Hot Mess Mama Chronicles, episode #44

To celebrate the last full day of school for Baby Girl, we went to Sonic, because what says "Bring on Summer" more than a little cherry limeade served on rollerskates? I ask you. Beverages were procured at half-price. High five, Mom. You made it in time for happy hour.

We also made it with plenty of time to drop off Toby at puppy camp. Due to his extreme excitement upon arrival to Puppy Camp, the Tobinator, on leash, whipped around Little Man, causing the boy to fumble with his milkshake, of which he had taken one sip. The grass was then drinking 98% of the milkshake. The remnant 2% was left in the milkshake cup which suddenly no longer had a bottom.

Conveniently, there were neither wipes nor napkins in the car, and it was 115 degrees outside at the moment. I proceeded to enter Puppy Camp with one child guzzling a slush, one Garbage Pail Kid all saddened because he lost his milkshake, and a puppy that could have cared less whether this was a concentration camp or a Caribbean cruise exclusively for canines.

The Puppy Camp transaction was successful.

En route to Wal-Mart (judge us if you must), Baby Girl successfully punched her straw through the bottom of the slush. Within seconds, she was wearing the slush.

Now, any other mother having her wits about her would likely have turned around, aborting mission Wal-Mart, and promptly hosing her children down of Sonic beverage with which they had splatterpainted themselves.

Instead, we went to McDonald's and procured more beverages made of 79% chemicals and 21% sugar. Hurrah!

We then persevered with Le Mart du Wal where it is a good thing I did not lose sight of Baby Girl completely for an entire gut-wrenching minute, envisioning her already to Kentucky in a Winnebago with the People of Wal-Mart. Like I said, good thing that is a completely alien experience to which I cannot relate.

Now here we are, at home, where I'll be with my kids full-time for the next few months.

Happy Summer, y'all.

Beating through

There is a refrain that beats through me, its wavelengths tightening around my organs. You cannot balance this. You cannot excel at one without plainly sucking at the other. You will choose career over family. You are choosing career--

I choose my family.

*** Weekends are longer when you have small children. They are longer than the rest of the week. They are longer than any time you have spent waiting to see if your parents are running late or if they just forgot to pick you up from Key Club. There is not enough time in the weekend to mend the metaphorical hems you need to hem. There are small eternities strung back to back to do the same things you have done all week, which feel extra punishing because you have to do them on Your Weekend. With no overtime pay.

***

You find no joy in this. Maybe this is all too much for you. Are you choosing family? Choosing family?

***

This was not my motto before I became a parent, but I have adopted it as my anthem. If I expect things to go well, they will go well. It sounds Self-Helpy. I know. Will the real Pollyanna please stand up?

I tell myself that I have fun with my children.

I tell myself that my children are fun.

Know what? When I tell myself that? I have fun with my children. My children are so much fun.

*** I am trying to make a Pinteresty project for a friend's birthday. The distressed wood is not jiving with my bristle brushed effect; you cannot tell I am trying to paint a puffy dandelion blowing in the wind. Baby Girl wants to paint. She will grab my brush, touch the paint to the exact area I don't want to be touched--

***

You are trying to be good at everything. You're not even really mastering one thing. You can't juggle all the balls at once. You look like you're starting to slip.

***

The sun is warm, the shade is a haven, the breeze is a gorgeous tonic of perfection as I paint in the grass outside. I grab Baby Girl an oddly shaped scrap from the firewood pile. We paint next to each other, talk about the morning, our favorite parts of the special worship in the park. We let the paint dry and go for a long bike ride.

***

I am hairdrying the stupid piece of wood all soaked with every manner of glitterglue and chalkboard paint and I haven't even showered and Little Man is crying in his crib. I am supposed to be at the surprise party an hour ago.

***

You can't. You are kidding yourself. You are a mess.

*** I am at the end of the driveway, showered, lipsticked, carrying this dazzling piece of wood, when she calls me back. She busts out of the porch door in her nightgown.

MAHHHHM! MOM! YOU FORGOT THE PIECE OF WOOD!

No, I have it! I yell back.

NO, MOM! THE PIECE OF WOOD I MADE! I WANT YOU TO BRING IT TO YOUR FRIEND FOR HER BIRTHDAY.

I carry a glitter wood. And another piece that looks like a slop-painted reindeer antler.

The next day I tell Baby Girl how much my friend liked the present that she made her. (She really did. Said she was going to put her jewelry on it.)

"Oh thank you, Mommy! You are the best!"

*** This is the new voice beating through me. Beating through like a little nightgowned girl busting through a porch door to tell her to bring the antler to the party. The voice says I am sometimes, sometimes when I feel at my most defeated and depleted, the best to the littlest ones that matter the most.

Sugar-laden

The last two weekends have been sugar covered, and then dipped in another layer of sugar which was then blanched in sugar. My lands, the sweetness that was overflowing... Last weekend the wee ones attended four Easter Egg hunts which is three more apiece than any child needs to attend/year. There are many secret benefits to living in an insular Christian community and these secret benefits live in the form of a marshmallow Peep tucked covertly inside a pink plastic egg. Ho ho, and there were many of them.

Photographic evidence:

HIIIIIGH AS A KITE.

One particular egg hunt was sponsored exclusively by our landlords for our children and was followed by a tractor ride around the property.

Tennesseein' is Tennebelievin,' y'all.

*** This past weekend has been equally sweet and marvelous. On sabbath, I got to hear some of my talented students sing in a Gospel Choir. I know there is a large-lunged Gospel singer inside of me trying to beat her way out, but until she breaks through, I am going to leave the work to my students. They are amazing.

Today we got to go to an Elmo Birthday party hosted by a Salvadorean mama and a Dominican papa. Can we agree that Latinos throw the best parties? I think that vote was unanimous. In Heaven, I want my neighbors to be Latinos. Or! Maybe in Heaven I will BE a Latino Gospel singer/party planner. Put that in your cereal box and call it a prize.

But prior to the party, we had our own little shindibble here at the headquarters. It was really an excuse to clean our house, let's be honest, that happens about quarterly. But some of my faves came over.

Photographic evidence:

I made Meyer Lemon Ricotta Pancakes with Mascerated Strawberry Coulis. I am going to be forthcoming here and confess that I didn't use Meyer Lemons. I used your boring ol' standard lemon and mixed in the juice from mandarin oranges. Bladow! Done. And I used half whole wheat flour. But the ricotta adds such a nice consistency to this pancake. I'd say it was worth it to circumscribe Aunt Jemima on this one. 'Scuse me, Auntie J. Gonna go a different route this time.

I also made Key Lime Creme Brulee.

I used the blond Oreos for the crust. Probably overly sweet. But as we have established already, I am not a Gospel singer, a Latino party planner, nor am I a French afficionado of subtle sweets. I am an over-sugared American woman that bakes accordingly. And I now own a torch. Beware.