Mommy Mobile

From time to time, I have posted about my car. That poor, long suffering toddler hauling, drink sopping, diaper carrying mommy mobile. But, I fear I simply haven't done it justice. I cleared it out tonight (no cleaning was done--just a simple clearing of the stuff):

The shoes are a size 6. R.J. wears an 8 and a half now. The full bottle of nail polish remover thankfully had not spilled. And, I'd like to say the Thunder ticket was from this season--but I don't want to fib.

The Tupperware gods have clearly smiled on my family. We have been blessed. (I wear my hair curlers to work some mornings--one got away).

And, the food groups: thin mints, McDonald's sauce, and Better Cheddars--inexplicably lodged under the driver's seat.

Our 6th anniversary was in August. I just really like the card. (and had it stashed in the seat side pocket apparently).

My car no longer resembles Sanford & Son's truck. It is blissfully silent going around corners, and I will not be forced to do the carpool crouch to keep the Tupperware from flying. It is my solemn vow that this will never happen again. Until next time.

'Fraidy Cat, 'Fraidy Cat

I am not a 'fraidy cat. Thunderstorms send me running for cover. And I don't much care for snakes, spiders, silverfish, or birds. But I'm no 'fraidy cat. I've jumped off the high dive, backwards. In a dive. I've swam across a lake. I've even visited Penn Square Mall the day before Christmas.

One and only one thing sends true terror through my heart--needles. (for sake of those familiar with the cold sweats, shaking hands, and tears of pure terror, I will leave my description as simple as "needles" ).  In the past, the mere mention of a shot would send me racing down the hall. Ask my mom. She had the unenviable task of chasing my 17-year old self down the hall of a church set up as a clinic for hepatitis vaccines. (Long John Silver's is no doubt the cleanest restaurant in Ponca City after that little health department scare. Ick.).

Unfortunately, the joy and blessing of a baby also brings with it the fear, loathing, and sleepless nights that are the precursor to the inevitable. I have tried bargaining with my doctor. Tried waiving my rights to everything that could possibly come out of NOT having blood work.

My doctor didn't bite. She is matter of fact. Some would say she's cold in her delivery of information. Three years ago, she didn't mince words, "How long have you had panic attacks?" she asked me.  A panic attack! Me?!

Absolutely. In every sense of the word. For decades, the mere mention of medical procedures sent me into a tizzy (hence my toddler nickname "Tizzy Lizzy"--I obviously still haven't outgrown that name).

Modern medicine. Xanax. Drugs that make "normal" people sleep for days simply give me the strength to sit in a chair and speak reasonably to the lab technician. Make no mistake, my demands are not reasonable. I simply have the coherent ability to ask politely. A polished lawyer I am not when faced with a doctor's visit. My face buried in a soft fleece jacket laced with perfume to cover the smell of alcohol, I pray secretly that I will see no one I know.

Today was a success. I knew no one. No one will the the wiser. I survived. And, at the end of the many bargains I tried to strike today (yes, I still try to bargain for release from the tests--just politely now), I will see my ultimate reward--just like last time:

(I can't believe he's almost three!)

The Best Reason

I was late to work today. This is not unusual, particularly given the time change. But, today I had an excuse, er, a reason--a really good one!

My baby wanted to read. I had just stripped the bed, the end result of another nighttime Huggie failure. (A beach towel thrown across the wet spot may not earn me the Good Housekeeping seal, but it satisfied my little man at 4 o'clock this morning. Add to that bit of good mothering a fresh furry blanket and clean pants, and he was giggling, saying, "I all dwy. Tank you mommy.")

R.J. appeared in the doorway of the laundry room. Sagging pants, crazy hair, and a little golden book in hand. "Mo-MMY, you wanna read me story?" he asked. "No, baby," I tell him, "Mommy has to get ready for work."

"But 'dis one is my favorite. I love it. It hath (has) twucks." He shows me the cover: Baby's First Book, by Garth Williams. I am helpless.

Green Eggs and Ham, The Cat in the Hat, even The Pokey Little Puppy, I can resist. But he's getting so tall. And has so much to say. We're reading Anne of Green Gables at night--and he actually pays attention and likes it. He's nearly a grown up.

So, Baby's First Book wins. I took my baby to our rocking chair, snuggled him in my lap, and we read a story. And then another one.

I was late to work today. But, I had the best reason. [My peanut butter sandwich is ready for lunch at my desk--and I won't feel bad about it. Not even one little bit.]

Fat Pants

It's official. I need fat pants. My child has taken to asking me, "You need yo' fat pants?" And, more specifically, "You have fat belly?" "You love yo' fat belly?"

I feel pretty. No, really, I do. And I love my fat belly. Because for once, my fat belly isn't the end result of a weekend spent in Ponca City feeding at Enrique's and mom's table. As R.J. will tell you, "We gonna have baby." He's excited. That is, he's excited until bedtime when he realizes that someday soon enough (end of September), he'll be sharing mommy's lap and rocking chair.

It's time. R.J. needs a playmate. Someone to love and snuggle, and more importantly, someone else to boss around. Things are about to get more interesting at home and at work. Stay tuned.

Elmo is my best friend?

Elmo is my best friend.

This is what R.J. tells me. At first, I didn't believe him. Then, because I am a mommy, I worry. Elmo is a muppet (?). He's a puppet. Commercially marketed with the sole purpose of spending mommy's money. [I am a product of modern American marketing; I believe beauty editorials, and I want a pair of Sperry Topsiders more than anything this season.]

But, Elmo is there when we're pouty (watching closely--how can he not watch closely? The little red monster's eyes are eerily unblinking. And stiff.)

He is the subject of unconditional toddler affection. [I melt when R.J. snuggles with me like this].

Elmo entertains. His potty video is particularly entertaining--or horrifying in that toddler potty kind of way.

Elmo vacations. 

Elmo is there when we are angry. His smile never fades. He never covers his ears to muffle toddler screams (That comes from living on Sesame Street--you get used to the noise I suppose).

Elmo. Is. Fashion.

See above.

Elmo loves mommy too. 

I wanted to dress like my best friend too. 

Elmo is a good listener. And he tells the best stories. 

And really, at the end of the day, isn't this what friendship is all about?

The Household Tell

Everyone has a "tell," a physical tick that tips you off when they are lying, or telling the truth, or hungry, or annoyed. My house has a "tell" too. One look around will show exactly the kind of day I've had.

I am not a morning person--in the 10 minutes to pry my eyes open and another 5 just to convince myself to scrape my head off the pillow kind of way.  Yesterday, I left the house by 6 a.m. I had to drive 2 hours to Custer County to negotiate a 45 minute deal and drive 2 more hours back home. I filed a motion and submitted a mediation statement by 4 o'clock. By 4:30 I was in line at the Cracker Barrel waiting on chicken 'n' dumplins and cobbler. I don't cook these days.

R.J. greeted me with giggles and screams, "I went pee in the potty!" [Hooray!] I fed him macaroni and cheese, ate two bites of chicken and promptly collapsed in the recliner. [I love that thing--even though it disjoints itself and returns as though nothing has happened--motion furniture still freaks me out].

R.J. needed a bath. I needed a bath. The floor, vanities, countertops, and some rogue cushions needed a bath too. (Potty training has done a number on the upholstery.). Only mommy got a bath--the eucalyptus scented bath salts less the smell of Johnson's baby shampoo told the story.

R.J. needed stories read to him. I was too tired.  The DVD player tells the story of an exhausted mommy. We don't watch movies everyday.

When R.J.'s daddy got home from work, the house told the story: It's 7 p.m. The kitchen lights are off, and there's a pile of unfolded laundry on the chair. There is no welcoming aroma of dinner on the table, and the lemon scented candles aren't lit either. On the couch, there's a toddler bowl of sliced grapes and a toppled tippy cup.

Mommy and R.J. are snuggled deep into the corner of the sofa while Lightening McQueen tips tractors on the t.v.

No words need to be spoken. No one needs to tell me it's bedtime. Lights out.

[Note: I did manage to haul myself out of bed at a reasonable time today, folded laundry, untoppled the tippy cup and swiffer the floor--applause please.]