Today Heather has asked us to tell her one thing we’re currently procrastinating.
I am currently procrastinating opening a very spam-ish looking piece of postal mail that says:
IMPORTANT — DO NOT ACCIDENTALLY DISCARD
State law requires that you take care of an important matter related to your move.
Please do this today.
What if I discard it ON PURPOSE? What then? I don’t know. I’m sort of putting off that decision for a while.
But he wouldn’t budge.
Last night I came home late. Dan had put the kids down already, which is always a sort of bitter-sweet experience. Bitter because I love them and I adore to squidge them, and sweet because I get out of doing the real work and yet I can enjoy them in their most lovable state, the one where they’re sweetly sleeping and not wiping their spaghetti mustache on my pants because I didn’t get them a nakum fast enough.
Magoo woke up shortly after I arrived, screaming as though he’d had some terrible nightmare, like the one where you’re driving to Butte, Montana naked in front of a crowd of people and you NEED to pull over to pee so bad but every exit is blocked by evil clowns sucking back helium and singing that Celine Dion Titanic song. I’d scream too… if I’d ever had a dream like that.
Dan went to save him, but I ended up joining in the fun (okay, I completely took over after Dan got him to the calm-snuggly phase).
He was so cuddly and squishy and needy and it was one of those moments I fantasized about before I had children. Me and my baby dolly alone in a dark room, the nightlight softly glowing. I rocked him back and forth, humming nonsensically soothing songs. I kissed his peach fuzz and gently squoze him. He nuzzled into me, batting his sweet sleepy eyes, his bottom lip sucking and fluttering in and out.
I knew what he wanted. I knew I still had it and I knew I had to either give it to him right then or abandon him and go have “the talk” with Dan about whether or not we were ready for round three of Operation Repopulate Seattle with Attractive Small People.
I thought “Seattle needs more cuteness and we need to start that crusade tonight” was a pretty hard sell.
So I offered my weaned-two-months-ago-but-his-mom-still-inexplicably-has-the-goods bubby a taste of the special milk “he” had been missing so desperately.
Yeah.
He acted like I was trying to jam my elbow down his throat.
My appendages bashfully retreated as he walked off arm in arm with his new girlfriend.
“Mom, I’m with Nuby now.”
Yeah, whatever. Suck rubber. What do I care?
~This post inspired by Jess~
Thanks to Lauren for pointing me towards this after reading my interview over at mommybloggers.com.
Here’s the excerpt she was referring to:
Mommybloggers: We love that you host Daring Family Freestyle Rap Battles. In fact, we’re thinking that there needs to be a way to incorporate it into BlogHer 2007. Can you give us a sample of your lyrical prowess?Kathryn:
Get yer tooth-BRUSH from the vanity, OOO let’s fight cavities
You better put away the play-doh, this moment
You own it, you better never let it go
Crusty. You only get one tub, do not miss your chance to show
Grammy your sculpture once before bedtime, yo
You really don’t get the whole experience with just the words on the page. If you could picture me as one of the white moms on Oprah trying to “get down” with one fist raised in the air, attempting some wooden-legged booty-poppin’ as they watched Mary J. Blige perform recently, you’d feel like you were actually there in our living room for a DFFRB. Laylee and Dan like to add some flava with a sweet two-fingered wiggedy-wiggedy faux-vinyl-spinning maneuver which I plan to incorporate into my own routines at some future date.
The tips on the WikiHow Site are invaluable and I’m sure the flo will be more flo-inacious after I read through those a couple of times. I especially like the part where it explains that to “spit” in rap culture does not mean the “forcible expulsion of saliva from the mouth”. Thanks. We are all so much more “down” now.
******
Oh, and the Blog This tattoos are gone. I still have a few MommyBlogHer tatts for any mommas out there who want them.
My good friends, parents of Big Moses (the underwear swapping boy), are jumping ship and moving to California. As a faithful Seattle area resident for the past 3+ years, I find this traitorous move extremely unforgivably traitorous.
I just got the invitation to their going away shindig and it has been asked that we bring nothing but fruit to the memorial services, at Big Daddy Mo’s request. It was listed as his “final” request.
This is troubling to me on many levels. Will there be a firing squad after the beach ball volleyball? Is he too good for The Best Cookies in the State of Washington? In his fruitalicious plea, is he suggesting something about the people of California or his fellow Washingtonians? Dude. We can’t even bring granola?
And finally, if you’re reading this Big Mamma Mo — so help me if this is the final request I get out of you. Seriously, if we lose contact — I will hunt you down and I’m gonna be wielding something more powerful than a piece of fruit.
There is no orange or purple either.
Dark pink?
Yes.
Orangy Pink?
Yes.
Purplish pink?
Also affirmative.
Laylee wanted you to know that.
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I just wrote what I like to think is my last post about BlogHer… for this week… and it’s being hosted over at the Mommybloggers’ site. They were nice enough to hand out (read this: attack people and brand them with) custom-made washable tatts at ye olde conference.
For those of you who were unable to attend, I accidentally grabbed about 30 of them from the table the last night (I swear they said something about “take as many as you’d like”)
If you’d like one of these fabulous tattoos, email me your address, tell me which one you want, swear a blood oath that you’ll email me a picture of yourself wearing it, and I’ll mail you a tattoo as a service to the town, courtesy of the Mommybloggers.
Then I’ll post a gallery of all the tattoees with links to your blogs.
***I’ll let you know when they’re gone***
This post originally appeared on The Parenting Post on August 7, 2006.
It was me. I let them in and I make no apologies. I made the uniform before she was old enough to say “huntsman,” “dwarves” or “Michael Eisner’s marketing empire.” I bought the videos. I spent the ten bucks at Home Depot and put the removable stickers up all over her room.
In my grey‐hoodie‐wearing‐leatherman‐carrying‐aspiring‐ documentary‐film‐makering days, I swore that if I ever had children, they would not know what a Disney princess was, let alone have a room littered with them.
Then came an itty-bitty thing called reality.
I gave birth to a girly girl and I suddenly wanted to shroud her in pink satin and staple very small bows to her bald head.
As a new mother, I grew a memory and an overwhelming sense of nostalgia for the princess-loving days of my tomboy childhood. I always wanted to be Snow White, but with an older sister who was much more feminine than me, I was doomed to remain a prince for all time and I was not going to deprive my daughter of the girlish joy of make-believe.
I made a conscious choice to dip my family’s feet into the world of mainstream media and now I get to decide whether the princess stickers go in the cart, whether we buy the shoes with Dora on them, how many minutes of TV we watch a day and what makes up those minutes.
I hear so many parents of young children talking about how they can’t stand the fact that their entire house is covered in Teletubbies paraphernalia or how they’re so sick of listening to alternative metal music but Little Timmy just can’t get enough of Korn. “We’ve spent so much money following their tour around the country, painting Timmy’s nursery black, getting his tattoo and fashioning pictures of the band members into an attractive mobile for his room. I can’t wait for him to outgrow this stage.”
To the parents I hear saying this type of thing, I have to ask: What time do your children put you to bed at night and are you allowed to sleep with a sippy cup?
