the main course

May 23rd is my surrogate son's birthday (wish him a happy belated birthday if you can). Of course, this time makes me reminisce his birth and all the excitement and joy that filled it....

but there is one little bit of information that I held back in my story of his birth.

As I was nearing 10cm, grabbing onto the bedside bars, trying my hardest not to think about wanting to pushing, my husband decided to go for a walk. A walk outside the hospital, a few blocks outside of the hospital, a few blocks outside of the hospital talking on his cell phone. Yes, my husband was unreachable, talking on his cell phone to our friend from Seattle, all messages going straight to voice mail. Him, physically blocks away from me who was about to give birth to another person's child.

I told the nurse that I needed my husband (At this point, I had no idea that he had gone on a walk that far). I started to cry.

The nurse looked all over the maternity floor. I gave her his cell phone number, which she called and left messages and finally, she paged him over the hospital speaker (which she informed me they never, ever do. Yes, I'm pretty certain, to the nurse, I was queen of b$tches-about-to-give-birth.

I'm teasing, she loved me, I think...).

Lucky, my husband walked in the door without missing the birth. All was good, we laugh about it today. Ha-ha. (See, funny.)

So as I reminisce about my surrogate son's birth tonight, eating my volunteer dinner at the hospital cafe, I smile as I see a pager sitting on the table of a family waiting to see the lights flash, the buzzer buzz, letting them know that baby is about to come.

Best idea ever.

It totally make me think giving birth is a like dining out at the Timber Lodge Steakhouse, but whatever, I'd be completely happy if I could get a pager and make reservations for having a baby too, as long as that meant this time, my husband would definitely be sticking around for the main course.



And again Happy Belated Birthday, to E&D's main course, Ari.

nod and agree

It's that time of year again, where moms and their children spend the 'witching hours' between the end of nap time and Daddy's home time outside.

We were at the park with several other moms whom I only know as so-and-so's mom (why do we do this, by the way? I can't remember that last time that I introduced myself before my children).

Small talk between me and mom-with-only-her-child's name-attached-to her-face starts:

"Oh, I love this weather, we can finally be outside."
I nod and agree.

"These are the kind of days that we can spend the entire day outside."
I nod and agree.

"The only thing I don't like is spending so much of their time outside means a bath every night."
I nod and agree.

Except on the inside I'm going - Are you crazy? I can't imagine giving my two children a bath every. single. night. I don't have the time, the patience or the even the desire to keep my children that clean.

Seriously, I've had this 'small talk' conversation at least three times already this Spring, leading me to believe that all mothers out there are giving their children nightly baths (causing me to pretend that I do the same, to spare my children the embarrassment of having such a lazy mother and I've already told you, I'm a horrible liar).

Please don't tell me I'm the only one that doesn't give their child a bath every single night when the sun sets later than 5 pm.





If I am, just nod and agree.

guess who's wearing underwear

and aren't they the freakin' cutest, tiniest things that you have ever seen.







P.S. In case you aren't sure, it's Wyatt. My hands are not ginormous, the underwear is just really that tiny.

P.S.S. Yes, ginormous is a real word.

P.S.S.S No, I'm not crazy. Ginormous was added to Webster's dictionary in 2007. (Maybe that in itself is a little crazy though.)

P.S.S.S.S Could I have used more post scripts?

truth in advertising

One of my favorite bloggers of all time posted this story that I fell in love with, amazed by, so much so that I told my husband about it; "Can you believe it?" "What a great story." It was fabulous... and two months later I found out it was completely fictional.

Who the heck cares. Blog what you want to blog, I say. If you want to write about swimming across the Thames River, naked, awesome. If you want to blog about sliding down a side of a non-dormant volcano, face-first, very cool.

I'd probably believe you.

I'm gullible like that and I'm a horrible liar (I get this nervous tummy thing that goes on until I spill the beans, so it's way better for me just to let it out than feel all gassy for days on end). My blog is about the real me (and of course, my children), so here you have it:

Who My Mom Is

from the mouth of my five-year-old, written by his preschool teacher (using his 'words') with commentary from yours truly.

Let's take a closer look at this:

The truth is that when my children are not around, I nap. I curl up on the couch, me and my blanket and sleep. There is no shame in a great nap. I get the laundry done too, but childless time spent doing laundry is just wasted napping time. We've all heard the good motherly advice; waste not, want not.

Yes, because the 3-4 hours a week I spend not at the beckon call of my children but volunteering (read not paid) at the hospital is WAY more of a job than the one I do the remaining 164 hours a week as a mother/child care provider.

This is because this is the only time of the day he see me without ketchup, baby food, milk stains or possibly poop on me.

I've blogged about McDonalds a million times even my children know it. Seriously, when are they going to send me gifts instead of McMommy. (Just kidding, McMommy.)

Obviously, he doesn't know about my Anti-Supermom gig. This is totally going to ruin my reputation.

fistful of flowers

We were holding hands as we left the doors of Henry's preschool (I take full opportunity to hold his hand when he lets me because I know someday he will be too big, too old, too cool, too something to hold my hand). Henry lets go of my hand and runs into the grass to pull flowers before climbing into the van. What mother doesn't know the feeling that a fistful of dandelions will do to a heart?

As we pull into the garage, Wyatt starts kicking in his car seat, screaming "Be done, Be done!". Wyatt proceeds, with an obvious agenda on his mind, to climb out of the car as quickly as his two-year-old legs will allow him, run to the front lawn and pull his own bouquet of yellow flowers .

I tell Henry that I have the perfect little vase to put their flowers in. Henry fill the glass vase with water from the bathroom sink and shoves his little yellow treasures into the glass. I tell Wyatt to add his.

I should have know better.

This brings on a full screaming tantrum of needing "Wu-Wu's water!". "Mine, Mine!".

My solution is to go into the cupboard, hand him a little, red, plastic sippy cup to put his flowers into. He proceeds to ask politely scream at me to add water. I do so and he happily walks away, two hands on his cup full of flowers, proud to be like his older brother.

A few minutes later, Henry runs up to me. "Wu is drinking the water from the flowers!" being the lazy wise mother that I am, I tell Henry that I'm sure he'll only drink a little bit.

Satisfied, Henry walks away from the kitchen. Wyatt walks in. He has his dandelions smashed into the bottom of the cup and I should have known better, the water, completely gone. He had drank all of his 'dandelion juice'.

I take away his cup with dandelion remains of yellow petals and milky stems, that motherly feeling of a fistful of flowers doesn't quite settle into my heart, but more into the bottom of my stomach.

To his credit, his 'vase' was a little, red, plastic sippy cup. He's no idiot, he knows what a sippy cup is really used for, but me, I completely should have known better.

My giveaway for got milk? stuff is going on until Monday.

What's that? I have something on my upper lip?

The curse of being brunette.

I have a vivid memory of my 5th grade best friend laughing at me as she noticed my hairy (even in the 5th grade, people) upper lip shimmering in the sun's rays coming through our small school bus window. (I spent the remainder of my busing years looking out of said window, praying that I would soon be old enough for my school permit and therefore able to drive myself to school without further 'notice' of my hairy upper lip.) Yes, me and my mustache have a long history together.

But this post isn't about hairy lipped mustaches, but it's about the milky kind. Support my good ol' Iowa, milk farmin' background and leave me a comment about how good I look in a mustache which I was forced to darken for you to completely visualize (or just leave me a comment if you want a chance to win a great prize pack with an envy-inspiring got milk t-shirt, a hat, frisbee, lanyard and more).

For those in the Twin Cities area get your own, free mustache (of the milky kind) photograph. Click here for details on the family-friendly, fun and free The got milk? tour going on in 2 weeks. Did I mention it's free?

too cute

I'm a sucker for a printed diaper, apparently Wyatt is as well. As I put on these new little polka-dot green and blue diapers, I shrieked with delight, "Wu, these are too cute!" Wyatt toddle-runs out of the bedroom to show Daddy exclaiming "too cute" and then to Henry still in the bathtub "see too cutes?".

Instead of calling them diapers, he now calls them "too cutes".

Yesterday, he grabbed a couple of these diapers out of the cabinet, handed them to the other toddler I watch and asked him if he wanted a "too cute?" He's a proud little peacock in his too cutes. He pulls down his pants sporadically throughout the day to examine his too cutes, making sure that they are, in fact, still there; he points to them, looks up at me and smiles.

After all the sucky luck I've had with Target brand diapers (and yes, I know that they are Target brand, re-branded to be called Up and Up, shamelessly suckering me in with their nice $13.99 price point and their cute little introductory print), I guess that your smile makes it worth it,

that is until you wake up, diaper leaking, in a pool of pee. Pools of pee at 3 in the morning are certainly not too cute.

end of the world

To Whom It May Concern,

Consider this your warning.

I believe this is a drawing rendered by my five-year-old son exhibiting what the end of the world might look like. There are (yet again) several satellites involved that have the job of counting (and inadvertently forgetting the number 16 over and over and over). Counting what? I am not sure. As you can see, an important detail in this drawing is what there is not and that is people.

What I believe significant is the N and O written on one of the satellites (which I discussed with the artist and he told me that it was suppose to be G and O, but can we certain he is telling the truth, a semi-conscious slip?).

Consider this your warning. Since he is only five, we may have forty to fifty years to take action on his plan and time before he gets more sophisticated in his planning

unless of course, the swine flu gets us all before then.

Sincerely,
Anti-Supermom