Happy Mama's Day

Time to reveal the big announcement.

I’m not running for public office. (But I’d like to someday.)  I didn’t win the lottery.  (But I’d like to someday.)  I'm not moving to London.  (According to my mom, this is my dad's theory.)  I haven’t been asked to participate in a roundtable discussion on motherhood at the White house with the likes of Michelle Obama, Hilary Clinton, Elizabeth Warren, and Lisa Belkin. (But that would be pretty cool.) 

And drum roll please…  I’m not pregnant.  Sorry to disappoint, but, really, have you read nothing I’ve written over the last few years?

(Editor’s note:  While the Runaway Mama had a feeling her announcement might make some people think she was pregnant, she failed to anticipate how miserable it would feel to realize people thought she looked like she was pregnant.  Sigh.)

It’s occurred to me that, at this point, those of you who thought I was pregnant (or moving to London) might be slightly disappointed with my breaking news.  I contemplated canceling the big reveal all together, but then thought better of it.  Besides, no one likes a quitter.  So, here it is.  Here’s the news that’s so exciting to me but might seem kind to lame to you, especially if you’ve been betting that I’m having a baby…

I’m moving! From Blogger to Word Press!

And that’s not all…

I went shopping! Yah, Shopaholic Mama!  I bought a URL!  I bought www.therunawaymama.com!

Now can find me (and tell all of your friends and their friends and so on to find me) at www.therunawaymama.com.  In fact, if you go there right now, you can sign up to receive email alerts whenever I publish something new and you can read my newest post, "A Mama's Point of View: Mother Is Enough."  Here's the direct link:


http://therunawaymama.com/2012/05/13/a-mamas-point-of-view-mother-is-enough/

I’ve got big ideas for the blog, including a first-ever Runaway Mama giveaway, and I plan to add new features just as soon as I finish folding the laundry and my boys stop needing me every 30-45 seconds.  Crap.  That might be never.  Stay tuned anyway, though, because miracles do happen. 

As always, thanks for reading!  

Sincerely,

The Runaway (not pregnant) Mama

Proud Mama

There’s a lot to be proud of today. 

Riley had no accidents.  (Before school, that is.)

I finally overcame is serious bout of writer’s block and finished an essay I’ve been trying to write for over a month.  (Halleluiah!)

Dylan took his Pre-K graduation pictures at school.  My pride here doesn’t just come from realizing my baby has developed into an intelligent, polite, charismatic, funny, nice, and handsome boy.  It also comes from knowing how much hard work he’s put into conquering his sensory issues over the past eight months.   A year ago, this picture wouldn’t have been possible.

Until today, I considered potty training Dylan as my proudest parenting achievement.  Now, without a doubt, this is.  

Silver Lining

Believe it or not, it is possible to spend too much time with your children.  It was a long weekend filled with mishaps, misfortune, and aggravation, and Riley, in particular, left me with an overwhelming desire to run for the hills and never look back.  Since I’m not one to surrender to cynicism (well, not usually), I searched deep within myself to find a silver lining in each and every unpleasant incident that occurred over the weekend. 

Like on Saturday morning when I spent three hours on a hot-as-hell soccer field watching Riley and Dylan not play soccer.  Riley clung to me for dear life the whole time, and Dylan spent the hot morning complaining that he was too tired to play.  At least it didn’t rain!

Like on Saturday afternoon when Grandma Barbara and I took Dylan and Riley to see The Pirates! Band of Misfits and the air conditioner in the theater didn’t work well (and I was still sweating from soccer) and Riley insisted on sitting squirming on my lap through the whole movie.  At least we weren’t at soccer!

Like on Saturday afternoon after the movie when Riley peed all over the bathroom floor (right next to the toilet) and then pooped in his pants an hour later.  At least it happened at home instead of the movie theater!

Like on Sunday morning when Riley woke up soaking wet in his bed and then peed all over the bathroom floor (right next to the toilet…again) an hour later.  At least the washer and dryer worked!

Like on Sunday morning when I had to bribe Riley with mini marshmallows to wear nice shorts to the theater where we were going to see a live performance of Clifford The Big Red Dog with Grandma Barbara.  At least he didn’t pee in the nice shorts once we got them on!

Like later in the morning when Riley sat squirmed in my lap for over an hour during the Clifford show.  At least I took this beautiful picture of the boys with their Grandma Barbara at the theater! 

(Actually, it really was a lovely morning.  Thank you, Barbara, for taking us to the show.)

Like on Sunday afternoon when Riley pooped in a wet bathing suit at the pool.  I didn’t know he pooped until I got him to the bathroom and a big, huge, wet poop fell onto the floor when I pull down his shorts.  At least he didn’t poop in the pool!

Like an hour later when, after he was bathed and dressed, Riley pooped in his pants again.  At least he didn’t poop on Grandma Barbara and Grandpa Tom’s leather suede couch!  At least I wasn’t there!  (Thank you, Barbara and Tom, for recognizing the I-need-a-time-out-from-Riley look in my eyes and graciously offering to watch the boys for an hour so I could regain my composure over a glass of wine with my sister-in-law and her friend.)

Like on Sunday evening when the boys and I got a flat tire on our way home from Barbara and Tom’s.  At least we weren’t on the highway!  At least Mike was able to relieve me and wait for AAA while I took the boys home!  At least I remembered to pay our annual AAA membership dues!  (Seriously, AAA rocked…and so did Mike.)

Like today when I took the car to Tire Kingdom to replace the spare and the tire I needed wasn’t in stock and had to be special ordered.  At least I didn’t have to hang out in the sad little Tire Kingdom waiting room for an hour! 

More than anything else, Riley’s regressions and “terrible threes” behavior this weekend made Dylan look really, really good.  (Note to self:  Have Dylan say thank you to Riley after school.) 

What I want more than anything is to have a break so I can better appreciate the time I spend with my children.  Reuniting with them – seeing their beautiful smiles, feeling their warm hugs, and absorbing their unconditional love – after having some distance is a gift and something I’d like to experience a little bit more often.  Unfortunately, that ain't gonna happen any time soon.  At least it’s Monday! 

Bugger

According to urbandictionary.com, bugger has many definitions, including a few that are inappropriate for this mommy blog.  This is the definition I like best: An exclamation to a really bad occurrence.  On some days, the pride I feel as a Mama is overwhelming.   On other days, I think to myself, oh bugger.

Yesterday, I walked straight into a spider web in my backyard, and my physical reaction was simply absurd.  I closed my eyes, flailed my arms, hopped from one foot the other to the beat of some kind of rain/pee-pee dance, and swatted the air with my hands.  I fell back a step only to knock Riley down on the ground – face first – behind me.  Yes, Riley and Dylan witnessed my award-winning performance.  And the next thing I knew both of them ran for cover in the screened-in patio.  Through the doggie door.  Head first.  (They’re still too little to reach the door handle.)  Bugger. 

I try so hard not to project my fears and anxieties on my children, and I think we can all agree I pretty much suck at it.  Ironically, when I walked into the spider web, I was in the process of freeing two strange little bugs that were mysteriously hanging out on a roll of paper towels in the kitchen.  In the heat of the moment, I squashed the two little buggers I was trying to set free.  You can call me a lot of names, but Nature Mama isn’t one of them.

Earlier in the day, I had an equally humbling and awkward parenting moment.  I took the boys shoe shopping after school.  Both of them need something to wear besides sneakers and Crocs, especially Dylan who has three formal Pre-Kindergarten graduation events coming up, including a Prom.  (Have you heard?  Pre-K is the new 12^th grade.)

I told the boys if they were patient and good listeners at the shoe store, they could each get a new Jibbitz for their Crocs.  Dylan quickly chose Anakin from Star Wars. Riley, on the other hand, set his sights on an extra-large, extra-pink butterfly.

Let me explain something.  I own several Tinker Bell and princess movies. Dylan went through a fairy phase, mermaid phase, a pink and a purple phase, and a short-lived (thankfully) Barbie phase.  A few years ago, he contemplated being a fairy for Halloween.  In the end, he decided to be Lightning McQueen, but I was ready to make him the most kick-ass fairy costume on the planet.   I don’t like to prescribe to rigid gender boundaries – especially for young, curious children.  Yet, I had a hard time saying yes to Riley’s request for the big, pink butterfly Jibbitz.

I tried to persuade him to choose Batman or Boots, but it didn’t work.  “How about a dinosaur?” the saleswoman interjected.  Then, a little boy in the store said, “How about Diego?” and a little girl said, “How about this spider?”  He still wanted the big, pink butterfly.  Finally, I said, “The thing is, Riley, usually – not always – but usually girls have pink butterflies on their Crocs, not boys.”  I hate that I said that.  A lot.  Bugger.

The saleswoman came back over and said, “How about Thomas the Train?”  We all looked at Riley eager for his response.  “Okay,” he said.  And then it was over.  We bought a Thomas the Train Jibbitz.  Except, I wish I had bought him the butterfly.  He’s three!  He’s curious!  He likes butterflies!  Who cares!  Later that night, perhaps to prove a point, he read me the “The Very Hungry Caterpillar.”  Yes, he read it to me.  He memorized the story because he loves butterflies so damn much.  And at the end of the book, the big, fat caterpillar becomes a big, beautiful butterfly.  Bugger.

Why is it so much easier in our culture for a girl to love pirates than it is for boy to like pink butterflies?  And why are butterflies always pink?  I want my children to live their best life and be their truest selves – and if having a pink butterfly or a Tinker Bell or a Barbie (but hopefully not Barbie) Jibbitz on their Crocs is a part of the journey, so be it.  Next time, I won’t stand in the way.  As for the spider webs and other pesky buggers, that’s a done deal.  Mama doesn’t like them.  Never has and never will.

Word Problems IV

If a Mama has 15 sippy cups in a cabinet, 4 sippy cups in the dishwasher, 2 sippy cups in the boys’ backpacks at school, and 2 sippy cups in the drying rack next to the sink, how many total sippy cups does a Mama have for TWO children?

23.  Good grief.

How many snow globes must be broken – sending shards of glass, water (I think), and “snow” glitter flying all over the family room carpet – before a Mama realizes her three-year-old should not have snow globe holding privileges?

One.

A Mama starts bedtime at 8:03 p.m. and it ends at 9:47 p.m.  For how many minutes does the torture of bedtime make that Mama wonder what possessed her to ever have children in the first place?

104 minutes.  (Don’t worry.  The next morning, the Mama remembers how much joy and happiness her children bring to her life.  That is, until she has to wrestle her three-year-old into his car seat to get to school on time.  Then, she has more bad thoughts.  When she picks them up at school that afternoon, though, and they look at her like she’s the only person on the planet who matters, she realizes what a gift motherhood is.  That is, until dinnertime, when her five-year-old refuses to sit at the table – for even five minutes! – and her three-year-old cries because she won’t let him eat marshmallows for dinner.  Eventually, though, she laughs because her five-year-old asks her if she’s “happy at him” and her three-year-old says “mushroom” instead of “marshmallow,” and she falls in love with her children all over again.  That is, until bedtime…)

Motherhood is Messy (Part 2)

The response to yesterday’s post was strong.  It appears that I’m not alone with my sink full of dishes.  (Phew.)  I realized I forgot to show you two more perpetual messes:

These are my newspapers. 

They live on the front porch.  Unless my parents are visiting.  Then, they’re brought inside, read (crazy, I know), folded nicely, and recycled.  On those days, the newspapers are happy.  The rest of the time they’re here feeling sad and unappreciated.

And about the umbrella stand in the corner?  I had no idea it was even there until I snapped this photo.  It’s been there so long that it just blends in.  Like the miscellaneous donation pile living in the corner of my dining room (not pictured here).  It’s been there so long that it’s invisible.  It’s magic, really.

And here it is…the best mess of all…the backseat of the car. 

A messy, dirty car is another reason – besides supermarket meltdowns, potty training, shots, and vacations that are not vacationy at all – not to have kids.  Kids trash cars.  Unless you’re one of those parents that has a no-food-in-the-car rule, but I’ve never met one of those.  Had I taken this picture last week, you would’ve seen the aftermath of a Pirate’s Booty bomb.  Dylan opened a bag of Pirate’s Booty all by himself (high five for fine motor skills!), but the bag popped and there was a Pirate’s Booty storm.  It was like an infant poop explosion that oozes out the back of the diaper in that it was hard to know where to begin to clean it up.  I know there are cars in worse shape than mine (I’ve seen them), but mine is still pretty “crumby.”

Do you want to share your “Motherhood is Messy” photos?  Email them to me at therunawaymama@gmail.com and include some basic information, like your first name, how many kids you have and their ages, and a brief caption for the photo.  I’ll post them periodically.  Maybe your mess will be famous like mine!

p.s. Please don’t send weird, inappropriate pictures.  My kids do plenty of gross stuff, but they’re mine.  I don’t want to see other people’s kids’ gross stuff.  Thanks for understanding.

Motherhood is Messy

After I posted a picture of my messy kitchen table on Facebook with the caption, “Motherhood is messy,” a friend sent me this poem (author unknown):

Come in, but don't expect to find

All dishes done, all floors ashine.

Observe the crumpled rug, the toys galore.

The smudgy finger-printed door.

The little ones we shelter here

Don't thrive on a spotless atmosphere.

They're more inclined to disarray

And carefree even messy play.

Painted pictures, blocks piled high.

My floors unshined, the days go by.

Some future day they'll flee this nest,

And I at last will have a rest!

Which matters more,

A happy child or a polished floor?

Motherhood is messy.  For those of you who know me personally, you know I’m a pretty well put together person (most of the time).  Below are pictures of my house just after I dropped the boys off at school.  Nothing was staged, I swear.  I feel a little bit like Teri Hatcher who posted pictures online without makeup to prove she hadn’t had plastic surgery or Jamie Lee Curtis who posed in More magazine with no airbrushing to expose the myth of perfection.

This is the train table.  No, I don’t see any trains, either.  Dylan calls it the toy dumping table.  He’s smarter than me, because he's not looking for trains anymore.

This is my kitchen table.  We don't eat here because there’s no room. 

This is my kitchen sink.  The left side always looks like this.  Thankfully there are two sides.

This is the mail.  It lives on the dining room table.  Yes, it’s alive.

Be kind in the comments section.  Even though my house is as clean as a frat house, I really am a very nice person.  And I always have cold wine in my refrigerator.  And I make a mean scrambled egg.

The Scrapbook

I’ve been writing a lot lately.  Besides what you see published here, I’m also working on branding the blog, writing additional “A Mama’s Point of View” essays (for which I’m currently experiencing a frustrating bout of writer’s block), and working on the elusive Book (with a capital B).  As a result of all of this writing – on my stunning little MacBook Air laptop with the amazing mouse pad that performs all kinds of magic tricks with a flick of the wrist and the magic touch of the index finger – I’ve developed early symptoms of Carpel Tunnel Syndrome.  Yay me!  Now, the list of my extremities that have pins and needles has jumped from one (my left foot) to two (my left foot and my right hand).  Sigh.

By the way, the EMG and nerve conduction test on my left leg came back negative, which means my nerves and muscles are working well enough.  The doctor said I can do two things:  (1) nothing or (2) have an MRI of my lumbar spine.  Together, we decided to wait a few weeks and then regroup and decide about the MRI.  Another sigh. 

Over the weekend, I took a break from writing to give my right wrist a rest.  This wasn’t easy, nor was spending money on a boring mouse pad with a gel-filled wrist rest.  I would have much preferred shopping for espadrilles.  With writing off the table, I decided to finally sort through my mess of an office/guest bedroom/storage room otherwise known as Harry’s bedroom.  

The last time my parents visited, my Dad brought me a big pile of “stuff” from my childhood that had been gathering dust in his basement since the late 1970s.  On a previous flight, he brought two cases of my grandmother’s Waterford crystal wine glasses as his carry-on bag.  The man is capable of anything.  He desperately wants to bring me my wedding dress, which was cleaned and sealed professionally in 2002, but I keep threatening to rip it out the box and put it on to see if it still fits if he dares show up with it.  So far, he’s held on to it, but I think my days are numbered. 

Anyway, the big pile of stuff had been gathering dust in my house since Christmas.  I figured I would throw most of it away, but once I started sorting through it, nostalgia got the best of me.  (Yes, Dad, this is me saying thank you for schlepping my scrapbook from your house to mine.) 

Behold…

I found countless award certificates from short story and poetry contests I entered in middle school and high school.  I had forgotten how much writing meant to me, even back then.

Then there were the pictures of me when I was in nursery school and Kindergarten.  I showed this one to Dylan and he said, “Was I in your belly then?”  Um, gross.  Riley just laughed and said, “That’s not Mommy!”

Gotta love the bowl cut.  Thanks, Mom!

Here’s my early handwriting from Kindergarten.  For all of my worries about Dylan’s fine motor skills and, well, everything else a Mama could possibly worry about, his handwriting looks better than mine did at the same age.  

And here's Dylan's:

And here’s a masterpiece I actually remember creating in the first grade:

“When I grow up, I want to be a waitress.  I will serve nice food to the people.”  Priceless.  Actually, I did wait tables in high school.  And being a mom is kind of like being a waitress, except I don’t get tips.

This trip down memory lane made me realize (1) I’m old and (2) I better get crackin’ on Dylan and Riley’s scrapbooks so someday I can schlep them from my house to theirs. 

Pins and Needles

I have a question.  Am I the only person on the planet who develops weird physical symptoms, or am I the only person on the planet who actually calls the doctor when the symptoms surface?  I think I know the answer.  (Remember when I requested a colonoscopy a few months ago?)  My medical team is starting to look like a basketball team.  Currently, it includes a primary care physician, gynecologist, dermatologist, hematologist, gastroenterologist, and now, a neurologist.  


About a month ago, I began feeling numbness and tingling on my left shin and foot.  What I did next probably won’t surprise you.  I googled “tingling in leg and foot.”  Within ten minutes, I diagnosed myself with multiple sclerosis.  What I did after that will be even less surprising.  I called my doctor.  Since then, I’ve had blood work, a vitamin B12 injection, a vein ultrasound, and this morning, I underwent an electromyogram (EMG) and nerve conduction study, which measures the electrical activity of muscles and nerves.

Over the years, I’ve endured some uncomfortable medical procedures, like wisdom teeth extraction, spinal anesthesia and c-section, chemotherapy, the disgusting crap you have to drink before a CAT Scan and colonoscopy, hernia surgery, and, last fall, a root canal.  Now I can add EMG and nerve conduction study to this unpleasant list.

This is what my neurologist (a very nice man, by the way) told me before he started:  “You’re not going to feel pain, but it’s going to be uncomfortable.”  What happened next should be illegal.  He shocked my right leg in half a dozen spots from my knee to my ankle.  There was just enough time in between each jolt to anticipate (and break into a cold sweat) about the next one.  And when he was finished with the right leg, he started all over again on the left one!  If I knew national secrets, I would have spilled the beans after the first one.  Now I can add being tased to the list of things I fear, including power outages (I live in South Florida), deep ocean water and bees.  

When he finished electrocuting me, he started poking my legs with a long needle.  Over and over again.  Each time he stuck me, he made me contract and relax the muscle.  And when he was done with the front of my legs, he made me roll over on my belly to do the same thing on the back.  When it was all over, I had small bleeding holes all over my legs.  I felt like a victim in an episode of “Fringe.”  I’ll never be the same again. 

The test torture lasted less than twenty minutes, and I was safely home within an hour (shaking like a leaf in a corner with new symptoms…probably a result of PTSD).  I’ll get the results on Monday.  Until then, I’m on pins and needles.

Mondays

I had an interesting conversation with a Mama yesterday.  She’s a waxing specialist and has a daughter who is eleven.   For the sake of this post, let’s call her Wax Mama.

“How is everything?” asked Wax Mama. 

“Fine,” I said,  “Just busy as usual.”  Somehow we ended up talking about the woes of parenthood.  I have to warn you, the conversation was bleak.

Wax Mama said, “My daughter hears everything!  I can’t have friends over because my daughter listens to every word.  I can’t have a glass of wine at dinner because she doesn’t like that either.  I can’t do anything around her.  Girls are impossible!” 

No wine at dinner?  What kind of evil child would do that to her Mama?  Thankfully, I have boys.  They may be monkeys now, but if what everyone says about boys being easy later on is true, I’ll be fine.  Someday.  I think.  I hope.  Right?

I told Wax Mama that I heard girls are harder than boys when they get older.  She agreed.  Then she said, “But the boys...they grow up and leave you.  ” 

That’s crazy talk.  My boys will never grow up. I will squeeze their squishy tushies forever.

I said, “My boys are such Mama’s boys.  It’s hard to imagine them ever growing up.  I can’t even think that far ahead.”   

“Keep them close as long as you can,” warned Wax Mama.  “Time goes by fast.  They’ll be grown up before you know it, and then they’ll marry another woman and be gone.” 

Oh God.

Then we talked about weekends.  This, I could relate to.  I told Wax Mama how exhausting the weekends are.  “There’s soccer practice, swimming, chores, and dragging the kids around to run errands.  There are no naps and no breaks, and even if we’re lucky enough to have a babysitter on a Saturday night, they still get up at 6:30 on Sunday morning.  It doesn’t end until Monday morning.”

“Monday is the best day of the week,” said Wax Mama.  “My daughter goes to school and I have Mondays off.”

Bingo. 

“I love Mondays, too,” I said. “Mondays are like Saturdays for people who don’t have kids.”

Wax Mama said, “I see pregnant women all the time.  They’re so excited about having a baby and I just want to scream at them, ‘Your life is over!’”

I told you it was depressing.

A few hours later, in Target, a young man and woman stood in line behind me with just one item in their basket – a home pregnancy test.  (My basket, on the other hand, was filled with evidence of parenthood:  Annie’s Organic Snack Mix, flushable wipes, and dish soap.)  After my morning with Wax Mama, you might be wondering if I grabbed the test kit out of their hands, waved it in front their naïve faces and screamed, “Don’t have a baby!  Saturdays will never be the same!  Your life will be ruined!”  

I didn’t.

Instead, I was flooded with memories of all the times I drove to the store to buy pregnancy tests.   I remembered the anxiety and excitement I felt about taking the test, the disappointment I felt when the test was negative, and the delight and fear that engulfed my whole body when the stick actually said “Pregnant.”  I remembered how precious and delicate I felt, and I remembered the overwhelming sensation that everything was about to change.  I remembered - despite my bitch-fest with Wax Mama earlier in the day - that being a parent is just plain remarkable.

Assuming that young couple in Target actually wants to have a baby (they were holding hands), they have many wondrous firsts to look forward to and experience before the reality of the life-long, self-sacrificing, and unconditional commitment of parenthood (and the end of Saturday as they know it) settles in.  What do Wax Mama and I have to look forward to?  Mondays.   At least we have Mondays.