Mom v. popcorn

Tonight, we're taking the girls to the Gardenfest of Lights. If you're from these parts, you know what I'm talking about. If you're not from these parts, you'd probably figure that it's some sort of Christmas light extravaganza in a garden somewhere. And you'd be right.

I'm packing us a picnic dinner, and I thought to myself, "Hey, I should pack us some sort of special snacky something." My friend Carrie's voice popped into my head, poetically describing white chocolate popcorn the way some describe wine. Mmmmmm. Yes. Salty sweet goodness to munch on while sipping hot chocolate and meandering through magically lit flora and fauna. That's the way I saw it in my mind's eye.

So, standing there in the big box store in front of all the popcorn, another voice pops into my head. I heard the reporter from Sunday's 60 Minutes segment called The Flavorists. These folks concoct chemicals that companies add to food to make it taste sweeter or citrusy-er or chocolatey-er so that you, sucker consumer, continue to buy the product. I stood there in front of the processed, pre-packaged popcorn thinking about what kind of fake butter flavor was in each different kind of popcorn. This project began to lose it's appeal. Then, I saw this.

One ingredient: popping corn. The directions sounded simple enough. Heat oil. Drop in a kernel. When it pops, add lots more kernels. The end. Did I mention it was cheaper? Significantly so. I bought it.

After I'd put the girls down for their nap and done some dishes, I decided now's as good a time as any. Best do this while they're asleep and I can work in peace. Out of the cabinet comes my favorite silver frying pan. Out of the pantry comes the vegetable oil. The directions said to cover the pan by an eighth of an inch. Done. Medium high heat. Done.

Now, we wait. I scanned facebook and amazon until I heard some cracklin' and sizzlin'. Open bag. Grab single kernel. Toss in oil.

Nothing happens. Hmmm. Must not be hot enough. I have a moment of clarity here. I think ahead long enough to grab a cookie sheet to place over the two right burners I wasn't using, and a small plate over the baby burner behind my favorite, silver fryer. Just in case the oil spashes a little like bacon grease or something.

That kernel was still just sitting there. I imagined it was getting pretty soggy from the grease and just wasn't going to pop now. I turned back towards the computer to give the oil a bit longer to heat up.

POP!

Gasp! It worked! That little guy popped himself right out of the oil and landed on the counter beside my stove. I picked him up and looked at him. Looked normal. Smelled normal. Didn't feel greasy at all. Then, I ate it. Not bad, not bad. Alright. Time to get down to business. As per the bags instructions, I covered the bottom of the pan with kernels.

It took about ten seconds for it to start popping and for me to realize I was in trouble. As each kernel popped, it flung hot oil out in a little trail behind it. A white comet of popcorn and hot oil. Who knows how many kernels were in that pan. Enough to cover the whole dang thing.

Oil landed on my arm as I reach for the pieces landing on the stove. It smarts. Like bacon grease or something. As I pull my shirt sleeves down to protect my arms, the kernels start popping in rapid succession.

poppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppop!

Pieces are landing everywhere, even the floor. I bend down to pick them up, and firey little trails of grease land on the part of my hair and the small of my back. The floor is becoming a a bit slick. I stand up. Oil is splattered all over the stove and the counter.

Here comes another moment of clarity. I somehow think through the popping and spitting grease to grab my colander and I slam it upside down on the pan in an attempt to contain those little suckers. That's where the clarity stops. I just stand there staring at the pan and blue plastic colander, wondering when in the world all those kernels will be done.

poppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppop!

It seemed like it would never, ever stop. The popcorn stayed contained, but the grease. The grease! It was everywhere. I finally grabbed the handle of the pan and took it off the burner and set it on the cookie sheet (thank goodness for the cookie sheet!). And still, it kept on popping.

When the popping finally (FINALLY!) stopped, my eyes landed on the wall behind my stove. My house was built in 1904, so there's no backsplash. Just wall. Look closely at the picture above. See all those grease spots? None of them existed before today. My husband will notice. My husband who doesn't do a darn thing in the kitchen will notice those grease spots and ask what happened. How will I explain this?

How will I get all this vegetable oil off the floor? And my Keurig? Oh, my poor Keurig. I'm sorry, Keurig. I love you.

And that's where we are, folks. I'm typing this at my kitchen island, staring at the mess. That greasy, popcorny mess.

Well how 'bout that

I quit smoking nine months ago. Can you believe it? It's almost like that part of me never existed. Except that it did. The really unbelievable thing about this day is that being a non-smoker is totally irrelevant.

Today I found out I have skin cancer. Isn't that funny? Not funny "ha ha." But certainly funny in the well-of-course-why-not kind of way.

Just so I'm clear, I do not have melanoma. It's basal cell carcinoma. "It's the most common form of skin cancer," the nurse said to me over the phone. My innards aren't being rapidly chewed away my this thing. Just slowly decaying. My handy dandy pamphlet from my super duper dermotologist says that it rarely spreads to other areas of the body, but that it can damage surrounding tissue. It specifically mentioned eyes. As in, this stuff growing in the general vacinity of my face could lead to loss of an eye. Why do they put stuff like that in a take-home information packet?

So, it's kind of thrown me off. And trying to form a coherent reason as to why I'm so bothered has proven difficult. It seems pretty silly to get all worked up over a cancer that's not really a cancer in the way we typically think about cancer. I should be extraordinarily thankful that this isn't melanoma. I should be happy. And I am. Kind of.

I also feel like I've gotten away with something. Or, like the worst is yet to come. I smoked. A lot. For a long time. I'm trully ashamed at the reckless way I went about life. As if my life would always be mine to do with as I pleased and that being a mother was for other people and I'd never have to answer for any of my actions.

As it turns out, being a mother wasn't just for other people. Maybe I just became one of the "other," grown-up, people. Whatever the case, my life isn't only mine. It also belongs to my children. What if, one day, I have to look my children in the eyes and tell them I have lung cancer? Ugh. It makes me sick to my stomach.

I feel guilty for something that may never happen.

CLEARLY, I need to work on forgiving myself.

I've been writing this post for 23 days. It's been a month since posting anything. This stupid little spot on the side of my neck has taken up enough of my time. It's cancer. I'm not dying. They'll cut it out after the new year. I can't beat myself up over the past. I quit smoking and that is awesome. Amazing. So, I'm done obsessing over this. I will hit the post button, and move on.

Behold

That effing cat.

"All by myself!"

She's so proud that I don't have the heart to tell her they're backwards. She can channel Kris Kross until our next potty break.

The Shaming

I don't like cats. They're aloof and slightly neurotic and I don't trust them. I'm sorry. I don't. Stop reading if it offends your feline fanaticism. I will say, no animal was harmed in the typing of this blog entry. Or ever in my life, except for that mouse that Carrie and I smooshed in a frantic attempt to catch and release it. (Yes, I get it. A cat would have been handy.)

So, there's this orange striped tiger cat that roams our neighborhood. I frequently find it on our fence, on the bumper of my Explorer, and even on my porch swing. When I spot it, I'm quick to shoo the thing away. My husband doesn't understand. Especially when I mumble, "That f*#!ing cat," under my breath.

"Have you seen a mouse since we moved in, Babe? You better start thanking that cat," he says. Humph.

A few weeks ago, the girls and I were loading into the Explorer on our way to where ever we were going. I turned the corner, baby in my arms, to find that cat laying in my hostas. Without thinking, I lunged towards it and it took off running.

Now my hostas! The porch is no longer suffient? Oh! The nerve of that cat! And who does it belong to anyway? All these thoughts run through my mind as I strap the baby in her carseat.

"Come here, Virginia. It's your turn. Let's get in the truck so we can go on a trip." She skips over to me, reaches her hands up, and as I lift her into her seat, do you know what she says to me? Straight out of the mouth of my precious child:

"That f*#!ing cat."

Just as sweet as can be. Her face turned towards me, blue eyes sparkling in the morning sun, and her perfect little mouth smiling in weird juxtaposition to her language. I was stunned "What did you just say?" I asked out of disbelief. And there it was again.

An announcer appeared behind me, dressed in a tux and holding a microphone. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Mother of the Year Award goes to...." I felt the hot, white spotlight of my daughter's innocent and unblinking blue eyes.

She just stared at me, expectantly. As if she finally found a way to make me see her as a grown-up and now we could talk about the deficit and Afghanistan over a glass of pinot. Mortified doesn't do the embarrassment justice. Nothing can.

I quickly scolded her (because she is the one who needs scolding) and poured myself into the driver's seat. That cat sat under our neighbor's walnut tree as I pulled down the driveway. It watched me. We cut eyes at each other as I put the truck in drive and pulled away. I was too indignant to say it out loud.

Thank you, cat, for teaching me a lesson.

And Babe, you were right. (Oooooh! That one hurts!)

Further proof we're unfit parents:

The Queen of No

No, we don't stand on chairs.
No, we don't eat Play-Doh.
No, we don't jump on the sofa.
No, we don't play with the light switch.
No, we don't put our hands in our milk.
No, we don't take things from your sister.
NO, YOU DO NOT PUSH YOUR SISTER DOWN.

It's all I say, all day long. No. Quit. Don't. Stop. It's exhuasting.

The other day, Amelia was screaming as I wrestled with her to get her to hold still long enough to change her diaper (why won't she just hold still?), and Virginia tried to grab a wipe. "No, Virginia, leave those alone." And now Virginia is also screaming because why can't she have a wipe?


"ONE WIPE! ONE WIPE! JUST ONE WIPE!"

Over and over again. Amelia is thrashing around on the floor, throwing a serious tantrum, because the only thing more unnacceptable than having a poopy diaper is having your poopy diaper changed. And now, the toddler is screaming.

I turned my head to look at Virginia. Her little face with those blue/green eyes tearing up because I wouldn't let her have one wipe. Is it really such an unreasonable request? The Mom Guilt washes over me.

"Ok, Virginia. Just these two." (Mom guilt.) And she stopped crying.

Why did I say no in the first place?

Because all those wipes are folded together in a neat stack by some stupid, unthinking, un-mom machine so that they fit nicely in the little plastic refill packages. Those folds overlap, so that when you grab one, you're not just grabbing one wipe, but the one that was on top of the accordion fold of wipes. What's the big deal? The big deal is, my toddler grabs the top-of-the-accordion-fold wipe and walks to the other side of the room, taking the whole stash of wipes across the floor with her. Ten feet of wet wipes across the living room floor. Now, I'm not only changing a poopy diaper, but I'm cleaning the living room and scolding my toddler. That is why I said no in the first place. Pro-active prevention.

But, WHY? Who cares if I have to pick up some wipes? It only takes a few seconds. Here's the really ugly truth.

By saying no, I have control. I have some sort of sliver of control over the total chaos of my life. I cannot control when they laugh or cry or when the destroy their books or toys or how they behave in public (no, you really can't control that, regardless of what non-parents may think). But I CAN impose limits and boudaries to rope in the chaos to a manageable level.

I said no to the wipe, which prevented her from grabbing the stack and making the trail across the floor, which prevented me from picking up the wipes and scolding my toddler, which would have led to tears ANYWAY, which would have made the baby cry EVEN LOUDER, which would have taken my blood pressure up fifty more notches, which would have made ME scream, which would have made me feel guilty, which would have made me put on Barney again to shut her up, which would have made me feel like a bad mother letting them watch so much tv, which would have led me to saying no to a second episode of Barney, which would have led to EVEN MORE CRYING, which would have.......get the point?

The moments of my life are stacked and folded together accordion-style, just like those stupid wipes,and saying no prevents the trail of wipes from making its way across the floor of my day.

Here's what she did with the wipes that I gave her.

The Sickie Ickies

Well, hello there cold and flu season. So lovely to see you again. Let's get something straight right now.

That business you pulled in our house from January to April ain't happenin' again. Do you hear me? Do you understand me? It was awful. You turned me into a true believer of hand washing and sanitizing and quarantining. Of Puffs Plus and Children's Benadryl. Of Bacchus and liquid grapes.

Each and EVERY time we ventured out of the house, just a day after their leaky little snot faucets dried up, we ran into a snotty nosed child running all over the play equipment. One whose mother was not exhausted from taking care of two children under two years of age with two runny noses and four watery eyes and two sore throats for four months.

So, I just stayed away from all things play. I kept us all locked up in this house. Just us and the Sickie Ickies. And I cannot do that again. My husband may leave me if he has to come home to That Wife again.

This is day seven, kiddo numero uno. Show some manners and spare the baby. The girls are getting antsy. I'm starting to drink more. Let's wrap this play date up. Consider this your eviction notice.

"Yes, Mom. I ate the ham."

Then how did it get on the windowsill?

"I DON'T KNOW!"

Ever seen Bill Cosby As Himself?

Eat More Chiken, or, The Day I Lost My Kid

It happened at a Mommy and Me event. Outside, under a big white tent that you could rent for weddings and such. There were lots of mom-centric vendors. You know, cell phone people next to the Childen's Museum people next to the new-spa-in-town people next to the Chik-fil-a people. The latter was the problem.

I had my oldest daughter out of the stroller so she could burn off all that toddler energy. We tried some crafts. We walked around. We saw The Cow. The Eat More Chiken Cow. She bolted towards it. "See the cow?!?!"

Off she ran, through a crowd of people. I remember thinking, "No, that's too far. I can't see her from here." I grabbed the stroller with my youngest daughter in it. I walked quickly towards The Cow.

I looked for her. I looked again. No. She came this way. I watched her come this way. There's The Cow. Where is she? She has to be here. (What if she ran out of the tent?) I looked again, spinning around slowly in a circle. (Where could she be? What if someone took her?) Oh. My. God. Where is she? I spin around again. (They could take her. They could take her and no one would notice because of the crowd.)

I remember running to the edge of the tent, looking frantically. And then, I lost it. I ran back to the middle of the tent and I lost my mind.

It felt like I was in a movie. The kind with the scenes with mothers who look away right as the villian snatches their child from the playground and takes them away and tortures them. I kept spinning around in a circle, yelling her name, as a sea of faces and figures rushed past me. None of it made any sense. I was screaming. I couldn't hear anything, but I did realize that music stopped. I knew everyone was staring. I kept screaming her name. (In hindsight, I REALLY must've looked crazy at first, given my daugher's name is the same as our state of residence.) I heard only the sound of my heart beating and my breath. A woman tried to pull me back to reality.

"What is your daugher wearing?"

"Bright yellow sundress. Bright yellow. Bright yellow," I said. I coninued to spin around, too frantic to see anything. Everything was blurry. My heart was in my throat, and in my stomach, and my heart was gone. My baby. My baby. My baby. This can't be happening to me. This can't be happening to me.

"She's right here!"

What?

There she was, squatting down, not 5 feet from where we were standing before this whole drama began, pointing to a dog. Oh, my sweet baby! My baby!

I ran to her, picked her up, and held her. I walked to the outside of the tent and stood there, just holding her, as she kept pointing to the dog. She felt so small in my arms. Had she always been this small? Not sure how long we stood there. She soon started to squirm and wiggle. I know I told her I loved her, and to never, NEVER run away from Mommy again.

A few minutes later, after I'd collected myself and strapped the runaway into the stroller, a woman said this to me,

"I'm so glad you found her. That must be a horrible feeling. You know, at first I thought you were part of storytime and were just a great actress." Well, thanks so much for your help in my time of need.

So, obviously, this is not my best moment. It's the top of my scary moments list. And I'm still not over it. Taking the kids places stresses me out majorly. I still do it, but I don't feel safe trying to multitask it. You know what I mean? I see these groups of moms at the park or the children's museum, and they're just sitting there talking while their kids play. They're not watching their kids AT ALL. It terrifies me.

I know someday, I'm going to have to let her wander out of my sight. I know that. Just not quite yet.

Mother Runner

I am our childcare. That means if I run, they run with me. Well, sit while I push the stroller. My children are often my biggest fans. "Great job, Mommy! Yaaaaay!" My goodness gracious, I could run forever if I get to hear that when I finish. There's also, "Want me help you stretch, Mommy?" Oh, my sweet baby girl. You are the best thing I've ever done.

That's how I imagined jogging would be as I stood in line in Babies-R-Us, wondering what my husband would say when he saw this new, bigger, more expensive double jogging stroller ("You paid HOW much??? And why do we need another stroller??"). I am going to be a runner! My children will love it! We will run in the park! It's going to be great!

We generally start off all rainbows and butterflies. The girls quietly take in the scenery, sipping milk happily from their sippy cups. Occasionally, my oldest points out a dog. "Hi, dog!" I find my rhythm easily and jog along to my music (my pimped out stroller has speakers, home slice!). The birds. The breeze. The trees. The music.

Enter Mile Two. It's usually when Beyonce starts singing about "All the Single Ladies." The sippy cups are empty. The first round of toys have become boring, there is a shift in the universe, and things deteriorate quickly.

I'm a four-ish miler (wimp). So, we're talkin' about the middle of my run, when the pace is faster and I have to do a little mental digging. My breathing is heavier. Talking is more difficult. I can speak, but it comes out tense and breathless, a sentence or two at a time. I try to reason with them. "Mommy needs two more miles." Breathe. Breathe. "Can you be patient and sing a song for Mommy?" Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

That never works. My two-year old can't reason, and the one-year old CERTAINLY doesn't understand. More whining. Beyonce swears she's not that kind of girl. I wonder just how much longer I've got to listen to this, and reach for my phone. I fumble with it, running awkwardly now, with one hand on the handles of the stroller, phone in the other, cussing technology that never just works the way I need it to work when my kids start screaming, finally getting my running GPS app to open. 1.75 miles to go. Ugh. I can't handle that much longer with the whining. I hit the "pause workout" button.

"Mommy knows it's hard to sit still for a long time. Let's find you something different to play with." I'm breathing hard as I bend over to reach the under-the-seat baskets. Two books. That works. "Here you go."

And then, we're off again. I skip to the next song because Beyonce just doesn't motivate me enough, and then my Amazon Cloud Player forces closed and the music stops all together. Frustration rising.

"Mommy, I want music, Mommy. No, no, nooooo!"

"Mommy is working on it." A string of four letter words rest on the tip of my tongue. I purse my lips and swallow them back down. Ok. Music fixed. Running again.

I'm talking to myself at this point. Just hurry up and finish. You got this. Pick up the pace. Go. Go. Go. And then, Amelia throws her book over the side of the stroller and starts screaming.

Ugh. Stop. Pick up the book. Try to give it back. She screams more and waves her hands back and forth in protest. Fine. No book for you if you want to act that way. I'm the Book Nazi. Push off again, a little more violently than I anticipated, but running none the less.

I have no idea what song is playing because the youngest is screaming and it drowns out all other sound. I can't hear the voice in my head. All I can hear is screaming.

Could an elite runner mentally handle running like this?

I slow to a jog, reach under the stroller while still running, and grab the first toy I find. Youngest finds it momentarily acceptable. Phew. Thank you. I can hear again.

"No, no, no, Amelia! That's MINE'S!" Well, that didn't last long. Youngest is again screaming. I reach over the sun canopies and grab said toy from the oldest and hand it back to the youngest. She stops crying. The oldest fiercely protests.

"No, no, no, Mommy! I want the duuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" Oh my god. How much farther do I have to listen to this. Why can't I just get a run in silence? Do they make portable DVD players that I can mount to the snack trays? What if I just put in my headphones? Would that make me a horrible mother? "I want the DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!" .75 miles to go.

"Virginia." Breathe. Breathe. "Mommy's almost done." Breathe. Breathe. "I need you to," breathe, breathe, "be a good girl," breathe, breathe, "and sing some songs for Mommy." Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

"I want the duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck." And she takes it from her sister. And this time I let her keep it. And I'm angry. And I'm tired. And I'm drenched in sweat. And I'm pushing fifty pounds of kid in fifty pounds stroller and they're screaming and the sweat is dripping into my eyes and it stings and this sucks and why don't I just get up at 5 am and run before they wake up?

And now, I'm passing a woman with her brown lab. She stares as I huff past. I know, lady. I know how this must look to you. But, I'm running and you're just walking so who's the tougher one here? She pulls her dog away from us, even though she's on the other side of the street. I must look some kinda crazy.

We round the corner and are chugging/jogging/clomping back to the house. "Aaaaaalllll done," says my eldest. Almost, baby. Almost. Just let me do the last quater mile without having to talk to you, because I just don't have the energy to do both right now.

And then, it's over. I slow to a walk. "Aaaaaaaaall done," she says again. We pull into our yard. I stop the stroller. I pace around the yard. I'm thinking, "We made it. I did it. Why does it always have to be like that?" I turn around to walk back towards the girls.

"Yaaaaaaaaaay, Mommy! Great job, Mommy! Want me get down help you stretch, Mommy?" Amelia smiles and bounces up and down and claps her hands as Virginia screams my congratulations. It all melts away.

I just ran four miles with my girls and they're cheering for me. Cause I'm a bad mother runner.

Time to start the day

5:30 am. There have been whining noises coming from the girls' room for an hour. At first, I thought I could move downstairs to the sofa and maybe the intermittent whining would stop, or at least stop before it made it to my ears. If a tree falls in the woods and there's no one there to hear it....

It's unclear how my husband sleeps through this. Why can't I sleep through this?

It sounded as if she couldn't get comfortable and was tossing and turning for a while. No real cries. Just noise. Just enough noise to wake me up. Just often enough to make sleep elusive. And now, it seems to have stopped. Since I've given up on sleep, that makes perfect sense.

Or, as it turns out, my child is actually awake. A voice from the baby monitor just said, "No." My thoughts exactly. Other thoughts include:

I must stop allowing her to refuse food at dinner. She's awake from hunger.
I remember when I used to go to bed around 5:30.
Did she go back to sleep?
I need more coffee.
Nope. She's still awake.

The baby monitor spoke again. "Wake up, Amelia," in her singsong voice. Which movie was it? Signs? The one with Mel Gibson and the alien invasion and they used baby monitors to listen for the sounds? Sometimes I feel like my life isn't far off from that. I just sit and wait for the monitor to make noise. Except flinging cups of water at my children won't solve the problem.

When it was abolutely clear she wasn't going back to sleep, I began to wonder if I could go up and get her without waking the younger child. Doubful, but possible. No noise from her thus far. Why is my deep sleeper awake, and my light sleeper silent in the face of all those urgent wake up demands? One last sip of coffee.

I walk slowly and quietly up the stairs. I'm careful to walk on the outside edge of each step to minimize creaking. I try not to breathe too loudly. I barely touch the door when I push it open. Must. Be. Quiet.

Virginia stands up. I hold my breath and wait for her to scream hello. She does not. I tiptoe over to her bed, my eyes on Amelia. She's face down, with her knees tucked under her, cute little butt stuck up in the air. She hears my thoughts and opens her eyes. Cuss word.

Maybe if I'm fast, she'll go right back to sleep. I grab Virginia and do a wierd tiptoe run back out of the room. I pull the door shut. She screams.

"Amelia's awake, Mom." You don't say.

We make it downstairs. I manage to find the remote and Yo Gabba Gabba without too much fussing from the girls. I keep the light off. We all sit on the sofa. Amelia is unusually snuggly. Virginia's in a good mood, and very cute in her just-woke-up hair. I think, "Aww. This isn't so bad. One day soon, I'll wish they were this small."

Virginia looks over at me and says, "I took a good nap, Mom." Nope.

Baristas and Barbie Dolls

It's back! Autumn roasted, toasted, ground, and percolated into the spicy perfection that is the pumpkin spice latte. And want to know what's so unhip and wonderful about living in the suburbs? Drive through Starbucks on every corner. I'm too busy to bother with parking my car and going in a coffee shop, you know? Well, maybe you don't know. But trust, you don't want me bringing my kids into Starbucks. And it's too much of a hassle for me to do it, anyway. Starbucks drive through really, truly is a super business idea. At least from a mom's perspective. (I have become the person I hated when I was childless and cool.) I digress.

There we are, the girls and I, pulling up to the pick-up window. I pay. I wait. The barista leaves the window open. Virginia asks if she's going to get a chocolate milk (because we're in a drive through, and why wouldn't she be getting a happy meal). I laugh.

"No, baby. Mommy is getting a coffee."

Barista giggles, observes the toddler and baby,and says, "Mommy has TWO kids. Mommy needs her coffee." Amen, sister. She then says hello to my oldest. Virginia responds, "See my baby doll?"

And holds up this.

Fabulous. I'm not at all embarassed.