Who the Eff is Boba Fett?

The time has come. I must come clean. I do not know the first thing about Star Wars. I have never seen a single movie in its entirety.

I will pause for the gasps of shock to subside.

Throughout my childhood, I do remember seeing bits and pieces, but I guess I was just too busy swimming in our pool or cutting the grass or plotting attempts to run away from home with my sister to watch one from start to finish.

Which brings me to now, 2012, where my 3 year old knows more about Star Wars than I do.

My daughter is a Star Wars...what's the word for those people who are die hard Star Wars fans, oh right...nerds. That's right, my 3 year old princess loving daughter is a Star Wars nerd. The Darth Vader action figure her aunt and uncle gave her in lieu of flowers at her first ballet recital is in her top three all time favorite toys. She walks around humming The Imperial March like it's the soundtrack for her life. No joke. It's actually a touch scary, like those kids who sleep with their eyes open. Thanks to the influences of her uncle, she already has her eyes set on Boba Fett for her birthday.

Ordinarily this would be no problem, except it's starting to be a problem.

I'm clueless when it comes to Star Wars. I didn't actually know who Boba Fett was until a few moments ago when I googled him. Apparently he's just as dark and villainous as Vader. We check out Star Wars books from the library and I'm expected to read them. Except they seem to be written in a language I'm not privy to. I butcher name after name and have to endure my dear husband shouting in corrections from the other room. When playing, K will tell me the rules of the game and I'm supposed to play Han Solo or Luke Skywalker, yet I have no idea who they are nor the difference between them.

So I'm faced with a dilemma, do I watch the movies in order to educate myself on my daughter's passion or pass the buck to her father and uncle and politely concede defeat?

My dear husband is in favor of me watching the movies but he has his own weird experimental agenda where that's concerned. He wants me to watch the movies in chronological order, not in order of release. I personally feel I've made it to 31 without watching them, why start now.

But then, there's K. Is it my job as her mother to know who old Ben Kenobi is?

For the record, K has never watched the movies. And from the violence in the clips we've watched on YouTube, she won't be watching them any time soon either.

I Didn't Want You To Worry Reverb

Every once in awhile, something happens that makes you reevaluate everything you thought you knew only moments before.

My schema was shook up late last night. I can not go into details, it's too personal. But I can say that after a few confusing texts at 1:30am, my view on the world was different.

I'd realized I had been walking through my life, my interactions with family, with blinders on. I'm still not sure if I was the one who put the blinders on or if they were put on me by someone else. Regardless, I had been a naive little girl. I saw what was pleasant.

There is a significant period of my past that, if it were a blog post would have been titled I Didn't Want You To Worry. This recent event feels an awful lot like that, just a smaller scale. Well meaning family members elect to keep information secret in order to spare other people pain and worry. I do not know of any situation where this plan has had the intended result. In my personal experiences, it has always left me hurt.

Now, the morning after my awakening, I'm hurt and worried. My small family is strong, and we have managed far worse than this. Nonetheless, I'm so very worried about the future. How will this current information affect those I love so deeply? It forces me to look at the inevitable nature of life and what lies in the future.

Today, I will try to have fun and enjoy my beautiful and charismatic daughter. Maybe we will get ice cream.

Cleverly Defiant

It's no secret, my kid's a tad bit defiant. Alright, some days she's a hell of a lot defiant.

But she's a smart one.

This morning, for reasons I'm not entirely sure of, she threw her juice cup on the floor when she was finished with it.

"K, come back in here and pick up this cup and put it in the sink."

"No," she said so casually.

My gut reaction was to pick up the cup and launch it in her direction, but I did some deep breathing and counted to ten to think it through. In the end I decided to use my big girl words instead.

"If you don't come pick up this cup, there will be no orange juice with breakfast tomorrow morning."

In her hap, hap, happiest voice she said, "Oh that's okay Mama. I'm having pink lemonade tomorrow."

So pleased with her quick witted response, she practically skipped into the next room.

Let it be known though, I am ruler supreme. She did pick up the cup and she even put it in the sink.

I Live in My House

I had a conversation with a friend recently on whether a house should appear lived in. I have to say, I was slightly taken aback.

I live in my house. I'm not trying to decieve visitors into thinking otherwise.

This is my fridge moments ago.

I'm sure some would call it cluttered. Eh...so be it. I don't mind.

Space in this house is hard to come by, we use what we have. The lower half, devoted to K. The upper half, full of usefullness. Bottle opener? Got it. Peditricans number? Check. Coupon to Bed, Bath, & Beyond? Yup.

To the proponents of making your house appear "open house ready" at all times, sure I could give K a cookie sheet to play with her magnets and tuck it neatly away in the cabinet. I could file the coupons and important numbers in a drawer, rid the fridge of all objects. But, why? I guess I just don't understand the importance.

I think you can tell a lot about people by the contents of their fridge and the magnets on the exterior. Maybe I'll show you the inside another day. But it's clear, the exterior of my fridge says I'm not a neat freak and we live here.

Not The Watermelon!

A few weeks back I wrote about K's issue with the garbage disposal.

Yes...I'm sad to say, it's still going on. Daily. Hourly, even. She's still freaking out about food scraps going into the dreaded disposal.

This time, it came to me out of nowhere.

We had been playing outside. Seeing it was getting late, I suggested we come in and get ready for dinner. I pulled the stool up to the kitchen sink and K climbed up to wash her hands. I turned the water on and she started rinsing her hands.

I followed her eyes as she watched the water go down the drain and then, dun dun dun, she saw it.

"Not the watermelon!!" she wailed. "Get it out, Mama! You have to! Pleeease, Mama!"

She had watermelon with her lunch. But, since it had started to turn slimy she refused to eat it. I avoided the post lunch meltdown by just setting the bowl of spoiled watermelon on the counter. I waited until later when she was "napping" to clean up the dishes. I must have forgotten to turn on the disposal.

I will not make that mistake again. I'm learning as we go.

There it sat. Down in sink purgatory. Just waiting to be pulverized.

And of course...she would see it.

Darth Vader's been missing for three days now, and she can't seem to find him. But she has no problem spotting three cubes of watermelon deep down in the depths of the disposal.

The Hunger Games aka The Laundry, Dishes, and Dirt Piled Up

All I have read about on Twitter for weeks is The Hunger Games. Seriously. I had no clue what it even was. A book? A movie? A cult?

Yes. Yes. And yes.

On Monday evening, I decided I'd had enough. I had been out of the loop for far too long. To exist as an intelligent human being, a functioning member of society, I needed to know what this Hunger Games mess was all about.

Little did I know, from the moment I downloaded it to my iPad Monday evening until 1 o'clock today, I would cease to exist as a functioning member of society.

My plan backfired.

For 40 hours, I read whenever possible. I even dreamed about Katniss. We were BFFs.

I abandoned my position as mother and allowed Dora and the Neverland Pirates to take over. K ate breakfast watching tv while I sat by, with my coffee, reading. I allowed her to nap until 6:30 yesterday because I couldn't bring myself to stop reading. Naps past 5 o'clock are strictly forbidden when I'm on duty. Today, I put her lunch on the table and started reading, oblivious to whether or not she actually ate anything. I would have known if she had choked, I'm sure.

Meanwhile, the laundry piled up. So did the dishes. Apparently, if you don't keep up with that crap, you will run out of clean spoons and clean pajamas. Thankfully, dear husband went grocery shopping yesterday so we didn't starve during my "absence."

I'm sure the members of my house are glad I finished the book so quickly. Though, it turns out, I'm not finished. Evidently, this cult book is a trilogy.

Sigh

I am now faced with a dilemma, do I take a break and regroup or download the next book? Life is full of such tough decisions.

The Sky is Falling, Henny Penny

I had to go to Home Depot on Saturday. Thrilling, I know.

After a tantrum over appropriate Home Depot footwear and another over whether or not K should eat pizza for lunch, we found ourselves standing in the pest removal section of the store.

We live in an old city rowhouse, we get bugs. We've seen a cockroach or two in our basement and we generally get ants this time of year.

My husband and I are standing in the aisle staring at the selection of products to kill anything unwanted in anyway you want. We're having a discussion on whether it would be worth it to kill the cockroaches if it also kills the cats, when from the sky something falls down on us, well, nearly on us. It falls inches in front of us...and then scurries away.

It had an effing tail! A freaking mouse fell from the ceiling! Holy shit! Oh my gosh! It could have landed on my head!

I look up and survey the scene, wondering if hundreds of mice are now going to fall down on us. I've seen Infested on Animal Planet. I saw footage of the Australian mouse plague of 1993. I've watched the opening scene of Ratatouille. Where there is one of these rodents, there are hundreds.

Up above the rodent and pest removal aisle, high up on a platform was a pallet of grass seed. It was wrapped in plastic which the mice had chewed through to build a nest, have lunch or whatever the hell a colony of mice does in a pallet of grass seed. I look down in front of my feet, sure enough, grass seed.

As my husband and I are sharing this bonding moment where I was almost pelted in the head by a mouse, discussing the irony of the mouse falling a foot from hundreds of mouse traps, a Home Depot sales guy in the orange apron stumbles upon us asking if he could help with anything.

"Well, I think you have a mouse problem up there. One just fell on us and ran away."

With a straight face he says, "Oh, yeah, I know. We had a hawk in here for a little while. That helped out a bit."

It's like National Geographic in Home Depot.

"Anything else I can help you with?"

I was stunned. I guess I expected him to be concerned about my well being. Maybe get on his walkie talkie and page a supervisor. Feign interest just to pacify a customer. But nope, that wasn't going to happen. He didn't even appreciate the irony of the mouse landing in the rodent removal aisle. I guess this was just far too common place. Maybe over in plumbing a raccoon was wandering around.

 

Awkward Moments

My 3 year old may just be in the running for the most peculiar one I know. Just putting that out there for you to ponder.

No surprise, K has a fondness for princesses. And since Disney is a mastermind at marketing, her preference is for the Disney Princesses. She likes them all, even Mulan and Pocahontas, the less popular princesses. We own and watch with regularity a handful of the Disney movies.

I have it down to a science, the scene in each movie where K will turn and spit, hit or kick at me or her father. Without fail. She's also been known to tell us to be quiet when we aren't even speaking. It's always the same.

The love scene.

The Little Mermaid...the scene with Eric and Ariel in the boat almost kissing.

Tangled...again, the boat scene with Flynn and Rapunzel kissing. As well as the end scene when Rapunzel holds dying Flynn in her arms.

Peter Pan...not a princess movie, but this one is full of awkward moments for K. The scene when the mermaids gush over Peter and various scenes of Tinker Bell expressing her jealous, animosity for Wendy.

Toy Story 3...the scene when Barbie and Ken are first introduced.

I don't have any idea what's going on in her ginormous brain, but watching the mushy, lovey-dovey scenes makes her feel awkward.

I know when the scenes are coming, I'm on heightened alert. I try to head off the mini tantrum before it even starts. I warn her of the impending romanticism.

"Just look away if it makes you feel funny."

I have no idea what this drama is about, but regardless, I'm scared...terrified even, for what's to come many years from now when boys enter the picture.

Drumline

It goes without saying, I love my dear, sweet daughter.

Nevertheless, I'm normal. I miss certain aspects of my "pre K" life. I miss being able to listen to raunchy morning shows on the radio. I yearn for the days when I could sleep in. But, more than anything, I long for uninterrupted, peaceful showers.

Most of the showers I've taken since she's been born have been anything but peaceful.

This morning takes the cake.

A few Christmases ago, we gave K a mini wooden drum set. Cute as anything. But really, for the love of Reese's Pieces, what were we thinking?!

This morning, as I was getting ready to shower, she felt it necessary to throw the drum set into the bathroom and start banging on it. She didn't even have the drumsticks. The sticks where somewhere in the staging area in the hallway, I'm sure. She had taken apart the drum set and was using the cymbal stand as a stick. Oh so freakin obnoxious. The exact opposite of peaceful.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

She doesn't seem to have the musical gift. It's just loud, irritating noise, not music. And she was ruining my shower.

Later, when I was bitching to my dear husband about the less than stellar shower I experienced, his response was something along the lines of, "Oh, she wasn't in there the whole time."

Seriously? Let me fill the bathroom with a marching band the next time you're trying to have a peaceful 15 minute shower.

Five minutes of that racket feels like an eternity.

I've heard comforting words from fellow moms that eventually the kids go off to college and showers can once again be peaceful and uninterrupted. K hasn't even started preschool and already I'm counting down the days till college.

But, boy do I love her.

 

Note: This post contains an Amazon Affiliate link.

Temporary Husband Position

ISO Temporary Husband

******************

Start date - Immediate

Must be available for the duration of the NCAA basketball tournament, with an option for additional hours during the 2012-2013 NFL season.

Must posses husband skills, including but not limited to

• Grocery shopping
• Daily salad making
• General childcare
• Dinner prep
• Mixology
• Conversation contributor

Applicant with handy man qualifications preferred.

Sports enthusiasts need not apply.

If bracket, elite eight, seed, selection Sunday, or sweet sixteen are words in your standard March vocabulary, your application will not be considered.

You Look Like You Could Be Pregnant

Let me begin by saying, I'm not pregnant. Not even a little bit.

So you can imagine my surprise when a nurse, which I will refer to as Maleficent, said to my face, "Then you look like you could be pregnant."

Let me tell you the back story to really confuse you.

I was in the waiting room at the doctors office when Maleficent called me back. She took my height and weight. 113lbs. I don't think that number puts me in the "most likely pregnant" category.

Evil Maleficent asked me the standard questions. What brings you in? When was your last tetanus shot? And, when was the start date of your last menstrual period?

I imagine I am like most women, I have a general idea but not the exact date for this answer.

I tell her, "Um...about two week ago."

Not good enough, apparently. She wants me to give her a date.

"Well. I don't know exactly. What's today's date?"

"March 12th," Maleficent tells me.

"Well, then, maybe the 1st."

Her words, and I quote, "Well that's not a good date because, then you look like you could be pregnant."

Hmmm.

I'm not even sure what to say. Was it the information I provided her with or my physical appearance that caused Maleficent to accuse me of looking pregnant?

To shut her up quickly, I grabbed my phone, opened the app, and gave her the exact date. I was 3 days off.

"Well that's much better."

Apparently, 3 days is the exact difference in looking pregnant and not.

Bitch.

My Daughter Is Not A Dog

I was initiated into the most awesome, super duper club ever this week. Motherhood.

A fellow mother and I decided the best way to spend our day was to drive our two small children to a children's museum in Philadelphia. And really, the day was a blast. We didn't lose them in the museum. Neither child burst into tears...wait, I forgot, mine did, over which carousel horse she wanted to ride. Regardless, the day was a success.

My initiation came a little later in the day, on the ride home.

It was nap time. They needed to sleep on the ride home. My friend's child was very compliant, mine...not so much. K did everything she could to keep herself awake. She kicked, she cried, she begged for food and drink. Then...it began.

"Mama! I have to go potty. Bad!"

"K, you went potty before we left the museum. You're fine. Hold it. Go to sleep."

"I can't Mama! I can't hold it!"

"K! ENOUGH! Go to sleep!"

"It's poop, Mama!"

Now, at this point I'm still thinking she's playing me. She pooped at the museum. We just left a half hour ago. There's no way she has to go again.

"It's coming Mama. The poop, it's coming!"

"Hold it please, K. We can't stop here. Look around, do you see any bathrooms? Do you want to poop on the road?"

"MAAMAA! I can't hold it. The poop, it's coming!"

Alright, maybe she's serious. Maybe we should start looking for an exit. I'm still not sure, but I certainly don't want to clean up shit.

"K, please try to hold it. We can't stop now. You have to hold it."

"Mama, noo!! I can't hold it. The poop is coming! I can't stop it! MAMA!!"

Okay, she's serious. She's arching her body trying to get up out of her carseat. We need to get her to a bathroom, fast.

"Okay, K. As soon as we can, we will stop. Hold on, we're looking. We're trying."

"Hurry, Mama! The poop wants to come out, now!"

Finally, an exit. We pull off I95 and head toward the fast food restaurants. But we don't see anything. We're in back country. Houses, trees, tractors...nothing.

"It's coming. NOW! I can't stop it!!"

Executive decision, we're stopping right here. We either stop here in the middle of nothing and let her out or she's shitting in her leggings.

"Okay, K. We're stopping. You will have to poop here. In the grass."

Now, she's crying.

"I'm not a dog, Mama. I can't poop in the grass."

"No. You're not a dog, but you have to go and there are no bathrooms anywhere. You have to."

"I hope no one sees me."

"Oh baby, no one will see you. I'll use the door to block you. You'll be fine. It's okay."

And it was. She pooped fine. Just like a dog.

Back in the car, heading south on 95, K calls to me.

"Mama? Why didn't we use a bag and pick up my poop?"

Wait...didn't she just tell me she wasn't a dog?

So there you have it, my initiation into motherhood. My kid pooped on the side of the road. It sure was swell.

 

The Day She Threw Her Shoe At Me

"I always say moms have the toughest job in the world if you're doing it right."

- Oprah

Today, without a doubt, I believe that quote. I don't always feel that way. The toughest job? I'm sure I could think of a few tougher.

And then I have a day like today.

Today was a day from hell.

Today I was wishing I had dropped my daughter off at daycare and worked in an office with adults.

I sit here and think...where did the day go so wrong? Where did I go wrong? It was a beautiful 70 degree pre-spring day. Meltdowns and tantrums aren't supposed to happen on those days. I had simple, enjoyable plans. A morning trip to the library and then spend the rest of the time, before nap, at the playground, including a picnic. Not a tough day. I had even agreed to drive to the playground with the sandbox, her favorite.

I will not rehash the pivitol moment in the morning. I know this will come as a great disappointment to the readers who relish in hearing my trials and tribulations with dear, sweet K, but I just can't do it today. I will say I was searching for a specific book on raising the spirited child when the fireworks began.

Spirited. Hmm...I can think of a few other words.

The tantrum continued as I forced K out of the library, crying the whole way. Library book bag empty. No fun day spent playing in the sandbox. No swings. No picnic. She screamed and sobbed the entire ride home. She even threw her shoe at me.

K doesn't embarrass me in public often. She generally saves the naughtiness for home. Today was rough, for both of us.

We talked this afternoon, agreed to be bestest best friends from now on. We will try the fun plan again tomorrow, minus the 70 degree weather. Here's to hoping the library book bag will come back full and I won't be placing an Amazon order for the spirited child book during nap time.

Wit and Wisdom - Sleepers Edition

My daughter has discovered the wonders of salt.

Now, with her scrambled eggs she'd like a side of salt, please and thank you.

Needless to say, the most recent car conversation didn't come as a surprise to me.

Here for your reading pleasure, I present you with the latest installment of the wit and wisdom of a 3 year old.

K: Mama? Sleepers are like salt. Except you can't eat them.

Me: Right, don't eat them. How are they like salt?

K: Well, they're itty bitty round like little pieces of salt. I bet if I did eat them, they'd even taste like salt. And if they were yucky, I could just spit them out.

Hmm...interesting.

Let's Make a Deal

My 3 year old thinks her life is a big game of Let's Make a Deal. Except, without farm animals and appliance prizes.

"Here's the deal," I say, trying to rationalize with her.

I'll wait while everyone laughs at me trying to rationalize with a 3 year old....Okay, good, you're done.

"You can either put your pajamas on now and have time to read books before bed. Or you can dilly dally and waste all of your book reading time."

"Well, here's my deal," she tells me with much attitude and her hands on her hips. "First, I'm going to do a big jete and then a spiderman handstand. Then, I'll put my pajamas on. And then, you can read me books."

Obviously, she doesn't understand in Let's Make a Deal the audience isn't allowed to create their own deals.

"K, if you dilly dally I won't have any time to read you books. Put your pajamas on NOW," I tell her so kindly with an abundance of patience.

"But that's not MY deeeealll!"

I guess she feels my deal's a zonk.

Self Taught Meteorologist

I have amazing news to tell you.

I am a meteorologist.

I didn't study meteorology. Apparently, it's not needed. I have a degree in Elementary Education. In my husband's eyes I guess that qualifies me to forecast the weather.

Nearly every freakin day he asks me about the weather.

Usually in the morning as he's dressing for work, I'll hear, "What's it gonna be like today? Is it supposed to rain?"

I'm not sure what he thinks I know, that he doesn't. Maybe he thinks I have charts and graphs in the basement where I plot out the barometric pressure and the current weather conditions. For the record, I don't. I have apps.

On days he forgot to ask me in the morning or when he just wants an updated prediction, I'll get a text.

Him: Not supposed to rain, is it?

Me: Rain? I think yes.

Him: Seriously though, it is supposed to rain?

Me: I'm not sure. I think so.

Me: Yes. Rain tonight. But later. Not sure when it will start.

Over the weekend, I finally asked. "Does Blackberry not have a weather app?"

"Oh, no, they do," he tells me. "I just never liked it very much."

I see. There are countless ways to get your daily weather, but none are as good as your very own personal meteorologist.

I was not surprised when I got a text from him a few hours ago, he must have forgot to ask this morning.

Him: Is it supposed to rain later? Thinking about if I can grill dinner.

Me: No rain. 20% chance of snow today, not tonight.

And an hour later, I received this text.

Him: Snowing here.

Evidently, I'm a very good meteorologist.

 

Marley My Love

I would like to introduce to you a lovely being. Someone who has more brain power than my daughter did for the entire first year of her life. When they designed this piece of flair they had our dog, Marley, in mind. That's just how brillant she is.

This morning, I asked Marley if she would be a doll and write a guest post for me. You know, telling her view on the dark side of Aurora. Naturally, she jumped at the chance.

**************************

Dear Humans,

Can someone please tell me what the eff has happened to my life?

I used to be honored around these parts. I was revered. I was living the good life. Then you brought home that...that, thing. Life has never been the same since.

Tell me, was I not good enough? Did I not jump high enough when I was catching the Frisbee? I think I can rule that out. I've seen that thing attempt to catch, and she has hands. It's laughable, really. Did I not provide you with enough entertainment when it was time to perform tricks? I could have learned to pirouette, I'm sure of it.

But no, you went ahead and brought that thing home. I live here too, you know! I have a voice. I thought life was fine just the way it was.

Just think back to the good old days for a moment. Ah, those were the days. Remember when we would all go out for happy hour? Now, the best I get is Yappy Hour at the SPCA, where, lets face it, you're likely just checking out the drop off policy.

I used to look good, back then. I had regular spa appointments. I'd come home feeling refreshed, smelling good, and with a new toy to boot. Now? Seriously? Look at me.

Do you see what you allow me to look like? Do you see my fur? It hasn't seen professional clippers in years. I do not appreciate the home cuts. Check out my color! I'm supposed to be white and black, not a dingy shade of ecru. And don't even get me started on that heart stuck to my paw. I heard you people laughing about it. I am not a joke! Do not laugh at my misfortune. To top it off, you didn't even remove it for another day or so. Shame on you. You would never allow that thing to go out looking like that.

Now let's discuss the matter of sleeping arrangements. I hear you tell that thing, "Everyone sleeps in their own bed." Well...where's my bed?

Why must I always be forced to share?

I've decided it's time my voice be heard! I will no longer tolerate a subpar standard of living! I expect the same rights as that thing. I am 11 years old, I demand respect, damn it!

I demand more walks, more long hikes, and more dog park time. Some prison inmates see more fresh air than me.

I demand to be talked to respectfully.

Stop yelling at me to get out of the kitchen. I'm just trying to help, the more crumbs I eat the less you have to vacuum.

Stop yelling at me to hurry when I'm outside. I'm old, I don't move as quickly as I used to. The sooner you accept it, the better off things will be.

Stop yelling at me to get out of the way. That thing scares me shitless! Surely, she's out to get me. I spend the majority of her waking hours terrified. Two inches from your feet is the safest place in the house. Sorry for the inconvenience, but remember, you were the one who wanted her.

I do not think I'm asking for much. I only want what I used to have. I know you love me, now it's time you remembered how to show it.

Lots of kisses,

Marley

P.S. I heard you the other day when you were discussing getting another dog. I'm not stupid. I don't need a playmate, I'm 11. I know you're just shopping in advance for my replacement. Real classy.

*****************

Dear Marley,

Touché.

Love,

Your Human Mother

P.S.

I allow K to go out looking like this regularly.

And she gets home cuts, too. Just saying.