ABBA, ABBA, Everywhere...

 I never meant for my home to become invaded with ABBA music.  It was all just an honest mistake.

When Thing 2 was born we shortened her name to "Mia" so that Thing 1 could pronounce it easier. Thus the arrival of "Baby Mia" unfortunately coincided with my sister renting "Momma Mia".  Thing 1 loves anything with singing, dancing, and apparently huge sequenced costumes.  Once she realized that this movie was named after two of her favorite people, and that there was even a song sung specifically for them, she fell head over heels in love.  It has been continuously requested.  To make matters worse, it was one of her Christmas presents (one of her favorites, naturally). So now it is always available.

 Almost any conversation can remind her of it:

Mention how we need more MONEY and suddenly a small voice will chirp, "Money song? Watch Momma Mia?"
 Refer to something we did LAST SUMMER, or having a DREAM, or EMOTIONS, state TROOPERS, or TAKING A CHANCE and the same thing happens. Especially if we mention Momma and Mia in the same sentence, which at our house can be quite often since Thing 2 is usually glued to my chest.
"Where are Momma and Mia?"
 "Da Momma and da Mia? Mamma Mia? WATCH Mamma Mia?"
  Even Winnie the Pooh will bring it up.
 "...bears love honey and I'm a - "
"Honey? Honey honey song? Watch Honey honey song? WATCH'A MOMMA MIA? PEEAAS?"

 Apparently Momma Mia is like the Kevin Bacon of movies, if you pay attention everything can be traced  back to ABBA songs. It's a little disturbing.

Which is why I am walking around this evening humming "Money Money", and banging my head against the wall.  That music is like velcro on my brain. Who would have thought I would have a two year old obsessed with feel good 70's Swedish music?  I should have named my second child Jane.

The Itchy Beaver

Thing 1 picked out a new show from the library all about nature and animals with cute animation. Excellent.  I like nature. I was a PBS kid.  Educational programming will make my child a future genius. Right? 

Little did I know the parental humiliation this show would cause.  I hold it responsible for Thing 1 running around in a public library with a delighted grin declaring, “Find da Itchy Beaver! Itchy Beaver! FIND DA ITCHY BEAVER. SCRATCH’A DA ITCHY BEAVER!!” while respectable librarians and homeless gentlemen and mothers of superior children looked on in horror and judgment and contemplated calling social services. 

The facts are these:

There is a character on the show named “Benita”.

“Benita” is a Beaver.

A female Beaver.  (That alone is inexcusable for the creators of children’s shows.)

There is an entire episode devoted to the Itch that Benita the Beaver cannot reach.

That’s right, she is an itchy Beaver.

She needs some help to reach that itch.

Izzy the owl helps out her gal pal as best she can.

Sammy the (male) Skunk tries to scratch it for her, but his hands are just tooooo soft. “Ooooo Sammy, that tickles!” (true quote in a ridiculous high pitched voice.)

It becomes imperative that the Beaver learn how to scratch her own itch to be truly satisfied. Hmmmm…..

 I realize that it is my dirty mind filling in the gaps and trying desperately not to laugh out loud every time we watch it, but the writers of this show are obviously 15-year-old boys that have the munchies and are giggling maniacally at their own cleverness.  All I know is that Mr. Rogers never scratched any itchy Beaver - not even in the Land of Make Believe.

      

Keep the Diaper Bag Packed

When I was 8 months pregnant with Thing 2, I was exchanging horror stories with a coworker who was pregnant with her first. She is one of those women who runs marathons and grows all her own food and serves on committees and probably is really a body snatcher from another planet. Realizing I was a straight shooter, she asked "What is the hardest thing about being a new mom?"

           
 I said, “Sacrificing all personal agendas. Like going out when you want. Or going anywhere when you want. Or just going. Anywhere. To do anything.”

            
She looked politely puzzled, “I have heard that is hard. Why is that? I mean, you keep a diaper bag packed and ready to go, so why can’t you just walk out the door?”

           

            
I blinked at her out of my sleep deprived eyes. “Ummmm….hmmmm….good question…why hadn’t I thought of that, just keep the diaper bag packed….good idea…”

            
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that THIS is what happens when you try to go somewhere with an infant:

You wait for the infant to wake up.

You dress the infant in clean clothes. The infant thinks you are trying to kill it by exposing its skin to the air.

 You feed the infant. As stated in previous post, you are paralyzed while nursing and can do nothing else.

You lay it down so you can get dressed. This is when you realize that all your clean socks are in the dryer. In the basement.

With infant on hip you dig out infant jacket from behind couch, and attempt to put on your shoes.

You get one shoe on and grab your purse. Infant vomits the excess milk you just fed it all over its outfit, must change their clothes.

Put on second shoe and infants jacket/snowsuit/hat etc. while infant cries and you mutter over and over “It’s ok, you’re ok, Mommys here, your ok, it’s ok…”

You place the unconvinced infant into their car seat and look for the purse you were just holding.

You find the purse under infant's dresser and look for pacifier.

Infant is strangely quiet when you enter the room, and you think you might just make it out the door.

You get one arm in your coat when you hear the grunting. Yup, here comes the poop face. You want to ignore it. You do. But you know that if you do the chances of fecal matter leaking through everything are greatly increased.

SO you take infant out of car seat, strip off snowsuit/coat/hat etc. Remove your coat. Remove recently clean infant clothes. Remove blow out diaper. Clean butt, feet, legs, and back of child.  Put on clean diaper. Throw out soiled diaper and 200 dirty wipes. Wash hands. Find clean outfit. Put outfit/coat/snowsuit on infant. Find shoes. Grab purse. You are going NOW, damn it. You are an adult and you will not be defeated by this very very tiny pseudo person.

Pick up infant. Infant smiles at you and throws up down your cleavage. This is when you look at the clock and realize that in 15 minutes it will be time to start putting infant down for second nap. Which is exactly when you would be arriving at the grocery store if you left RIGHT THAT SECOND. Which isn’t going to happen unless you go with warm squishy vomit in your bra. You and infant stare defiantly at each other.  You take off your shoes, change your shirt, sit down with your now sweetly cooing infant and decide that you really don’t need bread.

So yes, it is a brilliant idea to have that diaper bag packed and ready. If you get to the stage where you are actually walking out the door.  And you didn’t run out of diapers late last night and use up the two you keep in the diaper bag. Or have a toddler to dress too.  And you don't care if you are wearing socks.

The Things That Start My Day...

This is a typical morning at our house. Thing 2 starts having incredibly loud, grunt inducing gas about an hour before any living thing should be awake (5:00 am).  Thing 1 leaps onto the middle of the bed and start spinning in circles like a hyper house cat. At her arrival Thing 2’s eyes pop open and her face crumples into the beginnings of “I don’t know what the hell just happened but I am damn sure not happy about it” screaming mode, so I scoop her up in a vain attempt to get her back to sleep.

Upon seeing Thing 2 nursing, Thing 1 begins to dance and chant gleefully at the top of her lungs, “Nurse on Booby! Nurse on Booby! Baby Mia! Nurse on Booby! Touch’a Baby? Touch’a Babies EYES? Touch’a Booby? Please? PLEASE TOUCH’A DA BOOBY!” At which point I inform her that she cannot, in fact, touch my booby, all the while shielding Thing 2 from her sister’s well intentioned but possibly fatal advances. At my denial, Thing 1’s lower lip begins a truly impressive quiver and huge tears well up in a precursor to full out hysterics. This is when I stumble to the kitchen for the life-saving-first-sippy-cup-of-apple-juice-in-the-morning and drops it in front of Thing 1. She shrieks “JUICE TIME!!”, pounces on it like a giddy pyro who has been handed a fire cracker, and catapults off the bed.

Obviously feeling left out of the action, Thing 2 has an explosive case of diarrhea. I fantasizing about staying in bed - while searching for the new diapers under the clean laundry piled next to the bed and trying to untangle my feet from the three baby blankets that have somehow come to life and attacked - but deep down I  know, once Thing 1 has awoken Thing 2, there is no more sleep for mommy. Not until that magical day when Thing 2 no longer wants to “nurse on booby”  and Thing 1 can get her own damn juice. Oh magical day. You are my own personal unicorn.