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Dec
31
2007

Not so long ago my husband Rick and I decided we were in the mood for a little wild rumpusing.

So we put the kids in bed. Rick went off to create some romantic ambiance in our bedroom while I ordered take-out sushi. No, raw fish is not part of our sexual repertoire. Ick. It’s just that I was starving and deliveries take a while. So I placed the order and joined Rick in our bedroom.

A few minutes later, I couldn’t concentrate. I started to worry about the timing. I realized the sushi might be ready before we were. So I put money in an envelope and taped it to the outside of our apartment door with a note that read, “This is the money for the sushi. Just leave the order here. No need to knock or ring. Thank you.”

Problem solved. Back to business in the bedroom.

BANG.

Me: What was that? (I quickly pull the covers up).

Rick: I don’t know. Probably something out in the hall.

3 year-old Dylan suddenly appears in the doorway of our bedroom. She quizzically surveys the scene, staring at the candles, the dimmed chandelier, Justin Timberlake getting his sexy back on the ipod and her parents in bed, with the covers yanked up to their necks. She mentions none of this.

Dylan: There’s pee in my pull-up.

Rick: Ok honey. (Rick gets himself together under the covers and bounds out of bed. I lay there motionless, just staring at our toddler, fearing she might ask questions. She does not. Rick changes her pull-up and quickly guides her back to her bedroom).

He returns and once again we attempt to get OUR sexy back.

BANG. BANG.

Me: What is THAT?

Rick: I don’t know.

BANG. BANG.

Me: I think it’s the take-out guy knocking on the door. Maybe he doesn’t speak English. Maybe he can’t read the note.

Naked Rick gets up, throws a towel around his waist and answers the door. It is indeed the sushi take-out guy, who does not read English. But apparently the language barrier is no barrier now. He flashes a knowing smile at my tussled husband, takes the money and hands over the bag.

Rick returns. At this point, I am laughing. He is too. But we are committed to this. We will make this happen.

And we do.

The sushi is great too.


Dec
30
2007

I’ve been feeling a bit in the garbage dumps lately. My milk free boobs are shrinking faster then 1 year-old Summer can devour a roll. My husband has noticed too. This is a recent conversation.

Rick: (Staring at my chest) You’re right. Your boobs are smaller.

Me: Yeah, thanks (I respond glumly).

Rick: They’re beautiful.

Me: O.k. (Still glum).

Rick: Did I say something wrong?

Me: Very few women want to be told their boobs are getting smaller.

Rick: But you pointed it out this morning.

Me: Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.

Rick: Oh.

I start to wonder if my breasts could get small enough that my poochy mama belly could poke out further than my chest. Sadly, probably already the case. I decide my state is too fragile to investigate further.

I’m also in a funk over New Year’s. And then it’s a double Debbie downer that I even care a tidbit about New Year’s Eve. My husband is working so he’s doing his thing. As for me, if I stay in, capital L on the forehead. If I go out, mega moolah up the wazooh. And for what? That stupid, suspicious feeling that everyone MUST be having more fun than me. Of course, they aren’t. But they MUST be… right?! This is the time of year, when I wish I was a superstar pop diva. That way, I could ring in the new year Vegas style, charging big beans to sing all my greatest hits. You would love my stuff from the 70’s.

You know what is coming in the New Year? All those plans we put off. December is so stuffed with obligations and merriment, that many of us love to to throw these words around with everyone and the mailman:

“Yes! We’ll make plans in the New Year. Perfect! We’ll absolutely put something on the calendar in January. Happy Holidays.” With a wave and a smile, we are off.

This is what I wish I had the guts to say:

“Yes! We’ll make plans in the New Year. If not, 2008… 2009 at the latest. Worst case scenario, 2010. Happy Holidays!” With a wave and a smile, I am off.

I’m also bummed my super sassy sister Quinn went back to her home in Memphis. (Editorial note: Not to be confused with my extra sassy friend Liz who lives in New York. If I keep throwing the term “sassy” around, I will provide a sassy “who’s who” directory for your convenience). Everything is just more fun with Quinny around. She’s the kind of girl that can make you smile about small boobs and lame New Year’s Eve plans.

But no need for me to cry about any of this. As 3 year-old Dylan said to me recently, “Mommies don’t cry. They just say no.”

Well, actually Dylan, sometimes they do both.

mama bird notes

Have you met Viv and Ingrid? Oh, you must. Click on drooling over this.

The results are in. So how much tv does your kid really watch everyday? 28% of you say no evil boob tube. Another 28% commit to one hour or less. 11% draw the line at 1 to 2 hours. 28% of you allow your kids to enjoy the small screen 2 to 3 hours a day. And 5% say as much as the child wants.

Take our latest mama poll. 2008 is a bouncy, fresh start – so what is your New Year’s resolution? Come on, share mamas! Just click on your mama says what?

Finally, help another mama out. Any creative ideas on getting kids to eat at least a LITTLE more? Click on askamama.


Dec
27
2007

Location: My mother’s house in Connecticut

Day: Thursday

Time: 5:38 am

Dylan: (sleeping in the same room as me) I have to go to the bathroom.

Me: Ok, honey. Let’s go.

We return from our pee break. I tuck her in and settle back into a deep, lovely slumber. Make that a deep, lovely, very brief slumber.

5:49 am

Dylan: Cough. Cough. Cough. Cough.

Me: Dylan, honey, drink some water.

Dylan: Cough. Cough. Cough.

Me: Dylan, sweetie, drink some water.

Dylan: No. I don’t want to.

Dylan: Cough. Cough.

Me: DYLAN, DRINK SOME WATER OR NO SPECIAL TREATS TOMORROW. (In my groggy state, I have no idea what special treats I’m referring to but no one is pressing me on specifics.)

Dylan: Ok. (She drinks the water.)

5:58 am

Dylan: Cough. Cough. Cough.

6:01 am

I prop her up with pillows and encourage her to drink more water. She agrees. Damn, there’s no honey in the house.

6:07 am

Dylan: Cough. Cough. Cough.

I am so pissed off I want to scream, “God, stop coughing. You are driving me #$@!* insane. STOP right now. STOP right now or you will never watch TV again. Never.” Of course, I don’t because it’s not her fault at all. She is just a 3 year-old with a cough. And I am just a mother desperate for silence.

6:17 am

Dylan: Cough. Cough. Cough.

6:18 am

Dylan: Cough. Cough. Cough. Cough.

Summer begins crying from an adjacent room.

Me: (Major sigh as I hurl myself out of bed to retrieve Summer.)

I am awake. Dylan is awake. Summer is awake.

The oh-so-happy ending: I hand them both to my mother who, thankfully, is also awake.

I crawl back into bed. I am asleep.

Scene.

mama bird notes

Megan B. is the winner of the stylin’ Mr. B bag! Just for clarification, this is a different Megan than the mama who just won some other cool mama bird loot. What’s with all the Megs? Apparently, they are just overachievers. Another fab giveaway coming soon.


Dec
26
2007

Something kris kringle crazy happened to me this Christmas. I was completely satisfied. Get. over. myself. I’m serious.

For the first time, 3 year-old Dylan was understanding and buying this whole big, overweight guy in a red suit is breaking into our apartment and bringing you gifts thing. Solid. Christmas eve, she dictated a letter to Santa. It read, “Thank you for the gifts. I would like a kitchen in a box. Watch out for the mouse traps.” We left St. Nicky skim milk and low fat animal crackers. If the guy has a heart attack, it won’t be on our backs.

Turns out wrapping gifts in newspaper (although totally eco-friendly) looks completely ghetto. Plus it leaves nasty newsprint all over everyone’s hands. Nothing jingle or jolly about it. Must find cool recycled wrapping paper option for next year’s festivities.

Plus, Santa somehow forgot to put the kitchen set together the night before. God, no one is full service anymore. So tired, draggin’ Rick had to pick up the Santa slack on xmas morning. Still, Dylan was in holiday heaven opening all her gifts and (when no one was looking) Summer’s presents too. And Summer was blissfully climbing on the half-assembled kitchen set and smittenly gazing at her pop. Could everyone really be this happy? Where’s the morning meltdown?

Then we drove to Connecticut to visit my family. Not a smidge of traffic. Not even a slight slow down from 65 mph to 60 mph because some guy is pulled over, taking a whiz on the side of the highway. Nothing. Speaking of urine (such a gee-ross word), I had to pee twice on the 2 hour drive. 3 year-old Dylan, only once. That gal has better bladder control than her mother. Or maybe, she didn’t drink a grande skim mocha just as we got onto the West Side Highway.

I just ADORE Starbucks for being open on the holiday. Oh, don’t feel sorry for the baristas. I wished them a very chipper, cheery Merry Christmas. Come on, I’m sure they make time and a half. Don’t they?!

On the drive, we also learned that age old baby proverb to be true, “If your 1 year-old is too quiet in the back, she is probably eating a chocolate flavored lip smacker.” And the lesser known addendum, “She will be very angry when you attempt to take the lip smacker away and substitute it with a different food source.” But Summer, in the spirit of the holiday, quickly got over it. Because apparently, as my brother-in-law Erik like to say, that’s how she rolls.

The remainder of the day just kept going like that. Presents. Laughter. Cocktails. Yummy eats. Chocolate mint brownies. More good times with funny, fabulous family. I was practically nauseous from all the happiness. These aren’t the holidays I remember. I guess the tinsel times they are a changin’. I think I’ll roll with it.

mama bird notes

mrb_runnerbag.gifDon’t forget to post a comment this week AND send a post to a friend (I would never ever spam your friends. What kind of mama would do that?) to enter to win this sleek, stylish Mr. B bag. $50 value. I’ll announce the winner at the end of the week.

Plus, another desperate mummy needs your brilliant ideas on teaching her son some manners.Click on “askamama” and share your super smarts.


Dec
23
2007

Someone is stalking my husband. I knew this would happen eventually. He’s a news personality in New York City. And he’s very friendly to everyone (not in a smarmy way but in a what-a-nice-guy kind of way). So I knew, at some point, some lady would fall hard. Turns out, it’s one of MY ladies.

1 year-old Summer is stalking her poor daddy. It’s gone beyond love. It’s the girl’s obsession. No matter where he goes, you hear her little hands and knees padding across the floor. She will find him. He can not hide.

summer-and-rick.jpg

summer-carbs.jpgI think it’s a carb thing. I’ve never known two people on this doughy planet who love carbs more than Rick and Summer. The girl can down a whole bagel and then be scrounging around on the floor for cracker crumbs or a lost, stale potato chip. As for Rick, he has a deep, unwavering lust for the white kaiser roll. So it seems natural that these two carb souls would one day meet and fall for each other.

Yes, I’m a bit envious. It’s not the carb connection. I’ll take chocolate over a hunk of bread every time. But I feel just a teensy bit jealous of this thing they have going on. It comes just as Summer and I are losing our thing.

Yes, it’s finally done. Or at least practically done. I cut out Summer’s final night time feed. I just loved breastfeeding Summer because she was so content when nursing. So happy. But she’s slowly adjusting to a ta ta free world. As for me, I’m a melancholy mama with aching boobs.

Summer, her boyfriend, Dylan and I all went to see Santa today. I knew it was getting down to the wire with his big night to shine quickly approaching. Oh, this is not my kid sitting on Santa’s lap. In fact, I don’t even know her. Just some sweet, lovely gal who’s putting in her toy order.

santa-stranger.jpg

This was as close to Santa as my 3 year-old shy girl Dylan would get. Girlfriend don’t give St. Nicky no love.

santa-kids.jpg

 

Sore boobs. No cute Santa pic with my girls. But we still have this…

summer-with-bow.jpg

mama bird notes

mrb_runnerbag.gifDon’t forget to post a comment this week AND forward a post to a friend (remember, this girl doesn’t spam) to enter to win this super smart Mr. B bag. $50 value. I’ll announce the winner Friday, December 28th.

Plus, another mama needs your ideas on teaching her son some manners. Click on “askamama” under the menu bar and help a mummy out.

Contributing mama Daphne Biener is monday morning quarterbacking. No, she’s not talking about football. Please. It’s all about the princesses. Click on “contributing mamas” to read more.

Finally, did you take our anonymous tele poll yet? There’s nothing new on the tube anyway, so gives us the dirt. Just click on “your mama says what?”

 



kelcey kintner


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