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Category Archives: Every Day Scoops

Clue: Don’t play Board games with my husband

Posted on January 4, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

It was close to bed time, when my seven year-old produced the board game Clue with wide eyes and wider expectations. “Can we play?” He asked, his green, green eyes earnestly pleading.

I considered saying no. We were finally back to school, but our routine was still on vacation. We were going to sleep too late, and I was dragging my youngest and my oldest out of bed in the morning. I checked the clock and sighed. It was after 8 pm and teeth still needed to be brushed. Plus, getting them all settled in bed could easily take 45 minutes.

“One game.” I warned. How could I say no to his happy, little face? Especially since, that face was the one that lashed out the most and could be the hardest to reach. I love his happy. His happy is gorgeous.

He and my oldest set the board up and handed out the cards. My husband also decided to play and teamed up with my five year-old, immediately initiating a lot of dramatic high fives as to the ‘awesomeness’ of their ‘team’. It had been a while since I had played a board game with my husband, but it only took the first high five before it all came flooding back. My husband was a competitive ass.

I recalled card games years before which had him casting sneaky, sideway glances at our friends or throwing his winning cards before them with a triumphant and challenging, “Aha!” As a team, I’ll admit to being caught up in his win at all costs attitude. We were unbeatable at Pictionary and Trivia Pursuit. After a bit, the game phase faded with our crew, or more likely, we stopped being invited.

We started playing, asking our questions, searching for clues to uncover the murderer. Me to my oldest, “I think it’s Green, in the living room with a dagger. Can you confirm anything?” As he nods and slides a card my way, my husband’s voice penetrates with loud, boisterous glee. “Ah, I see! Yes!! Now I’ve got it! Hoo Hoo Hoo. I’ve so got this!”

The boys and I roll our eyes and continue, but with each turn, my husband interrupts with hoots and commentary. “Oh, I get it! Do you guys get it! See what I’m doing here?! I can show you how it’s done.” And then there’s the crazy laughter, “HAHAHAHA! I’m going to win!”

His aggressiveness is a little scary, and my youngest decides to switch to my team. We all try to ignore him. It’s his first time playing, after all. He doesn’t even know how to play. When we remind him of a rule, he says things like, “What? That’s ridiculous. I don’t think that’s correct.”

Still we forge onward, getting deeper into the game, crossing more and more would be murderers off our list. Miss Scarlett is no.  Colonel Mustard is a no. My husband’s bragging and obnoxious behavior reaching new heights with every turn, until finally, he screams, “I’ve got it!”

We were all closing in, but I thought I needed another turn or two to be certain. I figured he was taking a risky leap of testosterone faith. “It is Mrs. White, in the garage with the wrench.” He smugly turns over the hidden cards. And, he is…right! Damn it. He is right.

I am so annoyed. I hear his insane, booming voice, “You want to know how I knew? First off, I was so bluffing with the wrench! You got to know how to play if you want to play with the master! Bet you’re sorry you switched teams now, buddy! HAHAHAHA!”

My boys are yelling at him in frustration. “Daddy! You just guessed you didn’t know…”

But he is in his glory, reveling in his win.

As his laughter penetrates my ears, I consider my husband as the next victim of the game. It would be Ice Scream mama, in the kitchen with a spoon. I don’t think he’ll be allowed to play again anytime soon.

Great game!! Play at your own risk.

Playing Clue  just might be dangerous for my husband.

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I wonder if I’m even going to miss the vomit?

Posted on January 2, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

At 2:30am, I opened my eyes with a start. Boy who never sleeps and barely eats, aka my seven year-old, is standing next to my bed. I felt him there, heard his soft breathing. So even though I’m a little unnerved to see him, I’m not surprised.

His soft breathing has a rasp to it. “I don’t feel good.”

My first instinct is annoyance. Stellar parenting, I know, but it’s the middle of the night. I push the thought away. “Oh baby.” I say. His little face looks pained and then it gets that look. You know, the one that makes you immediately look around to see if you’re standing on carpet or near something valuable. I leap from the bed, and practically shove him from my room to the bathroom. We make it just over the threshold before he throws up.

Yes! I’m doing a mental fist pump, ridiculously relieved to have made it at least onto the tiled bathroom, where clean-up is markedly easier. Hmm. Should this not be my first thought? My second is not much better. I’m making a list in my head of the things I won’t be doing since I’ll have him home from school the next day. To redeem myself, I rub his back as he continues puking all over the floor.

I should have seen this coming, in fact, I did.

Earlier that day we were at video game center, or more accurately, the gambling learning center for 5-12 year-old’s. The object of every game is to win tickets. My kids foam at the mouth for tickets. No matter that we spent $30 for four army men, six tootsie rolls, a rubber frog that smells funny and a key chain. At least they’re learning something.

In the middle of the debauchery, my seven year-old son approached. “I want to go home.” He whined.

Uh oh. “Really? Why?”

“I just want to go home.”

I noticed his eyes were a little glassy, but I attributed that to the excitement from all the gambling. Then he sneezed and snot blew out his nose and hung in clean, oblong droplet to his lip.

“Tissue!” I screamed, running for my bag. “Tissue!” My capacity for denial runs deep, people. I saw the truth, but I wasn’t ready to accept it.  I told myself it was just a cold. We headed home, and not because of the stares of horrified gamers, but because we wanted to. So there.

I made breakfast for dinner and the boys had ice cream snowmen cups from Baskin Robbins for dessert. I didn’t take much notice that the boy who never sleeps and barely eats, didn’t eat much. Uh, nothing new there.

I snuggled them all into bed, spending extra time cuddling. I am acutely aware of the passage of time, and allow my sappiness to seep out at night, making me a pawn for their pleas of “Just one more minute!” or “I’m hungry.”

I know that each stage that passes brings me older, more mature children, less needy of their mommy’s attention. Little things change, like, my middle one only asks me to tickle his back for a few moments every few nights, instead of the rigorous tickle back routine I used to affectionately endure. My oldest no longer loves me coming to his sport games. All of a sudden, I make him nervous.

But my baby, my now five year-old baby, is still so full of mommy love that sometimes I’m pushing it away. Uh honey, can we triple hug and kiss again later? Mommy wants to work on an essay. Where is that DS?  I reflect with horror. I am actually taking some baby love for granted, when soon it will (poo poo poo) grow up and leave me cold. No more, I vow. We will hug day and night!

That’s when the vomit hits my foot and startles me back. I want to throw up too, but, instead, I get him some water, strip him down and wash him up. Then, I give him some Tylenol,tuck him back into bed, spending some extra time tickling.

With him settled, I get on my hands and knees and start the fabulously exciting activity of cleaning up. It’s after 3 am, I’ve still got to get all the towels and clothes into the laundry and clean myself up before I get into bed. We’re talking close to 4 am. Is this really something I’m going to miss?

Before I can even get my disgusting bundle down to the laundry, I hear his little voice call to me. “Mama…” I drop the towels and run to his room. Yeah, no question, I am.

(this is a re-enactment photo. no sick child was photographed for the making of this blog)

(This is a re-enactment photo. No sick child was photographed for the making of this blog. He’s good, right?)

 

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My Top 5 New Year’s Resolutions… For Other People

Posted on December 28, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

Since I’m still in the spirit of giving, with just a bit of vent thrown in, I thought I’d do a little public service and offer up my top 5 resolutions that I hope others make for the New Year. You know who you are. Just think about it…

1. Get off the phone in the gym!
Really? Do you think we all care what your plans are for tonight? Or how annoying your husband is? Seriously chick, take that phone and that high pony tail and get off the machine next to mine. I do not want to hear you. Nor do the other people who are giving you polite dirty looks that you choose to ignore. Do you realize you’re speaking in decibels higher than Kathy Lee and Hoda who are plugged directly into my ears?! You’re messing up my hour of me time, and it makes me want to mess you up.

2. Park in one spot!
Oh My God! Really, dude? You’re supposed to park in the lines, not over them! Did you flunk out of nursery school? WTF?! I want to be stereotypical and chastise all the obnoxious Porsche drivers, but honestly it’s not just them. I see you suburban mom, dragging out your kids, looking exhausted and pretending not to notice. I see you Grandma, and think you need your eyes checked. Not only can’t you park, you never seem to see me at the deli counter. You most certainly were not next!

Bad-Parking-2

3. Pull your car over when you run into someone you know in the neighborhood!
It’s really not rocket science. This is a street, not your front lawn. You cannot just stop in the middle and chat. Pull the frig over! Immediately! And no, you can’t just finish up your conversation, unless you’d like me to ram into the back of your car, which you are begging for by the way.

4. Take your doggy bags!
I’m not talking about the poop bags, although that could be number 6, I’m talking about leftover food. I know, I might be special in this regard, since I have been known to take home other people’s leftovers. (I know.. I know… but only people I know. Ya know? ;)) And I will eat leftovers till they’re green. But really people, don’t order what you can’t eat. Or, just take it home. It’s so wasteful. Don’t make me come over there and show you the Save the Children infomercial.

5. Don’t be snotty!

The snotty sleeve slide is never pretty

An actual snot-nosed sleeve slide

As in, here’s a tissue, wipe your kid’s disgusting nose! Huge EW! Do you really not see that green goop hanging there, just waiting for his sleeve  or to drip into his mouth? Ugh, I can’t even look. Tissues. They are your friend. Carry them. Use them. For the good of mankind and preschoolers everywhere, I beg of you!

There’s more, so much more, but I don’t want to piss off everyone. Ah, what the hell, let’s piss-off some of my runner-up offenders… Person at Dunkin Donuts – Don’t close the door on me as I’m walking through. If you’re holding it up to that point, why would you choose to release it right as I get there? And worker at the yogurt store, smile. I get that the general public is annoying or that maybe you haven’t had the best day, but, you’re at work, lady. There is no sneering or eye-rolling. Save that for your break.

Please, people, take these resolutions as your own. I give them with love. I’m just trying to make the world a better place. Okay, just do it. Seriously. Don’t make me use this many exclamation points again!  🙂

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Five New Year’s Resolutions That I Probably Won’t Keep

Posted on December 26, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

It’s almost the new year! Ho Ho Holy crap. Does that mean I’m supposed to reassess and all? Do some reflection and make resolutions? I’m Jewish, I did my reflecting back during Yom Kippur. I don’t want to do it again. Wine, wine! No that isn’t a typo. I’m not bitching, if I’m going to do this, I need some wine.

Okay, now that my cup runneth over, here are 5 things I hope to accomplish in the New Year.

One – Just say no. As in, No kid, get your own milk. No, PTA mom, I will not bake 100 cupcakes and stuff envelopes for you. No, mom, I’m not getting my kid a haircut. No, dad, I don’t feel like picking up the phone. No, children, I’m not making each of you a different dinner. Yes! That felt good. I mean, No! That felt good. Also, as much as it pains me, I must include, No, self, you don’t need that second bowl of ice cream, which means you certainly don’t need the third.

To be in complete ying/yang balance, number two is – Just say Yes. As in, Yes, I’d like a massage. Yes, I’d like another scoop. (Oh wait, conflict with number one here. I know! I’ll just fit that extra scoop in my first bowl. Problem solved.) Yes, I am going out with the girls tonight. And yes, husband, you are going to love me up. Yes, Yes and more yes please.

Three – Eat some Shutthefuckupcakes… I stole this from Momaical. She recommended giving them out to a number of ‘challenging’ people around the holidays, but I’m going to eat them myself; because frankly, sometimes I just don’t know when to STFU. I tell myself, don’t do it. Hold it in, but off I go. My tongue has a mind of its own. There are also times, when I just want my brain to STFU, so I might try them for that as well. Let me know if you need the recipe.

STFUcakes wouldn’t be the same (or as necessary) without…wine! Resolution number 4 – Drink more. Yes, I need to just sit back, relax, unwind and enjoy a glass of wine. Or two. I’m doing it right now, and I’m thinking, Yeth! This is the beth post I wrotein thoooooooo looooong! I love dis one. I love you too. I’m feeling all teary. I need a moment.

Number five – Do more things for other people. It almost seems impossible because all I do is things for other people, like schlepping, laundry and errands, volunteering at the schools, cooking and catering; but I’m taking about things I don’t resent, uh, I mean, things that aren’t in my normal day to day. Like, bringing a cup of coffee to the Verizon man outside, or buying flowers for the checkout girl, or visiting an older person in the neighborhood. It’s not really for them, it’s for me. Every time, I remember to do that kind of stuff, it makes me happier than the person I’ve done it for. Especially when I bring someone those STFUcakes, and they really could use them. Nothing like helping out those in need.

That’s my list, and I’m sticking to it. Well, hopefully. I’m taking it one day at a time. They’re resolutions, not promises. No pressure here.

Happy almost New Year Everyone! May it be full of sweetness and love.

Drink up. It's a resolution!

Drink up. It’s a resolution! 🙂

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You’ll Always be My Baby

Posted on December 11, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

Today is Julius’ birthday. He is five. NOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Sorry, I had a moment there, but how is it possible that my youngest is five today? How is possible that my oldest is 10? And then there’s that 7 year-old in the middle. How did this all happen? Well, of course, I know how, but it was just a breath ago, that they were all little monkeys, hanging round my neck. Small bundles of baby mush snuggled in my arms. Big open mouth kisses on the cheek. Spit up everywhere. Cheerios everywhere. Words that were ‘almost’ words, that only I could understand.

And now my baby is five. Next year, we, uh, I mean he, starts Kindergarten. I can’t even pretend he’s a baby any more. Okay, I can and I do, but there’s no denying that my junk-food stealing, boobie-snatching rascal is growing up.

Growing up. Sigh. I just got him, and that was no easy feat. No one could ever accuse me of being a fertility goddess. I needed some help with Tyler. I needed more help with Michael. Julius, it seemed, would take a village.

So today, I want to thank that village for helping to bring my happiness to life…

  1. My mother, for just saying “Okay, if that’s what you want to do. I’ll be there to help,” when I told her my intentions to drag my other two children to a fertility doctor with me, for almost daily monitoring and shots.
  2. The other patients at the clinic, most of whom didn’t have one baby, let alone two, and had to sit there in the waiting room with me and my children.
  3. I guess I have to thank the fertility doctor, because I got my baby and that’s all that matters, but honestly, he was kind of an ass. The staff, on the other hand, was stellar.
  4. My faboo friend Heidi who came over and took the drugs from my shaky hands and expertly mixed them, and for leaving her night out at 11pm, to come and give me the big shot, the one my husband was so afraid to give me that he considered asking our contractor, who happened to be there at the time.
  5. My squeamish husband, who at first, had some reservations about having a third child – he was afraid it might be a girl! – but ultimately supported and stood by me through it all. Once convinced, he was all in. With baby Julius, as he is with our older boys, there couldn’t be a better dad. Okay, he could do better with bedtime, but besides that.
  6. My boys, not even two and four at the time, I schlepped them around, and they didn’t seem to mind if I was a hormonal, cranky mess. Probably wasn’t so different from my normal cranky, sleep-deprived mess.

After the shots, the drugs, the pregnancy, and a delivery, in which, I literally thought I might die, there is finally Julius. Ah Julius. Wild. Gorgeous. Funny. Mischievous. Loving. So big, such a baby. Now, here’s where I want to be poignant. I want to write words that capture the essence of my beautiful boy, but I’m staring at the screen, thinking of my little Tasmanian devil with tears streaming. I wanted him so bad. I felt the need in every aching bone in my body. So I thank my friends, family, random strangers, lady luck and both divine and scientific intervention for the gift that is him. He is wonder and magic. His happy face fills a room with energy, love and sparkling life. He completes our family. I could never capture his beauty. I can barely catch him to take a bath.

Two days old. Can he be any cuter?

Happy birthday my baby love, may you live happy and healthy till 110 and never leave me. Poo Poo Poo.

(Okay, I was kidding about that last part. You can leave when you’re 100, just like your brothers 😉 )

Always mommy's baby

Oh yeah.

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The Shape of Cindy

Posted on December 7, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

I glanced at the magazines as I typically do while standing in line at the supermarket. I always think it’s so nice that they put them there to help me pass the time while I wait (wink, wink). Usually I flip through US Weekly or People. Sometimes, she admits with coy, embarrassment, I grab a copy of STAR. Come on, when they have the “Stars without Makeup” or “Best and Worst Bodies”? Really, you can pretend to be above it, but I know you’re sneaking a peak.

Anyway, as my life slowly drained away waiting for the woman in front of me to finish her super interesting negotiation to the bored cashier on why she had an expired coupon, the cover of SHAPE magazine caught my attention. It was Cindy. Cindy Crawford.

For you annoying, young people who were too busy learning to go poo-poo on the potty to appreciate her heyday, Cindy, ruled the modeling world in the 90’s. During my most impressionable years, she was gorgeous but in a believable way. She was tall, but not impossibly tall. Thin, but not heroin anorexic like some of the grunge models of that day. Young, but (hee hee) a little older than me. She was with me through the big hair and the straight hair. We had babies at around the same time, and I exercised to her post baby work-out tape with all three of my kids. She was the friend I didn’t actually have.

So when I saw the cover, I experienced of moment of honest happiness to see her. My supermodel was back. Yay! I grabbed the magazine for a closer look, and my smile faded.

Oy.

Now don’t get me wrong. Cindy looks great. She’s maintained her figure and her hair cascades down the page. But – yes, there’s a but – no amount of air brushing can mistake the obvious. Cindy is old. She looks great…wait for it… for her age. Ow. That last part hurts ‘older’ women everywhere, because if Cindy looks like a woman in her forties, well, I certainly must as well. Damn.

In three seconds of sighting the cover, I did a complete 180. I was no longer happy to see my old friend. She  no longer reminded me of my youth, she reminded me that I was old. I doubt this was the effect marketing executives had hoped for. I knew Cindy was there to appeal to women like me. Women who grew up with her, who else would appreciate this blast from the past? I get it, but guess what, I don’t want to.

Getting old is weird. You almost can’t believe it’s happening to you. It’s an outer-body experience that’s happening to your body. I spend time studying myself, and can see the subtle changes occurring. They’re not terrible, but they’re there. But I don’t need a mirror to know that I’m past my prime.

For one, I just need to look at these magazines.  I don’t know a full 70% of the people they showcase. Who the hey are Chris Hemsworth, Miranda Cosgrove, Gemma Arterton, Wiz Khalifa?

Two. People now address me as ‘so & so’s’ mom. If one of my ‘so & so’s’ is with me, say, in a store, sometimes they get some free stuff just for being cute. Hey! I used to get free stuff too!

Three. I drive a mini-van.

I don’t think I need to go on.

Now I’m not saying getting old is bad. It’s a good thing. Great, if you consider the alternative. And honestly, I’m so much more comfortable with myself than I was in my 20’s. It’s just strange. A minute (okay 20 years) ago, I was fresh and new, with the world open and wanting me. Now, I’m – eeeek!!! – a middle-aged suburban mom?? OMG.

Somewhere in those 20 years, almost all of my goals changed, or very slowly subsided into the background. I don’t want to blame the children, but what-the-hey, it’s their fault. With their blessed arrival, my entire focus shifted from me to them. It’s exactly how I want it, just don’t remind me what I used to want.

I was happy before I saw Cindy on the cover. I didn’t think about any of this. Sigh. I really wish I wouldn’t have seen my old friend today.

She really does look great...for her age. Ouch. Still hurts.

She really does look great…for her age. Ouch. Still hurts.

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Stop trying to touch my boobs and I’ll give you a cookie

Posted on December 4, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

My four year-old son has this weird little obsession… with my boobs. No, I’m not like that New Yorker Magazine mom. The only thing my boobs do these days is hang, and I mean hang, around. But for Julius, it’s one of his many infatuations, right up there with gummy bears and Pokemon cards.

All my boys are full of mommy love, which I unabashedly encourage and soak up, but Julius shows his love a bit more ‘tangibly’ than the others.

Every night after the bed time books and tickle-back is completed, there’s another ritual of events that must transpire before I can leave his room.

“Kiss, mommy,” he demands, pursing his little, chunk lips for me to kiss.

“Hug, mommy,” is the next request, and he wraps his little arms around me, squeezing tight.  I love it, but I know what’s coming. He’s been doing it for well over a year now and I brace myself.

Somewhere in the middle of his innocent little hug, there’s a boob grab. He does it quick, knowing exactly what he’s doing. When I gently reprimand, he looks at me with those big brown eyes and says, “I can’t help it mommy. I just love your boobies!”

What to do. What to do.

I’ve tried to distract him from his infatuation. At two and three, it was still cute and could be waved away as toddler silliness; but once Julius crept over the four year mark and his hugs began to have a groping feel to them, I’ve tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to stop.

So far, these are the techniques I’ve employed.

Threatening – I say, almost daily. “Julius, if you try to touch my boobs, I’m not going to snuggle in bed with you anymore.” The little rat always promises. Do not trust a rat.

Negotiation – “If you can go a week without trying to touch my boobs, I’ll take you to the toy store.” Apparently, Julius does not need more toys, or chocolate or extra Wii time. He’s got plenty, thank you.

Transference – Every time Julius goes for the boobs, I place his hands around my waist. He kind of likes it and will squeeze happily for a bit, saying, “Oh, it’s squishy, like your boobies.” Thanks kid.

Reason – We had the discussion about private parts. How he has his and I have mine. Julius’s response? “You can touch mine, if I can touch yours.” Sheesh. I’m in trouble with this one.

Although, his fascination to touch my boobs is annoying and will soon border on really inappropriate, right now, it still makes me smile. I know he’s almost five, but as my youngest, he still seems like such a baby; and even though my seven and ten year-old are very loving, I can see the day in the not too far future, where I am no longer the center of their affections. There will be girlfriends, then wives, (poo poo) and I feel the pain of that already, years into the future. I can only hope that they’ll still want to give their mom a squeeze, although a hug will do just fine.

Just last night, Julius, the teenager in a five year-old body, gloated, “Mommy, I know how to touch boobs.  You go in for a kiss, and then you get ’em!” He smiled mischievously, like a boy who knows a big secret. And I guess he does.

Really, nothing to write home about here.

Really, nothing to write home about here.

bonbonbreak

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Happy Groundhog Day on Thanksgiving

Posted on November 22, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

Yesterday morning I woke up at 6:30am and dragged myself out of bed. Getting up wasn’t too difficult, I’m used it. I never even have to use an alarm. My crazy brain is alarming enough. Anyway, I hobble to the bathroom, my back feeling like a metal bar bent by the Hulk. That’s the way it generally feels every morning, slightly twisted and broken, but there’s no time for my problems, there’s work to be done.

Over the next 15 hours I will…

Be freaked out when my feather of a child is quietly and spookily standing behind me in the kitchen while I make lunches and the rest of the house is still asleep.

Fight because he wants to the play the iPad.

Go upstairs three times to wake my oldest son out of ridiculously deep slumber, before he finally drags himself down the stairs, looks at me and says, “Why did you wake me so late?”

Scurry, like a ferret on crack, trying to find said child’s homework assignment that has gone missing.

Negotiate between M&M’s or fruit roll up as snacks with youngest son to enter Pre-k without causing a scene. Lose, and give him both.

Listen to mom tell me about a serious hair problem.

Fly to the gym for my hour of stress-free time. I will think the entire hour about what I have to do and plan how to fit it all in.

Pick up dry cleaning. Go supermarket.

Call father to check in on how he is doing. He is doing crappy, as usual.

Pull up trash bins. Flip a load of laundry. Find lost toy that I spend years of my life searching for in kid’s pocket.

Pick-up Julius from Pre-K, wait for bus to drop Tyler and Michael.

Fight with them to do homework.

Fight with them to do it again, when they do it too fast and sloppy.

Hit my head on the table as I’m coming up from picking up the pencil Tyler dropped on the floor.

Have multiple play-dates over, kids running up and down the stairs, begging for snacks, pulling out every toy on my shelves, whining, complaining, fighting, finally, thank God, playing Wii.

Hang up on mom telling me same serious hair dilemma.

Make dinner, which kids refuse to eat.

Make another dinner. One kid will eat. One will drop plate on floor. One will cry he wants something else.

Bang head again on table, picking up food from floor.

Sing the tune to, Dolly Parton’s 9-5, while children tease each other mercilessly leaving each one them crying at 5 minute intervals.

Say, Bath Time!

Be ignored.

Say, Bath Time!

Be ignored.

Give up for moment and get laundry.

Scream Bath Time!!!!!!

Be ignored.

Go up close in each of their faces, rip video device from hand and say in menacing voice, “If you ever want to see this thing again, you will get stinky butt upstairs now.”

Watch them run, amused.

Fight with them to get in.

Fight with them to get out.

Watch three naked boys with underwear on head run in circles.

Greet Hubby.

Watch Hubby eat  first dinner.

Watch Hubby eat leftover second dinner.

Say to children, “Time to read in bed!”

Hear husband say, “Time to wrestle!”

Open wine.

Say again, a half hour later, Time to read!!

Watch, fighting down mounting anxiety, as they jump on top of one another.

Go to freezer for ice cream.

Give very dirty look to husband.

Tuck all children in bed.

Start reading a book.

Be interrupted by children complaining they are hungry and begging for snacks.

Try to ignore them and keep reading.

Listen to extremely skinny child loudly moan in hunger.

Cave and go to cut up apples with scoop of peanut butter.

Shut lights.

Say goodnight.

Snuggle.

Say goodnight.

Tickle backs.

Say goodnight!

Sigh, and finally leave the room.

Say hello to husband.

Pass out on the couch while trying to watch a show.

Think how crazy and frustrating the day has been, and how blessed and lucky I am.

Want to cry happy, sappy tears because I love every annoying minute.

Wish everyone the happiest, most wonderful, delicious and thankful, Thanksgiving.

See you at 630 am to do it all again.

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iTouch vs. Live Touch – A Tale of Two Dragons

Posted on November 20, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

Back in May, my then 9 year-old son, Tyler, used guilt to manipulate Howard and me into adopting a baby bearded dragon. We named him Smiles and I immediately fell in love. My son’s promises of care were quickly forgotten, and Howard and I took up the responsibilities of feeding Smiles and cleaning his tank and paying any general attention to him. (I know, super great parenting. If you need to know more about our awesome technique, you can message me.) The only time Tyler acknowledged Smiles was to take great offense when he overheard me referring to him as mine.

Real dragon

I had pretty much accepted my new chores, only half-heartedly resenting them, the same as all the rest. I mean, what was one more thing to add to the list, besides one more thing to add to the list?

Still, I didn’t completely give up on Tyler. Each morning, I’d lay out some lettuce and veggie stuff and ‘suggest’ that Tyler feed Smiles. Unfortunately, by the time Tyler finished his breakfast, and realized he hadn’t finished last night’s homework and did something ‘extremely important but only took a second’ on his iTouch, it would be time for the bus.

In the afternoons, I’d ‘suggest’ that Tyler pay Smiles a bit of attention.  After ‘suggesting’ a few times, Tyler would sigh and walk into the room that housed Smiles tank, look at him for five seconds and say, “Hi, Smiles.” Then go back to the iTouch.

I tried not to let any of this get to me. I mean, we allowed ourselves to be suckered into getting the creature. Then, we covered up our parental misstep with another, by not making Tyler take responsibility for his responsibility. This was as much our fault as his. We sucked at being parents and now we were paying for it through our labor.

Then came the morning at the bus step, when I saw the game Tyler was so enraptured with for the past few weeks, that he could barely say hello to me, much less Smiles.

Handing me his iTouch, he said something like, “Okay, in exactly an hour, you need to…” And then, he went into some complicated instruction while I zoned out, much like he does, I imagine, when I instruct him.

It was a game called Dragon Vale. Guess what you do in Dragon Vale? I think you know… Yup, you breed, feed and house little dragons. You need to pay careful attention to these little creatures or they will not grow. Can you stand the irony?

Uh, not real dragon

“Uh, Tyler,” I tried. “You know you have a real Dragon that you can care for.”

Tyler nodded in the way that says, I didn’t hear a word you said you silly adult, don’t you see that I have something extremely important I need to tell you? And immediately, he returned to instructing me.

The bus came and left me holding his iTouch displaying a cute cartoon dragon, that you couldn’t actually touch.  I looked at him just long enough to close out the screen. Then and there, I vowed to be a better parent and help teach my kids to be more responsible. We would work on it together, putting out one fire at a time.

 

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My Mom and Me… We’re a match.

Posted on November 12, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

Hurricane Sandy, day seven, still without power. We spent the first three nights braving it out in the cold and dark, then the second three nights at my in-laws in Brooklyn. Yesterday, we packed the car and the kids, the cat and the lizard and headed to my mom and step-father’s house.

The kids stretched out like lazy cats with all the new space. We played cards and chess and they ran in circles, up and down the stairs. They had baths in their giant whirlpool tub and we had to fish them out using chocolate marshmallows as bait. Shiny and towel fresh, we plopped them on the couch for a movie.

In the morning, we woke up and my mom had set us up with a tennis court. Disaster? What disaster? Why don’t I come here more often?

It had been quite a few years since my mom and I found ourselves in this position. Back when I was young, we used to randomly play, but I was always so incessantly aggravated by her competitiveness, that I could never play well. Every point she’d get, she’d call out the score, which unnerved my every nerve. Plus, she was hot and sexy and I always had a few pounds to lose, which made watching her bounce across the court in her little short shorts extra annoying.

Back then, I was so wrapped up in killing her that I tried to kill every point, and ultimately killed my game. We were two opposing forces posturing for power. I was 20 years younger, but she had, and still has, a fortitude and vitality that you simply don’t find in average people. She’s a spit fire. A fire cracker. A hundred pounds of boogie-oogie-oogie. You’d think she was made of Red Bull instead of whipped cream, sun flower seeds and garden burgers. In an average day she might play tennis, go to the gym, take a long walk and dance the night away. Did I mention, she runs her own business as well?

The only time I see her sleep is when she comes to babysit and by some unknown circumstance actually sits down. One minute, she’ll be crawling the floors with the kids on her back, running up and down stairs to get them snacks, begging them to dance and play with her; but when they’ve finally tired of her and turned to their iTouches or SpongeBob, she might discover the couch under her taut behind. Almost immediately, she nods out.

So here we are again, across the court from each other, a mother and a daughter preparing to face off. It should be no contest, she’s a league winning player, while I’m scrappy, inconsistent and haven’t played in years, but… I’m younger and faster. She hates that. It makes me smile with affection. My mother is like no other.

I suggest just volleying back and forth for practice and exercise, but my mom just can’t. She needs to keep score. So we play. I know her game – she’s very consistent and is great at returning shots, but doesn’t have real power. I have always been a reasonably strong player; my inconsistency and emotions, being my greatest obstacle.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m older, or because our relationship is wonderful and no longer filled with angst, but I’m calm and controlled. I play easily, not great, but with few mistakes, and soon am winning five games to love.

I see the panic and frustration across the court. She’s stomping a bit and Oy Veying here and there. If there were a can, she’d kick it. She can’t help herself. Losing is not something she does with grace. But she sure is cute.

We get down to the final point and I’m torn. Knowing her battle, a big part of me wanted her to win. But I wanted it too. I no longer take her win-at-all-costs personality personally. I’m secretly cheering her on. I think about throwing the game. Just one game, so she could have a little something to hold on to.

I toss the ball, ace out that last point and smile happily. Turns out, I’m just like my mom. Lucky me.

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