A Little Help Please...

So...I haven't been blogging lately. And I'm afraid to blog about why I haven't been blogging, because most of what is torturing me lately is work related and I have no interest in being Dooced. Unless said Doocing comes with either widespread fame/fortune/adoration (like it did for her), or is accompanied by the kind of severance package that causes Congress to hold hearings on the injustice of executive compensation.

But neither of those scenarios seem likely. And another reason that I haven't been on the internets all that much is that I decided that instead of spending all of my free time blogging about what a terrible mother I am, I could, oh, I don't know, try being a better mother.

Novel idea, yes?

I've been trying to stop multitasking and really focus on being present with the Spawn. Not just physically THERE, but engaged. No checking emails while they're playing in the playroom. No sorting through mail and school papers while they're refusing to eat their Boston Market. No trying to put away laundry while they're getting ready for bed. Trying to take time to do things with them, even if it's just to play a board game or read a book together.

But today, I think my efforts to be Better Mom are setting me up for a rather spectacular flop. I told the The Girl that she could have her friend over for a sleepover, and she wanted to decorate cupcakes. So I did something that I never in my adult life thought I would do, given that my family often begs me to stay OUT of the kitchen, and especially since Stop & Shop does this type of thing so much better:

I baked.

I bought three boxes of cake mix and those little paper cupcake holder thingies, and some white frosting and food coloring to make different colors and some sprinkles for garnish. I borrowed some baking tins and from the bowels of my kitchen, excavated this strange-looking wedding-gift appliance that has these twirly things that mix stuff up. I emptied the boxes and cracked the eggs and figured out how to operate my oven, and now I have approximately 87 cupcakes cooling on the counter, waiting to be frosted.

Problem is, they look really weird. They're all different heights, and some are sunken instead of rounded, and some are covered in pimply looking nubs. I'm a little worried about that. Is it possible to kill a child with bad cupcakes? Death by Betty Crocker?

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Anatomy Of A 5 Year Old Boy's Crap-Taking

I think my son exploded.

Those of you with older children, please tell me that there will come a day when I WON'T find this in the bathroom:
It's going to be hard to explain to future employers, roommates, and girlfriends why he STILL has to be completely naked before he can successfully execute a bowel movement.

Nothing below the fold today.

Sorry charlies, nothing to see here

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When Worlds Collide

Day three of Spawn being grounded from the Wii.

I got home late from work yesterday, and was in the middle of microwaving a nutritious family dinner when the following exchange took place:

The Boy: "Mommy, I'm bored. What can I do?"

Manager Mom: "Go and play with your sister."

TB: "But she has girl toys."

MM: "I don't care. If you don't play nicely together, you won't be allowed to play the Wii for ONE WHOLE MORE WEEK."

And, scene. Off goes The Boy as instructed.

After Spawn went to bed I was straightening up the playroom , because the cleaning lady was coming the next day, and, you know, I don't want her to think that we're SLOBS or anything.

When I got to the dollhouse, I saw the curiously heartwarming aftermath of their joint playtime:




The only scene that I found to be slightly alarming:


Did I mention that The Boy is terrified of dogs? Perhaps it's time for some therapy.

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Little Shop Of Horrors

A few days ago, I took The Spawn to their six-month dental checkups.

Normally I’m very good with managing appointments, which by “managing,” I mean “scheduling them for a time when I can’t go.” (Just kidding, Manager Dad! That "work conflict" that prevented me from going to their annual physicals was totally coincidental!)

But I thought I could handle this one because the kids generally don't mind going to the dentist. There's no pain involved (yet) and she gives them free stuff like licensed-character toothbrushes and cheap plastic trinkets. For added insurance, I planned to keep their moods (and blood sugar) highly elevated by deploying chocolate Munchkins at the slightest sign of distress. (Despite the fact that rewarding kids with junk food is probably not the best strategy in front of their DENTIST.)

So I wasn't anticipating any major problems. Unfortunately, I failed to account for the fact that The Boy has turned into kind of a wuss.

It started with a few weeks ago with baths. If you happen to be in our neighborhood on bath nights, the sounds coming from our house might give you the impression that they're filming the latest installment of Friday the 13th in our bathtub. Then we had the strep tests; when the nurse unwrapped the throat swab he started howling so loudly you would have thought she'd produced a straight razor and a bottle of bourbon and told him to lay down for a frontier-style tonsil extraction.

The dental visit was going OK until we got to the flouride treatment, which is just a quick coating of leave-on gel. NOTHING like the flouride treatments I remember, which consisted of five minutes of sucking on a gigantic, foul-smelling tray of gunk, choking back vomit while staring at an egg timer to see how much longer the ordeal was going to last.

But for whatever reason, the sight of that flouride-laden Buzz Lightyear toothbrush (the EXACT SAME ONE that had so delighted him just ten minutes ago) sent him into full-on, Code Red, fight-or-flight mode. He clamped his jaw shut and threw out all of his best Randy Couture kung-fu moves. The only time he would open his mouth was to shout things like "OH HELL NO YOU BITCHES AIN'T PUTTING THAT SHIT ON MY TEETH!" (Except he didn't use the word "ain't," because he's pretty good at grammar.)

Twenty minutes of threats, bribery, attempts at reason, and groveling didn't work. So we had to resort to force. Which meant that it took me and TWO dental hygienists to hold him down while the dentist pried his mouth open.

We finished the appointment with both The Boy and myself reduced to tear-stained, sniveling, snotty messes, while The Girl cheerily picked out her plastic chokables from the prize chest.

And I'm thinking to myself, - Crikey. If he carries on this much for teeth brushing and throat swabbing, what would happen if he ever had to get a blood test?

I need to get The Boy to toughen up when it comes to doctor visits. Any ideas?

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