Momming Around

Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Pee

Posted on by Beth Hull

Fantasy: The Ever-Suffering Mother sits on the couch with her NEW, BEAUTIFUL, FANCIFIED laptop, typing away at her Great Work of Young Adult Literature, putting on the finishing touches for her PUBLISHER (this is a fantasy, after all. Indulge me). As she types, she listens to the sweetest sound in the world: “Mamam! I went poop in the potty! I’m going to clean everything up now, wash my hands, and give myself a sticker! Don’t worry about anything. It’s all taken care of!”

The Ever-Suffering Mother sighs contentedly, shifts slightly to accommodate Clarkie, who naps peacefully on the Ever-Suffering Mother’s feet, and calls back, “Nice job, Sweetie! When you’re done, come in here to give me a hug before you finish washing the dishes and mowing the lawn!”

Here is our potty-training lexicon:

  • Go, go, go, go, GO!
  • Poop and pee go in the potty.
  • Tell Mama when you have to go.
  • Big girl underwear!
  • Just like Mommy and Daddy.
  • You may have a sticker after you wash your hands.
  • Good job, Z!

Your potty is covered in stickers. You have pull-up diapers. You even have big-girl underpants with some obscure (to me) cartoon character on them.

You tell me (sometimes) (when it is convenient for putting off bedtime) when you have to go.

So what’s the next step? What’s the next thing for a (lazy, often-inconsistent) mom to do? Am I supposed to keep on keepin’ on? Because if that means “keep on cleaning up pee in Z’s favorite spots in the house,” I don’t know if I’m ready for the Great Potty Training Experience.

Or is that “experiment”?

Everything with you, my precious, willful, sparkling daughter, is an experiment.

Any Other Name

Posted on by Beth Hull

She calls me “Mom Mom.” It’s kind of cute, I guess, but it’s what I called my grandmother. So it makes me feel like I should be calling jeans “dungarees,” complaining about the dry heat of California, expounding on the benefits of sleeping without underpants, and sending post cards from far-off places.

Mom Mom would absolutely love Z. As would my grandfather (plain old “Grandpa”) and Husband’s grandmother (“Mama Nona”), and so many other friends and family who have passed away. It gets me thinking, and remembering, and above all, hoping we can make these people come alive in our memories, so that she can learn about them too. I’ve never felt I had much of a heritage, because I’m a mixture of so many ethnicities no one ever bothered to keep track. Husband’s half-Italian, so we get a lot of through-the-generations-traditions from his side.

I think my “heritage” will have to come from the people I love, and I think I’ll need to remember them, find photographs of them, and tell Z all about them. I’ll need help from my family in remembering, but that’s what family is for, right?

And of course, we invent our own traditions and family culture as we go along, momming, writing, playing with our kids. It’s all (forgive the soft, poetastic description) part of the richness of life.

As far as my name, I won’t ask Z to call me anything different. But I’ve re-spelled my name to “Mamam” in my head. It has a European feel to it (“Maman” is French), so I can get on board with that. Especially if it erases those images of commando sleeping habits from my brain.

Mi Agua es Su Agua

Posted on by Beth Hull

My Aunt Kathi has a Thing about saliva. Like, she detests it. Or maybe it’s backwash, I’m not sure. (What’s not to love about saliva and backwash?) I probably could have been five years old and dying of thirst, whispering “water” before passing out from dehydration, and she would have held her glass out of my reach, refusing to share. (Hyperbole, people. Aunt Kathi would have given me the water.) A tired and favorite joke of mine is to pretend to drink from her wineglass.

And then I watch as Z takes a huge slurp from the straw of her sippy cup thing, and she puts it down. Particles swirl around like the white flakes in a snow globe. All that, and through a straw?

I realize just how wise and venerable is my Aunt Kathi. I’m not sharing my drinks, either.

Grrrranite!

Posted on by Beth Hull

I am supposed to be working on my novel right now, so today’s Momming Around entry is a couple photos of our new counters and sink:

Eyes, look your last. The uncluttered-scheme will probably only last as long as my energy. Oh, I may as well be honest. I had to move a whole bunch of clutter around just to take these photos. Behind you on the other counter are all the things that used to be on this counter. And as soon as I took the photo I moved most of them right back.

This week, my mother-in-law is visiting, and while some people don’t get along with their mother-in-laws, I am not one of those people. She’s the best. And she’s giving me writing time in the mornings, which is also the best.

I don’t think kids are meant to be raised with just one adult in the house. Few people in our society, or even world, can afford to have one parent stay at home, and fewer could have both parents stay at home. And lots of us don’t live in the same places as our parents or other family members.

One mom, alone with her kid or kids, all day? It’s tough. I’m not complaining (okay, maybe a little bit). There are so many moms out there who would love to stay at home full-time. I’m one of them. But it is hard. What I am really doing right now: rejoicing in having another adult around while Husband is at work, so it’s not constant Z time. Yesterday, the time I played with her I could be totally focused on her, because I’d had some nourishing time to myself. I appreciated her so much more.

Next week, my mother-in-law won’t be visiting. Sad. But she’ll come back again, and I’ll enjoy the time that she’s here. And meanwhile…

I can use my super-duper handy-spandy built-in soap dispenser!

Life's Little Pleasures

Yappy #1 and Yappy #2

Posted on by Beth Hull

*

Good morning. It’s 4:12 a.m. The neighbors’ yappy dogs have begun to bark.

4:12 a.m. and 15 seconds: Z wakes up crying.

4:12 a.m. and 20 seconds: The Ever-Suffering Mother (hey, that’s me!) retrieves crying child and deposits her into what can now be called The Family Bed (of Pain).

4:13 a.m.: Yappy dogs still barking. [Mostly it’s the dog with the higher-pitched bark, but the other joins in occasionally if things are getting too quiet.]

4:13 a.m. and 17 seconds: Z shifts and says, quietly, “Hold my hand.”

4:13 a.m. and 18 seconds: The Ever-Suffering Mother holds her hand.

4:22 a.m.: Bark. Bark bark bark bark bark! …Bark Bark Bark BARK BARK BARK…BARK BARK! Bark bark bark bark bark Bark BARK. Bark bark bark bark bark bark bark…bark bark…bark bark bark bark bark. BARK BARK BARK BARK!

4:25 a.m.: Z and Ever-Suffering Mother blink at each other in the near-dark. Suffering together.

4:26 a.m.: Bark bark bark bark BARK BARK…bark BARK (etc.). Z shifts again, impaling the Ever-Suffering Mother with her leg.

4:27 a.m.: Silence.

4:27 and 36 seconds: BARK BARK!!!!! Bark bark bark bark BARK…bark bark! BARK.

4:29 a.m.: Silence. Z shifts, kicking leg into the Ever-Suffering Mother’s back (back still sore from the previous night’s kicking abuses).

4:29 and 12 seconds: Ever-Suffering Mother balances precariously on edge of the Family Bed (of Pain), almost out of range of the Kicky Feet.

4:33 a.m.: BARK! (etc, etc)

4:34 a.m.: The Ever-Suffering Mother drafts dialogue for nasty phone call to owners of Yappy #1 and Yappy #2.

4:35 a.m.: Still barking.

4:36 a.m.: The Ever-Suffering Mother contemplates scenes of graphic violence to Yappy #1 and Yappy #2. Too graphic to recreate here, but basically involving firearms, poisons, and a spork.

4:39 a.m.: The Ever-Suffering Mother kicked again. Just punishment for her 4:36 a.m. Evil Thoughts.

4:40 a.m.: Still barking.

4:41 a.m.: Z still awake. The Ever-Suffering Mother still awake. Husband sleeps. [How? How? Must find out his secret.]

4:42 a.m.: Silence.

4:43 a.m.: Silence.

4:44 a.m.: Silence. Will it last? The Ever-Suffering Mother dares to hope. While perched on edge of the Family Bed (of Pain), the Ever-Suffering Mother puts defensive arm against lower back. Maybe sleep will finally come at last.

4:46 a.m.: BARK! BARK bark BARK barkbarkbark BARK…BARK. BARK bark BARK bark bark bark bark BARK! Bark…bark bark bark barkbarkbark.

4:47 a.m.: The Ever-Suffering Mother hauls suffering self off the edge of bed, finds neighbor’s phone number, and dials.

4:47 and 5 seconds: Silence.

4:47 and 30 seconds:

Mrs. Neighbor: [croakily] Hello?

ESM: Hi, this is ESM, your neighbor. I’m sorry to call so early, but your dogs have been barking for a half hour and I can’t get back to sleep [Subtext: you terrible person why haven’t you done anything about those noisy pests when no other dog I know has ever been so terrible they should be put down they are a blight on our society].

Mrs. N: Oh, I’m really sorry. Mr. N just brought them inside. I apologize.

ESM: No problem. [WTF? Why would the ESM say “no problem” when it so obviously was a problem? Her internal scientists (small, confused people that they are) continue to puzzle over this behavior problem.]

ESM & Mrs. N say goodbye, hang up.

4:50 a.m.: Silence. The Ever-Suffering Mother reperches on edge of the Family Bed (of Pain).

Sometime after 5 a.m.: Both Z and the Ever-Suffering Mother fall to sleep again.

For a too-brief interlude.

And the Ever-Suffering Husband, bless him, deals with both the highly-spirited Z and the highly-dis-spirited Ever-Suffering Mother as he tries to get ready for work. He gets up early every work day, despite his own lack of sleep, to deal with an either cranky or hyperactive toddler, and a cranky or extra-cranky wife.

So, happy Father’s Day, Ever-Suffering Husband!

*Because the Ever-Suffering Mother doubted the legality of breaking into Mr. and Mrs. Neighbor’s back yard and taking picture of the Very Demons From Hell Yappy #1 and Yappy #2, Z provided the artwork for today’s blog post.