Tag Archives: little things

June 19, 2010 · 6:00 am

Afternoon Delight…Not

I now know why I decided not to return to the world of work once my children were old enough to enter kindergarten—and now, the first grade. It’s so that I would be afforded ample resources (read: voluminous amounts of wine) and time (read: the entire school day) to recharge my batteries, drained as a consequence of Mom Duty. Translation: To reclaim (at least in part) my sanity amidst the swirl of chaos and the din of despair that together govern my household from the moment my wily charges step off the school bus until they return to their educational Mecca via the same yellow beast-of-a-thing, sixteen hours and 13 minutes later.

But who’s counting?

Had I chosen to reenter the private sector back at that critical juncture in time, I doubt said recharging would have ever been possible. Not in the space of a typical workday. Not without Club Med. I’d have been suitably compensated for my vast array of skills and services, however; a notion almost completely foreign to me now. What’s more, I’d have been able to wear something besides slacker sweatpants from morning till night, I’d have been appreciated for my efforts (ostensibly anyway) and I’d have been surrounded by individuals who could very likely tie their own shoes and flush a toilet without prompting. Nevertheless, I made what I believed to be an informed decision, hid all my marbles and moved forward into the next phase of motherhood—never once looking back.

And yet sometimes, I do look back. Moreover, I question the wisdom of that decision. Such was the case a few weeks ago when the afternoon from hell unfolded thusly (with items 2-6 occurring simultaneously):

1)    Thing 1 (i.e. inconsolable child) got off the school bus—sporting a monstrous blob of chocolate on her coat (the PASTEL PINK one I had laundered not 24 hours earlier). “Mommy! Mommy! Sadie did it! She squished my Hershey’s Kiss ALL OVER MY GLOVES AND COAT AND DON’T YOU KNOW CHOCOLATE DOESN’T EVER EVER COME OUT?!!” she sobbed into my chest. Thing 2 (i.e. blithesome child) frolicked about the place, seemingly unaffected by the accusations against her. To add to my immeasurable joy, I later learned that her coat was festooned as well with unsightly gobs of chocolate.

2)    Despite having spent the previous hour outside (with every possible opportunity to relieve himself!) the dang dog peed a veritable deluge inside, missed a good portion of his puppy pad and the resulting puddle of whiz-a-ma-call-it proceeded to trickle (okay, flow rapidly) underneath said pad where IT COULD NOT BE ABSORBED. It could only be sopped and smeared and sloshed the world over with great masses of paper towels—which were NOT on sale, mind you.

3)    After consuming an outrageous portion of fresh grass, our gluttonous cat decided it was time to hurl. Profusely. In the middle of the kitchen floor (not to be confused with the neat little pile of dung he left for me in the corner of the living room earlier in the day). Who knows—maybe he was still somewhat annoyed with me for having ignored his incessant pleas for treats.

4)    Thing 2 planted herself at the kitchen table (totally oblivious to the cloud of mayhem that surrounded us) and felt the compelling desire to blow bubbles the size of kumquats in her milk—in abject defiance of my vehement shrieks of protest.

5)    Thing 1 demanded something to eat—immediately, or sooner. So I grabbed a hotdog roll and shoved it in the microwave, mindful not to employ the hand with which I had sopped up dog urine and scrubbed the remnants of cat vomit. Heaven forbid I actually take time to clean my hands. The child would surely starve in the interim.

6)    The telephone rang. On the line was the (supposedly less needy) teenaged daughter, requesting a crucial bit of advice that only a completely composed parent could deliver. I did not qualify for the job. But I was handy.

I later came to my senses and kicked anyone and everyone under the age of seven outside to play. Unfortunately, the drama refused to dissipate and instead, intensified.

Thing 2’s hair apparently got somewhat twisted (translation: became hopelessly entwined) around “…the scary swing, Mommy!” (So named for its whirling properties). Thing 1 reported the catastrophic event, scoring a 10 for theatrical performance and believability—which led to my donning a coat (the red cape was at the cleaner’s) so that I could trek across the lawn to the place where my screaming child stood, imprisoned by a bit of braided rope. “Mommy! Help! The swing’s got me! I’m stuck! I’m really stuuuuuck!” In sum, it was a 15-minute adventure-in-parenting I’d rather not revisit. Ever.

But tomorrow’s a new day. And with any luck, I’ll be ready for whatever delights the afternoon may hold. Or not.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (clutching my last marble).

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

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June 15, 2010 · 10:33 am

Crutches

I never completely committed to memory the instructions for making hard-boiled eggs, which doesn’t say much about my prowess in the kitchen—or the lack thereof. Generally speaking, I know what’s involved, but I struggle mightily with the specifics (i.e. how much water is required, whether it should be hot or cold to start and when, exactly, the boiling should cease and the simmering should begin). I’m challenged in the culinary arena to say the very least. (Confession: Some days I need a compass, a map and volumes of inspiration just to find the fricking stove).

Oddly enough, though, I know that on page 267 of my faithful Better Homes & Gardens cookbook those elusive egg-related answers await me. Go figure. I can’t remember a stupid recipe (that’s all of three steps long), but the page number I’ll need to get the job done is etched in my head permanently. It simply defies all logic and understanding—especially given the rarity of my kitchen-related ventures.

Interestingly, two-hundred sixty-seven isn’t my favorite number. Nor do the individual digits hold special meaning for me in any other context. And yet there it is, appearing instantaneously in the clearing of my mind, having made its way through the tangled forest of facts and figures housed there. A prized nugget of information that, intentionally or not, I tucked away at some point in my illustrious hard-boiled egg-making career. A crutch I turn to in times of need.

Likewise, I have difficulty remembering the exact wordage for Confession and Forgiveness, so each Sunday I mumble and stumble my way through the first few lines, hoping like crazy that my brain will eventually kick in and send the correct message to my lips. The Nicene Creed sometimes stumps me, too (hence, the moronic mumbling). But invariably—almost without thinking—I can churn out the page numbers on which each of the desired passages can be found—which is strangely wonderful, I guess. An uncannily remarkable and hugely perplexing talent all rolled into one (like reading upside-down and sideways to kids so they can see the pictures). But it’s not as if I deliberately tried to emblazon those numbers there. I can’t even rattle off my stinking cell number without first tapping my husband (the human Rolodex) or scanning the skies for some sort of cosmic clue. Nor can I readily recall which of my brood is allergic to the cillin family—which, needless to say, helped me capture the World’s Most Pathetic Mommy Award last year.

So what should I make of all this—that I’m lazy, exceedingly dependent or perhaps, just plain stupid? Then again, maybe my adeptness is a sign of brilliance and/or extraordinary resourcefulness in the face of adversity. Who knows?

Regardless of why it happens, the fact remains that it happens. There is absolutely no denying that when all else fails, I rely on my crutches to save the day. I’ve found that people can be crutches, too. I can’t put a price on the deluge of desperate phone calls I made to my mom as I clumsily managed motherhood for the first time—stressing obsessively over every little and not-so-little thing, like a blackened umbilical cord dangling by a sinewy thread.

“What have I done wrong?! Is that SUPPOSED to happen?! And why, oh why, won’t she stop crying…sleep through the night…smile on cue…and somehow TELL ME WHAT SHE WANTS?! And what’s with the mustard-y poops and the geysers of spit up and the white bump-ish things on her nose and the crusty stuff on her head and the tiny red spots she’s peppered with?! (Furthermore…) I can’t figure out the car seat straps…I can’t get rid of the bags under my eyes…my shirt gets soaked whenever she (or any other bundle of neediness) cries…my diaper bag is big and bulky and already I’m sick of hauling it around…I feel fat and frumpy and about as interesting as dirt…I can’t find time for a shower…a sandwich…a decent nap…or even three minutes to flip through a stupid parenting magazine—which, by the way, does nothing more than make me feel like a complete failure—I can’t even RELATE to the perfect little world they live in…oh, and the baby choked on a cracker this morning…fell out of her crib…rolled off the bed…licked the cat’s tail (and so on)…. I’m sure I’ve ruined this child FOR-EVER!!!”

Mom, sage and savior that she is, must have sensed the panic in my voice and so with each little (and not-so-little) catastrophe I presented, she spoke clearly and calmly, guiding me through the storm, filling me with the sense that I could do this and that the world really wasn’t crashing down all around me. “Things will get easier,” she promised, and I would be a good mom—despite myself.

Well, I have yet to see hard evidence supporting the entirety of that statement, but I remain hopeful that some day—with or without crutches—I’ll get there. In the mean time, Mom’s on speed dial.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (STILL doubting my ability to mother).

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

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May 24, 2010 · 10:10 am

Armadillo to Zebra

Listen closely. That’s the sound of someone gasping for breath, suffocating beneath a deluge of fuzz and fluff. A wretched soul inundated with more stuffed animals under one roof than any sane individual could reasonably imagine. A sucker for a sale on all-that-is-warm-and-fuzzy YET PROMISES NEVER TO EAT, POO or SHED. Needless to say, that someone is me.

Eternally, it seems, my brood has been consumed with faux faunae of one kind or another—mesmerized by creatures great and small, enthralled by those deemed weird and wonderful, charmed by the frighteningly fancy and the perfectly plain. That said, wooly beasts from A to Z abound in this household, atop beds and bureaus, spilling from trunks and lurking in corners, stuffed behind couches and propped up in chairs—much to my chagrin.

Translation: I’m tired of cute and cuddly—the stuffed-with-fluff blobs of whateverness that threaten to rule my world. More specifically, I’ve had enough of the dogs that howl at the moon, yap incessantly or fart on command. I’ve tolerated more than my share of earsplitting monkey shrieks, the frenzied slap of hooves on cobblestone and frog-ish croaks that sound more like a chorus of booze-inspired belches than anything. And aside from being fairly adorable and infinitely dear, those fancy-schmancy, computer savvy Whatever-kins have yet to truly wow me. Maybe it’s because I think kids should spend more time climbing trees than climbing levels online.

Yes, I kick my dear children outdoors on a regular basis and ration the time which is spent utterly fixated on the deliciousness of Poptropica and the like. Color me an ogress.

At any rate, the collective toll of all the dot-com nonsense, the pseudo mewing, hissing, chirping, bleating, barking, mooing (and whatever maddening little noises guinea pigs make) that I’ve endured interminably has driven me to seriously consider the notion of gathering the reprehensible bunch together and heaving them into the lawn.

It would be cathartic if nothing else.

But truth be told, I am part of the problem. Whenever I stumble upon something entirely irresistible, something that speaks to me for whatever reason, something my eight-year-old cherubs would deem drool-worthy in every sense of the word, I cave—feeling compelled to buy yet another bit of warmth and fuzziness for my motley crew. Despite knowing there is no room at the inn. Despite acknowledging there is no real need for such an indulgence. Despite understanding full well that I will regret having made said purchase—either immediately, or when my vacuum cleaner chokes on an errantly placed armadillo, on one of Skippyjon Jones’ enormous ears, on Walter’s hapless tail. I will then curse the day it was stitched together and stuffed with love.

I know this much is true. But I cave anyway, adopting yet another fuzzy companion for my charges. One that will be loved without end, humanized beyond all imagining, bent and twisted so as to squeeze into book bags and burrow beneath pillows. One that will be privy to innumerable secrets and included in countless conversations, eager to listen, inclined to agree. One whose care and conditioning will be entrusted to me for hours on end.

“Mom, make sure you feed Frank, and play with him while I’m gone. Remember, I’ll KNOW if you don’t do it and I’ll be really, really mad.” (Waggles finger at me as she boards the school bus and waves goodbye to Frank and me).

Even still, I continue to feed the beast, as it were—adding just one more stuffed animal at a time. One that will sit at the dinner table and oversee baths, help with homework and dangle from monkey bars. One that will be demanded at bedtime and searched for, high and low. One that will journey near and far, be read to, prayed to, listened to and befriended above all else.

Another bit of fuzz and fluff that will be welcomed into this world, unconditionally.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (suffocating beneath a deluge of stuffed animals, every one of which has a name).

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

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May 15, 2010 · 6:00 am

Mommie Dearest

Always and forever, I am blown away by the seemingly trivial things my kids remember about their lives. The stuff that apparently pools and coagulates in the corners of their minds, having made some sort of lasting impression upon them for whatever reason–good or bad.

“…like the time I was sick and stayed home from school and you hurt your knee chasing Jack (aka: the damn dog) around and around the living room. Remember, Mom!? He had a piece of CAT POOP in his mouth and he wouldn’t let you take it! We laughed and laughed so hard!”

“…like the time I ran really fast down our front hill, tripped over the curb and got pebbles stuck in my hand. They stayed in there for FIVE WHOLE DAYS! Remember, Mom?!” (Read: the time I wanted to hurl because of the sickening thud your body made when it hit the pavement, never mind the torrent of queasiness that washed over me when I realized THOSE WERE ROCKSEMBEDDED IN YOUR FRICKING HAND!)

What’s more, I am completely fogged by the way my charges can recite verbatim the vat of horribleness I’ve delivered on more than one occasion (most of which have involved orange juice spillages, bath tub deluges and missed school buses). More specifically, the shameful string of words that pour unremittingly from my stupid mouth despite KNOWING how infinitely wrong and hurtful they are (i.e. the parenting tirades from hell during which the wheels fly off and Mommie Dearest rears her ugly head).

I’m also floored by my kids’ uncanny ability to remember virtually everything about the legions of stuffed animals they possess. The cushiness of this one, the plumpness of that one. How completely cuddlesome and decidedly irreplaceable the lot of them are (despite any number of deformities that may exist–to include missing eyes, gaping “wounds” and mysterious aromas).

Good God.

Further, they can readily recall specific times and circumstances under which said gotta-have-it-or-I’ll-die items were originally acquired. “Yeah, Mom. I got Mister Big Head Dog at the Dollar Store as a prize when I was seven. Doncha’ remember taking me there and I took like 15 minutes (translation: fucking forever) to decide?”

“And I won this fuzzy-eared rabbit (read: dilapidated piece of schlock) at the Fair one time when I threw some darts at balloons. Except I wasn’t very good at it, so I didn’t pop any. But the nice man (likely, the one sporting a mullet and the suggestion of teeth) gave me a bunny anyway.”

Me: (Fair? What Fair? Did I actually take you someplace where cows and pigs WERE the main attraction?!)

“And how ’bout the time Daddy tried to drown me in the shower at the Adirondacks?” (i.e. a date which will live in infamy during which he slathered said child’s filthy face with soap, mistakenly assuming she’d have enough SENSE to rinse it off, as opposed to inhaling voluminous quantities of water and/or soap suds).

Likewise, I am baffled by the intimacy my brood shares with their beloved rocks–OH, MY HELL, THE ROCKS! The ones that adorn their dressers and windowsills. The ones that spill from my Jeep’s nooks and crannies. The ones now housed in my garage (forever and ever, amen). The ones for which a special affinity has grown to a frightening degree. That said, my heathens know from whence each stone came and, perhaps, more disturbingly, whyeach particular nugget of earthy wonderfulness was harvested and hauled home in the first place, “…because my friend gave it to me and said I should keep it forever,” “…because it spoke to me and I just had to add it to my collection. Each rock is a memory, you know. Why do you always want to take my memories away, Mommy?”

As if that blurbage wasn’t enough to ensure that I will, in fact, die a slow, horrible, guilt-induced death, I recently learned of another cardinal sin for which I will pay dearly.

Child: “I ate a napkin once, Mommy.”

Me: “You ate a what?! A NAPKIN?!”

Child: “Yep. A napkin. I sort of nibbled and nibbled it till it was gone.” (touches fingertips to lips, pretending to gently gnaw imaginary napkin so that I might then know what a “nibble” looks like)

Me: “You ATE AN ENTIRE NAPKIN?! When, where and why on earth would you do such a crazy thing?! People don’t eat napkins (for Crissakes)!” (hands on hips, appalled by the notion)

Child: “Well I did. Back in kindergarten. At snack time. Besides, my friend ate a tag right off her shirt one time ’cause it was bothering her. I saw her do it. People DO eat paper-ish stuff sometimes, Mom.”

Me: DEAD SILENCE coupled with a look that likely suggested I had gone off the deep end (shock does this to people I’m told)

Child: CONTINUES WATCHING SPONGE BOB, ENTIRELY ENGROSSED IN SAID OCEAN-INSPIRED IDIOCY, UNAFFECTED BY MY HORRIFIED EXPRESSION

Me: “But WHY?! What possessed you to do such a thing?!” thinking, of course, this HAD to have been the result of some kind of twisted dare that five-year-olds routinely engage in.

Child: “I was hungry,” she said plainly.

Me: “You were hungry?!” (clutches heart, gasps)

Child: “Yep. You didn’t pack enough in my snack and I was still hungry; so I ate my napkin,” she stated simply, as if telling me I had forgotten to fill her squirt gun, so she commissioned some other schmuck to do it.

At this, of course, I cringed–deeply ashamed of the atrocity I had unknowingly committed, wanting ever so desperately to crawl beneath a rock and die.

…a slow, horrible guilt-induced sort of death. One entirely befitting of Mommie Dearest (i.e. she- who-would-deny-her-child-adequate-Goldfishy-sustenance).

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with an abundance of tasty napkins and an unbearable burden of guilt).

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

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May 3, 2010 · 11:31 am

The Allure of Roadkill

I’ve suffered the wrath of my children for a plethora of reasons—probably for more asinine things than I can possibly count. And most of the time, it has been because I missed something simple along the way—some crucial bit of insight and/or communiqué that might have taken much of the frustration and complexity out of childrearing. Something that would have made me less of an ogre and more of a compatriot.

That being said, I once made the dreadful mistake of trashing someone’s beloved “collection” that was lurking about in a despicable corner of our despicably organized garage. Said Shrine-to-Mother-Nature consisted of a hideous clump of wilted dandelions, a handful of slime-ridden leafy matter, a smattering of pebbles and a bunch of twigs I assumed had been left for dead. Silly me.

When my crime was subsequently discovered, it was as if I had slaughtered Sponge Bob and his moronic sidekick, Patrick (not that I haven’t entertained that delicious little notion). At any rate, I was practically deported for having violated one of the tenets of Motherhood: “Thou shalt not dispose of foolish tripe without first obtaining the express written consent of all interested parties (i.e. the resident heathens).” Since then, our mother-daughter relationship has improved somewhat, but I doubt I’ll ever be entirely forgiven for such an atrocity.

Then there was the cardinal sin I committed just last month when I insisted the toad must go. The toad who lived on my coffee table for three days running, who drove me completely berserk with his relentless pawing and clawing of the wretched cage-like home to which he had been so unwillingly assigned. The toad who had been worshiped and glorified for his many talents (being warty, for one). The fist-sized blob of repugnance whom my little girls felt compelled to kiss and cuddle (till I became visibly ill—Gak!) during a teary-eyed and interminable farewell which will live in my guilt-ridden soul forever and ever. Amen.

Of course, I’m certain it was not unlike the dramatic performance of a lifetime I myself delivered in Disney World back in 1974—when I became thoroughly and hopelessly obsessed with the idea of obtaining a certain toy rifle I had seen; one that stole my heart from the moment I ogled its silken stock and genuine metal barrel. The fact that it came with a real ramrod and shot corks merely made me want it that much more. My mission: to convince my grandparents that I couldn’t possibly continue living without it. That I would surely shrivel up and die right then and there with Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck as witnesses unless and until they journeyed to the ends of the earth (read: the entire length of the theme park) and bought it for me. I still have that beloved prize, but sadly, not one cork.

As a parent, my popularity also waned the day I refused to let my dear charges wear their Crocs to Knoebel’s Amusement Park. Naturally, they grumbled and groused each time we happened upon a kid wearing those stupid shoes—the ones that ought to come with a box of Band-aids and a waiver. Waiting in line for the bumper cars, spinning around in those monstrous tea cups, crammed and jammed impossibly inside a bevy of bathroom stalls—where our worm’s-eye view spoke volumes. “See, that kid’s Mom let her wear Crocs.” Everywhere, it seemed, I was reminded of what a horrible mother I was.

Likewise, there was the time I rearranged the refrigerator magnets. Oh, the horror! The time I forgot to tell the landscaping people not to disturb the “eagle’s nest” in our front yard (i.e. the massive heap of sticks that begged to be flung into oblivion). The time I insisted the bug cage must either be chucked out entirely or purged of the unsightly display of caterpillar carnage contained within. Or more recently, when I had the audacity to wash their bedding without first consulting she-who-would-freak (read: she who would be instantly launched into a stomping, shrieking fit of rage upon learning her stuffed animals had been moved). Next time (she demanded of me) I would photograph said animals properly, so they could more easily be returned to their rightful place in the Universe. It’s poetic justice, I suppose, for having lied about bedbugs in order to convince her that laundering was necessary at all.

Like I said—I’ve suffered plenty of wrath at the hands of my children. But the rage-inspired idiocy I am about to describe is beyond all imagining.

While ferrying my brood over hill and dale, we passed what appeared to be a dead skunk along the roadside. The pungent aroma that filled our Jeep shortly thereafter, confirmed my astute suspicions. Ridiculously keen on witnessing dead things (as always), both kids craned their necks to see the furry beast who had met an untimely demise. But alas, they had no such luck—even after three tries and lots of helpful reminders like, “WE’RE ABOUT TO PASS THE SKUUUUUUUNK…WE’RE PASSING THE SKUUUUUUUNK…WE JUST PASSED THE SKUUUUUUUNK….” For a fleeting moment, I entertained the notion of pulling over to let them eyeball the ludicrous thing once and for all; but thankfully, that little gem of an idea went away.

Well upon learning that we wouldn’t be returning home over the same well-traveled path (where the unfortunate skunk lay), one of my charges decided to stage a protest. First, she whined and flopped about in her seat, eventually feigning death. Naturally, I ignored such nonsense and kept driving to our 437th destination of the day. By the time we finished our errands and pulled into the garage, the silent treatment had begun in earnest—in fact, she wouldn’t even get out of the car. She just sat there, stewing over my latest transgression, searing holes in the back of my seat, arms crossed in defiance, jaw and furrowed brow cast in stone.

“Lovely,” I thought. “Just lovely!” It’s NINE THOUSAND DEGREES and my kid (who ostensibly hates me) refuses to get out of a sweltering car that’s sitting inside a sweltering garage—thanks to a stupid skunk who couldn’t cross a stupid road to save himself!” How completely ironic.

Then again it was ironic to think that carrion could possess the least bit of charm.

Ultimately, my rebel child conceded defeat and dragged her sorry self inside. But her sullen mood continued for quite some time—punctuated with commentary like, “I just wanted to see the stupid skunk, Mom. I never actually saw a dead one before,” as if it were some sort of exotic thrill.

Apparently, I failed to grasp the simplicity of the situation yet again. What’s more, I hadn’t, in the least, considered the allure of roadkill.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with abundantly disturbed children).

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

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