I Forgot

A list of things I routinely cannot find:
Car keys
Credit card
Cell phone
Cordless home phone
Driver's license
Wedding rings
Remote control
Any important documents I will ever need again
A pen

Things I most say to my husband most often:
Have you seen...?
Where is my...?
Did you move the...?
Can you help me find...?
I'm going to be late and I lost my...!!!
YOU MOVED IT!  I KNOW YOU DID!

Last spring, I bought my father-in-law a great birthday gift.  I dressed my boys up for his party, and we drove over a half hour early to spend extra time with him on his special day.  It was the wrong day.

I once sat in a doctor's waiting room for a half hour before someone came out and told me my appointment was the following week, and they'd be happy to see me then.

Several times a day, I enter a room and immediately forget why I'm there.

This probably all seems very frightening to other people, but I can tell you when it began.  Or rather, with whom.  He is three years old and believes that sleeping is optional.  If you are up for a rock concert at 2 am, he'd be happy to oblige.

I'm pretty sure that given a glass of wine and a solid night's sleep, my keys would be on the hook by the door, my purse would hold my credit card, license, and cell phone, my wedding ring would be on my hand, and I'd know where to find a pen.  A pen that works, even.

A

St. Somewhere

I have a plan.

Joe and I are going to pack up the kids, sell our house, and move to a tropical country that is relatively safe and germ-free but needs an accounting overhaul.

I figure if they need an accounting overhaul, they'll also need a few lawyers, so that means the rest of my family will need to move to this place, too.  They don't know about this plan yet.

We will all move to said tropical place, and then my mom and I will open a school for the adorable, underprivileged, and underestimated children.

We will become the royalty of this tropical nation, and have lots and lots of money.  We might live in a giant, state-of-the-art tree house like Swiss Family Robinson, or we might live in a massive chain of beach bungalows.  I haven't really decided yet.

My mother will cook.  Everything will be fruity and delicious.  She will teach the natives about good spaghetti sauce and they will teach her the secret of serious jerk chicken.  The natives will give us rum and there will be daiquiris and delights.  I will be in excellent shape because I will beach-walk and swim often.  I will own big sunglasses and have a sarong.  My children will wear straw hats and run barefoot out the front door every morning to beautiful weather.

We will always be miraculously missed by hurricanes and other tropical storms.  We will have a boat, a jet ski, and an exotic pet.  Like a macaw, or a zebra.  If I let my brother come, he will NOT bring his dog.

I will ride my zebra down the beach at sunset, and Joe will ride an ostrich.  Because he's that kind of guy.

And working will be fun, and life will be great, and most importantly...

I will never be cold again.  I hate winter.

No Matter What

Today I felt like a total failure at being a Super Amazing Stay-At-Home Mom.  It really began yesterday afternoon and then just bled over into today, and I'm pretty sure that while I feel in my heart like a moronic seventeen-year-old without a clue, I look like a seventy-year-old life-long chain smoker.  With bad hair and no makeup.


To help you gain perspective, here is the body of text from an email I sent to my sister and to Joe at work yesterday:

Noah just pooped ON THE FLOOR, NEXT TO the toilet.

He's been constipated all day, and kept sneaking off to do his pushing in other rooms. Every time I'd put him on the toilet, he'd suck it all back in and announce, "I'm better now!"

Finally, I was unyielding. Gates up, game on. I was in the next room when he called. "Mom! I goed! It's HUGE!" I said, "You pooped on the potty?" He said, "No! On the floor! Next to the potty!"

His tone of voice completely showed that he was having a "Why haven't I thought of this before?" moment, and it was so completely disgusting and unacceptable, I can't even tell you the freakout I had. He had also stepped in one large, deliberate blob, and then denied it, despite the fact that it was all over his sock and ground into--wait for it--the GROUT.

I freaking hate everything.

Oh, yeah, and the toilet is now plugged.  I can see the massive poop blocking everything.

Here is the email I sent him today.  

You're going to come home one of these days and I'm going to be dead, and Noah will be standing on top of my corpse, smiling.

Still, despite the fact that Noah's personality and mine seem to mix as well as oil and vinegar, let's not forget that oil and vinegar make really, really good salad dressing.  Right?  There were a lot of tears in our house today, and at one point, Noah looked at me and said, "I don't even need a mommy."

At bedtime, I had to do something to make him know that everything was okay.  That we all have really bad days, and we yell and we feel crazy, but we always love each other.  Is there any better book in the world for that than Love You Forever by Robert Munsch?  I don't think so.  

And when I read, "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living--" Noah interrupted me by grabbing my face and kissing me.  Then he said, "I'll love you forever, too, Momma.  You're a good Momma."

Crazed Shopper

I have always found "The Ungettable Get"--that one gift every year that people fight over, but can't find in stores or online--to be nonsense.  Year after year I think, "Come on, people.  Just wait until after Christmas."  The Year of the Wii, Joe was ALL over it, and I thought HE was being nonsensical.  I mean, do we really need it NOW?  And at least that's a gaming system that's, you know, pretty cool.  What about the Tickle Me Elmo Year?  How lame was THAT toy?

But this year, I've been...affected.  With Noah desperately trying to read, he has actually taken up a serious interest in all the learning devices in our household.  These are the toys that are meant to "make learning fun" and encourage your child to "learn without even realizing it!"  And Noah actually DOES play with these toys...for hours.  You have to understand then that when he saw the commercial for the latest Leapfrog device: the Leappad, he freaked out for it.  It's like the iPad of learning toys, and Noah has gone so far as to say, "All I want Santa to bring is the Leappad.  Maybe some other cool stuff, but really just the Leappad."

Well HOLY SMOKES.  Now I understand.

Yesterday it came to my attention that Noah's ONLY requested Christmas gift (and he's three--don't three year olds usually want ANYTHING and EVERYTHING???) is this year's Ungettable Get.  Ugh.  At first, I decided I must be much more Shop Savvy than any of my friends, and proceeded to visit all conceivable websites and stores, expecting to just be lucky.  Then the panic set in, and I realized, I'm just one among millions (a totally different meaning for the phrase, "one in a million").

This morning, I hopped on the Internet, trying all the different sites again.  Sold Out.  Out of Stock.  Sold Out.  Not Currently Available.  I began to despair.

The only store I hadn't tried was Target, and I thought, "But of COURSE Target will be sold out.  Everyone goes to Target."

But I had to try, so I typed it in.  I searched.  To my shock, I saw: In-Store Only.  My heart raced as I ran a search for our zip code.  Of the five closest stores, the one nearest me had "Limited Stock."  The next nearest said, "In Stock."  All the rest: "Out of Stock."

I quickly ripped Noah off the potty, figuring if things had happened for him yet, it was safe to wait.  He had to go to school, and of course, today is "J" day and we had bring something that started with J, and I hadn't done that yet, so I tossed a picture of Joey into his backpack (to which Noah replied, "Uh, no thank you, I'd like to bring a toy," and I ignored him).  I had him bundled and in the car in under sixty seconds, and was racing toward his school thirty minutes early.  But it had to be done.  Luckily, my mom is the owner and the teacher is a close friend, so they were very understanding about watching Noah for me.  Then, I was off.  To the races, as they say.

By the time I arrived at "my" Target, it was a mob scene, and it had only been open for an hour and fifteen minutes.  I fast-walked into the store.  On the one hand, I wanted to break into a full out run, but on the other hand, I didn't want to clue anyone into my "secret" info.  Not like all the other parents in a 100 mile radius weren't doing exactly the same thing as me.

I tore through the store, no cart.  Other people were shopping around, so I felt hopeful.  I was sweating through my fleece, thanking God I decided to wear my running shoes (like I've ever run anywhere).  I made it to the Leapfrog aisle only to see a salesgirl regretfully telling another mom, "I'm sorry, we just sold the last one."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

But there was no time to lose!  I raced back out of the store, not worrying about running anymore.  I'm sure people thought my pants were on fire, but I didn't care.  It was off to the next Target!  I hopped in my car and revved the engine.  As I flew onto the Thruway, Marky Mark was singing "Good Vibrations" on Sirius radio, and it was possibly the best "Get Psyched" song ever for my heated mission.

I was slowed down only by an indecisive State Trooper who finally must have felt the vibes of my Shopper Anxiety all the way in his patrol car and finally veered off to rest in a U-turn stop.

When I arrived at the store, I was pleased to see it wasn't nearly as crowded as the last place.  It was in a bit of shady neighborhood, so I felt that running into the store was more acceptable, and I clutched my purse in double paranoia, eyeing up any competition.  There were definitely some characters standing out.  A couple of men in their thirties wearing pressed khakis with their hair gelled had clearly been sent by their wives for the Leappad.  A messy-looking mother of twins (what must I have looked like at this point, all sweaty and frazzled?) making her way slowly to the back of the store.  


To the Leapfrog aisle!  I moved quickly through the store, thanking God that its layout was identical to my home Target.  As I approached, another woman, looking as determined as me, was coming from the opposite direction.  I ducked down the aisle, and saw the boxes gleaming at me from the bottom shelf.  Good GOD!  


I snatched up one, and behind it saw one more.  I knew my really close friend hadn't been able to find one for her daughter, so I grabbed that one, too.  My mission can't have been all about me, after all.  That's not how heroes are made.


Holding the boxes tightly in my arms against my chest, I dared not slow down.  To the checkouts I hurried, not messing around but going straight to the Express Lane.  The fellow BEEPED! the boxes over the scanner, and, with shaking hands, I ran my credit card through.


"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the fellow.  "Your card has been denied."


W. 


T. 


F.


"What???" I screeched.  "I'm sorry, there must be a mistake."  Yes, there must be, since I'm married to the Spreadsheet King of the Universe and this just simply wasn't possible.  And how could such a STUPID thing be happening to me NOW?


"Well, we can try again," he said helpfully.  We re-did the transaction, same result.


I breathed a huge breath.  "Can we please keep these boxes RIGHT HERE?" I asked quietly in my scariest Teacher Voice, leaning close to him.  "So I can call my husband?  There seriously must be a mistake."

"Okay..." said the fellow uncertainly, clearly afraid of me.  I wondered if he had a security buzzer next to him, and if he might use it.

I stepped out of the way and dialed Joe's number.  Joe, incidentally, was working in Pennsylvania this morning.

He answered in a frustratingly lazy voice, "Oh, hey.  How's it going?"

"JOE!" I said.  Unfortunately, I had taken on an alter ego: Hysterical Mary.  My family are constantly trying to squash this persona out of me, since it leads to totally Unacceptable Behavior, but once she comes out, there's no turning back.  It's my version of Hulking Out.  When it happens, I honestly can't even see anymore. I lose all vision and all sense of good, common sense-abiding behavior.

"YOU NEED TO CHECK THE CREDIT CARD!  I HAVE THE LEAPPAD HERE AND IT'S THE LAST ONE!!! OUR CARD ISN'T WORKING!!"

You can imagine this may have come out slightly slurred in the state I was, so I had to repeat it.  Twice. I was becoming desperate, and the checkout fellow moved me solicitously to Customer Service.  With the Leappad boxes, since I clearly refused to be separated from them.

Joe, in the meantime, was looking at our credit card account online.  "You won't believe it," he said.  "You and I both used our cards at the same time.  Since I'm in Pennsylvania, the company thought your purchase must be fraudulent."

Ugh.  Do you KNOW how much I hate when Joe works out of town?  And now THIS?!

"Okay," he said easily.  Easy for him, since he wasn't in this state of EMERGENCY.  "I verified the purchase.  You should be all set."

I stepped up to the counter, and, I must tell you, the Customer Service Guy was extra nice.  He didn't treat me like garbage for having my card denied (which I felt like, even though it was a misunderstanding).  He was very kind, and rang up the purchase like this sort of thing happens all the time.

By the time I left the store, I was trembling.  My shirt was soaked and I was breathing hard.  I held my packages tightly, and raced all the way home, not willing to feel any relief until the Leappads were safely inside my house, hidden away for Santa to wrap.

Next year, I'm encouraging my children to become artists, and they're getting a paint set.  And that's IT!

Come On, Get Happy

Happy is staring me down.

Three years ago, a package arrived in the mail.  It was covered in stamps from around the globe.  I knew it was actually from my sister, but the return address was marked "North Pole."  This was the day we received our very own Elf on the Shelf.  He came with a little story book explaining his existence, and we as a family had to choose a name for him.  Noah was just seven months old at the time, but Joey was three.  And Joey picked the name "Happy."

And now, as I said, Happy is staring me down.

He's on the shelf right above where I now sit, and he has this irritatingly complacent smile on his face.  And he looks off to the side.  I think it's because his story says he is Santa's scout, watching to see who is naughty and who is nice, but he's a total thorn in my side and I think his sideways stare is annoying.  At night, Happy supposedly heads to the North Pole to report to the Big Man, and then returns to us by dawn.  Every morning, he is perched in a new and clever spot in our house, a sign that he went away and came back.

This brings my children inexplicable joy, which probably indicates that Happy was aptly named.  Every morning, the boys race through the house, tripping over each other, trying to find where that tricky elf has taken himself.  Yesterday he was dangling from the dining room chandelier.  Noah fell over in giggles, his belly shaking like Santa himself.  He groaned, "Oh, Happy!  You're so silly!"  Joey just shook his head knowingly, as if to say, "Those elves.  So unpredictable, but what can you do?"

But the pressure is so HUGE to keep coming up with places to perch this stupid thing.  The boys are infinitely disappointed if Happy repeats a locale, and sometimes I don't even realize it's happened.  "The bookshelf again? Come ON, Happy!"

Even worse--and I'm so ashamed, I really am--is when Happy doesn't move at all.  You know, some nights, you're just really tired.  You're exhausted.  It's been a long day of wiping poop off the bathroom floor or explaining that, "NO, I don't have a penis and really, I AM okay with that," or whatever.  You climb into bed, and you have that blissful moment where every part of you sinks into the mattress and you exhale deeply with your eyes closed and then BAM! Happy's face appears before your eyes, all taunting, and maybe you think, "I'll get up early and do it then."  But then, you don't.

This is really hard to explain to little boys who love their elf.  In our house, I'm met with overly rounded eyes filled with tears and trembling chins and the fragile question, "Is...is it because we're BAD?"


I don't know how other parents handle this.  Probably, other parents aren't idiots who fall asleep without moving their elf.  But me?  I look at my darling little children and say, "Well, I guess you must have been.  Happy must not have wanted to tell Santa bad news, though, so just be EXTRA good today."

Terrible.  I know.  I really feel terrible.  Honestly.  And I have all kinds of plans this year--premeditated lists of shelves in my house and little mental reminders all day long.  Because it's a cute little tradition and generally makes Joey and Noah happier than ice cream sundaes.  Every day!

But he really is a stupid elf.  Stupid Happy.

Maybe I'm a sucker, but...

My husband often laughs at me because I'm a total sucker for the media.  I'm not, for example, allowed to ever, ever watch infomercials.  When he and I first started dating, he would weekly come across new, innovative items in my apartment.  Miracle makeup, 6-Minute Abs, and Miracle Blade Knives (3 sets!) are just a few I can recall.  Finally, with my best interests at heart, he suggested that if infomercials are on, perhaps I'd best turn the television OFF.

Then there are the Kay Jeweler commercials.  Can we all just acknowledge the cleverness of "Every kiss begins with Kay"?  Mingle it then with those tear-jerking moments they show in candle-lit or fireside rooms...or, good God, that one with the soldier Skyping his son and wife, and the little boy whipping out the box..."I helped Daddy pick it out for you, Mommy."  I'm always caught off guard, too: the perfect viewer.  I think I'm just watching a family Skyping.  Or a couple waking up on Christmas morning in a lovely mountainside lodge.  Or whatever.  And suddenly my eyes are misting up and my nose is burning and, worst of all, someone sees me like this.  Usually Joe.

It probably goes without saying that I'm an avid fan of Clorox and Lysol commercials.  I particularly like when the germs are shown as little monsters with faces, and get brutally wiped out by the strong chemical powers of the cleaning agent.  Rock on, poisonous chemicals.  Kill those germs.

Do you know the one I feel the most strongly about?  The scene that comes on our television and instantly has my heart stopping, or climbing into my throat, or, at times, has Joe leaping up to change the channel or turn the TV off?  St. Jude's.  And it's not because it makes me cry.  It's not because of the gut-wrenching stories some famous person sits and tells calmly to the camera.  It's because it really is a worthy cause, and leaves me feeling completely helpless and emotionally drained.  I hold my own children a little tighter and say a million extra prayers of thanks that they are healthy.  I remind myself that a cold is just a cold, and that in a few days my boys recover and are smiling and strong.  How could I NOT want to do everything I could to help the children of St. Jude's?  

So at the mall today, when I was Christmas shopping in Gymboree (big sales, if you can get there), I was thrilled to see that with each purchase, they asked customers to consider donating to St. Jude's.  My mother, who was with me, and I exchanged a quick murmur about how extremely fortunate we are to have all our children healthy.  Then a woman next to us stepped up to pay.  "Would you like to donate a dollar to help St. Jude's today?" asked the salesperson behind the counter.  

"Hmph!" said the woman.  "I'm NOT from around here!"

I was really glad when the salesgirl echoed my thoughts aloud: "Well...that doesn't really matter."

It doesn't.  I think that giving out one dollar of the money we seem to have no trouble spending in Gymboree, or in the myriad other stores involved with this pretty great cause, is a really easy way to help people who need it.  And they are children who need it.    

Sunshine, My Only Sunshine

This is my tribute to Noah Michael, who is three years old and very, very good at it.

This is dedicated to Noah, because he sucks every ounce of energy out me and makes my brain chant, "NOAH NOAH NOAH" all day long.

Noah is super handsome.  He has my eyes and his dad's ears and a smile straight from heaven.

Noah is constant energy.  This is since he was In The Belly.  Just as I would be ready to doze off after a long day, he would somersault like the circus performer he is and keep me up all night long.  These days, he gives nightly performances of Justin Bieber, Bryan Adams, Bon Jovi, and any other music he's into.  Concerts start at 2 am.

Noah is ambidextrous.  He favors the left hand for writing, eating, and other regular activities, but can switch it out if he feels like it.

Noah is extremely intelligent.  He is a second child who will not stand for second best.  Because Joey can read, Noah is teaching himself.  He knows all his letters, all their sounds, and can actually sound out whole words.

He is extremely logical and pragmatic.  Sometimes he hits his brother.  It works out for him because Joey will never hit back.  When questioned, Noah says calmly, "But he was annoying me," or, "But I wanted that toy, and he wouldn't give it to me."  He definitely feels bogged down by rules and manners.  It all just seems to get in the way.

Noah is loud.  And he's not always singing.  Sometimes he looks me in the eyes and glares, and yells, "GUTS" because he thinks it's a bad word.  Sometimes he squeaks.  He makes his voice at a pitch that's almost worthy of dog whistles and says, "SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEAK!!!"  After your ear drums recover, I suggest counting to ten and breathing in and out.

He's not a good waker-upper.  After finally getting rest, he will generally be in a better mood, but not for the first fifteen minutes after waking.  Then he has a frown worthy of Hades.  He throws all his most prized stuffed animals at anyone who dares to look at him.  He says things like, "Go aWAY.  I don't like ANYONE."  If you attempt to cajole or, God forbid, take him out of his bed, he makes his body EITHER A) stiff as a board or B) totally floppy like a wet noodle.  He SQUEEEEEEEAKS and flails and pretty much makes you want to jump out the nearest window.  Which is on the second floor.

Noah refused to use the potty until he was three years and four months old, and it was only because I gated him into the bathroom.  He was so mad, he sat down and pooped, and yelled, "THERE.  I did it. Can I get out of here and have a treat now?"

On a particularly low day, I ran out of legal discipline options and went with, "If you don't want to be a nice boy in Mommy's house, you can live in a different house."  I opened the back door and pointed at the yard, expecting tears, apologies, and maybe a hug.  But Noah said, "OKAY," and walked right out the door.  I called (in a total panic), "I really mean it, Noah!" and he called back, "Okay!  I'll go live at my playground!"

If I say, "No" about any certain thing, Noah will shrug and go find his dad, in search of a more pleasing answer.  If his dad also says "No," he lies to one of us about what the other said and does what he wants, anyway.  If you catch him and call him out on it, he says, "THEN I'M THE BOSS!"

Once, he walked by me with his hands behind his back.  He said, "I have no candy behind my back."

Noah also gets into fits of giggles where his eyes tear and his belly and shoulders shake.  He once said to me in the car, "My Mommy, I love you more than I love cookies."  He gives bear hugs and butterfly kisses, and sometimes comes to find me in the house just to say, "Momma, you are a beautiful momma."  He loves to snuggle and when he smiles at you, your heart will break into a million tiny pieces because it's like looking at personified sunshine.

And damn it, he really sings well.  Even at 2 in the morning.