Sorry Mamma readers (if there are any of you left) it’s been a while since the last post. It’s summer–what can I say. Life got busy with nothing that I can remember now, but it was busy. Oh yeah, there was a vacation/family reunion which supplied more than enough stories which are best ignored. Been considering a possible change with work–but who cares about that. And meanwhile, my house just gets dirtier each day.

I’d love to be one of those people who kept a perfect house–okay I’d settle for neat. I’ve never been good at neat. I get too overwhelmed and just don’t know where to begin. And if I manage to get one place in order, it all just goes to pot within days. Don’t get me wrong. I like order. I like a clean house, ironed clothes, being able to find things instantly. It’s just that I can’t seem to organize myself in that way. Now at work, I’m neat. Papers are filed, desk is relatively neat, plants are watered. I think it’s because there isn’t too much there to get out of order. The job of maintaining order doesn’t seem overwhelming. But in my house? My bedroom? It’s not pretty. I truly hate this fact about myself. So you’d think I’d do something about it. But I HATE to clean. I’d much rather spend my time doing about a million other things. Like what?

Here’s just a short list:

• reading
• playing with my kids
• relaxing, gardening
• shopping
• surfing the web
• watching TV
• seeing a movie
• visiting with friends
• getting a pedicure
• going to the dentist
• getting a pap smear

You get the point? I need help!! I’ve tried Fly Lady (too much email), books (they’re just cluttering my shelves), my mom (I can’t take the disappointment). Anyone have any good ideas? That don’t involve hiring someone? Right now that’s a discussion with my dh that is going nowhere!!!

Okay, I promise more entries. I just haven’t felt very witty and haven’t wanted to make anyone suffer through my boring observations. Well, there have been a few chucklers, but you all might think I’ve gone off the deep end if I really shared them.

I just put it together today that my co-worker, someone I consider a colleague, was born when I was a freshman in highschool. If he had lived in my neighborhood, I would have been his babysitter. In just a few more years that means I will be working with people I could have given birth to. OH MY GOD!!

I didn’t think I had an age thing. I don’t feel old on the inside. But this has thrown me for a bit of a loop. This same co-worker remarked at my wedding picture the other day that I looked “sooo young” in it. Well, that was only seven years ago. There is probably more resemblance between how I looked in my college ID and that wedding photo than there is between that wedding photo and me today. What have I taken away from this? That I NEED to get the outside of me to look more like the person I feel like on the inside.

Now I’m not talking about plastic surgery (at least not yet–I mean who wouldn’t love their boobs to be where they were before children?). I mean that I need to get in shape, to lose more weight. I think being heavier makes me look older. Or maybe it’s the massive lack of selfish sleep you get to have before you have a family–that does it too. I don’t know. It’s probably a good thing that I figured this out now. I’ve been off my fairly successful new eating regime for a few weeks and I needed something to kick my ass into getting back to it.

My problem is that I just love food so much. I love being in the middle of an oreo cookie milk shake. You know when you still have about half left, so you can carelessly enjoy each sip before you begin to realize there are only a few sips left and it would be just too gluttonous to order a second? Hmmm…I think I have a problem with food. I love it too much.

How many rockin’ moms are there? I mean real rock stars who are also moms. I immediately think of Pat Benetar, and Shawn Colvin but no one else comes to mind. Does Joan Jett have kids? One of the thoughts I had of looking up these bios is whether or not male rock stars bother to list their children on their bios–but I digress (indeed further research shows at least Mick Jagger with a reference to his children on his website).

Anyway, I bring up the rock star mom because I’m wondering if I’m too old to be a rock star. I mean completely ignoring the fact that my voice can curdle milk, it would be cool to be a singer. I prentend to be one in the car when I’m driving by myself. On long trips to college I would belt out the soundtrack to Evita until I lost my voice. What else could one do while driving hours on straight, flat, pine tree-lined roads with no decent radio station around?!

This hitting 36 has started me thinking about things I’m getting too old to be. Which is a problem because I haven’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up yet. I guess if I keep holding off the decision I’ll be limited by shear age constraints. The problem is that I don’t feel that old. Most days I still harbor many of the same insecurities I did as a teenager–though I think I’ve developed a better sense of humor about most of them. What other choice do I have?

I’d love to have some driving desire to be something. I wish I was one of those folks who knew what they were going to do since their sandbox days. Me? Not so much.

For a woman of questionable faith, I certainly have developed strong faith in the concept that some day I will just get hit with an idea. Interesting irony that I will have to consider later.

It’s my sister’s birthday today. She’s thirty-four, and she’ll always be the baby!

So I had this completely random thought as I drove to work this morning–please, tell me I’m not the only one.

Maybe Freud was on to something. Do you think that our genetic programming to be hunters or gatherers has something to do with the type of sexual organs we’re born with? It makes sense for guys…they are looking around for things to spear. But what does that say about women? Maybe the whole monogomy thing isn’t what we’re supposed to doing. Maybe we’re supposed to be out there gathering. Though even with one man we are of course still gathing–those sperm are just so damn tiny. God is cruel.

Just a peak into the crazy thoughts that flow in and out of my head throughout the day. Scary huh?

Lately my two year-old has started ennunciating p’s at the end of yep and nope. The usual yes and no are now delivered with a decidedly strong ending. I love it! I love the way it sounds and I thought I better write about it here so I won’t forget it. It’s so true that you think you’ll remember everything cute and funny that they do, but you don’t. Thinking about this newest sound made me think about the other sounds they make that I love–and some that I could live without.

Their laughter. I know, it’s trite. But there is nothing like the sound of a true belly laugh, the unselfconscious enjoyment of life that comes from deep down. Typically I find that it accompanies an activity that I prefer they not engage in, but the laughter makes up for it.

Talking in their sleep. How cute are those little words you hear at night? Every once in a while I’ll hear another language from our four year-old as he is speaking Farsi during at daycare. That is even cooler!

Interacting with their siblings. Okay, there is a lot of room here for noises and sounds I would never want to hear again, but I do so enjoy hearing them have a real conversation with each other. Especially the little guys because it always seems like such an adult behavior for such little people.

Crying. This one I obviously hate. Everyone was tired tonight because they missed their naps. Our littlest guy wanted a story before bed, but it was just too late. He cried to the point of coughing, screaming for a story. I knew I wouldn’t teach him anything good by giving in, so I had to wait out the cry. I’m sure I’m not the only mom whose heart breaks at this sound. I didn’t want him to be sad. I wanted to fix it, but I knew in the long run it would only make matters worse. I hate the sound of their crying because I don’t want them to be in pain, to be sad. I guess that’s part of being a mom.

I’m sure I’m missing other sounds. Please leave a comment and tell me the ones you love and the ones you hate.

So I had book club last night. We all loved the book! We talked about it possibly more than any other we’ve read this year. And as happens every month when I get together with this group of women, I leave refreshed and ready to face another month reassured of my network of very cool, awesome babes!! I’m sure there must be other book clubs with similarly incredible gals in the area. It would be great if we could figure out a way to hook all of these women up. Man, would we be a force to be reckoned with!!

Thanks gals! I had a great time as always!

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Enough said!

Originally this entry was to be my first Mamma HATES. The working title was “Mamma HATES Puberty,” but alas, that title just wasn’t going to work. The distinction of the first Mamma HATES must wait for another day.

As I lay down with my youngest this evening I heard a rhythmic creaking from the next room. And right there I thought…here’s the subject for tonight’s blog. My oldest is almost 10 and I am just sure that he has figured a few things out.

Can I get a collective “Eeewwww!”

Listen, my mom remarried when I was 10, I lived through the trauma once already. I was not prepared to do it again so soon (25 years later).

So I waited as long as I could and with the littlest guy soundly sleeping, I figured I could safely leave his bed. Making sure to create just enough noise so that Mr. almost 10 would hear me coming, I took extra time to put on my shoes and walk out of the room. And what did I see when I peaked in his room? (oh come on, you didn’t think I could just walk by without checking on him–he is my son, it’s in my genes to check). Did I find Mr. almost 10 with the sheets pulled up and the lights off? Oh no! There he was sitting in his bed–with the lights still on–embroiled in a war between his Spiderman and Mighty Mouse stuffed toys. He is after all still 9. And how happy I was to be wrong!!!

Apparently the four year-old set has a new insult–or at least my four year-old does. And what is this dreaded word? Parents block your childrens’ ears… members of the clergy read no further…the insult de jour is…

Toothpicker

Yes, toothpicker. We don’t know what it is. We don’t know why it’s so bad but when we asked our 4 year-old what it meant he replied quite emphatically that it means he doesn’t like that person. So you can imagine how devastated he was when his older brother referred to him as such during normal sibling bickering. Heaving sobs, snot running everywhere and there I was–trying not to laugh. Poor little guy was having a seriously sensitive moment and I couldn’t keep a straight face.

My language has improved dramatically over the past few years (my brother even noticed recently) but I’m still pretty bad. My children have certainly heard a few choice phrases from time to time. But toothpicker? They didn’t learn that from me!

I must say it is descriptive. Reminds me of mouth-breather. Now it may not garner a PG rating, but I think it’s great. Mr. 4 recovered and never sensed Mamma’s grin as she comforted his little hurt feelings. How do I know? Because two hours later he was slinging the barb right back at his big brother.

Ah toothpicker…if only this is where it would stop.