March 14, 2006
Butt Flinging “Ash Holes”
I’ve inherited many things from my dad: my nose, my temper, my perfectionist attitude. I’ve also inherited his disgust for litterbugs. I CAN NOT STAND when someone throws trash from their car. It drives me absolutely insane to see trash on the side of the road, in the parking lot, and especially in my yard. The litter item that takes the cake as far as maddening to me. . . cigarette butts. Nothing quite burns me up like littered cigarette butts. They are NOT biodegradable. When left outside, they can be picked up by babies and children, eaten by dogs and other animals, etc. It is just plain nasty and it seriously ticks me off. I especially hate litterbugs at the beach who treat the sand as a public ash tray.
Last year, we went to Pensacola Beach for a few days and were enjoying a beautiful afternoon on the beach. My husband was wading out in the water and Big I and I were hanging out on the beach. 
Big I started to tell me that her stomach hurt, but I was completely distracted as I watched a woman standing nearby smoking a cigarette and polluting the air around me. Normally, the smell of a cigarette will make me sick; but I was at the end of my first trimester so the smell was completely disgusting and I was seriously pissed that this woman was standing in my air. As I was trying to avoid the stream of nastiness, she flicked her cigarette onto the sand. She didn’t even bother to cover it up. The water was lapping at the butt, and I was fixated, infuriated and ready to burst. I composed a tirade in my head. It went something like this: "Would you mind picking up your cigarette and disposing of it in a more appropriate place?" If she gave me a problem, I was prepared to go off something like this, "This beach is not your personal ash tray. There are young children playing only feet away from you! Pick up your cigarette butt now before I pick it up and shove it down your throat!" (Anyone who knows me at all knows that I have what I lovingly refer to as "action plans" for certain situations, and I was fully prepared to put this one into motion.) Big I played a few feet behind me in the sand as I took a step toward the woman and started to open my mouth. Just then, the woman’s husband says to me, "Is that your kid?" as he points to Big I. I don’t even look because I know she’s right behind me and then he says, "She’s pukin’". She’s WHAT????
I turn around and there is Big I, projectile vomiting onto the sand. Now puke is disgusting any way it comes, but imagine a breakfast that includes pineapple and chocolate milk and you’ve got a first trimester mama about to join her little one in the regurgitation activities. The only thing I could think to do was run over to her, take one of her sand toys and start burying it in the sand. I mean, what else could I do? I scooped her up, turned towards Mr. B and started waving wildly as he was pretty far out in the gulf on a sand bar. I took one last cursory glance at the cigarette lady and thought, "How can I possibly say anything to her about her cigarette butt when my daughter just desecrated the beach with puke?" So, I shot her an awkward look, nodded a firm thanks towards her husband and marched our butts down the beach as the water lapped up the cigarette for some hungry fish to choke on.
Later, when I relayed the story to my husband he said I should have carried on with my critique of her disposal methods. Puke is 100% biodegradable. . .cigarette butts are most certainly not.
So, I got very excited last year when my dad informed me about a program in our state and several others to combat litter bugs. The concept is simple: see a person littering out of their car and record their car make/model, license, description of person, location and time of incident and report them. They get a nice warning letter letting them know that a caught litter bug pays a $300 fine, along with a litter bug bag for their car. It’s not much, but it does make me feel incredibly good when I call and report someone. If I could figure out how to work my cell phone camera, it would be even better. Instead, you’ll find me trying not to swerve on and off the road as I try to scribble a license number and all the other information necessary, usually with an eye or lip liner on a receipt for shoes or groceries.
I’m not a tree hugger; I don’t bleed green. I don’t even have a problem with smokers. But if you’re going to smoke, please do me the courtesy of not doing it in my air space (or especially in the vicinity of my kids); and throw your butt away! And when all is said and done, it does give me a good feeling knowing that the punky blonde littering teenager whose parents probably don’t even know she smokes, are going to get a letter saying that someone with her description was seen tossing a cigarette butt out their car window. If you’d like to make some teenager’s day, you can report litter bugs too at http://www.litterbutt.com. You’ll make your day and mine!
March 13, 2006
The “Mean” Mommy or Other People’s Annoying Kids
My husband informed me that I will be known as the "mean" mommy if I don’t watch it. To be perfectly honest, I don’t really care. My daughters know I love them and only want the best for them, which is why I watch them like hawks and am maybe slightly overprotective, or as others would call it, insanely overprotective. I proudly admit it. We live in a small housing community and there are limited options for playmates for my 4 year old. Her best friend moved hundreds of miles away a few months ago and so our playdate schedule has been relatively wide open. Add to the fact that I am still nursing Lil C and don’t really feel like making new friends who would inevitably have to see (or pretend not to see) an exposed me and you have a social disaster in the making for Big I.
On nice days, Big I will play outside while Daddy is washing the car or Mommy is planting flowers and will usually be joined by two little future serial killers girls whose guardians don’t exactly make it a habit of watching them closely or even at all. They are both two years older than Big I and one is particularly precocious which makes it partially understandable why her mother chooses to leave her outside without supervision. The latest activities outside include digging up other people’s yards (ripping out grass, gathering up mulch, taking decorative stones that are there for a purpose, etc.) in order to make what they call, "Outside Stew." When they are finished with said "outside stew," the older girls will inevitably dump it in someone else’s yard where an unsuspecting gardener will mow over top and probably take an eye out of someone standing nearby or himself.
So, while this stew gathering was taking place, I was standing outside with Lil C strapped in a baby wrap, watching like a hawk and telling Big I, "Only pick up pine cones; no pulling out grass; do NOT dig in the dirt; those stones are NOT yours," etc. etc. hoping that the other kids would catch on or that their parents would, oh, I don’t know, maybe NOTICE that their child is digging up someone else’s yard!?!? My problem with this is that I am ALWAYS the one saying, "no." I am always the ‘bad guy’ and I am sick and tired of other parents/guardians not caring if their child runs two blocks away near a busy road where anyone could stop a car and pick up a kid and be gone. So, while the other kids run free doing whatever they please, my Big I ends up standing at her perimeter that she may not cross longingly looking at the kids whose parents don’t care that they’re on the verge of being kidnapped, and I end up looking like the creep.
Because I don’t really care what the other parents/kids think about me, I will continue to be the way I am. But, this doesn’t keep my husband from telling me I’m like a 5-year old myself. The one child who we shall call satan Sandy always talks to adults like she’s the smartest person on the face of the Earth. I know, I know, it sounds like I’m back in junior high, but it’s ANNOYING and it’s my blog, so I’m going to complain about it. Yesterday, Sandy casually strolls over to me with Big I behind her and says, "I’m going to let Big I borrow these two toys." (Big I looks at me like, "What?") This was obviously the first she was hearing of this. These two toys are miniscule little animal figurines, a perfect choking hazard for my starting-to-get-around five month old. I very nicely tell Sandy that Big I doesn’t need to borrow her animals and before the statement is even finished, she cuts me off and says, "But I said she CAN borrow them." I take a deep breath, remembering that Lil C is strapped onto the front of me and calmly say to her smart butt, "I understand the concept of borrowing Sandy, but Big I is not going to borrow them. We don’t need to borrow them. She can play with you and them now instead." I firmly nod at Big I and she’s off to play. She could care less about borrowing these stupid animals.
As Mr. B stands there washing the car, I stroll over out of ear shot and say, "I can’t stand that kid," and he erupts in laughter. "You’re like a five year old," he says. Five year old or not, I know I have spared myself the return visit of Sandy to retrieve these small figurines, and for today. . . that’s all that really matters.
March 11, 2006
I Wish I Was a Little Bit Taller; I Wish I was a Baller…
Today was an absolutely beautiful day and so we spent most of it outside. Our first outing was to the park. Big I wanted to play on the playground. My husband had a different idea. Considering Big I will soon be five and she’s as tall as the average 7-year old, my husband is convinced that she will be a stellar basketball player and that it is his mission in life to help her get there. That’s all fine and good, but I keep telling him he needs to face the fact that Big I may have inherited my basketball genes, and that is simply not good. My husband also insists that with the proper training, at 5’9" I "should be" good at basketball too. Although I hit that height in about the 9th grade, field hockey was always my sport and basketball and I just never meshed. Honestly, I never understood a sport that has such ridiculously high scores. I mean, seriously, at least hockey players appreciate every goal they score because they may have worked 20 minutes or more for it. How exciting is it when there’s a point every two seconds? But anyway, back to the park. . .
While I set up camp on the bench with the sleeping Lil C, Mr. B coaxed Big I out onto the court as she longingly looked at the playground equipment. Picture this, Daddy wearing sweatshirt, gym shorts, baseball hat and sneakers bounding off to the basketball court with energy. In direct contrast, Big I is wearing flowered capri pants, light-up magic wand sneakers, a pink princess shirt, and her prized Disney Princess sun hat, dragging those light up shoes along the grass like she was a dead man walking. Despite this, it started out well enough, with my husband lifting Big I up to shoot baskets. But then my husband decided it was time to practice passing. "Let’s pass the ball," he said excitedly as he tossed the ball in her direction. Let’s just say that what happened next can only be described as Big I trying to catch the ball with her nose. It wasn’t pretty. Crying erupted, tears rolled their way down her face, and I seriously thought all was lost. We made our way to the playground as we wiped tears and this time it was Daddy dragging his feet.
The playground proved to be quite fun though. My husband and I decided that we should all play a spirted game of tag. Mr. B and I decided to play all out and chased each other around the playground until we were out of breath (about two minutes). Big I didn’t quite get it. She was "it" and ran towards me to tag me. I stopped and faced her, squatting slightly so I could easily get away in either direction. She took it as an attack stance and ran the opposite direction screaming. We tried to explain that she was "it," so there was no reason for her to run from us, but it just didn’t sink in. She continued to play on the playground while Mr. B and I toyed with the idea of starting an adult tag league. We finally gave up on the playground since Mr. B convinced Big I that it was time for Part II of basketball training.
We made our way over to the court, with Lil C still sleeping soundly in her stroller. It was soon obvious that Big I had absolutely no interest. I thought I would try to encourage her and asked Mr. B if he’d like to play HORSE. Big I could be my helper, which consisted of us cheating by stealing the ball from Daddy whenever possible. There was lots of whining from Big I, and I wasn’t too happy either as I quickly became a "HO." Soon after my husband found it hysterically funny that I was now a "HOR." As he laughed, the inevitable happened. . . the basketball hit the backboard and beaned Big I right in the side of the head. This time the crying was about twice as loud and we knew our time at the park was over. We drove away from the park with Daddy trying to convince Big I that no one is good when they first start playing. I tried to convince Mr. B to come to grips with the fact that I very well may have given birth to someone who would just rather sing princess ballads than play sports. Sigh. . .
Basketball Daddy? Did Cinderella play basketball? I think NOT! And in case you were wondering, YES, those are socks on my hands! I prefer to call them "gloves."
March 10, 2006
NOISE!!!
A few days ago, my 5-month old started a new sound. It’s something like a deep inhale, a noisy gasp for air, that had me thinking that something was definitely wrong. Granted, I’ve been around the parenting block once before so I should know that new sounds happen. It’s just that "Lil C" is so good at making these sounds that are so unique and LOUD, that sometimes they kind of scare me. "Big I" was a much more quiet baby. So, it’s taken some getting used to, the fact that Lil C is always trying to outdo her sister. It scared me until I noticed the sheer joy on her face after said sound was once again made. I guess Lil C figures she has to keep up with her big sister who has no shortage of "sounds" to put it nicely. It seems that Lil C has to continue inventing new sounds just to try to keep up with her Big Sister who happens to have big sounds constantly lately.
Want to know why??? It’s March. . . birthday March. For at least the past three years, March has arrived with a new temperament for Big I. Last year, when the birthday song singing commenced, my turning 4 year old, disappeared from the dining room with grandeur, screaming at the top of her lungs. As I was pregnant at the time and extremely emotional, I about cried on the carefully prepared Little Mermaid cake before Big I eventually decided that she would come down for cake and to continue her party, but only if we all promised there would be no singing. There was no singing, the party resumed and Big I started the beginning of the terrible 4’s, which are way worse (in my professional parenting opinion) than any terrible 2’s that could ever come my way. No one ever tells you about the Terrible 4’s! Terrible 2’s times two because they come with ATTITUDE!
Now, only nine days into March, Big I has started what I will lovingly refer to as "The Boisterous 5’s." In like a lion, these past few days have been full of all out screaming. The theory behind this one is, "she who screams loudest wins." When she doesn’t like the instructions you just gave her. . .talk louder than Mommy and she thinks she wins. When Daddy and Mommy are having a conversation and she wants to be heard, talk louder than both combined, double points. Big I has forced me to wonder why when children are born, there are not volume controls attached. It certainly would make parenting a bit easier. . .
March 8, 2006
Missed a Season
I was pregnant starting January of 2005. My spring/summer and early fall wardrobe consisted of oh so flattering maternity clothes (seriously, who am I kidding?). This was my second pregnancy and I know from the first one what a hit your wardrobe takes after missing the styles of last season. My wardrobe is lacking. . .my capri’s are all the wrong length apparently and frankly, I’m wondering how I’m going to pull off spring in general. Men’s styles just don’t change that often; they really should be the ones having the children. Women miss one season and as Heidi Klum of Project Runway would say, "You’re out!" So, tonight, I was trying to be "in."
For my birthday in February, my Mom gave me a new Vera Bradley backpack in one of the new spring colors, Java Blue. I love it, but how great is the bag if you’re wearing warm up pants and sneakers with it? So, my mission was to go to Old Navy since my gift card was burning a hole in my new bag and see what I could find.
Going shopping for clothing for yourself after having a baby is sort of like visiting a foreign country. All of the styles look a little off to you, and you feel like you’re in a strange and unfamiliar land. You also start to wonder if you’re just too damn old to be dressing like those "Daddy O" girls on the commercials. It’s also challenging when you have your two children and slightly disgruntled husband along for the ride, especially when there is so much ADORABLE children’s clothing. But, I looked at the kids clothing only briefly and promptly turned my back in search of my new fashion forward spring/summer wardrobe.
I went off to the dressing room with two skirts, four tanks and a sweater set. I was trying desperately to not be "me." I tried the same thing at the Clinique counter a few weeks ago and ended up buying a crap load of make-up that makes me look more like I should be working the streets than preparing for visits to the park with my girls. Anyway, that’s another story. I also took my 4-year old to the dressing room with me because she is brutally honest. Did I mention we went there after karate so we were both wearing our gi pants? (Picture white droopy poopy pants and you have a pretty accurate description.) The teen workers stationed in the dressing room were probably having the time of their life.
So, the skirts went well, so well in fact that I had to ask the girl working there exactly where on my waist/hip area the skirt was supposed to sit. This experience was sort of reminiscent of the Justin Timberlake concert I attended a few years back with my husband. (Yeah, I know, get your laughs out now.) I could not for the life of me understand what the heck the opening band called themselves, so I casually leaned over to the teenager beside me and asked her who they were. She looked at me like I was a complete loon when I coolly asked her if they were the "LMP’s" because that’s what it sounded like! Turns out they were the Black Eyed Peas. Who knew? They really should speak more clearly. Anyway, my Old Navy helper teen determined that I needed a smaller size and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I stepped back in shock and awe, touched my chest and exclaimed, "Wow! Really?" as her helper teen went to retrieve my smaller size. My daughter said I looked "beautiful," and I knew they were both keepers. On to the tanks. . .
You know this whole layering look? I tried it and I bought two tanks (color coordinated with my new bag although I will NEVER admit to anyone who asks if I did that on purpose.) I don’t know if I’ll actually wear them layered. My daughter looked a little puzzled and said to me, "Mommy, why did you put that shirt on top of the other one? Did you just not feel like taking the first one off?" It’s hard to explain to a 4-year old that you’re trying to be "cool," so I didn’t try. I just said, "yes," and moved right along to the sweater set.
The sweater set was great and I bought it too. I bought it because I only own about 200 sweater sets right now and I could not live without this shade of blue. So, I will probably wear it with my wrong length capri’s and sneakers and decide not to leave the house in it until its sandal weather. This is what happens to me every spring. . . fashion dementia. This spring, it is multiplied because of the whole baby issue. I’ve been wondering why they don’t have a "Gymboree" for mommy’s so that we could be all coordinated and adorable the way our kids always are.
Oh well, at least my girls always look cute; and maybe I’ll decide to brave my new looks out of the house by the end of summer. For now, the tags are staying on until I make up my mind.
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