No rest for the weary

Last night marked night one of Cody's reoccurring night terrors. They happen every two months or so and drag on for 4-5 days, wreaking so much havoc on my sleep schedule it takes me another week to get back on track. After waking him up from a terror at 3AM and singing him back to sleep with a lackluster rendition of "Eidel Vise", I couldn't fall back asleep. So I hit up the all knowing Internet on the subject. Wikipedia told me that night terrors can be genetic, and if they are, I know I am to blame. Every night, right before I fall deep asleep, my neurotic brain shifts from 1st to 5th gear. It starts listing things I need to do, things I forgot, mistakes I made during the day, during the week, during my life. It takes me a half hour and 4 Tylenol PM's to get back to sleep. Cody is not old enough for a drug problem. So I am buying him this night light. I hope it helps (me).

From Resentful Mom

Birthday Girl

Today is Bekka's 7th birthday. Even though I've already spent $200 on the Saturday party, Brian insisted we go out for a family dinner. Bekka's restaurant choice, The Olive Garden, was regrettable. Their slogan "When You're Here, You're Family" is faulty advertising, unless you come from a passive aggressive, lazy family. Not only did our apathetic waitress, Caren (worst way to spell Karen) not look any of us in the eye, I question whether or not she had bathed in the past week. She smelled of dirty carpet and menthol cigarettes. That was the least of my problems. Even though I knew they microwave their food, it was still upsetting to bite into a half frozen tortellini. And then, the waiter at the table next to us was trying to up-sell them to a Kendall-Jackson, the low hanging fruit of wine makers, which made me grimace. The fact that Bekka thinks this is the best food on Earth makes me feel like a failure, not as a parent, I've already accepted that I am indeed that, but as a human being. No one, on this planet, should hold that restaurant in such high regard. Not even a 7 year old.

And Brian gave her her present - a TMobile Sidekick. Still a better phone than my 2 year old Razr.

Totes!

What's worse than having your kids with you at the grocery store? Not much. It's a nightmare situation for the most patient of people. Two little car salesmen bargaining with you to accept one of their propositions. One of them comes to me with Fruit Loops. I say no. After a shake of the head, he or she puts it back on the shelf, but always returns with another proposed food I will reject. It's a constant rotation of offers and denials. In last ditch attempts, they'll grasp at register impulse buys like Toblerone or Listerine strips, thinking that I'm worn down. That I'll give in. But I stay strong. So on the rare occasion that I get to go to the store by myself, I milk that treat as long as I can, reading every single panel of nutrition information, thinking hard about which peach is the ripest, paying in change. So the last thing I want is a grocery tote reminding me of my tormentors.

From Resentful Mom

Aliens!

It's my first video blog. Did it last night. Don't worry, I won't always have on a face mask. Could be something else (I love facial care products!).

Flirt Alert!

Last night Brian's co-worker Tracie Welkey and her husband Stuart joined us for dinner. Brian is the CEO of product development at Hormel and Tracie does something. Tracie is a slim blonde with a tiny haircut and laughs like she's gasping for air. Her husband has skinny fat guy disease (you know, where you have a belly but really skinny arms and legs and neck) and is always sucking through his teeth, I assume because his mouth makes too much saliva. For dinner I made a terrible salmon dish. Everyone lied to my face and said it was good, which made me so mad that I quietly took all the fish of their plates, tossed it in the garbage and ordered P.F. Chang's. Stuart said he'd never seen a woman be so honest about her cooking, and I thought about the several sharp things I'd like to shove in his chauvinist eye sockets. After four bottles of Robert Mondavi Pinot Noir, the food finally arrived. P.F. Chang's does it oh so right! When I wasn't loosing myself in my three orders of lettuce wraps (I love those things!), I noticed some flirting happening between Brian and Tracie. It was actually hard to miss. Brian told a story about how he almost drowned fly fishing in the Colorado River when he was 8. Tracie was so moved she blurted out a baby talk "Poor Baby" then caressed his cheek - right in front of me. How bold! The only thing I could do in this situation was to open up another bottle of wine. If this affair is going to happen, I need to nudge it forward in any way I can. As soon as I'm sure Brian is having an affair, I can start planning one of my own. I may not be able to get out of this marriage, but if there's a crack in the foundation, I'm certainly going to exploit it.

Mystery Machine

My cousin Veronica sent Cody Scooby Doo DVD's for Christmas 2008, and that kid can't get enough of them! He watches them over and over and over again, and has his favorite episodes memorized so well, he recited the lines in time with the show. Today, he took his obsession to a whole new level. He asked me for an orange scarf. I didn't know he'd been watching Scooby Doo, so I was confused, but when he explained he wanted to look like Fred, I understood all too well. He aspired to be more like a 70's free spirited, possibly bi-sexual mystery solver. It's a mature choice, a bold choice, but a choice that seemed fun and possibly risque none-the-less. I may be a resentful mom, but I am sure up for shaking up the system. When I told him that scarf is called an ascot, his eyes just lit up at the sound of the word. He negotiated extra chores in exchange for an orange ascot and a white sweater (he informed me he already figured out the jeans and blue shirt he had in mind to complete the outfit). The only downside of all this, other than ridicule, is Cody, because of his blonde hair, may look too much like Fred. So I made him a deal, for his own protection - he can wear his Fred outfit at home or at family functions only. Now to find a white v-neck sweater and a tiny ascot for a 3 year old.

From Resentful Mom

Upgrade

I was reading the story about the woman in Louisiana who traded her two kids for a bird, and it got me thinking. What would I trade my kids for? Here are some possible scenarios:

1. A South American man wants to buy my children for slavery at $10K a piece. I negotiate $25K for both, move to the Netherlands and marry an architect named Kareltje who goes down on me without provocation. We live in the grote steden of Groningen in a home that comes as close as it can to embodying all the ideals of the De Stijl movement. The lack of clutter makes me happy, and I live a life of never stepping on shit lying around the house again.

2. A woman of 48, who has never been able to conceive, offers me a Mercedes, a condo in downtown Miami, and an untethered life of sexual based relationships. I concede, and wish my children "Good luck". Living with a woman who has experienced a good 28 years of sterility will be tough, but it's not my problem. I'll be living it up in the sun, taking it from all angles from young boys there on Spring Break.

And as for Brian. Well, let's be honest, without the kids I am free from any real obligations to him. Marriage is just a piece of paper. Kids are the Saran wrap that preserves the union, forever, the unnatural seal keeping you in constant distress and crushing any hope of escape.

All Alone With the Memory

I was going through some boxes in my preliminary spring cleaning, and I found a stash of old baby pictures of Cody and Bekka. There's a reason they're stuffed in a box - my kids were monstrous looking babies. I had almost completely erased the images from my head until I was faced with the hard evidence of how they used to look. It was bad enough when they were young, people lying to my face about how adorable they were. Liars, all of them. I know the truth. It would have been easier if they said "Sorry about your baby" rather than patronizing me with their empty, forced compliments. Jerks just spewing disingenuousness. I've got to burn these photos so I don't have to relive this nightmare again.

Starving Artists

There has been a landslide of arts and crafts coming home from school these days. Bekka has brought home one gaudy hand made/painted object every day this week, and I'll tell you, there are no signs of it stopping. I have a mental rule, one that I keep to myself, and that is to only display one crappy piece of kid art at a time. In order to do this, I've developed a complicated process of getting rid of the superfluous art garbage. Here are the steps:

1 - Make a big deal about the piece. Talk specifically about the things you like (great color, neat shape, interesting finger marks, etc.).

2 - Display the piece, show dad and brother, have them each say something nice about it.

3 - Put the piece in the garbage while your child is sleeping.

4 - If it's brought up the next day, quickly change the subject.

Remember, if you are having a hard time throwing their piece away, it took them less than an hour to make and children are amazingly resilient when it comes to loss.

Driving while Feeding

I just heard about this woman who was given a ticket for being on the phone and breast feeding while driving. Oh man, what a terrible thing to do. Breast feeding that is. I'm an Similac lady myself. No manic, newborn, hungry babies have ever graced the surface of my nipple. I even go so far as to put St. Ives Mineral Therapy lotion on them every night to keep them young looking and soft. Uh oh. I just realized that I didn't give the kids a bath last night. They won't die. Right?