Cows Have Four Stomachs

Sitting at the dinner table watching Baby JAR chew bites of chicken and then spit them out. Over and over and over again.

Big JAR: "It's amazing how little food he actually consumes."

Me: "He's like a cow, just chewing his cud."

Baby JAR: "Moooo."

Memories for Mother's Day

My top memories for Mother's Day...

5. You know that boy I fell madly in love with in high school? The free spirit that eschews conformity and now lives on a bus (or so I've heard)? Well, remember when he ditched me on prom night to go hang out with his new girlfriend? You and dad were out of town that night. I had strict instructions to spend the night with a friend and her physically present parents. But I skipped out on the adult supervision and went back to our empty house to sob and watch "Who's the Boss" reruns on TBS. You came home earlier than expected and I was sure that I'd be in trouble. Instead you took one look at my face and just gave me a hug. Thanks mom. 

4. One time--during my "Bread and Jam for Frances" phase--you let me make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with no peanut butter and ALL jelly. That was awesome.

3. You pretended not to notice all those nights I stayed up past my bedtime to read books by my nightlight.

2. You and dad kissing and dancing in the kitchen, walks around Green Lake, toys that encouraged imaginary play, bike rides around the neighborhood, no more than 30 minutes of PBS after school, vegetables with every dinner, no sugar cereal or soda, limits, high expectations, three amazing sisters for playmates, consistency, and unconditional love. Because of you I had an amazing childhood.

1. Remember when I gave birth to my son? He came out red-faced, screaming, and completely perfect? The nurse whisked him away to be weighed, swaddled, etc. Everyone ran off to admire that amazing little baby. Except you. You stayed next to me and held my hand while the midwife put me back together. I love you, mom.

Penny Got Knocked Up By Robby the Creep--What?

Dirty Dancing really spoke to my third grade soul. I never understood what was going on with that Penny character, but I can't say that I cared. I only had eyes for Baby. I  pretended that my Payless canvas knock-offs were real Keds. I put on my denim shorts and tied my white mandarin collared blouse from China (thanks Gramps!) in a knot above my bellybutton. I dreamed of a boy lifting me in the air by my delicate waist. I forced my youngest sister to watch me dance gracefully to "The Time of My Life" and cheer at all the dramatic pauses. I persuaded the neighbor boy to meet me in the hedge. I kissed him. He screamed and ran away. Johnny he was most decidedly not.

Operation Labrador Retriever Retrieval

Marley and Mabel ran away this morning. Fifteen minutes before I was supposed to be at work. This probably puts us at 103 successful escapes since baby JAR was born.

(They ran away on my first day home from the hospital. I was alone. With a two day old infant in my arms and ice packs in my hospital underwear. A kind neighbor tied them together with rope and dragged them to my house. I almost didn't answer the door.)

At this point we are all comfortable with our roles in the "Operation Labrador Retriever Retrieval."

Big JAR's role is to be at work, blissfully unaware of the situation. The dogs wouldn't dream of such flagrant disrespect on his watch. They only run away when I'm on duty. For a teacher on the school district's behavior team, I am an embarrassingly ineffectual dog trainer. I like to wave my arms around and shriek while they jump all over me. They clearly missed the memo stating my authority.

(Another humiliating parenthetical aside--We had a Jack Russell terrier when I was growing up. One day he walked over to me, sniffed, lifted his leg and peed on my ankle. What the hell is that about? Do dogs see me as some sort of mammalian post to mark? A walking, shrieking tree trunk in which to desecrate? I choose not to think about this anymore.)

Baby JAR's role is to run up and down the hallway, waving his hands, yelling, "muh, muh, muh!" (roughly translates to "Marley and Mabel are loose, oh my!). His second task is to find his coat and drape it around his neck like a fleece superhero cape. He gets the concept of wearing a coat, he's just not a detail guy yet.

My job is to curse like a sailor. Then I remember that I am now a mother so I clap my hand over my mouth and say something insincere like, "Oh it's okay. Mommy just feels frustrated because the doggie-woggies ran away again. Uh-oh!" I throw that toddling superhero on my hip, go out to the driveway, and bellow for the dogs. They never come when I bellow. Another important component of my role is the uniform. The dogs never run away when I am wearing a bra or real pants. I am typically decked out in my sister's ex-boyfriend's old sweatpants and a saggy tank top--my necklines all gap, gape, and hang in an unattractive manner because I am constantly yanking my tired boobs out through the top.

So I throw a sweatshirt over this fine ensemble and hit the road. I open the car windows and we roll through the town at 10 mph, calling the dogs, "Marley, Mabel, Muh-Muh!" If I see an unsuspecting pedestrian, I like to roll to a creepy stop and ask them if they've seen my moronic dogs. I'm beginning to worry about the impression I am giving the middle school students waiting at their bus stop. "Have you seen my dogs? Do you like candy? Come into my van, little one... [insert creepy cackle]." (Of course I'm kidding. I wouldn't dream of driving a van.)

Eventually I find my damn dogs. They are usually running side by side in the middle of the road, tongues lolling, ears blown straight back, covered in river water, mud and God knows what else. The ungrateful beasts get thrown in the trunk (don't worry, it's a hatchback) and we head home.

They are lucky I am morally opposed to animal abuse. (And I love the hairy imbeciles.)

I have no actual photographs of their escapes because I am always too angry to think of commemorating the event. But if you look at this picture and imagine asphalt instead of grass, take away the ball, and add a chocolate lab, it's just about perfect.

Free Words For My Mom

Slurping from a $2.49 bottle of pinot grigio. It has a woodsy aroma with frugal undertones. I dig it. I should be writing articles. Writing words that will earn me a nominal bit of money. Not words that only my mother reads for free. (I love you, mom.) But the paid words are dry and tedious. Unlike my wine. My wine is dry with bracing acidity. Not at all tedious.

I wish that this was my idea. It isn't. I found it here.

Mommy Cry it Out Sleep Training or How Long Does it Take to Hard Boil an Egg?

I would cry it out but I think I'm too tired.

Bone aching, jaw clenching, my feet weigh 12 pounds a piece, I can't pretend to be nice anymore tired.

Two nights ago I wanted to hard boil eggs for an upcoming dinner (Cobb salad). I brought the water to a boil, threw in the eggs, put on the lid, and turned it to simmer. I set a timer for 20 minutes and went about the monotonous routine that is my evening (wash diapers, stuff diapers, thaw breast milk, pack baby JAR's "lunch box," prep coffee, dishes, shower, etc.). I finish my routine and go to bed.

Fast forward to 3 am. Something smells God awful. Sick diarrhea awful. I pat baby JAR's bottom to check for leakage. He's fine. I decide that the diaper can wait. I go back to sleep and have a dream that baby JAR gets debilitating diaper rash due to my gross negligence. This is upsetting but still fails to rouse me from bed. The smell gets markedly worse throughout the early morning hours. I sleep.

6:30 am and it's time to begin my equally monotonous morning routine (turn on coffee pot, feed and potty dogs, use little pencils and brushes to enhance my beauty, etc.). I change baby JAR's diaper. There is no poop. I'm puzzled. I head to the coffee pot. The smell is so strong the air practically shimmers with it. I am startled to see the little blue flames shooting from the burner of my stove. Of course I left the eggs on simmer all night--600 minutes to a hard, hard boil. 

The water was completely gone and the eggs were, in a word, amazing. Black, hard and rubbery, like fossilized prehistoric chicken eggs. I'm not sure if there was a chicken-like dinosaur, but I surely recreated it's offspring. Simultaneously horrified and elated with my near-death experience, I placed the eggs on our mantle. This is tangible evidence of my exhaustion. An homage to my attempt at full-time working motherhood. Look at me. I'm sleepy.

I'm sad to say I threw my fossil eggs in the trash before I thought to take a picture, but this is clearly the mama of my eggs. She's probably tired too.

Foster The People - Pumped Up Kicks (dance jam of the morning)