Restaurants, Revenge and How Mom Will (One Day) Get Her Groove Back

One recent evening, Hubby and I were seated in a local restaurant with a lovely view of the parking lot, anxiously awaiting the Rapture and our order, while our offspring slouched on the bench across from us, alternating between a staring contest worthy of Celebrity Death Match and cozying up like Al Capone and his gang. 

I can clearly recall a time when dining out was pure joy.  The anticipation alone...have mercy!  Me, all dolled up, perfume, tight jeans (size 10) and enough cleavage to keep his attention without straying into full-on slut territory.  Hubby, sporting Levi's (dayum, but he could fill 'em out ya'll), boots and, if the weather was chilly, a flannel shirt.  Can you say 'cheap date'?  No rush, no worries, no stress.  The only pressing issue was where we'd go park after dinner.  You know, to watch the stars.

Fast forward a couple of years and WHAMMO we did it.  Well, to be honest, we'd done it plenty before but this time, nine months later, here comes Seth.

Now, dining out with a baby isn't really a big thing, considering that babies do only three things: eat, sleep and poop.  In any case, you're prepared for anything no matter your location because in addition to baby, you also lug around King Kong's handbag stuffed with diapers, wipes, several days worth of clothing (in case of leaks, spit ups or, heck, just because), diaper rash ointment---Dr. Beaudreaux Butt-Paste (for us BAD MOTHERS that don't change baby often enough or because baby is a sensitive soul), bottles of formula (for us LAZY MOMS who don't cotton to having Junior's gums chomp on our girls or simply because Junior's head is half the size of aforementioned girl and for him it's either breathe or eat), assorted baby toys and a flask of wine (oops, wishful thinking).  That's a lot of crap to haul, ya'll but still, we made do.  At this stage, we could still have a peaceful outing because, face facts, babies don't talk (or talk back).

Restaurant dining these days is a mix of verbal martial-arts (smack, jab, KAPOW!); church service (Please, Lord, don't let me lose it in public 'cause I SO would not look good in a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit and road-side trash pickup is not my idea of a good time); and twelve step program (Hi, my name is Bat-shit Crazy Momma and it's been 3.5 seconds since my last "Don't make me take you to the restroom 'cause you are so gonna get it, sister" speech).  All in all, an experience not anywhere near as relaxing as, say, a glass of wine and a Xanax.

I'm already plotting my revenge, glass of wine in hand.  Each jewel, nugget and crumb of child-dispensed wisdom as it relates to all things kid and kid-raising is being carefully documented and filed away for that perfect Golden Years moment when I can unload them like bullets from an Uzi.  'Why, yes, baby, go ahead and let the doggy lick your mouth.  That smell?  Oh, it's just a little litter box snack.  Bless his heart, he gets awful hungry this time of day.  What's that, Princess?  Of course, your Mama won't mind if you have a venti, double-caff, caramel mochachino.  You know she wouldn't want to deny you anything, Hunnybuns!'

I am so gettin' the warm fuzzies just thinking about it...or maybe it's the wine.
 

Love is Spelled Q-U-I-L-T

My Mother made this paper-pieced quilt for Seth as one of her very first quilting adventures when he was about three or four years old.  It's a well-travelled quilt, having gone far and wide by car and by plane.  It's seen all sorts of folks: relatives, friends, doctors, nurses; and even several different states.  Oh, the places it's gone! 

This is one tired quilt!  Mom's patched, mended and embroidered all over it in an effort to repair it as best as she can.  But time, and lots of little boy love, have taken their toll.

He's a middle-schooler now, but the quilt stays in its place of honor on the bed along with about a half dozen of his other quilts.  When he's sick, this is his go-to comfort quilt.

The prairie-point border is disintegrating from so many trips through the washing machine and the backing fabric is paper-thin.

The photo above signaled the end to this sweet little quilt's journey.  When I told him there was no way it could be fixed again, that we'd have to retire it, he wanted to know how long it would take me to make him another.  From the same pattern.  Using the same fabric.  Hey, no pressure here!  Luckily, my Mom still has the pattern and I spent today hunting reasonably similar fabrics, hoping that close enough will be good enough. 

How many of us can say we've been loved to pieces by a child?

Happy quilting!

Mama's Girl

My daughter's at that age where actually being seen in public with dear old Mom isn't horribly embarrassing and holding my hand won't leave her scarred for life.  She will, at the tender age of six, still claim me as her Mom and not some stranger who's stalking her. 

Friday, the first grade classes hosted a Mother's Day Tea where they serenaded all us camera-toting mommies with a little song about all the things Moms do (no way a kid came up with this, because let's face it, kids think the laundry cleans itself).  This was followed up with cupcakes they'd decorated and juice cups of raspberry iced tea.  All the while, I'm trying to balance my posterior largesse on a chair designed for one of Snow White's seven friends. 

My sweetie P made me a swell yarn-wrapped flower vase, a wrist corsage and a nifty Mother's Day card.  Here are a couple of the card's highlights:

What ingredients is your mom made of?     Skin and bones (bless her heart, I think this means skinny)
What do you love most about your mom?  She lets me take a bath (ooookaayyy)

If you ask her, she'll tell you she's my stars.  If you don't believe her, she'll point to the tattoo!  

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!!   



No Thanks, I Don't Do Spandex

Growing up, my all-time favorite superhero was none other than...Wonder Woman.  She had it all:  the jet plane, the gold lasso, that awesome headband and could that woman ever rock a bathing suit!  Lynda Carter had it goin' on and I so wanted to be her.  Then came the Dukes of Hazzard.  Goodbye Wonder Woman, hello Daisy Duke.  Why, oh why, did my childhood supers have to wear short-shorts?  Ah, but I could dream!

These days, I'm just regular 'ol working Mom.  No spandex (yes, God IS in control), no jet, no short-shorts, no cape.  My days aren't spent fighting evil (unless you count those Legos that seemingly breed overnight and lay in wait for my unslippered feet...they make such sweet music when sucked up with a vacuum) and justice for me comes in the form of pestering my children while they're in the bathroom (are you done yet, are you done yet?)  What can I say, I'm easily amused. 

This afternoon, I was presented with one of those rare moments when I get to earn a star in my Mom Tiara and, in the eyes of my child, ascend the ladder to Superhero-dom.

Poor Woody, he didn't stand a chance against that six-year old foot that came down on top of him and unceremoniously decapitated him.  There stood Paige looking down at her beloved toy, shrieking like the gibbons at the zoo and all I could think was 'who died?'.  

Yep, he was a goner if someone didn't do something pronto.  Where's Wonder Woman when I needed her?  And then, it came to me.  I, Regular 'Ol Working Mom, could fix this.  Never fear my dear, help is here!

And just like that, I achieved superhero status!  I ask you:  Who needs a cape...

...when you've got a glue gun?

Customer service? This is NOT the child I requested!

Next week was supposed to be huge for him...a short school week with an overnight camping trip with his classmates to cap it all off.  All he had to do was behave (check) and pass all his classes (check, again).  I'd been praying over this:  Please, Lord, help him through his day to pay attention, do the work correctly and, above all, turn it in on time with his name on it.   

I should have seen it coming. 

This afternoon, I found out he didn't turn in three papers.  This is how you go from passing to failing a class in two weeks time.  There was talk from the school about extra work to, hopefully, boost the grade and how did I feel about that.  I could practically feel the internal struggle: yes/no yes/no yes/no.  If I said no, it'd be like ignoring an entire year's worth of hard work which would be grossly unfair.  If I said yes, what would that be teaching him?  That as long as someone comes along to give you a boost, everything'll be okay...no harm, no foul; that the rules apply to everyone BUT you?  I just don't get it.  How can you so look forward to something, knowing the requirements ahead of time and be surprised when you personally let it slip through your fingers.  He tried to shift the blame (I do so love THAT game they play).  He tried to say he'd worked so hard all year, it shouldn't matter now; he deserved to go.  I can't even believe the words as I'm typing them.  I can't bail you out of this one.  I can't shadow you through the day.  Yes, you're 11 years old, but you knew the score.

Lucky for me, my dear hubby agrees with me, so while the decision wasn't the desired one, it's the best one.  So, here we go with the crying and long, sad face.  Hey, let's see if we can get sympathy from dear Grandmother...nope, no dice.  Try harder next time, buddy.  And forget about telling Grandpa unless you're up for The Lecture...best just to keep your mouth shut with that one.  Now, we're on to the silent treatment.  It's been five hours of this shit and I'm already tired of it.  I'm not budging and neither's Dad.  Suck it up, learn your lesson; adapt and overcome.   Parenthood sucks.