Happy Love Thursday to Hands-on Dads!

Despite my supplying occasional evidence to the contrary, my husband is a pretty good guy and an awesome father.

One little thing that always sort of touches me is the way that he knows all about the kids toys. Like, I can find a little crappydoo somewhere and he can tell me exactly what game or toy to which it belongs. This very simple and seemingly unimportant thing belies it’s significance.

My father, may he rest in peace, was never like that. He wouldn’t have known a Polly Pocket shoe from a Barbie shoe or recognized which puzzle pieces went with which puzzle or known where I left my scissors & glue stick or the name of Strawberry Shortcake’s dog or played pretend games with me outside.

That’s not to say my dad wasn’t there. He was. And he taught me all sorts of things, the most notable being that old favorite “life’s not fair” but also how to fish, water ski, ride a bike and other sundry things. However, he was never dialed into my daily life the way my husband is with our kids. That was my mother’s domain, plain and simple.

So yes, this newfangled modern, involved dad thing is very appealing to me and I’m really happy that my husband and many other dads are so engaged in their children’s lives. Seeing a father caring for his children beyond the traditional bringer-home-of-the-bacon-only role always makes me smile :)

Happy Love Thursday to
Hands-on Dads Everywhere!

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I’m Sorry… Was I Boring You?

Last night, while flipping through catalogs trying to figure out what to do about Christmas gifts for the kids (haven’t done ANYTHING) I start getting upset (hello PMS) and talking to the Huz about all the guilt I’m feeling lately for not being Super Mom or even her distant cousin Mediocre Mom. I continue on, covering the following bulletpoints of guilt for:

• not doing the same things for my son that I did for my daughter.

• not being as motivated to get out with him and, you know, expand his horizons.

• not spending more one-on-one time with TQ.

• staying up too late, too often and then being so tired the next day that my primary and only goal for the day is to have a nap as soon as P goes down for his nap.

Yeah, I spilled my guts and told him about all the rationalizations I’ve been making and all the lazyass shortcuts I’ve been taking; all the ways in which I am sucking at my job as a stay-at-home mom lately, so forth and so on.

I finally take a breath after my self-inflicted diatribe of guilty confessions and criticism, I and look over at him for some sort of reaction and HE’S FUCKING ASLEEP!

But NOT deeply asleep, he insists, after I screech at him to wake up.

Says he heard MOST of what I said.

Oh, REALLY? Did you miss the part about my fatal disease? That I only have ten days to live? Hmmm? Yeah…that’ll learn ya!

Meh. He doesn’t care that I’m dying. He just tells me I’m being too tough on myself and that two kids are harder than one and you can’t do it all, all the time.

Well. He sure knocked the wind out my pissy missy sails, didn’t he? Who the hell does he think he is being all wise like that? Fucking Deepak Chopra? Hmmmph.

(Note to self: MUST REMEMBER to send address to Devra to claim my Mommy Guilt book)

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Move over, Rover and let Jimi take over…

I always thought I made a concerted effort to not let my personal preferences, desires and likes/dislikes about certain things rub off on my kids. I mean, if P wants to be an athlete even though I’m not a sportsfan, then so be it. If TQ wants to be a starving performance artist instead of an engineer or architect (for the better earning potential so she can take care of her parents in relative comfort when they are old and frail), fine.

Part of the reason I do this is because I don’t want to live vicariously through my kids on any level. I want them to have their own interests and hopes and dreams, instead of living out mine and the same thing goes for the clothes they wear.

Sure, I’d love to buy P a onesie that says “Boob Man” or “Vegas Baby” because they’re clever and funny, but he’s just a toddler and thus, he wears clothing befitting a toddler. One thing that really bugs me, though, is all that cliché boys clothing with sports-themed stuff all over it. It’s such a stereotype that boys are expected to like sports.

How about clothes with computers or scientific stuff on them for the kids we hope will be brainy? Or clothes with arts-themed things on them for all the kids we hope will be artistic and creative? Why just sports? Bah!

The same goes for TQ. I’m not too thrilled with shirts that say “I’m Cute” or “Princess” or “Spoiled” any of that crapola because, like the sports-themed clothing, it’s so stereotypical and cheesy.

Frankly, I’m holding out for the shirts that say “I’m smart” or “I have a black belt in common sense” or “I can play my (insert instrument of choice) better than you” rather than claiming her milkshake is better than yours or that she’s “100% Brat”.

Heh…it seems that despite my best-laid plans to let them make a few of their own choices, I just can’t stay out of it.

And apparently, we have influenced TQ quite a bit in other ways, too. The following conversations are 100% real and when I think about it, I have to laugh at how prematurely hip our daughter is at the ripe old age of almost 6 (in a harmless, non-Bratz dollz kind of way).

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Me: Hey TQ, do you know who that is? (pointing to the TV)

TQ: Hmmmmm (thinking) I can’t remember his name.

Hubz: You know…he plays ball with us sometimes.

TQ: (face brightens) Oh yeah, Jimi Hendrix!

Hubz: That’s right!

Jimi Hendrix plays ball with TQ and the huz… You heard it here first, folks.

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Scene: Brushing TQ’s long curly/wavy hair in her bedroom

TQ: (making various noises and complaints about her tangled hair as I brush it)

Hubz: We’re just going to stop brushing your hair and let you have dreads

TQ: Nooooo! I don’t want Ziggy Marley hair. Nooooo!

Hubz: How about if we let you dye it pink?

TQ: Oooooh yes! Stop brushing my hair, mommy! I want pink dreadlocks!

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TQ: Daddy? Can we listen to DJ Zinc (podcast) for a few minutes before I get ready for bed?

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I am secretly thrilled that my daughter knows who Jimi Hendrix and Ziggy Marley and DJ Zinc are. I hope having some cultural literacy about things beyond her beloved Barbies and Polly Pockets will serve her well.

I also hope that P will grow up to love whatever he loves, despite wearing clothing covered in baseballs, soccer balls and footballs. As a matter of fact, I think I’m going to start designing those science and art-themed fashions right now.

It occurs to me as I write this that what I’ve been doing is sort of inadvertently rebelling against gender stereotyping.

Is this a good thing? Or does it not even matter?

Hell…I don’t know. I just thought it was interesting that my kid likes cool music and wants pink dreads.

Nothing to See Here

A couple times a month, I get these horrid, straight-from-hell headaches. It’s not a migraine, though. I feel lucky to have never had one of those.

No, these are tension headaches. But it doesn’t come from life tension, per se. It’s actually caused by this inexplicable muscle tension in my neck that comes from nowhere, like a freak storm. I spent about 5 weeks, around Christmas, going to physical therapy to build up my muscle strength and learn exercises that relax those muscle groups.

I guess I need to start doing them again because I have one of those unholy deathbringer of puppies/ruiner of all things good* kind of headaches today, pounding away on the left side of my head. I’m fairly confident, however, that this giant cup of coffee will help get rid of it because, rather oddly, caffeine plus Tylenol helps dull a tension headache.

Sorry it took that whole long preamble to basically say “I’ve got nothing for you today.” I don’t write anything in advance usually. Whatever I post is what I wrote ten minutes prior. Not terribly efficient, I know, especially on days like this, but the fact is… I’m just not that efficient. And if I was, I would hope to be applying it to my poor housewifing skills before applying it to blogging.

I truly do feel bad for my husband. He deserves better than me. Conversely, I never claimed to be good at any of that homemaking stuff so it’s not like I engaged in false advertising or anything. Shit…when we decided to get married we lived in a house with three other people and had a non-working stove and a washing machine but no dryer, so you see…it’s not really my fault. He was denied the opportunity to see me in action. Or lack thereof.

To be honest, I’m pretty lucky. Hubz helps out a lot around here and we each do the jobs the other cannot abide. For me, that’s dishes and dishwashing of any kind. I HATE wet food like bread. Ugh. Makes my toes curl. It’s just so gross. Really, I hate all nasty, half-eaten food so he handles the kitchen along with yardwork and trash and I do the bathroom, laundry and grocery shopping. We share sweeping, mopping, picking up and cooking.

Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? Except I’m just not all that timely in the execution of MY chores and I’d HATE to be the other person because I can always fall back on the old “I work and care for the kids and all this other crap can wait. What’s more important? Our children? Or clean underwear?”

Heheheh… rubbing hands together in evil mastermind fashion

I must run now. It’s time to take my throbbing head and pick up my daughter from her friend’s house.

* I lifted this from a comment here written by this person. I thought it was kind of funny and it’s been lodged in my brain ever since. Hope she doesn’t mind my borrowing it.

PS: I now have threaded comments, which means you (and I) can reply to other people’s comments if so desired. It’s very cool. Give it a whirl.

And big ups to all of you that were or are now using Firefox. And to those of you (Nancy) stuck with IE at work, my deepest sympathies :)

Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful (aka The Camera Doesn’t Lie)

That title? It’s sarcasm, folks. Pure sarcasm. Everyone tells you that it’s a lot harder to bounce back after the second baby but I never paid any attention. Dry skin, zits, baby fat, cellulite, eye bags, jowls, saggy boobs…I got the whole enchilada (that stupid new camera refuses to lie). But somehow, I don’t think this is what they meant when they coined the phrase “having it all”

Hubz, on the other hand, is exactly the same except for a few more gray hairs. It’s SO unfair! There is an upside, though. Two really cute ones, actually. See for yourself. New photos have finally been added to my Flickr box…

ADDENDUM: You guys are way too nice. Perhaps it’s because you can’t see the GIANT hi-resolution fill-the-whole-monitor version of these photos but I look terrible. You can SEE my eye wrinkles in a few of them and I’m fatter than I’ve ever been. I’m only sharing them because I feel like I need to make peace with reality. Seriously, these are NOT good photos. Only Hubz and the kids look good. I should post some of the REALLY bad ones…the DOUBLE CHIN shots. I’m working up to it. Be afraid. Be very afraid.