Grocery Shopping (aka Hell)

Grocery Shopping (a.k.a. Hell)

The grocery store at 5 o'clock in the evening may well be one of Dante's Circles of Hell. Let me make one thing clear from the get-go: I do not take my children anywhere during the Witching Hour. Unless it's the occasional dinner out. From about 4:30 until, well, bedtime, they are whiny and clingy and I would rather not claim them in public.

So how did I end up at the grocery store with both my children at 5:30 pm? Well, that's really a whole nother story. Suffice it to say this: my husband had to borrow my mother's car, so I was giving her a ride home from work. She really needed to stop by the store. She was nice enough to loan us her car… so, there we were.

We had decided to grab a rotisserie chicken for dinner, so I wanted to get this trip over with as quickly as possible, get home, and feed the kids. They, of course, sense my urgency like a dog smells fear and therefore move as slowly as humanly possible. We walk into the store after minimal "who's holding whose hand" arguing, and I grab a cart.

"Oh…" my mother looks concerned. " I told Sophie we could use one of those…" She points at the shopping cart/ kiddie car combo she has obviously never used herself. My two year old appears to be on the brink of tears, so I hang my head and grab the impossible to steer car-cart. Once I wrestle it out of its parking spot, my older daughter, Catie, begins to cry because she doesn't want to ride in any cart; she wants to walk. I begin my yoga breathing. We make it through the produce section just fine with Catie walking. She doesn't even take a bite out of any random apples or peaches. So far it's a banner trip for us. At the deli my little one starts to fall apart because they are all out of cheese samples. We make our way to the bakery for the free hard-as-a-rock cookies they have for kids while Grandma finishes up at the deli. The cookie placates Sophie for a few aisles, but my older one is too busy whining that she would prefer a free doughnut. So would I sweetie, so would I.

About this time I discover my mom told Catie that if she behaved in the store she could get some Pop-Tarts. I mumble a "whatever…" and lead the way to the Pop-Tart aisle. It's just not worth the argument at this point. I'll just hide the box when we get home. The choices in Pop-Tarts are staggering these days, really. "Okay," I say, "pick one because we need to go. Daddy's going to be home soon." Yes, yes, I am playing the Daddy card. Maybe it will encourage them to get done and out of here. "NO!" Catie yells. "These aren't Pop-Tarts!" Now I'm starting to question my sanity. I could have sworn I was looking at row after row of blue boxes full of zero nutritional value. But what do I know. With Grandma getting o.j, I am the only one here who can read. "You know!" she says to me. "Pop-Tarts! Not these! I don't want these!" At this point I honestly have no idea what she's talking about. "Well, gee, I guess they must be all out," I say, all the while trying to back the car-cart out of the aisle because there's no way its going to turn around with its ridiculously bad turning radius. "Walk!" yells the two year old. She has been pretty good, so I get her out of the "car" and we head down an aisle toward the checkout lines. It happens to be the plastic container aisle. Both girls run and pretend to hide behind a cardboard display shelf. Naturally, they knock it over. Naturally, the Tupperware-like containers and lids it was displaying go flying all down the length of the aisle. Luckily, no one else is in the aisle. I'm struggling to find my yoga breaths at this point and starting to get a little loopy. "Well, at least they weren't made of glass!" I say and stand the oh-so-sturdy cardboard shelves back up. The girls "help" pick up and we eventually manage to fit all the containers back into their cardboard home. Now, I am done. I make both girls get in the car of the car-cart and we get in line to check out. Catie's still trying to explain to Grandma what a Pop-Tart really is and Sophie starts making horse sounds. Ah, yes, the horse. One of those old metal kinds you can seriously ride for a penny. How can I refuse them a penny?

"Okay," I say, " while Grandma's checking out, let's go ride the pony." Catie has by now spotted the checkout line candy and so refuses to go, but Sophie is thrilled. Sophie gets her pony ride, pats and kisses (blech) it goodbye, and we head back. Not a chance Grandma is done checking out yet. Now that she has convinced Grandma to buy her some candy, Catie launches into an impressive campaign to get her own pony ride. Might as well let her, I figure. During her seemingly hour-long ride, Sophie decides to "feed" the pony.

"Apple" she signs to me with a big grin. "That's right sweetie, horses eat apples, don't they?" I smile at her. Just then my horse rider shrieks "NO!" like someone's trying to kidnap her. I'm standing right next to her, keep in mind. "What?" I shriek back, thinking maybe she has hurt herself on the ancient pony. "This horsy is a carnivore! It doesn't eat apples! It is a carnivore just like a T-Rex! Stop feeding it apples!" Oh for heaven's sake. Someone tell me this is a joke, please. Thankfully the pony ride ends and I grab both their hands and head for the exit. Sophie is crying because Catie yelled at her and she still wants to feed the pony apples. She pulls her make-my-body-limp-so-they-have-to-drag-me fit, so I let her lay on the grocery store floor (blech). "Bye, we're leaving," I say, and suddenly, miracle of miracles, her legs work again.

We head for the car, meeting Grandma and her bags of groceries along the way. By now my husband has text-messaged me "Home. Dinner??" I'm too irritated to reply. I get both girls buckled into their car seats and the groceries loaded into the back. Just as I put the key in the ignition I hear "Mommy? I have to pee." No way I'm going back in there. "Hold it!" I urge her and pull out of the parking lot of Hell and head home as fast as the little speed limit will carry me. Next time Grandma needs to run to the store, we're waiting in the car.

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Swimming Lessons

Mommy & Me Swim Class is a special form of torture. Islamic militants wouldn’t come up with anyyhing this frustrating and annoying. The torture begins immediately following the registration process when I realize I’m going to be shoving my post-baby body into a swimsuit out in public, and exposing areas of my skin to sunlight that have been hibernating for quite some time. So I begin shopping for a suit, which is actually a recognized form of torture in some cultures. I end up spending a lot of money ordering one online late at night in my basement, after cringing at endless possibilities on my “Virtual Model.” I decide on a skirted bottom to cover my pregnancy- induced varicose veins, and a top which I can reasonably breastfeed in without getting arrested. By the time I’m going through this process again with my second child, the bottom of the suit is now a full size larger than the top. Nice.

Once my suit is taken care of, I head to Target for swimsuits for the kids. Not the wedgie- inducing, “I can’t go to the bathroom by myself, Mom” kind, but the shorts-and-tee-shirts kind that doesn’t even really look like a swimsuit. They do, however, offer SPF 8000+ protection even when wet. My real motivation for purchasing this kind of suit is it makes for much less skin I have to apply sunscreen on. Ah, sunscreen. Every day it’s the same battle. You’d think they would get used to it. I’ve used the lotion kind, the spray kind, the dry-spray kind – they all result in coaxing, bribes, crying and whining. And that’s just to get the kids to come near enough for me to do a drive-by spray.

We arrive at the swimming pool and lug our giant bag of towels, goggles, flip-flops, swim diapers and extra clothes over to a picnic table. My preschooler, who was thrilled to go to swimming lessons this morning, is now acting like I’m trying to dunk her in a pool of hydrochloric acid. After ten minutes of wheedling, begging, threatening and bribing, she eventually calms down and joins her class. I head to the little pool with my toddler, who is clinging to me like I’m about to loan her to a pack of wild dogs for snack time.

Why is the water never warm? It is 90 degrees outside and the pool water is turning my kids’ lips blue. My new swimsuit skirt is now floating up around my middle and my kid is hanging on to my top so tight, we are about to turn swim lessons into a peep show. At least most of the other moms look like me: uncomfortable in their new bodies (or no-so-new in my case), trying to get our crabby, cold kids to blow bubbles in the pee-pool water.

But there is always one or two of those totally cute moms in the class. You know, the ones who are fit and tan and certainly did NOT just have a C-section. (Okay, okay, so it’s been years since my last C-section, but it feels like it just happened.) The ones who can wear bikinis because they can still locate their abs, much less remember how to exercise them. The one dad in the class is trying to look like he’s enjoying himself without staring at all the ample cleavage bouncing around him.

We do this every day for two weeks. My girls seemed to get the hang of the whole lesson thing, then one day out of the blue, one of them will break down about not wanting to go in the water (or not wanting to go in with the goggles, or without the water shoes, etc, etc.) My preschooler spends half her lesson sitting out on the side of the pool for not listening to the instructor, and the other half swinging around on the step railing. Awesome, Totally worth paying for. If she ever needs to swing around on a railing to save herself from drowning, she’ll be all set.

So why do I do this year after year? Why have I done this Four Times? (Twice for each kid!) Well, obviously I want my kids to know how to swim. But besides that, I want my girls to see me, stretch marks and all, helping them learn a valuable skill. I don’t want them to think they shouldn’t wear a swimsuit unless the have a “perfect” body. I am trying to raise confident, capable young ladies. And if I hide behind my comfortable (i.e. body-covering) clothes and sit on the sidelines, choosing not to participate, what does that teach them?

So here I am, in my swimsuit, in the cold pool, cheering for my kids when they put their faces in the water like they’ve just won an Olympic medal. And I’ll be here next summer, if need be. And hopefully my kids will grow up to have a healthy, positive body image. Although hopefully by next summer they will have invented swimsuits that keep you warm, don’t cling, tan you without damaging your skin, and give you a non-surgical tummy tuck. And hopefully by then making new moms squeeze into swimsuits in public and drag crying children into cold pools will actually be recognized as torture by the UN. Well, self-imposed torture, anyway.

The Tank

When Nathan and I were bantering in the office and the name of this blog (and probably future book) came out, I immediately had my image of mud between my toes...and thought I would share as the first post. The picture to the left is of the tank (Texas slang for pond) just below the house I grew up in on a cattle farm in central Texas. This was the setting of many a childhood memory...a lot of which involved physical mud.

We didn't have a swimming pool so when we wanted to cool off in the summer, the tank was one of the best options. You could do a shallow dive off the dock...or simply wade in off the shore. I usually opted for the diving because it seemed more adventurous...and if you waded in, you had to make it through all the mud! This wasn't just your run of the mill mud---this was clay mud with air pockets, cow crap, algae, you get the idea. Of course we would indoctrinate new visitors to the farm by having them wade into the mud/water just to see their expression. I still don't know how we kept friends! :) As we aged, we found ourselves riding bikes off the dock into the water (and pulling the bikes out of the mud), jousting on canoes (and being covered with mud if you fell in), or just fishing (and losing many a flip flop in the mud on the shoreline).

I only get home to the farm once or twice a year and one of the first things I always find myself doing is walking down to the tank to sit on the dock. It is definitely a sign of being home for me. I remember my childhood memories...and lay out in the sun or do a little stargazing. Mud between my toes....good times!

What mud between your toes stories do you have? Give us the scoop!

R.I.P. Norman the Cat

Saturday morning started off as most every morning for me has over the past year. I was awakened by fur and whiskers passing by my head. In my usual tone I yelled "Norman, get the hell off of me; I'm trying to sleep." Of course, Norman didn't care. He knew the sun had peaked over the roof of the house and it was time to get up. However, I was lucky this morning as my wife and oldest son were already awake. So, I drifted back to sleep....

I start this entry with a little daily life event because I took it for granted. Never did I look at Norman the cat waking me up as a happy-go-lucky moment in my life. But if I could have that moment one more time, I might think differently. Norman was a stray cat that started hanging around our farm about a year ago. It is not unusual to see a new feline face at my house because lots of cats get dumped by pet owners or vet clinics on our farm. The stipulation for dumping a cat at our house is that it must be spayed or neutered and must be so wild that we can't even get within 10 feet of it. They hang out in the barn and play in the pasture along with the horses and enjoy life. But every once in a while a nice one will slip onto the property and come say hi. This is precisely what happened with Norman.

Most of the time, the friendly cats are whisked right to the vets office, spayed and put up for adoption. After all, we have dogs that don't take kindly to cats. But the day that Norman showed up, he put on a show! He loved being petted and carried around by our oldest son, Liam. And Liam loved Norman. We decided to let Norman hang around for a while. He made a little bed in the garden and would come out and play when anyone was outside. Eventually, he had become a part of the family which meant he got his big chance to come inside and look around. Once inside, he checked out the place...and discovered the dogs. Little did he know there was a big bad boston terrier that was tracking him down to let him know that he didn't belong. Kinda funny since our pit bull Sydney, who used to eat cats for every meal, just lay there and welcomed Norman inside. Canela, the boston guard dog, had her nose extremely bent out of shape. So after Norman straightened her nose for her they learned to co-exist. After a quick trip to the vet for a declaw, Norman was right at home.

Liam always insisted that Norman sleep in his room. "Norman is my cat!," he would proclaim and would not go to bed if Norman was not with him. There were many nights we would find ourselves walking out to the barn or canvasing the yard looking for Norman so Liam would go to bed. After a few months, the novelty of having a cat sleep in his room wore off for Liam. So Norman took up residency in our bedroom. He started off trying to sleep on my head, but he quickly learned that I wasn't going to have that. I mean after all, I hated cats! Over time, he got acquainted to the rules and we became buddies. He would perch himself on the ledge outside the shower and watched me shower every morning. He would follow me to the sink and watch me shave and then we would enjoy a cup of coffee together. There was even times I had to force him out of my car when I would leave for work in the mornings. This cat was cool!

You can imagine my sadness on Saturday May 23 when Norman met his match by way of a four wheeled vehicle in front of our house. I was ironing clothes after a hard days work building a play set and Melissa was taking the boys for a ride on the golf cart around the pasture when it happened. She came into the closet where I was ironing and told me Norman was dead. I couldn't believe it! He had spent the day supervising my building the play set. I walked outside to the end of our long driveway and knelt down next to Norman. I said a little prayer and then I picked him up and walked back to the house. Melissa met me in the garage with a towel to wrap him in. The boys, especially Liam, were shaken and curious about what happened next. They knew what happened and that Norman wasn't coming back. Melissa called her friend who owns a pet cremation service and she and Liam took Norman to the crematorium. Once Norman's ashes are back, we plan to have a little ceremony and bury his ashes on the grounds. I think that a little tree would be a great way to memorialize Norman.

I'm sure most of you have stories of beloved pets...please comment on the story of Norman and share your own favorite pet memory/story. Lets hear it!