The Perfect Dad

You know those times when you see your husband interacting with your kids and you think, "I hit the jackpot!"?


I think that all the time.

Happy Father's Day, David! I love you!

TGI... Oh, Nevermind

David's flight was supposed to be getting in, um, right now. Instead he is terminally stuck on a plane at the Newark airport while some minor repair is being made.

Darn it, I could have procrastinated doing the dishes a little bit longer. Though, I admit, there is something soothing about listening to the woosh of the dishwasher while I type. Kids in bed. House clean. No fevers. (Did I mention my babies have had fevers on and off for the past week? I didn't? Must have slipped my mind after the flour incident. Also, I discovered two molars poking through Matthew's gums tonight, which would explain why he has been super-glued to my legs all week).

I feel rather tetchy and irritable. So I bought myself a smiley face balloon at the dollar store to counteract my general crankiness. Also, I keep looking at this picture (we have a nest of baby birds in our backyard) hoping it will cheer me up, because I can't help smiling every time I look at the little fluff balls.


Awww, see? It's like getting an IV of warm fuzzies.

All I need is some chocolate and I'll be set.

TGIF

Tonight I loaded the kids in the car after feeding them a well-balanced dinner of Ramen Noodles and cheese crackers. Yeah, I admit it, I'm rather pathetic at meals when David is on business trips. Especially when he's in NYC and I get little receipt emails from Seamless Web telling me he ordered Indian food for dinner. But, I also served orange juice with our "meal", so it's all good. I like to think the natural orange of the OJ cancels out the synthetic orange of the cheese crackers. (Honestly, it's a good thing David comes home tomorrow, because if I eat one more piece of junk my stomach is going to walk out of my body in protest).

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, loading the kids in the car, which I accomplished in short order. Then I went to grab my keys off their designated hook and they were nowhere to be found. If you have small children, you'll understand the problem this presents -- they could be anywhere. In the laundry hamper, down the toilet, under the stove... There are no limits to how far car keys can wander when two little feet (or possibly four) are involved in the the wandering.

I tore about the house looking for them, all the while listening to Michael yell from the garage, "Mom! I'm ready to go!" And then I found them. Zipped neatly in my diaper bag. Put there by me. This afternoon.

Apparently it was my brain that had wandered off.

So, we drove into town and I picked up Matthew's new epi pens (he's allergic to eggs, peanuts, and tree nuts. And sunflower and sesame seeds. Weird). Meanwhile, Michael quizzed me about the contents of every food item he could come up with. "Do bananas have eggs in them, Mom? Do popsicles have eggs in them?"

Afterwards we went to the grocery store. One of the store's employees volunteered to take my cart back inside just as I reached my car to unload. He stood there and watched me buckle the babies into their car seats and heave all my groceries into the back of the minivan by myself (about a five minute process), and then he smiled at me and dutifully wheeled my cart back to the store. Um, thanks for the help?

I came home to see that the dinner dishes had somehow multiplied gremlin-style while we were gone (the house is so trashed I keep expecting it to appear online in a report of the latest natural disaster) and that the bread dough I'd set out to rise hours earlier was sitting in a sad looking lump on top of the dryer (time to open a new package of yeast). While I was distracted by putting the groceries away, the babies were playing in the flour bin. No, wait, it was Michael who was playing in the flour bin. (The elbow-length white powder "gloves" he was sporting gave him away). I sighed. "How old are you?" I asked.

"I'm one!" he said, cheerfully.

Frankly, that explains a lot.

After the kids were in bed I settled down to work on cross-stitching Matthew's name onto his Christmas stocking. The only problem is his name doesn't fit, so I'm kind of changing up the pattern as I go. After two hours of stitching I had to undo the entire H and half the E. I should have named him Bob.

But the good news is it's past midnight now, so technically it's Friday. Thank goodness.

I've had enough of this week.

Guess Who Had More Fun at Lagoon

About Time

The good weather has finally arrived. Saturday was our first swim of the season at the neighborhood pool, and, it's true what they say, June was bustin' out all over. Holy revealing swimsuits, Batman! Grandmothers, in particular, should make sure their assets are a little more locked and a little less loaded, if you know what I mean.

Then there was a guy who took off his shirt and his overblown muscles yelled at me. Seriously, it scared me. I was worried he might step on me without noticing the squish if I made the mistake of sitting in the blind spot that is created when one has a neck bigger than one's head. I think The Incredible Hulk's appearance caused David to feel a little inadequate in the shirtless department, but as I had flown into my husband's arms to be protected from the green giant's pulsating biceps, he had no need to worry about my loyalties. (I enjoy being married to a man who doesn't look like he would beat me up just to get his daily workout).

The arrival of summer also brought the arrival of rain, or at least that's what Michael thought that rapid-fire pitter-pat sound was as we drove down the freeway. Let's just say he was wrong, it wasn't rain. Also, the front of our minivan looks like a mosquito mausoleum. I would wash the car, but then I would have to be actively involved in scrubbing insect carcases off my license plate holder, and I don't have the stomach for that this morning. Particularly because I ate a brownie and a leftover piece of garlic bread for breakfast after spending half the night rubbing Michael's cramping legs. It was a delicious meal, but probably not the best combo to consume if dealing with ten-thousand dead mosquito bodies is going to appear anywhere on the day's schedule.

Dead bugs notwithstanding, it's nice to feel a reprieve from a terminal case of winter. Even if summer is going on hiatus later in the week, I will enjoy the air conditioner as long as I can.

And maybe a popsicle, you know, just because.

Yum, summer.

Equality vs. Respect

We're a society of equals, or so they say. But I have a secret. I've held on to it for years without saying anything because I'm not much for sprinkling extra awkwardness into new social situations. But, as moving to Utah was the perfect reason to change, I'm saying it out loud now:

I hate it when children call me by my first name. Loathe. Despise. Abominate. I also hate it that, for years, I let my son address most adults by their first names simply because that was what "everyone else was doing." Ick. Taking my social cues from the junior high handbook. How could I sink so low?

But, it's been irking me for too long. I'm done. Your children may call me Mrs. Overly. Or Miss Bonnie, if they simply can't hack saying "Overly". I suppose if they've come up from the womb calling me "Bonnie" then I'll try to stomach it for the next 70 years. (Not saying I'll like it, but I'll try not to let it tickle my gag reflex too much).

This isn't one of those quirky things about me that has no solid reasoning behind it, like the fact that I don't mind folding the laundry but I hate putting it away. I think the kids-and-adults-on-a-first-name-basis issue is a symptom -- even a cause -- of a bigger social problem:

Lack of respect.

Why doesn't the snotty kid at the playground listen to you when you tell him to quit throwing wood chips? Well, if he assumes he is on a first-name-basis with all adults, he believes you are on an equal playing field. And who is going to listen to a peer or a friend asking him to stop acting like a maniac? There simply can't be respect of authority when a five-year-old is addressing adults like they are his old college chums.

Children are not our equals. Oh, I know they say cute things and sometimes have heart-melting insights that remind us of all that is good in the world. But we aren't doing anyone any favors by allowing our kids to think they have the right to interrupt our adult conversations to tell us that the sky is blue or that their pinkie finger itches just so. Or that they want more dessert RIGHT NOW!

And we aren't doing anyone any favors by attending to our kids' needs immediately, regardless of whatever it is we're doing.

Particularly not when they are calling us by our first names.

Missing Something

I'm in favor of gratitude, particularly when it comes to pregnancy. I think all women could benefit from a little more thankfulness when it comes to carrying a baby. It is a privilege and a blessing, after all.

That said, the proper response to someone saying, as a friend of mine recently did, that her baby is beating her up from the inside and that "It really HURTS!" is not "They grow up too fast so try to enjoy that you still have one that close to you. You will never get that moment back...just the memory!"

Um, pretty sure she doesn't want the moment back. She's in PAIN, remember?

I feel fairly confident in saying that the average woman will not look back fondly on having a baby play a painful game of kickball with her bladder. Gentle nudges to the ribcage or pokes to the belly button, yes. But slamming a head into a pelvis and causing horrible sciatic nerve pain all the way down to one's toes? Owwwww. No need to document that one in the scrapbook.

When I was about eight months pregnant with the twins, I was at a playgroup when someone asked me how I was feeling. I said I was doing well, but that I was a little worn out. One woman (who had, in the past, heard me express my annoyance over women constantly complaining about their pregnancies) said, "Uh, oh, Bonnie, no complaining!" I wanted to punch her.

There is a difference between saying, "I'm in a lot of pain" or "I'm sick of seeing my breakfast in the toilet" and saying "I hate being pregnant!" or "Why did I get pregnant in the first place?" The first outlook is acknowledging that there are rough parts of pregnancy which can be horribly unpleasant. The second is being ungrateful for an experience that many woman would trade all their worldly goods to have.

I loved being pregnant and tried never to complain about it. But discomfort is a guarantee during pregnancy, and women should feel like they can mention it without someone telling them to "enjoy" it. We don't tell anyone to enjoy their broken leg or their swollen appendix.

But, maybe we should.

I mean, they won't have the appendix for long, just the memory...