If I'd known it would be this easy, I'd have told the kids about Bigfoot years ago

Both of my children are in bed. On time for one of them, and an hour early for the other. This is rare enough that it requires comment.

You see, Rory has decided that he needs to watch the news. And since I happened to mention to him that the news starts at 5 AM, well, he decided that he needs to wake up at 5 AM. And in order to do that, he needs to go to bed early. This inspired Brigit to cooperate (for once), and she got ready at the same time.

So, teeth were brushed, kisses were done, stories were read, and I didn't have to tell either of them to do it.

That alone is amazing.

But the real question you may be asking is, "Why exactly does Rory need to watch the news"?

Because, he whispered in my ear this evening, he believes in Bigfoot. And apparently he needs to sccour the news for evidence proving to the rest of the world that Bigfoot does, in fact, exist.

Of course he does.

Ayudame, ayudame, estoy en agua

My children are in the backyard, splashing in the plastic pool and playing something I can only term "drowning." As though a not so little nearly 5 year old and a lanky 8 year old could drown while standing in less than a foot of water. Yes, standing in the water. The main objective of this game seems to be screaming, "I'M DROWNING, I'M DROWNING" at the top of one's lungs while kicking the water out of the pool.

One can only hope that the neighbors, before dialing 911 or at least CPS, bother to look out the window, lest they assume that I permit my children to drown, perhaps as punishment for refusing to make mommy that margarita.

Clearly there is something wrong with me

Because this is what I think every time Brigit sings this god-forsaken song:

Where is Thumbkin?
Where is Thumbkin?
Here I am!
Here I am!
You are an asshole.
And so are you, an asshole.
Go away!
Go away!

Life in a petri dish, a sociological experiment

When one of us gets sick, we all get sick. It's the nature of family, I suppose, combined with this terribly small house where everyone is in everyone else's space, face, and bed. We are a breeding ground for disease. In this case, the dread herpangina, also known as the reason that Brigit threw up at Trader Joe's, the reason that Rory subsequently threw up on me, in my bed, at 4:30 in the morning.

And while this is primarily a disease of the young, I believe the fact that Tyler has also thrown up and I've been gobbling Phenergan like it was candy goes a long way to show the psychosomatic elements of housebound illness. That or it's just the smell of vomit that I cannot clear from my nose.

The problem of the family illness is, of course, that we are all driving each other ape shit. Brigit feels well enough to torment Rory, who is bound by the laws of brotherhood to retaliate but is in no shape to do so. So, many, many times in the last few days, one or both of the parents have been called in. And while it starts somewhere around, "Brigit kicked me in the head and I'm madder than 10 alligators" (which is, admittedly, pretty mad), it almost always degenerates into, "If one more person hits, slaps, bites, spits, kicks, or throws a crab at the other, you are both going to your rooms. For the love of all thing holy, including my sanity, leave each other alone."

Lather, rinse, repeat. Ad nauseum.

In a way, it was easier when they were smaller, immobile, unable to communicate. As much as I value the interactions we have, the discussions of how Poggemeyer ears give you superhearing (Rory) or how stomping is a perfectly good addition to a polite request (Brigit), I miss the baby stage for all the wrong reasons. When Rory endured the neverending ear infection and was able to sleep for mere minutes at a time, and only while laying mostly upright on a parent, he was, at least, willing to do what it takes to recover from being sick. Take his medicine, take naps. When Brigit had ear infections, she was willing to sleep, nurse, medicate.

Now, a 6 year old Rory thinks nothing of wrestling with his sister when he should be lying down and thinks naps are for wimps. Now, a very nearly 3 year old Brigit thinks nothing of projectile spitting any and all medicine on me.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I need to go rescue Tyler from being used as a trampoline.

Send St. Bernard's - I think we'll need the brandy soon.

We are mothers

Brigit threw up at Trader Joe's yesterday. Ok, to be accurate, first she coughed the evil 5-week lingering cough (am horrible mother), then she choked on phlegm (which subsequently shot onto me), and then she threw up at Trader Joe's. By the bananas. You know, in front of everyone. And I was paralyzed. Because she's at that stage where I no longer need to carry a diaper bag complete with wipes, change of clothes, and empty plastic bag (and I'm totally kidding, because I never carried that - wipes and one diaper crammed into my purse, if I'm lucky). I had two stuffed animals, a box of granola, and a bunch of bananas. I was 50 feet from the cooking kiosk, where there might be napkins, and 200 feet from the bathroom.

And I was catching vomit in my hand.

A friend of mine recently said, "you know you're a mother when you reach out to catch throw up."

Yesterday, I was surrounded by mothers. Within minutes, one mother was handing me paper towels and reaching out her own hand to catch vomit, another brought me wipes and helped me towel Brigit down in between retching spasms. Others helped me to the bathroom.

There is something about the sight of a sick child and a mother in distress that brings out the best of the mother in us. I did not know these women, might not have been friends with them had we known each other, but they were were there, they did not hesitate.

I have been part of the community of mothers for more than 6 years now. There are days when my mothering instinct is overruled by my snark (I may have maybe called a number of mothers in Ror's new class "Alpha moms" this morning), but at the heart of it, we are all mothers, ass-high in the alligators of vomit together. Whether we are calling one of our number a bully or calling another disgusting because she dares post pictures of her real home, uncleaned, we are all mothers. And I hope we would all be there, our hand outstretched, if one of own needs it.

Care and feeding of the Pogudy Beasts

Last year, my parents were gracious enough to come spend some time with my monkeys while Tyler and I enjoyed our first kid-free vacation/second honeymoon (um, 9 years late). I wrote up some instructions for the grands to help them survive the 3 days with Rory and Brigit. Here's a sampling, copied verbatim - I really do speak to my parents this way. I am the worst child.

Wake up:
Rory - 6:30 AM
Get him juice and turn on the TV for him - you can get extra sleep before he demands breakfast.
[Am I not the perfect mother?]
Brigit - when she starts screaming

.
.
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Lunch and Dinner suggestions:
Rory will eat or not eat what you give him. It is 100% ok to feed them what you are having - he'll complain (maybe) but life's tough all over. When in doubt, give him a banana.

Nap for B - after lunch - put in crib. Walk away.

Bath - Make sure to give them a 5 minute warning when it's time to get out. Less screaming this way.
.
.
.
Teeth - Rory can brush his own, despite what he says.

Stories -
.
.
.
After B's 3rd story, she's going to say "again" or more." Be firm. Give her kisses, pick her screaming ass up out of the corner of her closet and put her in her bed. Turn on night-light-man. Walk out. Ignore screams. Trust me.

You'd think my parents didn't survive three daughters of their own. Three girls. Three potential Brigits. They are saints. Except when they laugh hysterically at Brigit's challenging behavior. I believe my mother's cackling claim is, "Karma is a bitch." Well, so am I, mom.

The finger ... of shame

I got scoped out at the grocery store this afternoon. Well, I think? I did. I'm usually obtuse about this sort of thing. Really, really obtuse.

But this afternoon, I saw it. I mean, I SAW it.

I was walking down the soda/beer aisle with Brigit, because she enjoys a good brew from time to time. I'm trying to introduce her to the good local brews, but she has a strange fascination with the Belgian ales. Personally, I think they taste skunky, but what are you going to do? She has a mind of her own. Almost-three year olds these days, I tell you.

So I'm loading up the cart with soda (diet, oh thank you, bastard diabetes) when Brig starts playing a shy game of peek-a-boo with a man down the aisle. He had just gotten his six pack and was going back to his cart. He started talking to Brigit. She instantly fell in love and started telling him all about her stuffed dog, Buddy. I was observing, mostly because Brig makes me laugh when she plays shy. Because it is so counter to her normal kick-ass attitude.

And then it happened.

He looked at my hand. LOOKED looked. Checked me out.

Now, given that I am wearing an old bleach-stained Minor Threat concert t-shirt (real old school, not Old Navy old school) and a pair of jeans, about which the most flattering review was "do not look like mom jeans," and my hair was tied in a knot (literally, a knot), I'm pretty sure I know why he was looking.

I do not wear a wedding band.

For those of you playing along at home (hi, Mom!), I have been married for 11 years. My children, while entirely capable of being monstrous, were not born of out wedlock.

I do not wear a wedding ring because, well, I can't fit my old, blessed ring over my finger. Within 6 weeks of being pregnant with Brig, my joints had swollen beyond that pretty white gold's capacity. And either my lower finger joint really retains pregnancy weight or my fingers are just permanently fat, whichever it is, I still cannot wear it.

Over the years, I've gotten some looks. Some when I was heavily pregnant with Brig and accompanied by Ror. Some when I had both kids in tow. It happens at grocery stores and at schools.

And it's ridiculous. Whether or not I am married has no bearing on my ability to parent my children. Whether or not my children are "illegitmate" does not change the people that they are, who they will grow into. Whether or not I am a single mother is a not matter to be judged by a guy in the grocery store.

What he could have judged was whether my daughter was clean. (Yes) Dressed. (Yes, in a dress, even) Harmed. (No - except that she'd not 5 minutes earlier twirled into the cart and got a divot in her forehead) Being berated or beaten (No)

I admit to judging parents. Based on their treatment of their children. How they interact with them. How they handle (or mishandle) them.

But as for the rest of it, have we not grown past this? The 50's era assumption game?

Children these days have no respect for their elders

Conversations from today:

Rory: Mom, are you old?

Brigit: You're not rock and roll, Mom!