New England Mamas

Zig Zag Zone

Last Friday, I was home with the boyz.  A day off for good behavior Good Friday.  But Hubby had to work (heh).  What to do?  What to do?

Clean?  Nah.

Cook?  Nah.

Chuck E. Cheese?  OH HELLS NO.

I remembered that a friend had recommended an indoor playground in Milford, MA, but we had yet to venture there.  Friday seemed like as good a day as any.

So the boyz (ages 6, 3-1/2 and 2-1/2) and I headed to the Zig Zag Zone at the John Smith Sports Center.

And we were not disappointed.  The cost was $7 per child, but no fee for me (it amazes and angers me that some indoor playplaces actually charge admission for adults!). 

The boyz played.  And played.  And climbed.  And slid down the slides.  And jumped in the bouncy house.  I didn't know what to expect, so I hadn't brought anything but my purse.  I was, in fact, bummed that I hadn't brought a book or magazine for myself!

It was completely age appropriate for all 3 of them and they truly had a blast (and GREAT naps that afternoon--bonus!)

Care to join us next time? 

This Part of Spring Stinks!

Won't you join me in my gripe-fest, o fellow New Englanders?  Here's a list of reasons why I hate this part of the season here:

*Obviously, the weather.  The notion of spring connotates green grass, flowers in bloom, milder temps.  Not so much here.  We're still at least a month away from real spring.

*The winter fat gained; ie., the muffin top.

*Pale, sickly white skin that looks even more ghostly when compared to the lucky few who glowingly return from places south.  Hi Kate!

*The fact that the stores are displaying bathing suits (and have been since February) makes me PIMMAL (puke in my mouth a little).

*The lonely clumps of dirty snow that slowly disappear - - that is, until the inevitable snowfall accumulation in April.

*Being sick of wearing the same winter wardrobe, yet having no desire to dress one's self in spring attire, knowing the temp won't get above 40 degrees.

*The hair growth.  I'm gonna need a John Deere to rid this bod of its winter fur.  Uhhh...am I the only Sasquatch?

*Spring cleaning.  Yuck.

On the bright side?

It's spring!  Scurry outside and play, children!  Don't forget your hats and mittens!  Momma will wipe your snotsicles after you've had some fresh spring air!

Sarah's Thursday Randomness

Did anyone else catch the spectacularly gorgeous New England sunrise this morning?  (I was driving to catch the train when I saw it--lest you think I specifically awoke just to view it.  Please.)

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I heard that our very own Clay Buchholz is dating a Penthouse model.  Awww....his mother must be soooo proud.  (My boyz will not EVER be allowed to date, thankyouverymuch.)

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One word--Ewwwwww!  (Ok, so that's not really even a word, but it's all I could come up with.)  Just ewwwww.

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This morning, Eldest gleefully discovered the free Matchbox car that came in the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  Well, Middle had a meltdown.  He WANTED that car!  Commence copious sobbing and hysterics from my almost 4-year old.  Now, mind you, we already have 863 Matchbox cars scattered throughout the Trenches.  Thankfully, in a rare heartwarming act of Big Brother Kindness, Eldest handed over the cheap coveted car to Middle.  Crisis averted.

Funny thing is, I totally remember my siblings and I being the exact same way when were were younger.  Ahhh, the timeless lure of the chintzy cereal box prize.  Nonetheless, I swear from now on I'm only buying Cheerios.

Money Grubbing Bahstahds

Dear Jonathan,

I liked you.  I really did.  You seemed like such a carefree young dude (the dancing) having the time of your life (the World Series win), loving the wild ride and intensity of being an ace closer (the fist pumping.)

But now?  Just SHUT UP already!

"I feel like with me being at the top of my position, I feel like that standard needs to be set and I'm the one to set that standard."

So you're declaring yourself #1?  Sounds a little conceited to me, Mister.  And I'm sure that statement will hardly make opposing hitters want to crush the ball on your lace-shirted-wearing watch, buddy.

"At the same time, I feel a certain obligation to not only myself and my family to make the money that I deserve, but for the game of baseball."

That you deserve?!  Because over a half million dollars won't put food on your table? (or in your dog's mouth?)  And you're demanding this money for the integrity of baseball?  Puh-leeze.

Let's just call bullshit  a spade a spade, okay Paps?  You're greedy.  You've caught this ugly trait (that spreads in locker rooms faster than an STD, apparently) just like many most of your cohorts in the realm of professional sports.

But, hey, who am I to call you out?  Despite all this, we the fans will nonetheless continue to tune in, to cheer you on, and to root for our team's success. 

We will do this cheering, though, from the comfort of our middle-class living rooms, as we lament the fact that it's impossible for most families to afford a day at the ballpark (unless they choose to sacrifice their grocery money for the week, that is.)

And you say you want, no.... need....how many millions?

Sincerely,

A Disgusted Mother of Little Boyz Who Idolize You

Attack of the Working Mother Guilt

My work hours are from 8:45 to 4:45, Monday through Friday.

Sounds about normal, right?

HOWEVER...

When I factor my commute time into the equation, including the time I'm driving in the car to get to/from the train station...to get to/from Boston...

I am away from the Trenches for practically 60 hours a week.

Talk about a light bulb moment punch in the face.

Wow.

*sigh*

This factoid was made even more crystal clear yesterday morning as I was getting ready to leave and Baby had a meltdown.

We had been snuggling together on the couch, watching this DVD (still his favorite after all this time!).  He still had that morning, breakfast syrupy, pee pee diaper, little boy smell.  I gave him our usual "a kiss, a hug, and a squeeeeze!" and went to gather my belongings.

Cue hysteria.

(Meanwhile, Eldest and Middle were in another room, fully absorbed in the hijinks on Home Alone 2 and had both barely acknowledged my impending departure with nonchalant see-yas.  Thankfully.)

So I trudged into the kitchen, coat on, work bag slung over my shoulder to find Baby, in full spread-eagle position, his footy-pajamaed pint-size body pressed up against the back door, crocodile tears mixing with snot running down his ruddy cheeks.

"You tan't doe, Mommy.  I no let you doe ta wurk."

Ooof.  My heart.

I remember one of my friends saying to me after I told her that I was going back to work full time, "Oh, you'll like your children so much more!"

'Tis true, Jodie.  'Tis true.

I appreciate family time on the weekends now.  In fact, I savor it.  Yet, at the same time, I realize that I'm failing to carve out moments to focus solely on the boyz, whether it's playing games, doing puzzles, coloring, or just simply snuggling.  Instead, I'm trying to multi-task, to be "fun Mommy who's home today", yet still complete all the household tasks and chores that I don't have the time for during the week--namely, laundry and cleaning.  So although I'm home physically--mentally?  Not so much.

[As an aside, Hubby has been simply amazing during my transition to full-time employment.  He does far more for the boyz AND in the Trenches than I ever expected, realized or dreamed.  Truly.]

Thus, I've mentioned to Hubby that it's my desire to take the boyz somewhere special for a weekend, like here or here.

Somewhere that we can enjoy being a family without the distractions of everyday life.

Somewhere the boyz can burn off their pent-up energy from being cooped up inside this long winter.

Somewhere Hubby and I can marvel at how far our family has come over the past 3 years.

Somewhere we can remark how thankful we are to finally be able to do something like this.

Somewhere we can breathe a sigh of relief that we're past diaper bags, bottles, and cribs!

So can you help me out?

1.  Your ideas for any fun family weekend getaways in New England; and

2.  Tips for maximizing family time on the weekends whilst minimizing The Guilt.

Global Warming and Team Pride

R.I.P., Mr. Snowman.

Date of Birth:  January 7, 2008
Date of Death:  January 8, 2008

Proof that with alcohol world peace can be achieved.

Joy to the World (Trenches Edition)

Joy to the world

Christmas is o'er

And Mommy's back at work.

The boyz are home

With Grams and Gramps

And eighty-million toys

(And zillions of twist-ties)

Yes, eighty, yes eighty

Zillion toys.

My house is trashed

With boxes and wrap

And needles off the tree.

And all the loot

Needs adult assembly

And batteries are required

And batteries are required

And batteries, and batteries

Are required.

Can't wait for Jan.

To rid the Trenches

Of all this Christmas crap.

Take down the tree

And lose some weight

And put away the toys (but where?)

And put away the toys (but where?)

And put, and put

Away the toys.

Tweet Tweet

We knew the time would come. Eldest is just starting to enlighten us with stories and such that he's learned on the school bus. Oh great.

Tonight at dinner, he blurted out with, "Matthew on the bus says that if you stick up your middle finger, it means a baaaaaaad word."

Hubby responded, very seriously, "YES, it does. Don't ever let me see you doing that, okay. It's really not nice. And it does mean something bad. Something very bad."

All was quiet for a moment.  And then Eldest offered, "I know what bad word it means."

I quietly choked on my spaghetti. Hubby took a deep breath and asked, "You do? What bad word is it?" as we both mentally braced ourselves for the F-bomb to come spilling forth out of our innocent 6 year old's mouth.

Eldest responded, "It means jerk."

Yep, yep it does, buddy.

Whew.

Scary Costume Magic

"A two year old is kind of like having a blender, but you don't have a top for it."  Jerry Seinfeld

Is your toddler a whirling dervish of energy, mischief and non-compliance?

Well, this Momma's got the cure:  How Costumed Characters Will Get Your Toddler to Listen to You!

Warning:  The following recommendation may cause hefty therapy bills (for your child) down the road. 

I took Middle and Baby to a locally-owned bookstore to meet Diego and Boots this past weekend.  (Yeah, I know, random.  Why not Dora and Boots?  Or Diego and Baby Jaguar?  Beats me.) 

The 3 of us were the first to arrive, even before the store employees had a chance to throw on the costumes guests of honor.  This gave me a chance to browse (I ended up buying this and this) while Middle and Baby methodically pulled books off the shelves perused the goods in the children's section.

Finally, Diego and Boots came traipsing out.  We were quite a distance away, but lemme tell ya, as soon as Baby spotted them, his entire little body began quivering and quaking in fear.  He scurried up the front of me, screaming, "Buh-bye.  Go buh-bye NOW" over and over again as I held him.  So because I didn't want to cheat Middle out of a photo op getting to see them up close, I set Baby down on a little stepstool, where he rigidly remained, chocolate cookie in hand, shaking and sobbing and chanting, "Buh-bye, buh-bye, buh-bye..."

Now, I had changed a poopy diaper of Baby's just before we left the Trenches.  When I picked him up to leave the bookstore, he had pooped again.  Yep, Diego and Boots scared the crap out of him.  Literally.

But get this:  This incident has actually been 100% effective in getting Baby to listen to me these days!  If he doesn't do what I say, I simply threaten him that we're getting in the car to go see Diego and Boots RIGHT NOW.  (Are you getting a clear sense of his future therapy bills?)

Summary:  Unintentionally scaring the shit out of a Terrible Two-year old gives Mommy some leverage (and blog fodder!)