The Sassy Uterus

I know you *want* to be me, but...

I just had my identity stolen.  I received an email from a company I knew nothing about.  It was a receipt for what I think is a computer game that I did not purchase.  Immediately calling the bank I get told I have to wait until the items “post” before we could file a claim against them. But then I realize which card it was on so I call back again.  This time I get a young man who must have been in his first week of training as he suggested that we just block the company that the charge was for.  What part of, “I didn’t order this. I don’t even know this company or what this product is,” does he not understand.  I demanded to have my card blocked and be issued a new one.

Since that time, I have found that the criminal got one more charge through and tried a couple more times after that but was unsuccessful due to my blocked card. 

Other than treating himself to a computer game, he attempted to open an iTunes account and then various other online purchases along the same lines that were blocked.  I don’t even own an iPod, but apparently my criminal does.  That’s right, he’s my criminal now.  I own his ass now.  Hey, I bought him for $49.99 right?  I mean he was basically trying to take food out of my kids’ mouths.  I think he should at least have to come clean the kitchen floors and take care of the bed-wetted linens that my children toss at the washer each a.m. (hopefully).

I have this weird way of dealing with stress.   At the beginning I freak out like everyone else does, but soon after the preliminary rush of adrenalin I start to find the humor in the situation.  I think it is a life saving measure, or at least a sanity saving measure.  Kurt Vonnegut said, “Humor is a way of holding off how awful life can be, to protect yourself.”  Well, I definitely felt in need of protection. 

I realized the craziness of the situation while I was on the phone with the bank and trying to field whiny, crying children that were buzzing about me at the same time.  I thought, “You really want me identity Mr. Criminal?  Okay, you watch these five kids for one day and you tell me if you still want it.”  Besides, I have poor credit?  If you are going to steal someone’s identity isn’t it supposed to be someone whose identity is worth stealing?!

When it comes to material items, he obviously has a better life than me.  Why he’d want my identity is beyond me.  Of course, it was probably by stealing others’ money that he has these nice things.  (By the way, I don’t know why I am sure it is a dude….other than the game her purchased seemed like a dude game).  I mean, you would think that crime would be on the rise in this economy due to job layoffs and such.  But then you would expect that the purchases would be of a more realistic, “need based” nature.  Like ordering diapers and cloths from Wal-Mart.  That kind of stuff.  But this dude is obviously not hurting.  I guess there is always job security in crime.

Now I am off to find safe ways to do business online and in person. By the by, my bank kicks ass and the whole thing is now being handled by their fraud department. 

Your Baby Can Read...Maybe

Every time I hear the commercial for “Your Baby Can Read” I get somewhat upset. My two-year-old, as of today says, maybe, ten words.  I know you aren’t supposed to compare children and my five have taught me just how different each child can be even within the same family, but I can’t help but think that my toddler is messing with us. You probably thought I was going to worry about him being behind, huh?

On the commercials they show babies reading their little hearts out and my toddler is grunting and giggling at them like he is a cave baby (afterall, he is the same baby that likes to do caveman-esque activities like pitching rocks at neighbors).  There is a part in the commercial that shows a parent holding a flashcard that reads, “bellybutton” to his infant daughter and she lifts her shirt just a bit and points to her bellybutton.  Isaac has now grown fond of doing the exact same thing during the commercial when the baby does it. Which means, hey, maybe my baby can read. 

And when he gets pissed off enough or frustrated because we aren’t paying attention to him, he seems to know just how to get our attention with a wailing, “MaaaawwwwMaaa,” or “Daaaadeeee!” He has been known to even call his sister, “Sissy,” which is our nickname for her from him.  He can do it.  He just doesn’t want to.  It is like a perpetual game of toddler charades with the boy and I’ve never really excelled at that game.

Simply put I can not understand why the child won’t say more than 10 words. His pediatrician tells me it is fine and that by 27-months-old all the children, both the early and the late talkers, end up at the same place developmentally. I’m glad he’s confident as I’m pretty sure that he’ll know the amount of words he’s supposed to, he just won’t be saying them then either.   

Apparently, according to a pediatrician he saw, the more children you have the slower the younger ones are to learn how to talk.  This is interesting news to me as I would have thought that with as many examples as the child has, he/she would end up talking even sooner.  But the reverse is true because instead the child ends up having more people speaking for him/her.  The doctor advised that I tell my children to let Isaac have a turn telling me what he wants.  I gave this a try and it works, somewhat. 

The more I think about, I should be happy he isn’t adding to the noise volume in this house by adding another chattering child voice.  It is a nice rest for my ears when it is just me and him at home. Yes, I should just chill out and enjoy him using alternate means of communicating than talking….I still wish I hadn’t taught the others how to talk now that they won’t shut up.

Beware of the Sofas

It never ceases to amaze me how much a child can rampage through a room and leave it in instant ruins. My toddler (almost 2-years-old) loves to throw stuff.  In fact, at 18-months-old we had our next-door neighbors at our front door because our little son, a baby still really, was pitching rocks so well that they were going over the 6 foot fence, into their backyard and hitting their guests.  Guess they were having a party.  He was just adding his own decorations.

This toddler doesn’t reserve his throwing skills for the outdoors.  He loves to wreak as much havoc, if not more (the outdoors do tend to calm him) on the inside, particularly the living room.  Recently he chose crayons as his missiles and I am still finding them in odd places such as the top of the carpeted cat tower and into the far corners of each room, already covered in dust from having brawled with dust bunnies upon landing.

Today it was markers.  This was his double-threat because not only was he throwing them, he was uncapping them first.  Brutal. One in particular, an orange one, landed on my computer chair and I didn’t figure this out until after I had sat on it for about 15 minutes.

Tonight I had to look for a piece of paper.  An important piece really since it listed the next doctor appointment for one of my children and without it I had no clue when it was scheduled.  I knew that the last time I had seen it was when I was on the couch.  Oh boy.

The innards and undersides of the couches are areas I try to avoid as much as possible.  They are scary places.  Anything can lurk.  Mostly though, the inhabitants of Scary Couchland are usually dirty socks, a multitude of crumbs, and some candy wrappers and maybe a couple of pencils or pens.

Well, tonight I was in for a treat. Isaac, that little impish toddler of mine had spilled soda on one of the cushions yesterday.  I thought I had soaked it all up but apparently the spill had traveled.  See, this is why I buy furniture second-hand.  I love fine things but I hate to see fine things, especially those that I have paid for, be ravaged.  Therefore we are second-hand chic around here. Well, not so much chic anymore.

So tonight as I searched under the couches (ewwwww….) and under the cushions, I came across a mush of graham cracker crumbs mixed with soda.  Really gross.  I feel badly that my guests have to sit on these cushions (you, however, have been warned). 

I did find that piece of paper on the very last cushion I had left to look under.  Oh how I wish it had been the first one I had tried.  This will learn me. 

I am now exhausted and ready for a nice hot shower to rinse the icky-ness from myself. One thing is for sure, when it comes to inheritances, the toddler gets the couches. 

Mommy Manifesto: I don't actually know what I'm doing...

Wow, so I'm pretty sure you are not supposed to admit that.  But it's true.  It is scary that despite the child-rearing books I've read, doctors that I consulted, and various mommy classes I've taken I still feel as unprepared as I did the first time a newborn was placed in my arms.

The good news is that I'm fairly confident that I can at least wing it better now.  I know basic human requirements and I know why I make sure that they get them (well, other than the fact that it is illegal to deprive them of these needs), I do it because they deserve that and much more.  All children do. Besides  when they are acting like normal humans they are fantastic people to be around. I want them to feel loved, cherished and their talents nurtured. I wouldn't want to be treated any less.

As I've noted people always ask, upon hearing that I have five children, "How do you do it?" I don't know how. I was raised as the youngest daughter of three girls.  I was also fairly seperated in age from my sisters and didn't really have built-in family playmates. Add that to the fact that my parents weren't the social type and it's amazing I did come out as sociable and outgoing as I am.  I was pretty damn close to being a hermit(ette) had I not rebeled, which, ironically enough is what got me my first son. Sort of.

I'd love to be in a place where I could write the child-rearing book but five different humans let me know on a fairly humbling basis that each person is different and a one-size-fits-all fit is not okay when it comes to raising little people.  Each one is different. I try to make sure everyone's need for attention is met, but sometimes that requires enlisting grandparents to give one of the children the one-on-one time they deserve. Yes, Hillary, it does take a village.

But let's be clear: I don't know what each door holds in store. I know how each child generally reacts to different things and I know which ones get along with each other the best. I know their individual preferences...unless they changed them overnight (does happen). That's it.  With that fair amount of knowledge we face each day, Phil and I guiding them away from juvenile crime and them acting ungrateful about it. But that's our job.

Really that's parenthood folks: You can't always control or plan, the 'lil cutie will humble you on a weekly basis at least and you will feel like it is unending servitude at one point or another. I have months of feeling like a servant, that's when Bitchy Mommy visits.

If all I get done in a day is making sure they have one more healthy, happy day under them, I feel as if I accomplished my mommy to-do list.

And frankly, if doing this means that I don't have time for the dishes, well, oh well...I'll just make one of them. 

Morning Motherhood

I awoke a bit earlier than usual today and since Isaac was W-I-D-E awake I decided, what the hell, I'll get up too.  Waahh....that is the last thought I had before chaos kicked in.

Soon Cassidy was up and I was rethinking letting Phil sleep in (read: I'm a good wife.  A very good wife.  Maybe that's why he's considering letting me have a piece of his garage).

Once I had Isaac and Cassidy squared away with Froot Loops I figured it was safe to maybe crawl back into bed and read a bit.  Being the responsible mommy that I am, I let them know where they could find me should an emergency breakout. Rookie mistake, I should know better.

So like the sitting duck that I am, I tried to crawl back into bed except that Phil decided that today on Sesame Street he was going to be the letter, " /" in bed.  Or maybe that's the character, " / " in bed.  And he wasn't sharing.  I think that once he got a hold of most of the bed and blankies, he staked his claim and wasn't going to budge for anything. Or anyone.  To his credit, when I asked him to share some blankies he did give me the edge of the blankie and mumbled, "Heerrreee."  He's back to snoring as we speak.

Isaac came in the room before I had a chance to open my book. Then he wanted up and so I figured he might be tired still as well (naive!!! You know, it's almost like I've learned nothing in the last 14 years of parenting). No...he wasn't Sleepy but he was another dwarf--the one that they hide away  because he stinks so bad, he was Poopy!  Freakin' lovely.

So suffice it to say, I'm awake, Phil is still asleep.  I've been up for a couple hours and my back already hurts!  Awww the joys of morning motherhood.  Meh.

A Comfy Paradox

Now that my focus is on staying home and healing, I do have more time to think. Which is both a blessing and a curse. Anyway, today I realized an interesting paradox.  I was going through the Target ad and everything that appealed to me (clothing-wise) I would point out to Phil and say, "Ohhh, I like this.  Look how cozy it is," or "Wow, I totally want this, it looks completely comfy."  And he'd say, "Hmm," which means, I am listening to you but not really internalizing what you are saying. That's okay, that's the language of married people sometimes and it would probably freak me out if he suddenly had an interest for fashion...I mean, I like my roughneck hubby just the straight way he is.

Alright, for those who have fogotten (and I wouldn't blame you if you had) I have been on disability since 11/1/2009.  And I have been dressing "cozy" and "comfy-ish" ever since.  No uncomfortable slacks or blouses for me.  No shoes that pinch or make my foot contort into unnatural positions--unless it is those hot black boots I have.  Those are the exception. 

Anyway, the focus has been on comfort but there's a thin line between cozy and slobby.  Like, I really think I might have shifted into the more slobby, tired mom who barely can run a brush through her hair and pull on a pair of sweats. As a sidenote, despite the impression I just made with that last sentence, those moms deserve our respect.  It isn't easy being Mommy and the only thing that might be nice to that mommy all day is a nice pair of tennis shoes.  So you really can't judge.  Unless you're judging yourself....then you can have at it.

And that's who this is about (naturally), me.  So what am I going to do? I've made a more concentrated effort to invite make-up back into my life and that has been a self-esteem booster.  I did compromise out of the sweatpants and into yoga pants which are far cuter and I would think more stylish as well.  And jeans are okay, I mean I'm really not doing anything other than resting and doing light housework. But I feel like I might be in need of a Mommy Makeover. 

But I don't want to appear on TV to do it.  No thanks, I don't need the whole world to see the "before" picture that is my present reality. 

Now excuse me, I need to find my favorite blanket and curl up on the well-worn identation on the couch that is mine.  I promise to contemplate my new me as I take a nap.

Fuzzy little terrors

Pets-Those that calm and those that scare

My third son’s birthday (Lucas) has come and passed and he wanted a guinea pig for his birthday.  Since we gave the second son, Dylan, a laptop and the oldest son, Skyler,  a puppy and a trip to indoor skydiving, I figured it was in keeping with our, “Are you freakin’ crazy?!” theme to let the little lad have his beloved guinea pig. 

Interestingly enough though, in the land of plenty, guinea pigs are scarce.  One thing I’ve always loved about where I live in the San Francisco Bay Area is that we have almost everything as far as stores and merchandise go and I rarely have to order something online.  Having lived in more out of the way, rural areas, I can fully appreciate this novelty. 

However, we must have come at the tail-end (I hate puns, so none intended) of guinea pig season or whatever because out of three huge pet shops within a 20 mile radius, only one had a guinea pig.  One lone guinea pig.  So Lucas didn’t really get to choose.  Their meeting was more like meeting your assigned dorm mate at college.  You need a guinea pig, this guinea pig needs a home, say hello to your new pet.

But Lucas, being the little love that he is, took to “Chi Chi” right away.  He immediately wanted to hold her and comfort her, telling her everything was alright (snort—she’ll figure out the real deal once she’s lived with us for awhile, haha). 

I was touched by his instant love and compassion and the way he instinctively nurtured her. And then I turned around and saw two hamsters and insanity took over. 

Both hamsters, females, are the teddy bear variety or breed or whatever.  They are tan and they are cute.  One is chubby and we call her Fluffy after Gabriel Iglesias’s term for fat. The other, more feisty one is named Moxie. 

The first few days I sat in front of their cage watching them run around and do hamster things.  It was actually a bit peaceful.  They fought sometimes and ran around like maniacs.  It seemed like the hamsters were micmicking our household! Moxie turned out to be the submissive one while Fluffy turned out to be a bossy bitch (after her owner’s own heart).

But then their cage started to stink and I had to harangue the oldest to help me clean the cage.  It was then that I realized, um, I’m scared of rodents.  It’s all fun and games when they’re behind plexiglass but once I have to (gulp) reach in and touch one I freak out a bit. OK, I freak out a lot.

Anything that requires me to reach my sensitive hand (there are like a billion nerve endings in the fingertips, no?) into the cage is too much for me already.  This isn’t good.

Now I am stuck with two hamsters I am scared of while Lucas hugs on his guinea pig and Skyler cuddles with Viva, his chiahuahua, I stare at the hamsters wondering which one will be the one to bite me first.

You know, I actually blame all of this on my daughter.  She’s been wanting one of those Zhu-Zhu  pets for awhile and she doesn’t want quietly.  She finally got one from her grandmother on a recent shopping trip and I have to admit the thing is pretty cute.  And it doesn’t appear to be able to bite.

I wonder if she’ll swap me pets.