The multi-talented Ellen has graciously added me to her Court. Go check her out! She’s one of those *must read* blogs!

I did it. I’ve assimilated. I’m simultaneously lauding myself for participating and smacking myself for being so, so, so…soccer mom.

Last night I manned the raffle ticket table at our neighborhood Halloween party. There I am. In all my glory. Tearing those blue tickets. Who knew I had it in me? I’m really good at ripping them, too.

So why does this latest accomplishment of mine (and by latest accomplishment I mean–I showered AND shaved in one day, I fed the toddler something OTHER than spaghetti O’s) have me feeling so dirty?

Because I think I’m cooler than I really am. Because I think I’m somehow above or too cool to be the Mom in the minivan, helping out at the neighborhood Halloween party.

Yet I am the Mom in the minivan. Tearing the blue tickets. Helping out at the neighborhood Halloween party. Hrrrrrrrrmmmmph.

Knives are for wusses.

May all of your husbands leave for work this morning looking just as ridiculous. Happy Halloween. Yeah, I married him.

The Kaiser has done a fantastic job pushing the “please” “thank you” and “your welcome” stuff with Count Waffles. Seriously people, A plus parenting on his part. Which works well for me because at 30, I still forget to be polite. I also still forget I shouldn’t say “FUCK” in front of my kids, but that’s another issue.
Anyway, the Count is so good at this polite stuff he’s using it all the time. And by all the time, I mean even when its not necessary and really doesn’t make sense.
Last night after tucking the Count in bed, he asked if I could stay and cuddle with him for “just another minute, Mamma.” Who can say no to that, right? So I squeeze my fat ass into his tiny car bed (alongside 3 pillows, two Thomas trains, one stuffed dragonfly, and one plastic motorcycle) and lay my head on his shoulder. After a few minutes I kiss him, say goodnight, and move to get up.
“Just one more minute Mamma….please.”
Ok.
One more minute passes and I move to get up again.
“Almost Mamma. One more minute. Please.”
Ok.
Finally I get out of the tiny, tiny bed.
“Ok, Mamma. Go downstairs. Thank you.”
Did my kid just thank me for cuddling with him? Guess he really appreciated the hugs.
Today after his Halloween parade at nursery school I kissed him goodbye.
“Have a good day at school honey. I Love You.”
“Oh, Ok. Thank you Mamma.”
Thank you Mamma?
Talk about a “I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen” moment.

We have endeavored in our parenting not to make certain things a battle. The Kaiser and I decided long ago on co-sleeping, not crying it out, and giving the kids tons of new and yummy things to eat. For the most part, our efforts have paid off. Despite bad nights here and there, the Count now sleeps in his own bed. Neither of our children have ever cried themselves to sleep. And the Count, mostly, will eat just about anything. Until recently, that is.

Last night, after roasting a chicken and recycling yesterday’s grilled veggie pasta salad, dinner was ready. The three of us (Queen, Princess Peanut, and Count Waffles the TERRIBLE–you’ll see why I capitalized that in a sec) sat down as per usual and I poured chocolate milk as per usual and endured rice cereal and bananas in my hair as per usual. Then I, stupidly, got up to get a Tylenol out of the cupboard. This is also the same cupboard where the C-A-N-D-Y (yes, I’m still spelling it…just in case) is hidden. Count Waffles, being the genius that he is, immediately spies the Pez his Nana stashed up there.
“Mamma. I want some candy?”
“Eat your dinner, then you can have one.”
The Count then proceeded to shove ALL the chicken on his plate, in his mouth. All of it. ALL OF IT PEOPLE.
(with a muffled voice) “Can I have some candy now, Mamma?”
“Make it all go in your belly.”
You can see his eyes get really wide, like he realizes…shit, how the hell am I going to do that?
If this were Iron Chef, Chairman Kaga would now, very gay-like, take a bite of that pepper and declare BATTLE CHICKEN has begun.
The Kaiser and I are making a really, really big effort to stay consistent these days. You know, trying to be good parents, blah blah blah. So this means he must eat every single piece of chicken in his mouth or no candy.
So. Time passed. He tried to spit it out, but was warned there would be no candy. So he kept chewing. More time passed. He begged for the candy. I stood firm. More time passed. And passed. And passed.
One hour and 37 minutes later he swallowed all of the chicken. ONE HOUR AND 37 MINUTES OF CHEWING CHICKEN.
Tonight’s winner: Mommy. Battle Chicken is OOOVVVVAAAH!

Some housekeeping:
Thanks to Homer Jay for the Einstein link. He and his wife Tired Tunia are my latest blogroll additions.
Stranded in Suburbia’s Laurie has a new, vomit inducing, spinning globe on her site. Go give her some love ’cause her Haloscan sucks.
Those scholastic flier books arrived at school for the Count. They discretely handed them to the parents before the bell. I guess this means I’m off to the hook to buy more, until he switches schools anyway.
The Kaiser has yet to tell everyone how he was duped like a sucker and Battle Pajama ended. I think he’s just a wuss. Let’s just say, his lack of paying attention bit him in the ass. That being said, he also spent 4.5 hours of his work day yesterday IN A BAR. So I’ve got no sympathy for him.

See this little girl? This one…right here…..She won’t leave my arms. Not for a nap. Not to play. Not to see Daddy. Not so I can take a shit. She is FOREVER on me. And I’m getting a little frazzled.

If I lay her down. She wakes up. If I set her down awake, she screams her head off. If I, dear God no, leave the room…all hell breaks loose.

I know these tiny creatures go through phases. And she’s obviously in one now. But I would really, really like to wipe my ass without her 7 month old 17lbs plus sack of potatoes on my lap.

You may find yourself, one chilly Monday morning, contemplating showering so you can smell girly and shave. You want to look and feel nice and clean because Houseboy (your brother) is out of town and you just might get some action later. And you’d be right in thinking your husband might be more inclined to some fun if you were, say, NOT smelling of sour breastmilk, WITHOUT rice cereal in your hair, and, oh, for the hell of it, NOT all hippied-out with a jungle of hair on your legs and your crotch. I’m hear to tell you: DON’T DO IT. Evil forces are at work while you shower. Trust me.

But let’s pretend you didn’t listen to me. Here is what might happen:

After a morning filled with train playing and nursing you notice both your toddler and infant seem pretty content. So you bring them into the bedroom so you can commence with the cleansing. You set up the smiling baby in her bouncy seat. She’s happy. She’s bubbly. You give the toddler a PB&J, a cookie (to ENSURE he stays put) and turn on reliable Elmo. You get naked and step in the shower.

Immediately your once-happy infant notices you are gone, and despite the fact she’s right outside the shower door she begins to cry. No biggie, you think as you shampoo. You crack the door a little so you can readjust her toys and let her see your face. This backfires. She now seems to understand you are just on the other side and SCREAMS when you shut the shower door. So while trying to shave you crack the door. Now she can see you. This works for about, oh, 30 seconds. You’ve got the armpits and one leg done. Bravely you decide to dredge on through and hope the fussiness subsides.

No such luck. The screaming gets louder. And now she’s throwing in some back-arching for effect. Its then you realize things are awfully quiet in the other half of the room-where you stupidly assume the toddler is quietly munching his sandwich and cookie in front of the tv.

Realizing nothing good ever comes when its quiet in the other part of the room, you’re just shaving like a madwoman. Your infant’s screaming has become some sort of UNHOLY HOWL and you clearly need to wrap up this shower. You’re singing. Playing peakaboo. All while you try and shave. Lets face it, the neighbors are going to call the cops soon, due to the screams of sheer torture only a bouncy seat can cause, so you quickly rinse and step out of the shower.

Only to fall on your half shaven crotch from the puddle of water on your bathroom floor. Way to crack the shower door, moron.

You recover. Dry off. Calm the baby. Step into the bedroom to find the toddler shoving his peanut butter and jelly inbetween your box spring and mattress. There is a trail of chocolate chips smushed into the carpet from the television to the bed. And you don’t even know where to begin in cleaning said toddler, who is covered in grape jelly and chocolate. Its on the back of his neck, for christsake.

So, instead, you declare it NAPTIME. And you’ll clean and maybe finish shaving later. But probably not.

I wonder how many other half-shaven mothers are wandering out there? I get the feeling I’m not alone.