It Was the Best of Times- Chaotic Momentum Post September 10, 2010

Emotional transitions for toddlers are as frequent as the number of red lights you hit when you are seriously late for an important appointment.  So for the parent, life is most accurately described as they say, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

6:03am: Life is wonderful.


6:05am: MY SHAKE IS ALL GONE! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?


6:07am: Oh thanks Momma. I just really needed another one.


6:09am: WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? There was hardly any in there, I swear. It's all gone Momma, ALL GONE! I can't even deal with the tragedy.


6:10am: How could you DO this to me?


6:21am: Thanks for the snuggle... Sometimes a little man just needs a little love.


6:23am: Life is wonderful.


6:24am: Nooooooooo! NO NO NO! Abbie just took my dinosaur- doesn't he know I'm not in the mood for this kind of disaster this morning?


Note to Ryker: Don't you know that Momma's not in the mood for it either? But you are so incredibly adorable when you're mad.

Daily Dose of Science- Chaotic Momentum Post September 12, 2010

The rain and gloom of doom will not let up.

I’m going to borrow an over used phrase of Payton’s and tell you that, “I hate.”

Let it be known that when you tell a toddler that they shouldn’t say something? They will gibber gabber the living hell out of it. “I hate this, Momma. I hate. I hate. I hate. I hate.”

But seriously? I hate the darkness and the past few months have consisted of far too many storm clouds for my liking. Our schedule has been kicked up a notch with all of our fall classes beginning, but I’m still struggling to fill up the rest of the days when it’s just too crappy to go outside.

And I know. We could put on rain boots and embrace the outdoors, but I am SO not that kind of girl. My children will be deprived, but they will be warm.

Warm and bored. Despite the insane amount of toys I’ve obsessively accumulated, we’re running out of things to do. An adult can only play princesses for so many hours without throwing themselves out a window aiming their internal organs at the jagged fence posts that could conveniently slam through one side of their body and exit out the other.

I am certain that this would be considerably less painful than participating in more pretend princess play, but it would probably still hurt just a smidge. So, alternatively, I grab my Busybook for Toddlers.

I need a book to outline imaginative play for me, because I just really can’t match the imagination of a three year old. Rob can, mostly because really, he’s just a ginormous child himself sometimes. I often watch him in awe, wondering how he manages to come up with such genius ideas that engage our little monkeys for hours. My brain just doesn’t work that way, I wish it did, but in lack of creativity, I have my resources.

The suggestion that I chose for today was to make ice using different colors of food coloring, for your children to play with in the bath. Easy, right?

You should know better than to agree with me when I frame a question like this. It’s SO simple, it just fails to mention a few cautionary tidbits. Like the fact that food coloring? Just a fancy way to describe a stong mother fucker of a dye (that just so happens to be edible).

The creation of the ice goes well. No issues. And once frozen, I empty the tray into two plastic bowls- blue for Ryker and red for Payton. I’m all scientific and educational in my plans to experiment mixing the colors in the bath water to make purple.

The only issue is that my carefully devised plan executes too quickly. Somehow, I managed to get the dye all over the tray, and when emptying it, I’m equally as successful at getting the dye all over my hands. The results of our project are demonstrated pretty effectively and we haven’t even begun our experiment.

I always did hate science class. I hate. I hate. I hate.

There’s more to the story here though, because the best part? Before getting a chance to wash up, I heroically run to Abner’s rescue as he’s being mauled by the Ryker man. I save him by pulling him out from under my son and scooping him up to the safety of my arms. And my hands. My colored hands.

The dye? Does not wash out. I’ve scrubbed the top ten layers of skin off of my hands and I still look like, well, I look like I was in the middle of a bad science experiement. And Abner? He just looks like he has an awfully tacky mother with awfully bad judgement to match.

But the whole bath tub party experience? Went over smashingly.

Red and blue make purple.

Death by Water Gun- Chaotic Momentum Post August 31, 2010

In case there’s anyone who isn’t aware, it’s August.

But last night? The temperture dropped below freezing. Seriously people.

When I woke up this morning, at five am THANK YOU RYKER, there was a thin layer of frost covering the grass. Which meant that I wasn’t exactly packing up our beach gear to head out to the lake. This is entirely disappointing.

We haven’t had nearly enough beach days and I was so pumped to show off my post child bikini body. Search for the sarcasm there people, but in all honesty, I really do feel ripped off when it comes to days in the sun. As our notorious Alberta winter quickly approaches, I feel that we haven’t had nearly enough warm days to make up for all of the nastiness to come.

Stupid global warming.

Looking out my front window, I can see the first pieces of yellow leaves starting to fall from the trees. And across the street, what’s that? There is a man walking to get his mail in a PARKA and beside him, three little kids in their bathing suits chasing each other with water guns. Not a scene you see everyday. Kids? They’re fucking brave when it comes to having a good time.

The You Can Die From A Water Gun Story, as told by Auntie Sandra (the names in this story have been replaced to save two teenage boys some serious embarrassment)

When Willy and Dick were little boys, there was nothing that they loved more in the world than to strip down to their nothings and play outside. Especially at Grandma and Grampa’s house, where they’d have their pool, huge buckets of water and two Super Soakers to race around with.

If you’ve ever played with a Super Soaker, you’d know the pump ones can be difficult to fill up. And once they’re full? They are heavy as hell.

This is where the buckets come in. The boys could put the ends of their guns in the bucket and pump away until their water containers were full again.

It. Was. Awesome.

Except for the one time where Willy almost died.

Grandma and Grandpa were watching their grandsons’ cute little bums racing around the yard pummeling each other with streams of water. They would then escape to their separate corners of the yard to reload.

But Willy didn’t do so well on the follow through. He put his gun in the bucket, and as he pulled the handle of the pump up for the fill, he slammed his penis in between the pump handle and gun handle. He did this with all of the strength a little boy has.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The kill-me-now-if-I’m-not-already-dead-excruciating-pain!

I am probably not giving the description of his injury justice to the severity he felt, as I do not have a penis. I obviously cannot accurately relate- which I am thankful for. But from everything I’ve been told in the past? I’m assuming that this would hurt like a son of a bitch.

And if this wasn’t bad enough for the little guy?

From the shock of the sudden explosion of excruciation, he dropped his gun. His gun which was filled with water and weighed more than he did. His gun that was locking his penis in between the two handles like a torturous vice.

With this move, his eyeballs nearly shot out of his head. Not knowing what to do, but aware that he needed help, he ran. Dragging the Super Soaker behind him, in between his legs, by his penis.

“GRANDMA! GRABDPA! HELP! I AM DYING!”

No shit.

They rescue him and apparently the damage does not look to be too severe or permanent. And yes, I know, it most definitely felt otherwise.

They were sitting seriously on the back deck with Super Soakers strewn carelessly to the ground when Auntie Sandra walked into the back yard.

Most likely discussing the possibility of future complications.

Auntie Sandra is unaware of the circumstances, smiles at the boys, and asks, “Who’s in for a water fight?”

Willy looks up at his aunt with the widest of eyes, and says, “Auntie Sandra, NO! You. Can. Die.”

Drowning in Wisdom- Chaotic Momentum Post August 28, 2010

Our washing machine is constantly chug-chug-chugging. The laundry around here never ends, between Ryker dumping fruit shakes on himself and Jewels shedding on every blanket that she can snuggle into, my life consists of load after load of filth.

Payton loves to help me with this, which is quite adorable, but takes twice the time. She oh-so-carefully takes the cap off of the detergent, pours the detergent to the max line and puts the cap back on. Should you attempt to pour the fabric softener in simultaneously, she will surely collapse into a ball of anger and disappointment.

“I do, Momma. I do.”

Sigh.

In the liquid measure of life, the levels of my patience have been quickly decreasing, moving in a fast, downward spiral, past the max line and settling in well beneath the min line. The liquids down there are much more concentrated in degrees of frustration and annoyance. In a vain attempt to increase my quantity of patience, I tried to dilute the mixture a bit using all of the water we’ve saved since switching to a high efficiency front loader. I was all, “SUCCESS!”- hands in the air, head thrown back, excited when I saw the levels spilling over the top line. Unfortunately, all of that water quickly evaporated, leaving reserves of intolerance swishing around in the shallow pool below. And the residue left behind? Smells like ass.

This is totally irrelevant to Payton. She continues along her challenging path of development and chooses to argue with me at every point along the way.

Sometimes, I’ve just had enough.

Like with her refusal to apologize? That drives me completely insane.

“Payton, please tell Nana that you’re sorry for throwing her things.”

“No.”

“When you throw Nana’s things, that makes her sad and we tell her that we’re sorry to try and make her feel happy again.”

“Nana no sad.”

“She is, please tell her that you’re sorry.”

“Sorry, Momma.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me, please tell Nana that you’re sorry.”

“Sorry, GA-GA!”

“Her name is not Ga-Ga, it’s Nana. Please tell Nana you’re sorry.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

The patience I need for this girl…

Driving home last night, she was in a mood that was all kinds of cute and Ryker was laughing along with us throughout the drive. So awesome when that happens.

He would point up to the sky, “Eh?”

“That’s the moon, Ryker.”

He would respond in a fit of giggles. Pointing up to the sky, he would repeat, “Eh?”

“MOON, Ry.”

More giggles.

Payton is laughing along and she looks up to the moon in contemplation. I know this, because my rear view mirror? Aimed right on the kids. I don’t care what’s behind me if my children are whacking each other with books and throwing their snacks. I am a super easy target to tail, should you ever be interested in following me back and forth to Grammie’s house.

Payton points to the moon as well. It’s a full moon. “Moon has EYES, Momma.”

“It kind of looks like the moon has eyes, yes? It just looks this way though, it doesn’t really.”

“YES IT DO! YES IT DO!”

Short pause.

“Moon has happy mouth, Momma.”

“I know, the moon kind of looks like it’s smiling too, but it only LOOKS like that, it doesn’t really have a mouth.”

“YES IT DO! YES IT DO! MOON SEE ME!”

“Payton, you have been arguing with me all day. Can you please just listen and believe me? The moon just looks like it has a face, but it really doesn’t. It can’t see you, I promise.”

“YESSSSS ITTTTTTTT DOOOOOOOOO!”

Sigh.

I give up. I totally just have to sometimes.

And today, when watching The Bear In The Big Blue House, Luna the Moon comes on to talk to Bear. Luna, with her watching eyes and happy smile.

“SEE, Momma. Moon has EYES. Moon has MOUTH. MOMMA…” Payton shakes her head in disappointment that I did not agree with and learn from her vast amount of knowledge. Life would be so much easier if I did.

My patience level may have fell below the min line, but Payton’s level of wisdom? SO pouring over the max. It’s like a flood really, that I am currently drowning in.

Someone toss me a life boat, please!

Note to Mommy- Chaotic Momentum Detour Post September 9, 2010

Note to Mommy:

THIS is how you take care of a baby. You're there when he needs you to love him or nurture him. You hold him and snuggle him close so that he knows how much you care.

You DO NOT leave him hyperventilating in distress at the YMCA child care while you and your daughter go to a yoga class.

Just saying.

Sadistic Torture- Chaotic Momentum Post July 29, 2010

Sometimes I just can't do it all. Those people who tell you that when you grow up, you can be whatever you want to be? They lie. Because I'm grown up, I want to be a competant mother, and tonight, I'm failing miserably.

To give myself a little credit, the stars have aligned this evening to work against me and rip a hole in my sanity. It seemed like our day was going okay, we had finished dinner and were playing in the backyard to burn off some steam before bed. Payton's learned how to blow her own bubbles, and Ryker was running through the stream of water from the hose as I watered the garden. The kids were happy. Life was good.

Within seconds, the sun that we had been enjoying vanishes and the sky becomes dark and filled with ominous looking storm clouds. This isn't a strange metaphor to describe a change for the worse as far as our evening goes, but it might as well have been. Seriously, I felt like Dorothy and was waiting for the wicked witch to ride by on her bike through the darkness, cackling in amusement at my life.

Payton thinks that the sudden darkness and intense wind is amazing, and she excitedly helps me put away our outside toys, ordering Ryker around, "Hurry Ry, clean, clean, storm Ry. Hurry!"

Ryker's not listening though, he's doing his own thing over where I was planting shrubs against our fence yesterday. I'm thinking he's playing with the soil I had filled the edges with, which is fine, because we're on our way inside for baths. I go to scoop him up, and it's not soil. Oh no. It's poop. Dog shit.

We race inside, with him protesting and Payton trying to SAVE everything she can carry. I'm trying to steer her in the direction of the door while pinning Ryker's hands down away from his face, that's already covered in shit. It's just beginning to pour as we make it inside. I would never believe, until I had children, that a 25 foot walk could take 10 minutes.

The sky is seriously dark, and our house? Pitch black.

Payton goes to turn on the lights, and the power's out. "Lights broke Momma, Daddy fix. They broke Momma. No light, dark Momma. Where Daddy go? Daddy fix?"

My poor, sweet little girl is wanting an explanation, but Ryker is THRASHING to get out of my arms, and SCREAMING hysterically. I just want to wash his hands and face with soap. And bleach. And then some hand sanitizer. But, I leave it at the soap in an attempt to avoid giving my son serious chemical burns.

Tonight of all nights, I really, really wanted to bath him. And scrub him raw with his Buzz Lightyear loofah, that apparently is now Payton's since we just saw Toy Story 3. She's generously donated her Ariel puff to him instead. But instead of filling the bath, I'm racing around looking for flashlights with Ryker, who's terrified of thunder, on my hip. I'm lighting candles, but as fast as they are lit, Payton is promptly grabbing a chair from somewhere to blow them out. Serious child endangerment and fire hazard. And if a fire is started? My cordless phone won't work because of the power shortage, so there will be no 911 rescue for us. We're on our own. In a dark, bathless island covered in shit, with one overly excited toddler and one that's scared stiff.

Speaking of shit, someone pooped. It's Ryker. I carefully take the kids upstairs into the blackness, and continue lighting candles as Ryker sits on the floor screaming up at me in desperation to be held. It's times like these where I wish I was an octopus, because I need at least eight arms just to manage. Diaper changes by candlelight- this is what romance novels are made of.

Getting the kids calmed down and into bed takes over two hours, and this is with no bath, no chores completed, and no end to the nightmare in sight.

And here I am now. Sitting in my living room, writing my heart out and reliving the pain of this evening, because I'm into sadistic torture like that. I'm ignoring all of the tasks that I have to have done for tomorrow, because as fate would have it, the power just went back on. Just in time for me to feel compelled to finish everything instead of sneaking off to sleep early. As I said, the stars have aligned against me.

I might need glasses, but I could have sworn that the woman who just rode her bike past our house had a green face and Toto peaking out from under a blanket in her basket.

Runaway Brain- Chaotic Momentum Post August 10, 2010

August 10, 2010

I refuse to answer the door if I'm not expecting anyone.

I do this for three reasons really;

1. I absolutely believe that whoever is there is not worth my time. How arrogant of me, I know, but how necessary is a census?

2. Typically, I'm half naked when home alone. Chasing after two hyperactive kids works up a sweat!

3. I have watched too many episodes of Criminal Minds, Law and Order and CSI. These television dramas have accurately proven that if you open your door to someone you do not know, you're likely to be killed, or worse. I'm sure I could have learned the same lesson from watching the news, which would be a little more beneficial to my intelligence- but the news and I? We're not friends. Not since Rob's left for his tour of Afghanistan anyway... I like to focus my evening dose of violence on the fictional horrors occurring within this continent, NOT the middle east.

So, our door? It stays locked.

And if you're the person on the other side, ringing our doorbell incessantly? This is what you can expect:

DING DONG!

WOOF WOOF WOOF! ARF ARF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!

MOMMA! SOME BUDDY AT DA DOOR! COME, COME! MOMMA!

Shhhh! Honey, it's okay. We're not expecting anyone.

DING DONG! DING DONG!

WOOF WOOF WOOF! ARF ARF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!

At this point in time, you might be able to see the image of my eyeball checking you out through a peep hole.

MOMMA! I SEE TOO!

Shhhh Payton.

At this point in time, you might be able to see Payton's eyeball.

I no know dis buddy Momma.

I know honey, let's go back to the to the table and color.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

WOOF WOOF WOOF! ARF ARF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!

And now, I'm thinking that you are missing your brain. Are you here to ask us if we have seen it? Did it run off in this direction? Squeeze it's way under the door?

You can hear us. We know you can hear us. You know that we know that you can hear us. And yet we're not answering. Why do you suppose that knocking would produce a different result than the ringing? Are you thinking that our doorbell perhaps doesn't work, which is why we didn't answer? Because we couldn't hear you and are unaware that you're there?

Fair enough. I kind of thought that listening to our conversation while checking you out through our peeper cleared that one up, but I have been wrong about many things before.

Shhhh Momma. Some buddy out dere. Let's hide.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. READY OR NOT, HERE I COME!

Typically, this is when our unwanted guest gets frustrated, lets out an exaggerated sigh and walks away shaking their head as though we've thoroughly disappointed their opinion of humanity. Do they NOT watch any television? Do they NOT know the horrible things that could happen should we open that door?

Let me be clear, people.

If you're looking for a boost, I don't know where our cables are. Need a specific tool? I have no idea where to start with that. Money? We don't have any. Wanting to use our phone? Well, I do have that, but YOU CAN'T USE IT.

Because this? Is our safe house. And we're going to keep it that way, even if it means being impolite.

Oh. The. Drama. - Chaotic Momentum Post August 26, 2010

We had a busy day today, which means much drama for the Momma in the later hours.

My children are lovely, lovely children. But they are strong willed, hot tempered, little buggers at times.  During these times? NOTHING makes them happy.

Case and point:

We've just finished our afternoon snack and we're playing in the living room, taking a little break from today's hot sun. Ryker is quietly doing a puzzle and Payton is sitting in the middle of the room with a pillow over her feet scowling at me.

"Is something wrong, Payton?"

"NO!"

"It seems like something's wrong, you look upset. Can I do anything for you?"

"NO! You no look at me!"

"That's just fine honey, I will do a puzzle with Ryker then."

"No, Momma! Come see me's toe!"

She extends her leg towards me and I move in to look at what she's drawing my attention to. "GO, Momma! You no see me's toe."

It's one of THOSE days, but now I'm thinking that there's something WRONG with the toe and the responsible parental thing to do would be LOOK at it. As much as that horrifies my daughter. I take another step towards her, "GOOOOOOOOO!"

"Payton, see Mommy's hands? They're up here. I will not touch your toe. I would only like to look at it."

Payton takes the pillow and repositions it more tightly on top of her foot, pulling it closer. She looks up at me indignantly and pulls her foot and pillow in another inch.

"Payton, can you please show Mommy your toe? It will be such a big surprise for Mommy to see it. I promise I will be so excited!"

She quietly contemplates this offer, as surprises are her most favoritest of things lately. Cautiously, the pillow is lifted, revealing a slight tear in her nail.

"Oh, honey, I AM SOOOO SURPRISED! What a GORGEOUS toe you have! WOW! It's AMAZING! I know it looks a little bit like a boo boo, but Mommy can cut your nail and it will be all better."

"You no cut me's nail!"

"But honey, if I don't cut it off, it might get stuck on something, which really WOULD hurt," I responded as I stood up to get the clippers.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"It's okay sweetie. Mommy promises it won't hurt. I promise."

"YOU. NO. CUT. MEEEEEEEEEEE!"

I wrangle her into my lap and quickly snip her tiny nail. It was the very tip that had torn, which is a clip that I am completely qualified to handle.

"See? Your boo boo's all gone! Isn't that better?"

Payton sniffles and says in her saddest of sad voice, "No Momma. It hurts me."

I pull her closer into my lap, "Can I kiss it better?"

"No. YOU make it hurt. You cut me's toe off, MOMMA." She says this last part with a tone of disgust that I'm far too familiar with.

"I didn't cut your TOE off, I just cut the end of your nail. Do you need another hug."

"I no need you's hug. You HURTS me. I HURTS! I so sad Momma..." She pulls her pillow back over top of her toe and buried her face in her knees.

"Can I do anything to make you feel better?"

"No, it's all gone. You cut me's toe off and it's all gone and it hurts," she snivels.

"Okay honey, but if you think of something that may help, you just let Mommy know, okay?"

"Okay," she responds, in a small, yet very dramatic voice.

She stands up (I KNOW- it's amazing that she can walk after such an intensive surgical procedure) and takes her pillow across the room to where Ryker is sitting. Carefully, she places the pillow on top of Ry's feet. He's in the middle of some serious puzzle business and pushes the pillow off.

Payton, with a grave look on her face, pointedly puts it back on his feet and looks up at him, "Keep toes safe Ry. Mommy cut them off. Here. Keep toes safe."

Dear God, please help me get through this night!

Sleep Recession- Chaotic Momentum Post September 10, 2010

I am exhausted.

I need sleep people. Quality sleep. The sleep expert, from the late night advertisement for Obus Forme mattresses, agrees. He says that I should be getting eight to ten hours of quality sleep a night.

I think I just choked on something that was intended to be a guffaw, but was poorly executed due to sleep deprevation.

According to Mr. Sleep Expert himself, if you aren't getting the hours of sleep your body requires, then you slowly accumulate a sleep debt.

Pffft.

Stick him in these extreme anti-sleep conditions and see how he fares. I'm sure that he would be a hell of a lot less concerned about debt and would be choosing more appropriate words like drastic-recession-causing-severe-irreversable-trauma-likely-to-cause-death.

Just saying.

Mr. Sleep Expert has never had kids, guaranteed. Or, he's like Rob, and is able to sleep through a tsunami as it violently washes him out to sea. Either way, he has no idea what a night with children is really like.

My eight to ten hours? They look a little more like this:

10:00- Bedtime for moi.

10:30- I finally fall asleep.

12:00- There is crying. I am all disoriented from the deep sleep my body is trying to relax me into and fumble with my duvet. Desperate to rescue my distraught child before he/she wakes up the other sleeping child, I catapult myself from the end of my bed across the hall, making it into Payton's room in record time. Payton looks up sleepily, wondering what I'm doing. Ryker is now sobbing.

12:02- I leave Payton's room to get Ryker tylenol for his teeth. She is immediately hysterical, as it's conveniently come to her attention that I am not, in fact, lying right beside her.

12:06- I get Ryker settled in and join my daughter, smashed up against her wall as she lazily stretches her body in ways I don't believe I was ever able to contort. I am told that if I leave? She will cry, cry, cry.

1:00- I slowly get up from my crunched position, as my entire body is now in agony from the awkwardness. I quietly make my way to the door, and Payton sits up, wide awake. I am instructed to "No leave me."

1:15- Bravely, I attempt again. Success. I crawl into bed.

1:20- Abner has been startled awake by my presence and needs to relieve his bladder. He stands up, shakes and trots downstairs to pee. I am to follow, or clean up a mess in the morning. I'm not going to lie, sometimes I opt for the latter.

1:50- I have just fallen asleep and am woken to a tiny tongue licking my face. I had forgotten to snuggle Abner under the covers and he cannot seem to move the sheets high enough so that he can forge his way underneath. And he likes to be spooned. I should know this.

3:00- There is crying. I move to jump out of bed, but I am trapped. There is some kind of professional restraint in place to limit my mobility. Have I finally been admitted into a psych ward and fitted into a straight jacket? No. My struggles have induced a groan of disatisfaction that I recognize as Jewels, our pit bull. She is sprawled on top of me. I get up to go to Payton's room, who asks me, "Where Woody and Jesse go?" All kinds of important issues to deal with at this time of night, I tell you.

3:45- Again- I attempt to remove myself from my daughter's grasp. SUCCESS! Back to my room.

4:00- Abner needs to pee. Again.

6:15- A glorious two hours and fifteen minutes of straight sleep and Ryker has turned his music on in his crib and is jumping to the rythm of the song. He is awake and ready to party it up with his blankie, but wants Mommy to join him. Note: Mommy is not interested.

Add them up people, because if this whole sleep debt thing is accurate? It's a damn good thing that Rob gets a few weeks off when he finally returns. This will conveniently provide child care to coincide with my hibernation.

Speaking of which, that is SUCH a good excuse to eat the blueberry custard sealed away in the kitchen. You need to store calories for such a long endeavor, am I right?

I so am.