You Know You're a Mama When...

1. Your middle child says "Muhhh, wa, WA, w.a.!" and you know that means he wants water.

2. Your oldest child says "Mama, you read Christmas book wi us" and you know that means he wants you to read "Spot's First Christmas"

3. Your youngest poos (yep, as is POOPS!!!- blech- poop *shudder*- sensitive gag reflex) on the floor, and you step on it, in YOUR BARE FEET, and you don't, in fact, barf all over him.

4. There are more dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets in your freezer than there are free countries on the planet.

5. The last 5 movies you downloaded contain at least one of the words "veggie" "tale" "tail" "train" "cartoon" "part 2"

6. You realize that at some point you stopped praying to live a long life "so that you can really live before you die" to "so that I can help my children through their own lives"

Oh so well, but not at all

Each night, after the babies are all sleeping deeply in their beds, I tiptoe in and watch them slumber. I look at their little noses. Chubby cheeks. Pinkish purple eyelids. I make sure they are breathing. That their toes are covered by their favorite blankets.

And I think, at this moment, I know them best. I know their likes and dislikes. I know when they need a nap. A snack. A cuddle.

But, my omnipotent knowledge of them is fleeting. One day I will sneak into their rooms and recognize their faces but not really know them at all.

One day, I won't be the one they cry for when they are hurt, lonely, scared. One day, very soon, they will roll their eyes at me and call their friends. Soon after that they will barely glance at me as they skip out the door for their girlfriends' houses.

I know the babies that they are. I don't know the men they will become.

My greatest hope is that during this fleeting time I can make enough of an impression on them that even when they disregard me, the morals I have instilled in them linger.

I won't know their deepest secrets. They won't tell me. They will, odds are, hide them from me and confide in one another. I won't know their deepest fears. They will, odds are, hide them from everyone.

But I pray nightly that they know no matter the secret, I love them. And no matter the fear, I'll do everything in my power to keep that fear a fear and not a reality.

The Firemen

Some where, in this town, there are a group of heroes. In the fog of panic, I cannot remember their names.

On September 2, a completely hysterical Mama called 911. She yelped "My son is dying! Send SOMEONE! ANYONE!!"

A band of men later burst through the door and made a gray baby pink again.

Thank you, Big Burly Men.

I loved you then, I love you now, I'll love you always.

Mamas Don't Have It Easy!

Mornings? We don't do mornings.

The laws of Slothville:

1. Bed Time is BED TIME. Once Mama puts on your overnight diaper and jammies, brushes your teeth, puts you in bed, and sings you those ridiculous personalized Night Night songs, Mama is done. Capital D. Done.

2. No one old enough to call "Mama!! Moo Milk!" is young enough to have the request/demand answered during Sleepy Time. If I can go 8 hours without wine, you can go that long with no dairy products.

3. Any time before noon is an unholy hour, and Waffles won't be served. With or without peanut butter.

4. If it seems that the sun is high in the sky, but I come in your room and say "Not time for waking, time for more sleeping" it's in your best interests not to question me.

Isn't this boat big enough for all of us?

Noah's ark and the Stay at home Mom

What's the same? Noah had a BIG boat. It was full of tons of different animals. It was alone in a big old ocean.
There are LOTS of Mamas. There are lots of different types of Mamas. We are all trying to stay afloat.

So, why, why? can't we all just see that we are all in this big old ocean together and make the best of it? Why must some Mamas make other Mamas feel like crud?

Yeah, I get it. Your kids eat nothing but organic food and my kids survive on Hot Pockets. At least they all eat, right? (Well, sometimes.)

On the flip side, since we don't have a maid, my kids know how to clean up after themselves. Booyah.

I know that each Mama is different. Each Mama has the way they think is the way to be the best Mama. But just because another Mama co-sleeps and your kid does Cry It Out, does NOT make you, or her, better. It just makes you different.

So let's make a deal. Since we are in the same neighborhood/playgroup/wine club I won't let my kids draw on your kids with permanent marker if you won't let your kids make mine feel like dumbasses because they aren't bi-lingual. And I won't tease you about the fact that your roots are showing if you won't tease me about the fact that my butt is bigger than yours. Bless your heart.

As My Waist Gets Bigger, My Brain Gets Smaller

This morning Critter asked for Waff-Waffs (waffles) with peanut butter for breakfast. I got the peanut butter out of the pantry and a plate from the cabinet.

I then went over to the pantry and searched in vain for waffles. I pulled out peanut butter, pop tarts, chips, 15 pounds of hidden candy, canned goods, and a bottle of vinegar.

"Ugh!" I screeched after about 5 minutes of fruitless searching. "Where are the damn waff waffs?!?"

From behind me a little voice piped up "Damn waff waffs in refrigerator, Mama."