Posts from — June 2009

A few months back, L came home with a whole bunch of information he had received from a couple of ladies who did a seminar about “How to Save a Shitload On Your Groceries” (the name may have been slightly different than that) at his workplace.  A workplace, I should mention, that has absolutely nothing to do with groceries. Or coupons. Or anything remotely domestic, really.  A full five minutes into his spiel to me about how the whole coupon revolution would totally work for us and save us lots of dough I was still like, “Wait. You went to a coupon seminar? At work? On purpose?” and he had to start all over again because it was clear I couldn’t hear him over the WTFs in my head.

Somehow a week or so later, in a moment of weakness, I agreed to try out this new system of grocery shopping. The whole premise behind it is that you buy things when they are on sale with coupons that you diligently save over weeks and months in meticulously organized binders with dates and indexes and Excel spreadsheets and then you access the super top secret Pentagon list of savings through the website that you pay to subscribe to.  Then you buy as many of each item as you can and store them in your pantry, attic, closets, outdoor shed, or nuclear fallout shelter. Then, in theory, your grocery bill shrinks and shrinks over time as you create your own grocery store in your house, with $0.19 toothbrushes and $2.00 jumbo boxes of Tampax.  And then you break off from society and create your own government where you are the supreme dictator of all you……oh wait, that’s something different.  I always get our family projects mixed up!

Anyhoodle, you can imagine that my level of domesticity does not really include things like Spend Two Hours on Grocery Spreadsheet, but desperate economic times leads people to try all kinds of kooky ass shit, and I am not immune to this phenomenon.  But let me tell you, a trip to the grocery with two kids and a very specific list (“Ban Girl Deoderant, ISLAND FRESH SCENT ONLY, Buy 4!!!”) that requires more than a modicum of concentration feels kind of like competing in a triathalon.  (I mean, you know, I’m guessing.)  Back when Rosie was small enough to fit in the baby carrier, I would have to lie down for an hour after a grocery store run. Inevitably I would have spent most of the trip with a 17 pound baby strapped to my chest pushing my semi-truck-sized car cart across the entire length of the store at least six times because I could not find the location of the (75% off so says The List) No-Nonsense No Show Athletic Socks. Because I had not previously been in the habit of shopping for my clothes at Kroger.

A few months in, I’m not sure how it’s worked out for us.  Sure we’ve gotten tubes of Colgate for $0.29, and we’ve been able to afford more name brand and/or organic things, but there have been weeks that I’ve spent 4 hours grocery shopping and realized that all we have for dinner is a giant bag of white rice and a gallon of mustard.  The main kink in the plan though, as far as I can tell, is the fact that by the time I get halfway through my list, my eyes are so glazed over and my nerves are so frazzled that I end up at the egg section trying to decipher which carton of free range organic eggs I’m supposed to be buying in bulk and I snap. And I think SCREW IT. I DON’T CARE IF THESE EGGS CAME FROM ACID DROPPING PROSTITUTE CHICKENS IN A BROTHEL. JUST PUT SOMETHING IN THE CART AND GET ME OUT OF HERE.  And then I beeline out of the store, but not before tossing five pints of Häagen Dazs, 12 bags of Doritos, and a case of Sam Adams in the cart.

So, I don’t know, that may not be saving us a whole lot of money.

I guess I’ll keep on plugging though, seeing as how I have approximately five biznillion coupons in my possession.  But I dream of a day when I go to the grocery store with enough money in the bank not to have to penny pinch every item that gets tossed in the cart.  And on that glorious day, I will choose my foodstuffs not by yellow tag, but by PURE DESIRE.  And I will hold NOT a bulging coupon envelope.  And in my bag upon checkout, there will be but ONE of each item.  And that item SHALT NOT BE IN JUMBO SIZE.

Amen and amen.

Lately Noah has taken to being unbearably adorable, which I have to say, I’m a big fan of.  He loves to see if he can get Rosie to stop crying if she’s stranded in the Saucer of Solitary Confinement.  This activity gets my Big Fat Seal of Approval.  He is almost always successful in this endeavor, usually employing the aid of a birthday card from his grandparents that plays the Superman theme in full orchestral score.  More than once I’ve been drying off from a shower to the soundtrack of Rosie’s displeasure and all of a sudden I hear trumpets ring out DUUUH DUN-NUH NUH NUUUH! DUN DUN DUN! and all wailing immediately ceases. I peek in the hall and see Noah in a spread legged stance with the flung open card in his outstretched arms and Rosie with her back arched and eyes wide, taking in the large muscled tights-clad man that is being thrust in her face.  Hey, whatever helps me start my day clothed.

Also, Noah full on cheered and clapped this morning, unprompted, when I informed him of the appearance of Rosie’s first tooth, yelling “Big girl!  Yay for Rosie!” while Rosie grinned and grinned, drooling and pleased as punch.  YOU CAN’T MAKE THIS STUFF UP, PEOPLE.

But one of my favorite activities of late is Noah’s interest in sitting quietly and drawing pictures for me, L, and Rosie.  He has a signature theme: a multicolored heart on tiny scraps of paper.  There are probably 15 of these on our refrigerator already, and every day he makes more, each one labeled “To Mom Form Noah” or “To Rosie” or just simply “Dad.” So I should not have been surprised in the least when the artistic joy just bubbled over him yesterday morning and at one sitting he made one for everyone in the family:

And then, deciding he just had to get out that last bit of artistic generosity:

Spread the love, little man.  Spread the love.

Maybe I’ve said this (583hj4 times) before, but being home with your kids all the time is hard.  Not organic chemistry hard or ridiculously complicated taxes hard or puke-your-lungs-up plank jacks hard, just HARD hard.  (Is it just me or is the word “hard” looking kind of funny now?) I’ve heard all the jokes about needing “the Manual” on kids, but I’m here to tell you that sonofabitch would be as big as a house, because you could not possibly think of all the different kinds of crazy that will come along with those little squirmy buggers.

One of the particularly challenging aspects I’ve been (literally) faced with lately is Rosie’s constant desire for tactile stimulation, otherwise known as Pinchypinchysqueezesqueeze syndrome.  I cannot nurse her without feeling the need for full body armor complete with chain mail and helmet.  She is uncannily good at seeking out skin, taking the minutest amount of it between her fingers, clamping down, and rolling it back and forth and back and forth until there are tears coming out of my eyes and the words of sailors coming out of my mouth.  Favorite spots include my lips, the underside of my arms and the skin, uh, closest to the food source. When I started developing green and brown bruises in little clusters, I knew it was time for action, so I did what any responsible parent would do: I Googled.

There were so many entries for this topic, it amazed me.  Who knew that mothers everywhere were being forced to bite on wooden sticks and employ the serpentine maneuver with their face while trying to feed their babies lunch?  Several of the letters to the various websites I visited could have been written by me, word for word.  There were some solutions suggested: say a firm NO (tried it), give baby a toy to hold (tried it), hold baby’s hand (also tried it), pretend to cry when baby pinches you (WTF?), but my favorite of all was the last suggestion I came across.  Put a sock on it.

And so that is how last night I had the most peaceful nursing session in months, calmly rocking in the glider, defenses down, humming to the bedtime CD as I was gently grazed across the face with a fuzzy baby athletic sock.  It looked like a tiny replica of one of Michael Cera’s legs in Juno was waving in front of my face, except it was Rosie’s hand, daggers and pinchers sheathed beneath pink and white cotton.  Bliss.

So next time you hear that nervous laugh about where’s that dadgum “instruction book” that’s supposed to come with your kids?  You just level that all knowing gaze at them and say “Friend, let me tell you about a little thing called ‘The Internets.’”

It’s all true, you know.

Curious George, cardboard forts, sunscreen, flip flops, movie nights, swimming, morning naps, chocolate pudding, trips to Target, happy screeching, sandwiches, Slip n’ Slide, boredom, rainstorms, Uno, sweaty heads, dirty toes, ice cream, meltdowns, library books, strong wills, Candyland, stroller walks, watermelon, poopy diapers, playdates, car naps, baseball games, crying jags, drooly chins, sundresses,

Him:

Her:

Them:

All day, every day, repeat, repeat, repeat…

Peevish

Every once in a while something will annoy me and I’ll take a second to clarify if I am annoyed just this one time, or if the Annoying Thing I just witnessed is something that always annoys me, every time.  If I decide “every time”, it gets added to my Pet Peeve list, a (probably too long because I need to get a life) list that lives in my head, ready to be whipped out for use, should I ever find myself in need of a Pet Peeve  list.  I’ll give you a few examples, but only a few because I don’t want you to know how much of an actual asshole I am:

- Standing Uber Close Behind Me Whilst I Am Waiting In The Checkout. It’s not accidental. I inch up, they inch up. Also, inevitably some part of the merchandise they are buying will be touching me at all times.

- Unnecessary Awkward Running Across Crosswalks When There Are No Cars Approaching.  Self-explanatory. You’ve seen it.

- The Use Of The Word “Hubby.”  I know, some of you use this word.  But this is my list, so there you go.  Your list may include “The Use Of The Phrase OMG” or “Always Referencing Burritos” and that is your prerogative.

There are many more. Too many. I need to tone down the peeve.

Noah, Neck Permanently Craned

It never occurred to me until after Noah outgrew his car seat that he had only been able to face forwards in the car.  Those car seats are like little armless straight-jackets (um, so really like something totally different I guess) that kept him locked into one position and the sides of the seat impeded his vision to his left and right.  One of the first times he ever rode in his booster seat, I remember him seeing some cool looking car headed in the opposite direction and tracking it until it was out of sight over the horizon behind us and then turning around with saucer eyes and saying “MOM. I SAW IN BACK OF US.”  Now he rides that way a good 95% of the time.  You would think the novelty would have worn off, but I think the four years of exclusively face forward car riding means he’s missed out on millions of painted lines on the pavement fading into the distance, and so with dogged determination he plans to make up for every single one.

It’s Called Shred For A Reason

Two days in and I hurt everywhere.  Last time I did the Shred, I made sure to do it three maybe four times a week.  This time I’m doing it every day, no excuses, and I’m a little, um, trembly about it.  Trembly in fear and in muscle weakness. Plus, I never know what I’m going to get from the audience that is watching the Huffnpuff Show.  One minute Noah’s gaga about “Wow Mom, you can do a LOT of jumping jacks!” and the next he’s all “Man, Mom, the WHOLE HOUSE IS SHAKING.  You’re really really really really HEAVY.”

Thanks peanut gallery, appreciate the commentary. Now come over here and lift mama’s finger so she can push the stop button on the DVD remote.

Oof.