove, 40 miles away. Thank goodness for a believing neighbor with a car that drove me to the hospital later that afternoon. And if DH was irritated and annoyed at having to leave contractors unsupervised, abandon a to-do list ten pages long, and then drive through rush hour traffic to come to the hospital for the baby's birth, I didn't notice it. Not at all.

My two rules are that he be present for conception and then again for the delivery. After all, that really isn't asking much.

As I reflect on the past 11 months, I've come to realize that D3 isn't so much of a show stopper as a show starter. It has been constant fanfare since that day last June, and I am happy just to be somewhere in the credits.