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)

Poop in the Kennel and Love In My Heart

One year ago today I was beginning the best day of my life. Big JAR was excitedly timing my contractions while I tried to pretend I was calm and collected. He rubbed my belly and said over and over, "this is it, we're having a baby today!"

Today I am the only one awake, picking pieces of excrement out of the dog kennel. No one is cheering for me or wishing me luck. Instead of shining with adoration, Big JAR's eyes will be heavy with sleep. He might mutter, "good morning" or "did you feed the dogs?"

Despite this, as I slurp my coffee and get ready for a day of meetings I consider myself beyond lucky.

Happy birthday, cupcake. I love you.

A Letter To My One-Year-Old

Baby JAR,

Soon you will be one. It's incomprehensible to me how one year has passed so quickly. When you were a newborn, middle-aged women would see you, sigh, and say, "enjoy this, it goes too fast." I believed them at the time, but I couldn't grasp it. Couldn't really imagine you being anything but this tiny, clenched little person balled against my chest. Now I have a sneaking suspicion that I will be that wistful woman in the grocery store before I can say hormone replacement therapy.

The day you were born was truly the best day of my life. I was a little sad knowing that I would never feel you roll around in my belly again, but I could not believe how much more amazing it was to hold you and look into your dark eyes. I spent the first week of my maternity leave just staring at you. I said little prayers on the hour, thanking God for choosing me to be your mom. Disbelief. Awe. Joy. Gratitude. Heart-stopping-bursting-swelling, do-anything-for-you love. And that doesn't even begin to describe it.

Today you are practically a toddler. You are beginning to take cautious uneven steps before falling onto the thick padding of your cloth diaper. You say cccchh for cat, numnumnum for food, nien for no, mama for mama, dadadada for daddy, dogs, and pretty much any other noun. You love music. Every moment is the right moment to dance if the music moves you. I love that about you. You are fascinated by buttons, levers, plugs, and knobs. It doesn't take long for you to figure out how things work. You love your dogs. Marley and Mabel are your best pals. I love to watch you hold out a teething biscuit, let each dog have a little lick or bite, grin widely, and then pop it back into your own mouth.

I hope that you keep that love of animals. I am of the opinion that animal lovers are good people. Be good people.

I hope that you spend more of your time and thought on relationships than on material things.

I hope that you learn how to laugh at yourself. Loudly. It will make your life so much easier. Not to mention more amusing. 

I hope that whatever you choose to do, you improve the world in some small way. Create something. Build, sculpt, write, paint a picture or a house, make music, recycle, pick a worm off of the sidewalk and put it back in the dirt, make a joke, smile, surprise people with kindness.

And know that whatever you do with your life, I will love you ferociously. Always.

I love you.
Mommy

 

Antlerectomy

Today I discovered one of my students crawling down the hallway, navigating a sea of transitioning fifth-graders. I quickly hid my irritation (because that's what I do) and squatted down beside him.

"What's going on, buddy?"
"I'm a reindeer. I don't have antlers because they were surgically removed."

My job is ridiculous. Merry Christmas.

Real Adults Don't Buy Fast Food Breakfast with Dirty Coins

Confession: Despite the fact that I have local and organic produce delivered to my door every week, I occasionally patronize a nearby fast food drive-through for a quick breakfast. I purchase this breakfast with the coins living in the console of my car.

This morning was one of those mornings. I barely had time to put on pants and I definitely did not have time for breakfast. So I found myself in the drive-through. Now I know that there is virtually nothing good about fast food, but here's what I like--it is right on the way to work. It is fast. It is cheap. Aaaaand there is a surprisingly attractive man (okay boy, well, at least 19 or 20, at least) working the window. Kookookachoo Mrs. Robinson. I am happily married. I do not entertain any notions of a tryst with a young fast food worker. But I would rather have a cute boy give me my breakfast than say, a not-so-cute boy.

So I paid for my breakfast sandwich with console coins, per usual. I don't think I've mentioned that I also store old toe and fingernail clippings in this console. I like to pick at my nails. And I don't like to litter. So I put the nail pieces in the console with the intention of throwing them away when I get home. This never happens.

I hand cute drive-through boy my change. I watch him look down at the coins and then he cringes with mild horror, repulsion, or maybe disgust. Because of course I paid cute boy with old quarters and a big, nasty toenail. Why wouldn't I do that? So I laugh maniacally and speed away. What else would I do? Are you kidding me? What is wrong with me? When do I become a calm and collected adult? When does that happen?