An early Mutha's Day

Last night, as I'm soaking up the Philadelphia Congress of 1776, enjoying a spring evening of open windows, I heard holy hell breaking loose. Some damn cats were dukin' it out as I was trying to progress through McCullough's Pulitzer-Prize winning, "John Adams." Feeling way too lazy to check out the melee, and rather proud of myself that I'm actually interested in this behemoth, I remained between the sheets. And eventually the screeching and hissing ceased.

Soon my husband came to bed, at which point I started hearing a little peep, like a song bird was awake at 11 p.m. Odd, but small pox inoculations were taking place in Boston and I needed to see how Abigail Adams was faring. Maybe the periodic peeping was Marty's breathing? Nope, that log sawing was far from a peep. Back to the British Fleet sailing from Halifax. The peeping, though soft and infrequent, continued. Then it hit me, "Could Sally have had her babies?"

Sally is our resident Queen Bee and given she's the ripe old age of 2 gives you an indication of how long cats last at our place, and what sluts they are. This was pregnancy #3 for this hussy. Last spring was her first pregnancy and she, along with her sister, Brachiosaurie (yes, like the really tall herbivore dino), were both "heavy with child."

I'd heard cats can struggle to connect with their inner mommy so I kept my expectations low, and good thing because Brachiosaurie was the first to drop . . . and she did so out in the lawn and left 'em there. Nice. Of course, we didn't know this until I happened to glance in the window well where the cats tend to congregate and saw her chewing on a rabbit, or so I thought! Aaaaaaaaa!!!!!! She was disposing of the ugly truth. It's hard to pet her without remembering the image of little paws hanging out of her mouth. Did I just share that? Could it possibly get more macabre? Buckle up, little campers!

Sally dropped. It was the morning of Moira's kindergarten field trip and I spotted tiny, mewing rats in the window well. Marty and I leapt into action as I was determined to hold Sally accountable for her easy ways. We quickly moved Sally, mid-delivery, onto our enclosed porch. Two kitties were moved with her, only to be joined by four more. After a couple days, she looked like any normal, haggard mother, but we kept her there. And she didn't do too bad. She only ate one of 'em.

It was not an easy time. It was June 1st and the kitties were about 3 weeks old. My country gramma had died two weeks earlier and my city gramma, that morning. So after a few hours with my sisters and parents (the kids were occupied elsewhere), I arrived home to find a HEADLESS kitten laying abandoned in the middle of the porch floor! Oh My Loving God in Heaven!!! Frantically I called my brother-in-law, a large animal vet, and with his eternal calm (and sarcasm) he told me, "Hmmm. Never heard a that before. Guess she took care of that problem." WHAT? My kids piss me off plenty, but never in my life have I thought, "with a little salt . . ."

But back to last night. With the occasional peep still sounding, I could no longer take the suspense and grabbed a flashlight. And there in the window well lay a fresh litter of seven soft, mewing baby kitties. And Sally was staying with them! In fact, after I grabbed a towel and began moving the little ones into a laundry basket, Sally started growling! Maybe she's feeling 'Mommy-dom?' Third time's a charm, they say. (Oh, No. 2 pregnancy? We'll never know. She went on 'walk about' one day last fall and returned a lot thinner.) Anyway, Sally let me move her and her kids to the safety of the porch where they'll remain until we get the Kitty Clubhouse built tomorrow.

So far, she hasn't broken out the cutlery, but it looks like the little ones did. She appears to have lost an ear. . .

and the desire for sobriety. Is that scotch I smell on her breath?

Nope, not plastic

So, I was wrong when I assumed the thing hanging out Sidney's ass was a sheet of plastic. It was a chewed up pair of my underwear. Nice. I think a mental picture is sufficient.

Butt-munchin' nasty

In keeping with the gross theme, why is it that puppies are such a pain in the ass? I haven't had to deal with the 'puppy' stage in 11 years and age has not mellowed my aversion to it. I remember our beloved Tuttle, the biggest pain my backside will ever encounter. My husband and I were engaged and had just bought a house, but were living in 2 different places. The house was in my town so until my soon-to-be hubber transferred, I lived with the pup (who was a birthday/wedding gift to my husband from his brother . . . ah gee, you really shouldn't have). It was the longest couple of weeks of my life.

Tuttle was all lab, all crazy, all the time. I'd heard chocolate was lethal to dogs so I left out a plate of chocolate donuts (I know, horrible) but all it did was give her a sugar rush! Couple this with her discovery of a box of PowerBars and she was flippin' INSANE! And chew? She chewed off the bottom corner of our stairway, she chewed off the corner of my husband's grandmother's cedar chest, she took out shoes and table legs and anything she could latch her jaw onto. In spite of this, Tuttle had a very redeeming sweet nature and she was also pretty decent with her bowels. She apparently just chewed, she didn't swallow.

Enter Sidney. Sidney is the 6-month-old beagle we acquired after Tuttle went to that big yard in the sky back in January due to a spinal injury of which I had nothing to do. Sidney came to us all scared and sweet and tiny, about 8 weeks old, and just so yummy! She'd nap on your neck and was so short she couldn't climb the stairs. And she'd have her accidents, but her cuteness and guilt always trumped the poop. Until yesterday. . .

I was upstairs resting my bleary, infected eye ball while Sidney raced around the house, super excited everyone was home from work and school. My son was watching Scooby Doo while Moira was playing her organ. Sidney was teasing the cats relentlessly so I got up to put her outside only to find a little poop on the stairs, and another little poop by the coat closet (somebody shit on the coats!), and another little poop in front of the basement door, and another little poop in the dining room, and another little poop in the office, and another little poop rubbed into the carpet in the living room . . . FUCK!!!

I turned around to look for the shit demon and found her sniffing her crotch and then dragging ass across the floor with what looked like a sheet of plastic hanging out of it!!! FUCKITY FUCK!!! Unlike Tuttle, who ate organic matter, Sidney will eat anything she chooses, which is why we had to set the litter box a little higher. (To be honest, finding that little beagle butt backing out of the litter box hole with a . . . um 'tootsie roll' disappearing in her mouth is probably the nastiest thing I've ever seen.) Anyway, Sidney had apparently chosen to eat something that was non-organic, and relatively long and in one piece and, obviously, not fully digested. The partially digested part was hanging out her ass!

A wee bit of me felt sorry for her, but the spitting-mad part shoved her outside and set to cleaning. Is there anything worse than canine feces in yo' crib? I feel so violated.

Not for boys or the easily grossed out

I was just over at the Mama Bird Diaries reading a short, but sweet tampon story. And it got me thinking, I have not had to worry about any of that crap in over 5 years!!! See, after my son was born, I had to look into different birth control methods and knew I lacked the discipline for pill taking and didn't like my previous experience with the Depo shot. So, I opted for the Mirena IUD. And it's been wonderful. No weight gain, no mood swings, and best of all, no periods! But it's only good for 5 years and I'm within a couple of weeks of hitting that deadline.

I just don't know what to do. I know that I should allow my body to return to its nature cycling which means I'll be back into all that pad, 'pon stuff which really doesn't rock my boat. I'm not too pumped about putting even more paper products into use and am looking into alternatives. One is this little reusable cup that collects the shed uterine lining (trying to not be too gross here). I like this idea, not sure how good it will work, but from a disgustingly 'granola' stand-point, I could then pass the 'cup' to our baby trees that we're trying to grow! All those nutrients are sure to help make them beautiful!

Hey, some people make placenta soup after birth. Others dig holes and plant trees along with their placentas. So this idea isn't that bad, is it?

It's not about me

With a few hours having elapsed since Miss Moira's recital, I've had time to digest this whole 'dance' thing. Honestly, I'm so damn happy dance is done. I have deeply, overwhelmingly dreaded Mondays for the past 8 months. The crazy get-off-work-early-to-get-Moira-out-of-school-early-and-drive-30-miles-to-the-studio-and-hurry-up-and-change-into-tights-and-leotards-and-then-DANCE chaos fried me every friggin' week! I hated it! But I kept doing it because she said she wanted to, and Mo hasn't had the easiest of times in her short 8 years.

Being born with a cleft lip and palate, she's suffered through a few surgeries and has another big one coming up in June. So dance was something special and extra, just for her. But dance wasn't something I would have chosen for her. As previously indicated, I was hoping for the more outdoorsy kind of team stuff like the soccer and t-ball she tried and didn't like. If you knew me, you'd know I'm not a tutu kinda mom. Unless of course my son's wearing it, that's a different story. (Go with your cross-dressin' bad self, Mac Daddy!)

But whether she dances or doesn't, it's not about me. Rather, it's about giving my kids the chance to try different things. I'd hope that through some of this trial and error, my kids will find things they have passions for, but if they don't, who gives. Again, if people want to judge me, the line starts with the crack of my ass. And speaking of ass, there's a lot of it out there, especially in the parenting world.

I am so lucky to live in the time of reality tv. "Lucky?" you question. Yes, because I get to see just how whack many parents are over their children's entertainment futures. There was the horrible Bravo show, "Showbiz Moms & Dads," Vh1's really mental, "I Know My Kid's a Star," and most recently, on Bravo's "The Real Housewives of New York City," there was the absurdly ignorant Ramona who pushed her lovely Avery into modeling and acting when the kid said she valued school above all that. (Talk about taking a hint from our youth!) These are individuals who really need to not have children.

What I gain from watching these train wrecks, however, is how much my children's successes and failures are NOT ABOUT ME! Do I want my daughter and son to excel and achieve and succeed and be tops in whatever they do? You bet your ass! But I know from my own experience that life doesn't come with a rewind button, my parents could not have done anything different to effect the way I turned out. That means they get just as much credit for the good stuff I've done (and I've done well) as for the many fuckups I've incurred (we lost count long ago).

So while I continue to trudge the road of parenthood, I know that at any given moment, I'm doing the best I can and my children suffer those consequences. Sometimes my best is pretty damn good. Sometimes it's piss poor. But so far, I've got two fabulous kids who contribute through friendships to the world around them. And is that my doing? Some would argue, "Yes," but I reason that even at ages 8 and 5, they are continually taking on more responsibility for who they are becoming. I simply allow opportunities for their growth.

So was dance an opportunity for growth? I don't know, I think more time needs to pass before that verdict becomes clear. I know it's something I'm still not too fond of and Moira, admittedly, isn't that crazy over, either. As of today, she does not want to take dance again. (Cool!)

I laughed! I cried! I'd pay another $828!

I'm still frazzled. Today was my 8-year-old daughter's first dance recital. And she did so well that I'm getting a little sniffly just thinking about it! I am so proud of her. Miss Moira is an independent soul, known for her free-spirit, her devil-may-care spunk. Her typical speed is Mach 10, but put her on a soccer or t-ball field and you might as well have slipped her a Xanax. In general, the world just doesn't go fast enough for Miss Moira. She's a busy little bee. (Yes, there are loads of parents who think their child is the inspiration for that pink, drum-beating bunny, but they've never met Moira. She's that wabbit's muse.)

Which is why a few years ago when we tried kiddie soccer, I was truly baffled at her lack of interest. All her buddies (along with the ball) would be at one end of the field while Moira would be laying in the grass at the other end, counting the blades or staring at the clouds, or simply running for the sidelines groaning, "I'm tired." WHAT?!?! So we tried t-ball, and again, kicking in the dirt, picking her nose, wearing her glove on her head, waving to fans. She simply couldn't be bothered with this sports business.

So after she finished last summer's t-ball season, I asked if she'd like to try dance. Yup. So, since September, every Monday we'd travel to dance class where I'd sit in the observation hallway and cringe as Miss Moira would float off and press her mug against the two-sided mirrors to make faces at me. Cute, initially, but soon got old.

I love my daughter, more than any word or phrase could express, and I would never want her to be anyone, but her crazy, nutso self, but I can't lie. It's not fun sitting on the sidelines and watching your kid shoot off into la-la land EVERY class/practice/match/game. I hate that I get so frustrated. I am a believer in wanting my children to be whoever THEY want to be, and if people are going to judge me according to my childrens' successes or failures, they can bite me!

I don't need Moira to be some superstar, I'd just like her to participate. And she struggled to pay attention in dance and I could see how her frenetic pace grated on the instructor (a whole different story), but a shift occurred. Some time in February, Moira started to appear interested in dance and I saw her gain focus.

And when she took the stage, first for the ballet routine, and later, for the tap, she did a really nice job. I totally started crying. Were the routines memorized to perfection? Heck, no! But it was beautiful and worth all the driving and time and money involved. It makes me think of those schmaltzy Master Card commercials:

8 months of tuition=$224
1,920 miles of driving=$300

Tap shoes, ballet slippers, leotards, tights, and a costume=$160

Professional photos and a DVD copy of the show=$60

Recital tickets for 12=$84

Watching your daughter tap and arabesque her heart out=Priceless

My dinosaur's growing!

So last week, as I'm getting ready for work, I yelled downstairs to my 5-year-old son, "You okay, Honey?" He yelled back something that I mistook for, "My dinosaur's growing!" I assumed that he was just fine and continued to get dressed. Only after I got downstairs did I realize what he really said . . . "Mommy! My penis growed!"

Jesus . . . Mary . . . And Joseph . . .

Being the oldest of 4 GIRLS (my brother grew up with my dad and step-mom) I know all there is to know about boobies and bras, cycles and pads, Aqua Net and crimp irons. Heck, I even did a stint as a sex-ed teacher, educating 4th and 5th graders about the changes they can expect with puberty. "Can you believe that all these changes start in the BRAIN?!"

Anyway, I always believed I was destined to have 3 daughters. See, my mother was the oldest of 5 girls, I was the oldest of 4, so naturally I would have 3. But after my first-born daughter, a boy. Um. Whoa. Don't mistake this for crestfallen, however. My son has been an unexpected riot since birth when his big, giant melon got hung up in the pelvis. This nearly 10 pound behemoth came out of the womb carrying a kindergarten satchel. Word around my hospital room was, "He doesn't look like a newborn!"

And as he grew, he proved to me that some things are just innately 'boy.' Like, say, crash sounds. I always wondered how my male classmates made such cool crash sounds. Turns out they didn't know either, they were just born with the talent. And guns? I was the mom who judged other moms (sorry) for ignorantly allowing toy guns in their homes. Then my son started building guns out of Legos, pushing his spoon handle between the tynes of his fork and saying 'boom.' Where did this come from?! But I've grown accustomed. That is, until IT 'growed.'

See, the penis has always seemed a very odd, comical organ. One that really didn't concern me until puberty at which point I found it slightly scary. I will always remember my grandmother telling me, "I loved your grandfather with his clothes on." Turns out she thought it a little strange, too. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm pretty fond of my husband's, but I must admit, I'm not that jiggy with others.

So when Big Mac came into the world, I needed to put on the Big Girl panties and deal. Especially given the uncircumcised nature of things, my husband and I decided we'd let our son make that decision himself. The uncircumcised penis needs more cleaning then your average 'helmeted' version, but it actually helped me take a very low-key attitude toward our son's member--it's just another part of the body, like your toes, your fingers, your elbows. And I believe in calling a spade, a spade. There was/is no "wiener" talk, no "donger" dialogue, no "wanker" wagging, no "pee pee" posturing.

So how I mistook the word dinosaur for penis, I'll never know, but when I walked around the couch and saw my son half naked, his first erection standing tall, I about fell over. Craaaaap! How do I handle this one? How do I stay positive, respectful, non-shaming? Averting my gaze by focusing on the dog, I said, "Wow, that's pretty cool! Now, let's get dressed and get going!"

Of course, that failed once he started to get dressed and discovered, "It won't go down!" Um. "Give it time, Sweetheart," I said with a bit of a chuckle. Fortunately, the hustle and bustle of getting out the door helped me to evade further discussion.

Oh Lord, I feel so inept.