One Wish

If I had one wish it would be that just for a couple of minutes I had absolutely nothing to do. Every single moment of every day there's potential for something to be done. It doesn't mean it gets done, it just means that if I'm not doing it, it and its many counterparts will be waiting to get done eventually. Something's always gotta give around here because If I'm doing this then that is being neglected.

Yesterday I had an awful migraine and so I sat on the couch doing pretty much nothing all morning. It's at times like that, when nothing is getting done, that I realize how much I do do throughout the day.

All right. My minute for complaining is done. I think I'll take another to do nothing before I set off for the next 60 to complete my chores.

I Rest My Case

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury,

The circumstantial evidence has always been there: She yells one minute and laughs the next. She's pouting now.......and now she's not.

I had planned to consult an expert witness, somebody with the training and experience that would come in and explain to you how the accusations made against Ms. K are possible. This expert would break down in layman's terms how Ms. K is wired and how that wiring causes the changes in her demeanor.

However, through the technology of a camera lens, I am now able to provide you with the type of evidence that lawyers like to call Heaven on Earth. This type of evidence is also known as direct evidence. The evidence will prove that Ms. K has bouts of temporary insanity throughout the course of the day; that her expressions can sway from sheer disgust or sadness to crazy, yell-out-loud happiness in a matter of seconds.

In my hands I have Exhibit 1. This is a picture taken of Ms. K on the evening of May 16, 2010 at approximately 5:54 pm.

It is evident by the look on her face that she is disturbed by something. Something has caused Ms. K to enter into a state of unhappiness that has consumed her world.

Next I'd like to call your attention to Exhibit 2. Exhibit 2 was taken on the same night, May 16, 2010 at approximately 5:57. A mere three minutes after Exhibit 1 was shot.

Here we see Ms. K indulging in some sort of activity that has made her scream with delight. And in fact, her father, Mr. K, will testify that he was just outside the frame shooting a water gun at her at the very moment Exhibit 2 was taken.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, does this look like somebody that's sane to you? Please don't be swayed by her cuteness. The girl is crazy. It is your job as the triers of fact to reach a unanimous verdict based on the evidence and the evidence alone. In this case, the evidence speaks for itself and that should make your decision to find Ms. K guilty of Temporary Insanity in the First Degree beyond a reasonable doubt an easy one.

Thank you.

Rolling & Rocking

I like nice things. Who doesn't? I've been known to spend a lot of money on trivial things such as shoes and purses. But walking in my beautiful shoes wasn't as glamorous as it appeared. Inside that nice purse was very little money and many credit cards with big balances.

These days, the credit cards are paid off thanks to a collective effort of work, parenting, and marriage. All bills that come into this house leave shortly thereafter with a check that will obliterate them until the next month rolls around. And the girl that for a while paid minimum balances on credit cards has left too.

This morning the kids and I packed into the car and went to Wal-Mart. I hadn't planned on going shopping there. My main destination was Costco across the street but I had to return something at WM and went there first.

While walking through the store I walked by a rack of tank tops that I just couldn't pass up. This isn't my first go round with these tanks. The love affair started about 4 years ago when we still lived in Maryland. They were cute, cheap, and came in every color on the spectrum. I bought one and loved the way it fit so I went back and bought another and another until I had racked up about 12 of them. I slipped into a different one every day as soon as I got home from work. I figured if they lasted the season I would have gotten my money's worth. I have most of them to this day. I went and got several more the summer after that. Sure, the lighter colored ones are looking a little yellow under the arms and the darker ones are starting to fade some, but they haven't ripped or stretched out in a funky way even though I'm about twice as big as I was then.

Since we were going down memory lane with our WM attire, after throwing a couple of the tanks into my cart, we made our way to the boys' department. Js favorite shirt right now is the Mario Kart tee pictured above. My mom bought it there while she was out to visit last month, so shortly upon arriving he started scheming for a Toy Story one. We didn't find it. But we did see exactly what I was looking for.

When J was a baby I bought him a few short-sleeved t-shirts there. Nothing fancy, just 100-percent cotton, crew-neck tees in, again, every color known to man. He wore them all the time. So when September arrived I went back to get the same shirts in the long-sleeved version. He wore them alone, under short-sleeved shirts, sometimes even as PJ tops. He outgrew them before they were too dingy to throw away and I went back twice a year until the ones in the baby section got too small and the ones in the boys' section were too big. Now they fit again. We got a couple neutral-colored ones and threw in a pair of shorts for good measure because the ones I got there last summer are still in good condition after numerous washings and lots of rough and tumble.

Not to be left out, M got a cute little top too.

Our grand total for five tops and a pair of shorts: $18.

To say that today's shopping spree was a good lesson for my kids would imply that I somehow feel I went outside of what is normal to prove a point. That is not the case. This is how we live. And I'm proud of that. I have never been above going to Ross, Target or WM to buy something that I thought was cute or trendy and I'm certainly not above doing the same for my kids.

I don't want J to grow up thinking that all shirts need an alligator or a pony on the pocket to be cool or that his shorts need a swoosh or a big cat to be worthy of a spot in his dresser. One day in the not-so-far-off future material possessions will become status symbols on the playground. It's my job to teach my kids that those aren't the things that define them. He needs to know that what's hanging off his body is not nearly as important as what's deep behind that pocket -- whether there's an animal present or not. And, I don't want it to be an occasional reminder, but rather something he's always known. Because, Mario, that's how WE roll in our house.

To say that I'm completely cured of my bad habits of old would be a flat out lie; they die hard. As soon as I can get myself into a respectable size in jeans I will be going out and spending a lot of money on a new pair. But I'm still wearing the ones I bought six years ago, snug and all. And, I still like nice shoes. I just don't buy four pairs at once anymore.

That being said, the occasional North Face jacket may continue to show up in a smaller-than-adult size around here -- and if I taught him well, he'll be proudly rocking his WM t-shirt right inside of it.

Bring It On

Two or three days ago I got an email from a friend to which were attached several pictures of her son's 7th Birthday party. I could hardly look at the pictures themselves because my mind was preoccupied with the fact that this little boy is only 8 months older than my J.

The logical me knows that J was born nine months after we got married; the emotional me locked it away in a seldom-seen dark corner of my mind and then threw away the key.

When he was about to be five I had a similar feeling. I wrote it off as five just being a milestone age. Six rolled around and I was okay. Maybe a little anxiety about climbing up and over the milestone hill. Nothing too dramatic. But seven just seems like such a big-boy age. Seven year olds are rambunctious and sneaky. My J is gentle and sweet and he still waves to me as he's walking towards the waiting school bus outside our door.

How did this happen? When did it happen? Oh, the questions swirling 'round. Did I do enough? Why did I so often whisk him off to sleep a couple of minutes early or not read the book yet another time just so that I could have a few moments to myself? Why did I tune him out when he babbled insistently about things that only live in the heads of little ones? And why am I only asking myself these questions now that the babble has turned into somewhat-intelligent chatter?

When I was a new parent somebody told me that when it came to raising a child, "the days are long, but the years are short." Words of wisdom indeed.

If there's any consolation in all of this it's that I don't remember a whole lot about anything that occurred before the age of six and that even if I had read that book from sun up to sun down, he wouldn't remember and I would still be asking the same questions.

As the years get shorter and shorter, I'd give anything to get one of those long, long days back. I wouldn't complain. I'd keep my ears and my eyes open. I'd hug him and kiss him and play and read to him until the very minute bedtime rolled around. And then I'd get up and do it all over again tomorrow.

In the real world, tomorrow I'll get up and there will be laundry to do, dishes to wash, groceries to be bought, and food to be cooked all sandwiched into small windows of time before getting him off to school, M napped, and running to the bus stop to pick him up again. The truth is, the days are long, but they're busy. I'm looking forward to summer when we'll have 2-plus months all to ourselves with no time constraints or schedules. And if there's any truth to the above saying, then having a toddler around will really stretch them out -- borrowed time in a way -- but time nonetheless. Time before he goes off to school full time and the windows that so controlled the course of my day will be blown wide open.

Time to enjoy the little boy that's before me now so that three, seven, ten or twenty, maybe even thirty or forty years from now I won't be asking myself the same questions. Yet I know I will. With him and with M, the questions will continue, but if it keeps me on my toes to constantly strive to be the best mommy I can be, then bring it on!

Crappy Cupcaker

A good cupcake maker I'm not. I know this. Have for a long time. Yet that didn't stop me from volunteering my services for the cake walk at the school carnival tomorrow. I don't know what led me to believe that my skills were all of a sudden Magnolia Bakery-of-NYC-and Sex and the City-fame worthy.

Why did I think that my confections would rise above the rim of the paper cup and be anything other than the sunken pieces of dough they usually are?

Well, that's because they did:

Come on. An eight year old can make better looking cupcakes than I can. I'm perfectly capable of opening a box, adding oil, water, eggs, and mixing. But it's a measuring thing. I can't seem to get the right amount of liquid into the cup.

And now, not only am I a crappy cupcaker, but I've reached new lows in somehow trying to justify my lameness. Like the fact that I can't visually measure the precise amount is a good enough excuse for the little messes that come out of the oven.

But don't be mistaken, they taste delicious. I should know. I ate two once I decided that I would make a trip to TOP Foods tomorrow morning and buy cupcakes. When J came home from soccer he ran inside the house with his cleats still on and fell on his way to the kitchen. As he was getting up he said, "I can smell the cupcakes." And yummy they smelled.

There were a few good looking ones.

Now that's a pretty cupcake. And the way I see it, I only have seven years before M will show me how to make perfect ones every time.

Now close your eyes and imagine that it has frosting on top.

Come to Momma, Carrie Bradshaw. Come to Momma.