conversations in my head

So, January was lots of fun. I got to meet 50 or so bloggers in life real. It was amazing, really amazing but here are some conversations I had going on in my head:

At Cupcake 10:

-OMGosh, I can't believe we are sitting around the counter in the kitchen, surrounded by food, the entire day.
-Will people notice that I have my jeans unbuttoned?
-Are people thinking 'Wow, Anti-Supermom is much fatter in real life than I expected'
-Are people also thinking 'Anti-Supermom is a lame-o, going to bed at 10:30 at night, geesh!'

At the Minnesota Blogger Volunteer Event:

-I'm sorry if I'm wincing as I talk to you while you eat your spicy lettuce wraps
-I'm also sorry if I'm uncomfortably holding my stomach in fear that I might throw up into your glass of white wine.
-Yes, I did just steal your chair - I thought you were socializing, stop making me feel bad.

So, I'm *not* (I hope) fatter than you expected, I actually really like food, wine and people, I can usually handle staying up until midnight or so and yes, I still prefer to sit over standing for long periods of time, the real deal is I'm pregnant.

Baby number 3 (or pregnancy number 4, however you want to look at it) is due August 28th. Thanks for following me on this adventure of taking care of 5 kids, 6 and under 4 days a week (pray for me!).

And I do appreciate not losing any followers (for the past 2 weeks at least) because I haven't been the best bloggy friend. A friend visits your bloggy neighborhood and says 'hi', I promise I will again, after the thought of being on the computer and staring at a 7" screen stops making my stomach hurl.

Hugs and all that sappy stuff,
Anti-Supermom and baby!

practical

Over the course of 15 years of Valentines together (minus a few where we were 'on a break', arguing or resisting the commercialism of said holiday sticking to a budget) my husband has figured out that I'm a pretty practical girl that likes well, practical things. Please forgo the mushiness of sappy greeting cards of footprints in the sand, couples walking hand and hand into the distance... you get the picture.

So, what do I get from Henry this year:

Picked out by my six year old, even after much pressure from my husband that 'maybe a simpler card would be more suitable', Henry insisted this was the card for me. (I imagine it must have been the 'tougher love of correction' and the 'rougher love of hard truth' that spoke to him.)

And what did my dearest get me this Valentines Day, a practical potted plant of tulips.

He knows me so well.

knowing

I don't want to blog about this but if I don't, I can't move forward. I can't think of anything else. It's been consuming my thoughts and squeezing my heart until it aches.

A mother is suppose to know.

There is an over-diagnosed, over-medicated problem that I never wanted to be a part of, but here I am contemplating if Henry has ADD. I've heard what his preschool teacher said last year 'he dazes off like he isn't listening... you have to repeat instructions to him several times'. I get it, I do, but he's only 6 years old. He's a boy. Boys are just like that.

Right?

I don't want to be another one of those mothers who thinks labeling the problem fixes it.

And now we are getting emails, the same story. "He talks too much... he doesn't listen... please work with him at home".

We are. We have never *not*.

Maybe we as a society are expecting too much from school aged children, cramming into their little brains all that they can before SAT and 'school' progress reports, hoping that our children can stop acting like children during the hours of 9am-3:30pm and start remembering that school is their job.

Here I am confident that we made the right choice for Henry going into an immersion school, because it's more physical, there is more movement, he gets to get out of his chair, but then I get crushed by another voice: 'maybe it's the school's problem, not Henry's'.

Maybe they are right.

A mother doesn't always know.

WW - further proof

My kid is a weirdo. Seriously, what 2 year old like V-8?

it gets better

I walked into Wyatt's bedroom this morning, wondering why he was still asleep at 8:30am. I peered over his bed to see him wrapped up in this yellow and black Iowa Hawkeye blanket naked (cue the bad flashback to college days). He held between his arms, pajamas; snuggling up to them like it was his favorite blankie. But it gets better...

Underneath his naked body was his diaper, ripped off as he commonly likes to do these days. Not just any diaper, one filled with poop. Besides him, in his bed, is a dirty wipe, that I can only assumed he grabbed from his changing table and decided to 'clean himself up with' after such a messed was created. (Yes, my child is one for personal hygiene). But it gets better...

He kept telling me that he needs "new pajamas". I'm insistent, "No, it's time to get up, you need to get dressed". He continued on about 'new pajamas' as I continued on pulling off all the sheets, the blankets, surveying the bed for poop. But it gets better...

I throw the bundle into the laundry and return to his room to pick out some clothing for the day. Wyatt is still standing behind me yapping on and on about 'new pajamas'. I rolled my eyes and opened his underwear/pajama drawer. On top of all of his previously clean pajamas and underwear is his pajamas from last night, the ones that he took off after he pooped in his diaper. See, he successfully managed to cover his pajamas in poop too, take them off, put them back into his drawer and pull out the clean pajamas that he was snuggling with this morning when I found him.

I turned around to look at Wu, he looked at me with his big, blue saucer eyes and casually said "see, new pajamas!"

The two's...

it does get better, right?

birthday wishes

Each classmate in Henry's class made him a picture for his birthday. The teacher stapled all the drawings together into this great little keepsake book. I was flipping through it again recently, admiring the details. It's filled with cute pictures drawn by the hands of 5 and 6 year olds, how can anything get much more precious than that?

It includes pictures like this


and this


and this...


wait, did you notice something in the upper right hand corner?


Oh, that's right - the devil's number, 666.

I'll be sure to keep this as evidence since it is obviously just too adorable; 'Happy Birthday, Henry from Your Friend, future school-bomb-note kid'.

sometimes I suck

Sometimes I suck at being a mom. For all of you that didn't comment on my birthday parties are out of control post, this is one post where you can come in and leave a comment about how 'I told you so!'.

Henry's only invited 9 of his friends to his birthday party, which seems pretty small when I have a distinct memory of inviting every child in my Kindergarten class and guess where I had it at: McDonald's. That's right, my love of McDonald's runs deep and long.

But anyway, Henry invited 9 kids. They sat down at the table decorated with Clone Wars paper plates. I added pretzels and said 'we were going to sing and have cake next'. One little boy looks up and say 'is this all we are eating?'

Love all that kid honesty.

Upon leaving, another friend of Henry's asked Henry for his 'goodie bag'. Henry looked at him blankly and turned to my husband. My husband looked at his friend and said "Sorry to tell you, Bud, we don't have goodie bags, but thank you for coming".

Under his breath he said "tell your Mom to start reading Henry's Mom's blog" (not really).

Got that, the math on that is *2 out of 9* complained about something. 22%, that's a pretty high*sucky mom* percentage.

When we returned home from Henry's party, my husband announced next year he's putting himself in charge of the goodie bags.

So this year, I sucked as a mom, but next year I guess I'll be taking the credit I'll be handing our goodie bags in an attempt to lower my sucky mom percentage (thanks to my husband).

Actually, this might have worked out perfectly.