Monthly Archives: March 2015

Something to whine about.

Do you want to know why my son is whining?

Here’s why, in chronological order:

7 am: He woke up and wants the lights off, so he can play night time.

7:20: He doesn’t want the oatmeal he asked for.

7:30: He hates oatmeal.

7:45: His oatmeal is cold.

8: He’s full.

8:20: He doesn’t want *those* airplane underpants.

8:30: His pants are too soft.

9:00 – 10:00 Sesame Street (Hey, don’t judge. I’m not at a bar. Yet.)

10:15 He wants to pick up the cups from the floor with his feet.

10:16He can’t reach the floor (screamed from his position lying on the floor.)

11:00 He dropped his favorite toy behind his bed.

11:10 Again.

11:15 And once more.

12:00 He wants to use a big spoon to eat yogurt.

12:05 He has yogurt all over his shirt.

12:10 He hates cheese. Except string cheese. And parmesan. And mozzarella.

(On our way to pick up his older brother.)

3:10 He doesn’t want to go up 9th Avenue.

(We procure older brother and start for home.)

3:15 He doesn’t want to go down 8th Avenue. He wants to go down 9th Avenue.

3:20 He wants to stop in the playground. (It’s 30 degrees and he’s wearing a spring jacket.)

3:25 He’s cold.

3:30 He wants to be the first and the second one up the stairs.

(Sainted mother in law comes over to babysit. I deny that these are even my children. Instead, I blame her son and the devil for them. She stays anyway.

Two hours pass. I return largely sober. Sainted mother in law insists they were little angels the entire time I was away.)

5:30 He doesn’t have any bath toys. (We have hundreds).

5:32 He can’t find his bath toys in the bath tub.

5:33 There are too many bath toys in the tub. He has no room.

6:00 He doesn’t know what we are having for dinner. But he doesn’t like it.

6:15 He can’t set the table because he can’t carry a fork. It’s too pointy.

6:35 He wants more bread. But not the half-eaten piece on his plate. A new piece.

7:00 There are too many (i.e. six) toys to clean up.

7:30 He wants PJs that he saw in a picture of himself as a baby. (A 3-6 month sleep and play).

7:35 He doesn’t want to read the book he picked out. He hates it.

7:40 He wants to read that book again.

7:45 He desperately wants to sit in the dark and drink wine by himself.

WAIT. Sorry, that last one was me. Somehow, I must have started whining too. No idea how that happened. Well, you know where to find me. . . .

Beast Mode.

Beast Mode.

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Filed under Not cool, Mommy

Spring reigns.

We hit a major weather milestone here at the Fun Apartment recently. Blow ye trumpets! We are back on scooters! And the rest of the city is so happy to unzip their poofy jackets that they don’t care about three wheeled terrors on the sidewalk!

See, without the scooters, we are virtual shut ins. I blocked out with alcohol err conveniently forgot the fact that the scooters are three season transportation. They have no snow tires. After the stroller went the way of the dinosaurs, bouncy seats, and things I thought looked good on me in college, the Age of Scooters commenced.

Why, oh why, did no one tell me about the scooters? Suddenly, aboard these wheeled wonders, we got places on time (ok, closer to on time, but Still!) and, more importantly, we got there happy! And exercised! Our springs and summers and falls are efficient and relaxed. (And hardly anybody asked me about the bruises on my shins!)

And then the snow fell again. The scooters went to drydock. We were stuck. The sidewalks were somewhat clear, but they were significantly more narrow. And lined with piles either garbage or ice. With lots of slushy patches and clogged reservoirs of brown sludge deep enough to accommodate an outboard motor at every intersection.

So I found myself dragging the boys up and down these gray brown paths, tugging them by the mitten, (when I could manage to find the mittens). I felt like some sort of large ship towing her loaded rowboats  behind her. It was trudgery.

But now, after a few warm days and one good rain, the whole dirty world is ours again! We have survived! One after school visit to our local (playground, not pub) and everyone’s head is clear and mood is up. We come home happy! We arrive there before nightfall! Trader Joe’s is accessible again! And the best news: two exhausted boys, sleeping away.

See you at home!

See you at home!

But for now, I care not. We can ride. We are out. Spring is here.

(Naturally, just as the spring weather commenced, I found this amazing coat at the salvation army for $8. It is cute enough to make me wish for six more weeks of winter. I will now hide under my desk to dodge all of the snowballs you are flinging at me.)

Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.

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Filed under Mommy, Not cool, The outside world

We don’t make it look easy.

Sometimes, my life feels like a string of unrelated and inexplicable tasks, perplexing projects, and quests for bizarre items, interspersed with the repeated cleanup of the Same. Exact. Things. I put away only hours before.

Like Valentine’s Day. All four of us sat at the kitchen table trying to eat breakfast and assemble super hero valentine lollipops. We needed 44. And we ran out of tape on number 7, thanks to the older son and his tape fetish. His “I’m a fixer!” Phase suddenly became an “I’m a problem!” Phase. The discovery of some double sided tape helped a little, but not much. The man of my dreams wanted me to cut it into two millimeter strips so that it would better affix the tiny masks. I didn’t show him my middle finger, but I did show him the one with the wedding ring, which means “Nope. We’re married, dude. Now start taping,”

After this fun family project, I had a quality four minutes to get dressed, because, you know, a girl likes to look her best, and then get the kids to school. With both of them safely ensconced, I could go on a mad tear through the city in search of toy sharks. Party City 0, pet store 1.

This day also included assembling Lego Star Wars separatist commandos (who the . . .??), caving to demands to put AC/DC’s Thunderstruck on our playlists, pulling an architecture coloring book from thin air, making an origami dinosaur, “helping” to clean up the knocked over cat food, and researching the role gladiators played in the society of Ancient Rome. And in preparing dinner, I spent rather too long trying to make my hard-boiled eggs heart-shaped. This whole process was not overwhelmingly successful, because when I asked my kids what they thought they looked like, my pensive older son looked at them for a long time before he finally guessed “Turtles?”

Sometimes I wonder: why all the effort? We don’t need to eat turtle-shaped eggs. Drug stores do sell valentines. But I guess life needs the exciting moments to drown out the screaming tedium of the repeated daily routine. Even if nobody follows the routine without me reminding them twenty times at exponentially increasing volume.

I guess that’s how we put the fun in the Fun Apartment.

I heart you.

I heart you. Or I turtle you.

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Filed under Home Ec, Mommy, Not cool