I am starting to wonder if I will be sticky for the rest of my life. I never really paid much attention to how often I was sticky before having kids. Probably because I wasn't ever sticky. Or if I was sticky, I would wash my hands and be done with it for another year or so. But after having children I find that sticky has become a way of life. I am forever sticky...gummy...tacky...and not in that tacky "I'm wearing teal toe nail polish" kind of way. (I mention that because I just made this poor choice today. Not sure what I was thinking. I think I got caught up in my imaginary "Carrie Bradshaw" life again. Shari Bradshaw, if you will. I have a closet full of clothes, shoes and handbags that were purchased when I was under this influence. Then I come back to reality and find my teal toes sticking to the floor.) FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!! Where does this crap come from?!! Raisins? Granola Bars? Cheerios? Juice? I wash these children. I swear that I do. Constantly washing. Wiping. Rinsing. Can't seem to keep up. And when I do get MYSELF cleaned up, it is inevitable that within 10 minutes I will touch something or step in something that I missed. It's like they do it to taunt me. Like little sticky gremlins who are trying to see how much more it will take before I end up hiding in the pantry in the fetal position. #Imightnevercomeout #notabadmomjuststucktothefloor . My favorite part is when Daddy gets home and in his most shocked voice says, "Why is the refrigerator sticky?!". I'm breathing...I'm breathing...and in scary whisper I say, "Be...cause...IIIIIIIIII AMMMMMMM STICKYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!".
Howard Cosell has now become Howard the Translator. Adam talks nonstop. Non. Stop. As in, never stops talking. In case you didn't get that...he talks alot. So now not only do I hear, "Mommy, tika tika blah blah cookie, monkey george, outside, water, ickies, milk, go bye bye, Abby, Sissy" x a bazillion, but it is always followed by Howard's translations, "Mom, he said he wants a salami sandwich at Disneyland", "Mom, he said he wants to go to Target and get a water balloon made of cheese. Oh, and an ICEE". You know when you watch the U.N. (cuz you know you do) and the translator starts talking before the foreign dude is even finished? Yeah, it's like that.
Twitter. WTH. I cannot understand this thing! I get the concept, and I am really not that dense in the technology dept., but what with all of the '#' and '@RT's', I just get lost. The most time I have ever spent on Twitter was when I was following Jeff Probst's live tweeting during Survivor. Even then I was getting lost trying to figure out where the comments were that he was responding to. But one thing that stuck with me, and actually brings me great joy, is the '#'. I had someone explain it to me and apparently, if you are searching Twitter for something in particular, like comments about chocolate souffle', you would type #chocolatesouffle and those comments will appear. If you want other people to be able to search your comments about chocolate souffle' you would type #chocolatesouffle after you reviewed a recipe, visited a restaurant, jumped on the scale. "I gained 4 lbs this week! #chocolatesouffle". :)
Let me tell you, lots of fun to be had with '#'. #thisisahoot. See what I just did there? :) Why does this bring me such joy, I ask you! #wherehaveyoubeenallmylife. I just can't stop. #Shariisabouttogetannoying. Try it. You'll like it! #Don'tknowwhatyouaremissing.
It is kind of like the subliminal message that you want to convey but don't want to come right out and say. For example, you are at the soccer field and Gossip McGossipson is running her mouth. So you tweet, "People need to grow up and stop gossiping. It isn't nice and sends the wrong message to our children. #bitchgonnagetafootupherass." :) Aaaaahhhh, that feels good, doesn't it?
Today was picture day. Yearly picture day. Adam is 2. I could probably end this story here because if you have children, you know this story is not a happy one. But I can feel that you really want me to share, so I will. Maybe it will be cathartic for me. Maybe it will purge the pain from my body. Or maybe I will be returned to that day in my mind and slam my head through a plate glass window. We'll see. Should be fun.
Now let me be clear, this day was made much worse by the fact that I am not the picture person in the family, meaning the one who gives a crap about the pictures. That would be hubby. It could be said that I am not the picture person because I am the one who has to haul these children to have their picture taken! If he had to take them, he might discover that he isn't the picture person that he thinks he is! Not that I don't enjoy pics of my kids, but as any mother can tell you, we see these captured moments of our children with their upturned cherub-like faces and all we can think is, "Boy, he was a shit that day!", or "Right after this was taken, I put her on eBay". It takes years to forget the trauma and nausea that often accompanies 'picture day'. It must take more than 4 years because my daughter is 5 and the experience of her 1 year photo shoot is still embedded in my mind. I tell myself that it fades with time. I have no proof of this. It's just what I tell myself to get through. I see it all so clearly. Where's Alzheimer's when ya need it?
Being the non-picture-person that I am, and the fact that I am absolutely DREADING this day, I haven't purchased special clothes for the kids. Probably out of denial that this day is coming or maybe because I refuse to pay any more money for outfits that they will wear for 10 minutes. (10 minutes because I am a 'Shock and Awe' type of mother. But more on that later.) So I find myself on picture morning digging through their closets and drawers to find 2 outfits that look decent together. I do. I rock. Cue the angels. Now on to hair and makeup. (No makeup but I enjoy the ring to it.) It isn't until this moment that I realize it is like Cowlickapalooza up in here! Good LORD! Not enough gel in the world to deal with all of this. I comb this way and that way, spike, and consider a razor, before just leaving it in God's hands. If he wants my boy to look like Dennis the Menace, so be it. Actually, that isn't too far off. So on to the studio. A 20 minute drive. Oh joy.
Now about the Shock and Awe, I have a speech that I give to all who photograph my kids. "I am going to put this child down. The minute this tush hits the chair, you start clicking. I mean you click like you have never clicked before. Click like you are on FIRE, MAN!! Because once the screaming begins, there's no turning back. There is no 'calm down and go back to pictures in a few minutes'. This is as good as it is going to get and if my children are going to get out of here without a beating, I need to remove them from the area when the screaming commences." By the look on the photog's face, I become Psychic Sue and can deduce whether or not they have children. Adam was better than Kaitlyn at 2 in the attitude dept. but worse in the 'can't sit still' dept. He was crawling out of my arms to get onto the picture platform, but after about 3 1/2 seconds there, couldn't wait to get down. And then the lady tried to POSE HIM!! HAVE YOU HEARD NOTHING THAT I HAVE SAID?!! DOES 'SHOCK AND AWE' RING A BELL? I believe I blurted, "NO POSING! CLICK, WOMAN!". Those of you that know me, know that I would say something like this. It's kind of like Outspoken Tourette's. It runs in the family. Not my fault. But it seems to get the job done. I follow it up with a funny little ditty, when time allows. :)
I think the pictures took all of 6 minutes, including pics of Adam alone and some with the two kids. I wish this thing had audio because you just can't translate the sheer VOLUME through the written word. So we had pushing, wriggling, screaming and photos, oh my. The only way we got through the choosing-of-the-pictures portion of the program was thanks to Skittles. Skittles and their artificial colors and flavors that ended up all over the picture clothes and me. But hey, at least I didn't end up with poop on my face. That seems to be the benchmark of bad days for me. What's that you say? You don't know this story? Well, that is due in part to the post traumatic stress disorder that the 'Poop Incident of 2009' inflicted on me. I have tried to write this story on several occasions but can only get through bits and pieces at a time. Some day I will finish it. Probably as the book is going to print. I mean, I shared the pee story, why not tell #2. Literally. ;)
So pics are done for another year. HALLELUJAH! Got some cute ones, or maybe they are just cute to me because they are done. Neither here nor there. All that matters is that next year Adam will be 3 and he HAS to be easier, right? Right? If you aren't agreeing, you must leave. Mommy can't look at you right now.
You wanna piss off a mom? Give her some french fries hot out of the fryer!! There is not a mom out there who doesn't know what I am talking about! You decide to treat the kids...be the hero...you know, try to be Dad for a few minutes. So you hit the drive thru, wait for what seems like an eternity while listening to your restless 2 year old scream and his 5 year old sister yell at him to stop screaming, just knowing that quiet bliss is but moments away. And then they give you the bag. As you sit it on your lap and feel the pangs of 2nd degree burns, you know this is NOT gonna be good. Nothing like sitting in the parking lot, with 60 degree temps outside, and the a/c blasting as you hold up french fries to the vent as those mother effers are burning the flesh right off of your fingers. Enduring the confused looks of men who drive by. LOOK AWAY, BUDDY. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A MOTHER. The sheer depth, range and scope of ridiculous crap that we have to deal with. It is a constant bombardment on the brain of creativity. How to get through the day with the least amount of screams and tantrums, and the kids act up sometimes as well. (ba-dum-BUM!) :)
But seriously, fresh is NOT GOOD when it comes to children. Give me the fries that have been sitting out for 10 minutes or so. Nothing thrills me like a lukewarm nugget! I am ashamed to admit that I know not to go through the drive-thru at 11:30am. EVERYTHING is hot!! If you are sitting there judging me, then you are a) not a mother, b) you have a huge support system, or c) just a judgemental b-hole who needs to spend a few hours with my youngest. :) I know, you don't have to say it...I'm sweet.