He's So Great, He's Not Even Here

So my little pumpkin has grown so much since the last time I've written. He was a tad behind in talking compared to other kids his age, but overall, he's doing well. However, being lazy, there is one habit that I never corrected in my 4-year-old angel- he speaks in third person.

I should have said something to correct him earlier, however Facebook was kind of fascinating that year so I guess I let it slide. So now my little cherub refers to his room as "Caleb's room." For example, if I say to him, "You need to sleep in your room tonight" he responds with "No! Caleb sleeps in Mama's room!" and before the night is over with, he's kicking me in the stomach and poking out my eyes.

The bad thing is that I didn't even notice that the boy was doing it. My nephew pointed it out to me. It took me back to a conversation that I had with a friend where he said that its like people that speak in third person are so great that they're not here. And that's what my little munchkin is. I kind of like the thought of my kid being conceited. What better way to show he's my child than to be a little asshole?

I like the thought of him being 17-years-old and telling people to "kiss Caleb's ass" or being 24 and him telling people that "Caleb said fuck off." Of course, he could be a nice adult and simply say "Caleb doesn't feel like being bothered by you right now" or even "Caleb is close to stabbing you so if you know what's good for you, you'll get the hell out of Caleb's face" (I'm willing to bet that as a child of mine, this will come out of his mouth at least once).

If I had it to do over again, I probably would have corrected this behavior a long time ago. But then again, he's a pretty awesome kid and if anyone deserves to speak in third person, he does.

And Malika will kick your butt if you don't like it.

The Bed Time Battle

Some days I look at my little angel and think how perfect he is. Other days I just wish he'd not be so much like me. Our newest battle entails bed time. The problem is that my little pumpkin has made his internal clock match mine, which I'm really hating.

Granted, it's awesome to be able to sleep until well after noon, and to not go to sleep until 3 a.m., the problem is that my little shadow has adopted my same sleeping pattern. I should be upset that he sleeps all day, but trust me, I've got no problem with that. If he wants to sleep until 2:30 in the afternoon while I do the same, more power to him. The problem is that he wants to stay up with me also. If he wanted to go off into a corner and do what he wanted and knock off at midnight and leave me to my vices, I'd praise his wise decision. Instead he wants to stay wide awake until well into the morning and take away any chance I have of a moment of peace and quiet.

We've got to be the only family on the block where the 2-year-old is up at ungodly hours like this. And of course, to add insult to injury, on occasion I'll want to make an ice cream run while Daddy is sleeping hard and get ready to go to a hard job where he's over worked and under paid. And I can't even leave out because I'm afraid to walk into a grocery store in the middle of the night because I don't want to look like a terrible parent by having a child with me at 1 in the morning, not for important food, but for nibbles like potato chips.

On the rare times that I have taken him on a late night run, I feel like I owe the few other patrons an explanation. I remember how I was when I was childless and I saw a young child in the grocery store. Oh how I sniveled and thought about how simple it has to be to lay a child down and make them go to sleep. If only I'd known then what I know now. Every time we pass another shopper, how I long to explain to them that he's taken after my tendency to sleep like a homeless drug addict, but that doesn't make me a bad mother. It's the other things they don't see that make my mothering skills questionable. I know that I look unfit having him in his little jammies out at 3 a.m., but it would have been way worse if I'd have left him home. At least I am responsible enough to bring him. Not like he'd let me leave his sight without putting up a huge hissy fit, but still. And to answer the question of the eyes of the other patrons in the store, YES it was worth it for me to come out the house at that time of night for freaking orange juice.

Anyway, I love my son. He truly is perfect. I guess perfection is the curse that comes with having a mother like me.

Holiday Hilarity: How to Deal With the In-Laws

When little girls carry around baby dolls and brush their hair and hold imaginary bottles to them, little do they realize what marriage and children really bring- holidays with your in-laws. Sure your own family is pretty crazy, but they’re a functional kind of crazy. Unlike your in-laws who you are sure half of the fake episodes of Jerry Springer are based off of. This is your guide for how to deal with your in-laws. Just remember that if these tips result in divorce or you being hog-tied, the author can't be held legally responsible. (but if either of those does happen please email me so that I can laugh mercilessly at you)

Alcohol, Lots and Lots of Alcohol- The easiest way to deal with the Holidays with the in-laws is to be lubricated before you hit the door.

Say What You Mean- If you think that your husband’s aunt’s stuffing tastes like puke, you have every right to say so.

Be Indiscreet- What better time to talk about the things you, your husband, and your marriage counselor have discussed than the dinner table in front of his extended family?

Talk Politics- It is your right to tell the family that you think that Barack Obama is a sellout and that Ron Paul should have been elected instead.

Announce That You Are an Atheist- Merry Christmas? Bah humbug!! There is no God. Religion is the opiate of the masses. Christianity has been used to silence the poor and suffering. This conversation is always a winner over the table.

Talk About That Rash that Won’t Go Away- That itchy thing on your backside is no joke. The table would also probably appreciate you being willing to show it.

Announce That You Are a Communist- The only reason we even celebrate the Holidays is so that corporate sponsors can make money on people buying expensive crappy gifts and food. Yeah, they make the money while the poor people in the factories make squat. What’s to celebrate about perpetuating the lie that the rich are unhappy?

Breakfast of Champions

I have relatively few flaws (it's true!), however there is one that slightly affects my mothering skills. Its just that I hate mornings. Somehow my son inherited, from my mother, an uncanny ability to wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with the sunrise. I consider this to be his one and only flaw. Aside from mommy not wanting to get the hell out of her warm bed, mommy also has to deal with her little angel suddenly having the gall to be hungry. How dare he want food after nine hours or more of sleeping?!

So anyway, therein lies my dilemma. Mama wants sleep, the boy wants food. I wish that I could say that I normally win this fight, but I'm not a liar (well at least I'm not in my blog). I'm proud to say that there have been mornings where I've been able to trick his little belly into going back to sleep. Sometimes I'll groggily walk into the kitchen and hand my little Pumpkin two slices of raisin bread and I'll let him wash it down with some juice. That's when I will walk back into my room with my little angel following behind me. The carbs and the heaviness of the bread and juice will then make my little dumpling fall back asleep at the same time that I do.

Those are the good days.

On other days, I'm forced to drag my butt into the kitchen to fix him something more substantial. I hate those days. Now for those of you that don't know, I'm quite a proficient cook. I love to cook beautiful and bright displays for a house full of loving guests. However, that Malika doesn't kick in until well after 12 noon or for the occasional Sunday family breakfast. What my little pumpkin is stuck with is whatever the hell mom can throw together. On his lucky days, I'll muster up the energy to make him some pancakes from scratch. Well if you consider from scratch me mixing the powder with water, yeah, they're from scratch. Sometimes we have cereal when mommy hasn't finished it off the night before, for dinner. Other times I'll just fix him whatever won't require me to do much. Is there leftover spaghetti? Spaghetti for breakfast! Leftover pizza? Pizza for breakfast! Fried chicken and stuffing? Fried chicken and stuffing for breakfast!

I feel almost kind of slightly guilty when I look at all of those psa's about how important breakfast is for children. Not really. But then I actually do feel kind of guilty when I talk to a friend of mine who is superwoman. Her children are always so well behaved and neat. And she actually managed to get her children on a schedule. Wow. I wonder what that's like. Anyway she'll tell me how she manages to fix the children oatmeal with bits of fruit or how she'll make them eggs, turkey sausage, and toast. She does all of this before I even wake up. Oh well, my son is still healthy, smart as a whip, and happy. Well he's not too happy during breakfast, but I'm not programmed to care about his happiness before noon. The microwave is my friend! And I'll be damned if I'll let anyone take it out of my cold, dead fingers.

I'm starting to think that the microwave was invented by a bored housewife that also hated mornings. And I love her for it.

Celeb Mommies- I'm So Over It

I try to consider myself one of those “I don’t read the tabloids because I have better things to do with my time" kind of women but, well, that’s a huge lie. Actually if you’re moderately media savvy, you can’t help but to know which celeb starlet and her rocker/actor/athlete boyfriend/husband have decided to have the newest must-have accessory, a child. This new trend is so irritating for those of us regular stay at home moms. And don’t even get me started on celeb women that get divorced and suddenly they become Superwoman. I’m sure I’m not the only one that wishes they’d just collapse into a big ball of melted plastic.

First there’s the media watch of when she’ll drop her bundle of joy and then there’s the grand display where they pimp (I mean “show”) their new baby to the world. And let’s be honest here, our kids are normally way cuter than their kids anyway. Yet a whole three weeks after giving birth, we’ll see said starlet showing off her post baby body, where she’s somehow lost 40 lbs. in 15 minutes. Then the magazine will do a spread with her where she’ll say that she’s managed to do lose all of that weight by eating a sensible balanced diet and working out 6 days a week. So she’s now back to 115 lbs, and you’re still holding on to that extra 20 lbs that you’ve put on since high school, and were’ not even going to start on the baby weight and flab. It’s so frustrating, it makes you want to throw your Doritos at her.

It ticks me off the most because they make it seem so hard, yet so easy. They say “Yeah, I work hard with my personal trainer Ricardo and I eat a light sensible dinner.” I’m raising my hand to call bullsh*t.

First, she has a personal trainer. Seriously, if we could afford a personal trainer who cost $100/hr to come to our homes and work out in our personal gyms, wouldn’t we all do it? Not only that, can I see a show of hands of the women that have a small village of nannies to tend to their new born pumpkins while they work their flabby butts off? And then don’t get me started on what a “sensible” dinner means. Having a healthy meal that tastes good can’t be that hard when you’ve got a classically trained personal chef to prepare meals in your home. I’d love to see a regular new mom get back into her pre-baby jeans eating just microwaved Lean Cuisine dinners. I’d bet all $5 in my son’s college fund that the personal chef’s meal is a lot healthier and taste a lot better. Of course we’ll probably never know that since the only chef you know of is Boy Ardee.

Those little starlets make it seem like they’ve sacrificed and worked so hard. They don’t work nearly as hard as the woman who has her baby and six weeks later she’s back at her office. And when she’s not at her office, rather than hitting the gym, she’s home with her new child because seriously, who can hit the gym when you’ve got a new child? Call me nuts (not that you’d be the first) but where are all of the hours in the day that allow for us to hit the gym for hours at a time after giving birth? Not only that, who’s trying to work hard to prepare a home cooked dinner at that time? When you’ve got a new born, your trips to the grocery store are quick and targeted. Who’s got time to read labels and go low-carb? Your new goal is to leave the grocery store before your new cherub makes you look like Neglectful Mommy of the Year by hollering because you didn’t pick him up and take him home the moment he started to fuss.

Now on to my other pet peeve- The Newly Divorced Celebrity Woman. I should probably pity her, but I truly see no reason to do so. Granted, she’s lucky to get away from her celebrity douche bag husband, I’ll give her that. But I get so annoyed when celeb women get divorced and they want to go crying to magazines about how they’re new women and shedding their skin, and blah blah blah. Give me a break. I don’t know too many women that haven’t had at least one long term asshole boyfriend or husband. It’s darned near a rite of passage. So what makes these women so fascinating because they got divorced? Personally, I wish I could have taken a long retreat to the Bahamas to clear my head when I broke up with my asshole boyfriend. Or sometimes those women will say how they stayed in bed for days at a time. Sorry sweetie, but when most of us have man troubles, we don’t have nannies and maids that tend to our kids and our homes while we comfort our inner child and pity ourselves from our bedrooms.

So there you have two of my many celeb pet peeves. I could fill an encyclopedia full of my celeb pet peeves, but I’ve got a family to tend to and I’ve got to get started on our dinner of boxed macaroni and cheese. I gave my personal chef the day off.

Toodles,
malika