At least he's learning

I had a long, long day yesterday. Nothing horrible happened; the kids were well behaved (or at least I didn't feel like drop kicking them out the door for the moose to trample), I did most of the things on my to-do list, and the weather was decent. I suppose was just tired. And I felt overwhelmed. So after dinner, I scooted back my chair, stood up, surveyed the damage in the kitchen and living room, remembered it was bath night, and promptly collapsed in a heap on the floor (purposefully - I didn't faint or anything. And I made sure I was on carpet before I did so.)

Millie, who is only two and does not fully understand the concept of drama (which is surprising, seeing as how she adds a great deal of it to my everyday life), began to fuss, no doubt worried for her poor, sad mama. Riley was strangely silent. Adam just wanted to know what was wrong.

"It's too much! I don't know where to start!" I moaned from my fetal position.

Cue Riley.

"Well, first you should get up and take your dishes to the sink. I always take my dishes to the sink right after I eat. You don't need to freak out about it, Mom. So stop freaking out. It's not a big deal!"

I didn't see the expression on his face as he gave me this little speech, but I imagine it was fraught with mock exasperation. He may have even muttered the word "goofball." I couldn't quite contain my laughter as I hauled myself up and collected my plate. "You're absolutely right," I told him. "Thank you very much."

So I got a dose of reality. From my five-year-old. That could have made it a pretty bad day indeed.

Except that it made it a great one.

Whoops

Dear moron who happens to be me,

Stop signs are octagonal, you nitwit.

Becky

P.S. Great hair today!

A request

Dear morons who also happen to be my neighbors,

Please do us all a favor and turn on your brain at the same time you turn on your car. I mean, I know it must be terribly confusing for you, but I'll make it simple: if you see a stop sign at the intersection of two roads, it means you're supposed to stop. Shocker, right? And in case you're unsure what a stop sign looks like, it's a red, hexagonal sign with, you guessed it, the word STOP. I really don't think it's too much to ask, do you? All I want is to be able to drive down my street without wondering if today will be my last day on earth. So no more tapping the brakes, or throwing a cursory glance down the road, or even barreling right on through. Just stop at the stop sign.

Your neighbor,
Becky

Toast

It is January in Alaska. (It is most likely January in other states as well, but I can't say for certain.) The sad truth of it is, January in Alaska is typically cold, ugly, dark, and depressing. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to blame January - it's a perfectly respectable month in all other regards - that's just how things are. And for me, January means something else: epiphanies. Sad, gloomy, self-esteem-robbing epiphanies that, thankfully, dissipate by mid-February when we start seeing a respectable amount of daylight.

This January is no different.

Epiphany, January 2010: In the great bakery of humanity, I am toast.

Don't try to argue, either. You don't argue with January epiphanies. It's bad luck. Besides, I've told you before, I'm not exciting or bubbly or outgoing. I'm toast. I'm toast, surrounded by cinnamon rolls (like my cool friend down the street who introduced me to the joys of sushi and uses the word "yo" in casual conversation) and chocolate cake (like my husband, who can act like an eight-year-old boy and somehow pull it off with great aplomb) and blintzes (like the produce guy at the grocery store who juggles oranges to distract my daughter from her tears while I'm trying to pick out tomatoes) and maple bars (like my sister, who is basically my hero). But I'm toast.

I wonder if I need a tattoo or a sports car or a strategically-placed piercing to pull me out of my funk. (Sadly, I can't afford any of those things this month because last month, I succumbed to a split-second moment of sentimentality and decided that when I go to visit my maple bar-esque sister over spring break, Riley should come with me. And plane tickets, as I'm sure you're aware, are not inexpensive.) Some days I feel so toast-like that I have to think of things I do well, to prove to myself that I am not toast: I'm a good cook; I'm a great housekeeper; I have a cool blog. But then my toast mentality takes over and I tell myself that lots of people can cook, and even more people can keep house. As for a blog, well, any idiot off the street can start a blog. (Hey, Paris! What up, LiLo?)

So what's a poor slice of toast to do?

Well, I'll tell you. I'm going to buy the sports car.

He, he. No. Not really.

I've decided to start validating myself instead of relying on others to validate me. I don't need a friend to think I'm cool so that I can think I'm cool. I don't need my husband to tell me I'm beautiful (although that's always nice to hear) in order to like the person I see in the mirror. And I certainly don't need to be "as good as" anyone else to be good at something.

Now, if someone could just tell tell me how to accomplish that, I'll get right on it...

Just some stuff

I have a new favorite game. It was invented by my favorite son and is possibly the best game known to man. And woman. It’s called Cat’s in the Can. I can’t divulge all the secrets of this fantastic invention, but I can give you some highlights. Running and hiding – good. Screaming “cat’s in the can!” at the top of your lungs – good. Hurling a bean-bag frog at your loved ones – gooood. (I know, it sounds a little complicated. But for a mere $500, I will mail you a complete set of instructions – fully illustrated and in the language of your choice – and a bonus bean-bag frog. Act now! You’ll never see a deal like this again.)

Last week it snowed. When it snows here, the collective IQ of licensed drivers in Alaska drops by, like, five million points. True story.

We recently acquired a keyboard that plays My Heart Will Go On every time someone pushes the demo button. Unfortunately, I have two children who push the demo button at every possible opportunity. I’m thinking that my husband will make it as least a month until the song drives him to the brink of insanity. So I’d best use the keyboard while I can.

Why is it that when you’re pregnant, no one has qualms about telling you how huge you are? Why, when someone doesn’t like your parenting style, out come the opinions, whether you want them or not? And why do some people feel comfortable telling other people how to drive, how to spend their money, or how to run their lives? Tell me. Why? Why does all of that happen and yet not one single person I came into contact with yesterday would tell me that I was walking around with my pants unzipped? Because that information at least would have been useful to me.

New Year's resolutions. Hooray.

Well, it's the New Year, so I guess I oughta jot down some goals or whatever - not that it did me any good last year. I'm pretty sure my no-fast-food goal lasted a whole five months. If that. This year I'm going for the reasonably realistic.

1. Run a triathlon; don't die.
2. Don't gain weight. Yep, you read that right. I, in a bold and daring act of apathy, have vowed to give up the dream of fitting into the pile of pre-children pants in my closet. Instead, I will simply focus on maintaining. I mean, if I end up dropping a few pounds, then yay for me. But that is not the goal. The goal is to quit spending so much time thinking about me and how I look and find better things to do. Like not dying in a triathlon.
3. Find my true love. Sure, my husband is practically perfect in every way, but according to the numerous emails I've been receiving from Match.com, my soul mate, the one man I am destined to be with, is still out there, presumably searching for me. So I'm going to find him, tell him I'm taken, and ask him nicely to delete his profile because I really, really, really hate junk email. I'll even bake him a pan of brownies to sooth his aching soul, if need be. (Hey, I never said I was going to marry the guy - just find him.)
4. Learn to make a decent quiche. Adam says I'm already there, but I'm a perfectionist. Quiche just aren't my forte. Yet.
   

And that's it, people. Good luck to me and to the rest of you poor fools who also made resloutions. May the force be with us.

P.S. I've decided to give my workout-progress widget the axe. It's too hard to remember to update it. I really have been good, though. It's a pity I can't say the same for my three-month-old elliptical, which seems to have eighty-three things wrong with it. The tech guy, with whom I've become very close on account of my nagging him at every possible chance, says a new console will cure all of my ills. We'll see...

I want my mommy

Psst! C'mere. A little closer... little bit closer... there you go. I have a very important secret to share. And it's big. It's huge. Monumental, even. And it's something that women have been wondering about for decades, nay, for centuries. That's right, I have discovered why men are such babies when they get sick.

(stunned silence descends upon the entire female population... of my blog)

I know, right? I mean, it's actually a very complex theory involving entropy, the law of averages, and time travel, so I won't go into specifics, but what I can tell you will blow your mind. Are you ready for this?

Men are such babies when they are sick because... wait for it... they have moms.

I'm telling you, it's true. It's so very, very true. Take last week at my house. Riley was sick (for the third Christmas in a row - who says we don't start our own holiday traditions?). He had the works: runny nose, barking cough, a fever. So what did I do? I babied him, of course. I nearly wore myself out trying to make my poor little boy feel better. That's my job. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's right there, in bold type, on page three of How to be the World's Best Mom. (At least it would be if such a book existed.) And Riley loved every minute of it. Go figure. But now there's an established pattern. He knows it and I know it. The pattern? He gets sick and the main woman in his life bends over backwards to make him happy. Seriously, why wouldn't a guy milk that for all it's worth? He'd be crazy not to! And hey, if it happens at five years old, why not at ten? Or twenty? Or thirty, when he's happily married to a lovely young woman who's going to want to beat me over the head with a shovel because I'm the moron who initiated this pattern in the first place?

So what's to be done, you might be asking yourself. Having a mom is not exactly something you can be cured of, you're saying. And you'd be right. That's why I want to shed some light on the plus side of this whole scenario. Let's say a woman catches cold. She will be sick for, on average, 6.7 days.* Given the exact same cold virus, a man will be sick for 2.4 days.** Why? Because that's what they learn from their mommies. Again, I offer proof from my own experiences of last week.

Day 1 - Riley, what do you need? Do you want anything to eat? Can I get you anything? Anything at all? Here's your blanket. Let me help you with that pillow.

Day 2 - I'm gonna put on a movie for you. Just try to relax, please.

Day 3 - Hey kid, if you're gonna whine, do it in your room cuz I've had it.

See, boys learn that there is a very specific, very fixed period of time in which they are sick and the woman in their life will still have patience with them. So they learn to be sick, get whatever they want, and then get to getting better because you do NOT want to mess with that woman on day three. She has a shovel, remember?

So there it is. My take on one of the previously unsolved mysteries of the universe. No need for thanks. It's just what I do.


*This statistic was blatantly fabricated.
** Again, big fat lie.


P.S. I should mention that Millie, who also had a cough, fever, and runny nose, was fairly pleasant to be around. So maybe we woman are just tougher. Shocker.