“Mommy, you’re being mean to me.”

Those words, coming from the sulking mouth of my three year old daughter, cut me to the bone today. She was right. I was being mean to her.

I probably snapped at her more often than spoke to her today. I am not proud of this. I am horrified by this. What makes it so much worse is the fact that I hear myself as the harsh words come out of my mouth, and I continue to spew them. It’s not what I’m saying that is so harsh, it’s how I am saying it. The tone I use. I know I speak this way to her often, because I hear my ugly tone parroted back to me all the time.

Today was particularly challenging. The worst part of it is she wasn’t doing anything wrong or malicious. She was just being a curious, animated three year old, that wanted to be included in what her mommy was doing.

I’ve been meaning to make her a skirt and purse for a few weeks now, so today when Brecken was napping, I decided to make patterns and cut the fabric. Naturally, Karis was VERY interested in what I was doing. She was beside herself with wanting to be involved in the whole process. She couldn’t resist touching the multi-colored sewing pins, and rearranging the scraps of fabric for her skirt. I can’t count how many times I must have snapped at her. “Don’t touch that!” “That’s dangerous!” “Go sit over there if you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

I wasn’t snapping at her out of fear of her getting poked by a needle or snipped by the scissors. Obviously I didn’t want her to get hurt, but I was barking orders at her not to touch things more out of a territorial want to be left alone. Given my space.

After half an hour of me grumping at her like a beast, I finally realized how easy it would be to make the experience fun for her. She kept sneaking my cut fabric pieces over to the coffee table. I had wasted so much time nagging at her and getting frustrated, when all I had to do to make her blissfully happy, was give her a few fabric scraps and some paper to make her own “patterns”. Why did it take me so long to see that? My nanny self would have thought of that before even starting the project. Why is my mommy self so much of a drag?

Going forward I will try harder to be a more nurturing, understanding mother. A mother that puts teaching moments and the cultivation of fun memories ahead of getting a chore done.

I’m sorry Chichi, love. Mommy can be a very single minded grump sometimes. I will do my best to never give you cause to utter those words again.

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We went to George Town on Saturday to hang out with Uncle Pat and play tennis with a few friends. Uncle Pat’s house is always good for a quick snack – Pat’s bachelor pad fridge is always stocked with the following: Beer (that’s what the veggie drawers are for) Honest Tea, yogurt or applesauce snack packs, and various salad dressing concoctions Uncle Nick is experimenting with. That’s it. Their sparse fridge makes me chuckle, considering both Patrick and Nick are incredible cooks.

The tennis court held Karis’s attention for approximately three minutes. Luckily, there was a delightful little playground adjacent to the courts. I’ve noticed a distinct lack of true sand boxes in Maryland. Instead, Maryland playgrounds tend to be stocked with scratchy wood chips and bark. Imagine our surprise at finding a giant sandbox with soft, white sand! Karis wasted no time in tossing off her shoes and getting to work on a castle.

This playground even had little buckets to use!

Brecken was psyched too. He climbed all over a slide, swatted around in the sand, and STOOD unsupported for several minutes at a time while playing with a little birdie spin toy. This kid is soooo close to walking. I predict official walking by the end of the week – if not TODAY.

While we played in the sand box we were joined by one of Jesse’s buddy’s girlfriend. She is in her early twenties, probably 22 or 23. Brecken flirted with her and squealed with delight when she swished him down the slide.

“So, what do you do all day?” She asked. “Do you just play games with them all day?”

She was genuinely curious, and not asking in a snarky way, so instead of giving her my usual answer, “Yeah, we play for a while, then I ply them with fast food and candy, and park them in front of the t.v. so I can watch my stories.” I gave her the truth.

“Well, we play and explore, but our schedule is still pretty much ruled by Brecken’s nap times.”

“That  must be annoying, having to plan things in short increments – but at least you get time for yourself when he’s napping.”

Ah yes, time for myself. I do love all that time for myself. I usually spend it doing laundry – which can NOT be done in the presence of Mr. B, as he LOVES to toss laundry. If laundry tossing were an Olympic event, we’d be rolling in sponsorship money.

Once the laundry is under control, I like to shovel the buckets of sticky food chunks off the kitchen floor. With our floor scraps alone we could keep a grown man comfortably fed.

After the kitchen is scrubbed down, if I’m really feeling indulgent, I like to sort through all the toys that are usually scattered around the living room. Then there’s menu planning, grocery shopping, appointment scheduling, dry cleaning, and various other errands to run. In between these “me time” activities, I also feed, wipe down, and re-diaper my resident playmate.

I enjoy my daily routines. I am not writing this post in a complaining way. I just find it frustrating when people – my husband included! – don’t grasp the amount of work involved in running a household. The fresh linens you are sleeping in didn’t wash and make themselves. Your laundry doesn’t come out of the dryer in perfectly symetrical little stacks that just happen to fit nicely into the closet organizer. That nutritious meal didn’t jump onto the table of it’s own accord, and the dishes it’s sitting on wont be washing themselves while we enjoy a movie night.

Yes, I am lucky enough to be a stay at home mom that gets to play with her babies during the day. I am thankful for that blessing every day. However, I am also a responsible contributor to our family life. I do try to steal a few minutes each day to write a post on this blog, or work on some other writing projects, or even just check in on Facebook, but I don’t have the luxury of lounging in front of my computer screen all day. When I do check the occasional gossip site or Facebook page, I am often surprised by the number of people that are surfing the net instead of doing the job their employer pays them to do.

Do you like it when your boss compliments you on a job well done? Do you like receiving kudos for going that extra mile? We all do. So, next time you put on a clean shirt, or belly up to a home cooked meal, thank the provider of those things. It will make his or her day.

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Brecken is such an old man. He calmly observes the world around him with an air of wisdom. I can just see him sitting in front of a cozy fire with a corn cob pipe of tobacco, rather than lounging in his stroller with a corn husk spoon, having just polished off a bucket of Sweetflow.

As we were enjoying our favorite frozen yogurt yesterday, perched on our usual bench outside the local SweetGreen, no less than 3 ladies stopped in their tracks to gush over Miss Karis. After the third woman continued on her way, Karis turned to me, and in a very dead-pan, matter-of-fact way said, “Everyone says I’m pretty.”

Oh Gawd.

I smiled warmly at her and answered, “There sure are a lot of friendly people to talk to today.”

I am not looking forward to Karis’s teenage years. I only hope she will use her charms for good rather than evil! I am already horrified to note that Karis is part of a clique at school. She is THREE YEARS OLD and already showing interest in social status. This aspect of her character most definitely comes from her father. He was a very popular guy and always very much concerned with ruling the “in crowd”.

It’s such a jolt to my system every time I am reminded that my children are their own unique, individual selves. They have minds of their own, and FREE WILL. They are not living dolls that share my likes and dislikes. They have different “favorite flavors” and different wants. Karis may look like a little mini-me, she may share my sharp tongue and quick wit, but she regularly does things to remind me every day that 50% of her genetic make-up comes from her father. That’s a beautiful thing. As much as I love myself and think I’m a great person – the world doesn’t need another one of me wandering about.

We spent the rest of our afternoon playing in the local over-priced toy store, then went to Barnes and Nobel to play with the train set. Brecken met a sweet little girl there named Genevive. Genevive kept calling him a “Big Boy!” and petting his scant tuft of hair.

“Big Boy!” indeed.

I’m not looking forward to Brecken’s teenage years either! Why can’t our babies stay babies longer than they do?!

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I took Brecken to Ikea today to meet up with a few ladies from my mom’s group. I grabbed a plate of old “eggs” and cold “pancakes” and sat down to feed Brecks.

There were three other moms there with three year olds. The kids were eager to go play in the children’s area, so we trooped them downstairs to check them in, in the hopes of getting to have an uninterrupted conversation at one point.

Upon arrival at the children’s area you must take your child’s shoes off and put them in a bucket. Then you stand the kid up by a height marker on the wall. The marker is alleged to be 37 inches. In order to play in the children’s area your child must be above the line. Once your child passes the height test, you are stamped, stickered and signed, then they give you a buzzer like they have at restaurants when you’re waiting for a table.

Erin made it in with no problem. When Mason stood against the wall, the staffer, Denise, calling out from somewhere within her wafting cloud of True Star Gold perfume by Beyonce, proclaimed him to be too short.

“What are you talking about? He is clearly tall enough.” Sputtered Mason’s mother, Allison.

Denise cocked her head and squinted her eyes. “Naw, he has to be above the line.”

We all frowned in confusion. Mason’s head was clearing the line by a good inch.

“He IS above the line.”

“Look, lady. I want to let him in, but he has to be above the line.”

“How much farther above the damn line does he need to be? He. Is. Above. The. Line.”

Denise put her hands on her ample hips and let out a slow, annoyed breath. She looked to her co-worker as if to say, can you believe these mothers? So desperate to get rid of their kids they’ll try anything.

“Are we looking at the same line?” Allison querried.

“Lady, if I let him in I could lose my job!” Snapped Denise.

“Well, when one door closes….” Quipped Allison.

Denise hadn’t heard Allison, but I stiffled my laugh just the same. In the hierarchy of jobs, “Kid wrangler at Ikea” doesn’t necessarily rank up there with doctor or CEO. I couldn’t help looking around the Ikea playarea, noting the bags under Denise’s eyes, (that no less than four layers of foundation were failing to conceal) and thinking quietly to myself, Would that be so tragic? Maybe being forced to reevaluate her goals in life would infuse Denise with a certain joie de vivre.

While I had been eating  upstairs I had noticed a little placard on the table inviting people to apply for jobs at Ikea. It said something along the lines of wanting people who regularly question authority. I thought nothing of it at the time, but now as I stood watching Denise reigning over the entrance to the children’s area – which happens to be made to look like a giant blueberry basket, toppled on it’s side- I thought perhaps Ikea needed to rethink it’s hiring requirements. I know, it’s crazy, but shouldn’t someone in charge of supervising kids actually LIKE kids. Yeah. LIKE kids and be able to cheerily communicate with their parents.

In the end they let Mason in. Poor Brynn, the third little one in our group, was below the line – even though three days ago at her school physical she was measured to be 37 inches.

Mason was there just long enough for us to return to our table. Once we sat down Allison noticed her buzzer was blinking and vibrating. Apparently as soon as we had left, Mason asked to leave. So, we may have won the battle, but Denise won the war. (I don’t blame Mason – I wouldn’t want to be stuck playing with Denise either.)

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I have spent the last few days lamenting the loss of my facial youth. Gone is my creamy, alabaster complexion of my childless years. Now, as I approach my thirty first birthday, my face resembles that of a fifteen year old fry cook at Mc Donald’s.

Never one to be a glamor puss, I have been ignoring this transformation for the most part, but enough is enough! Ever since my ovaries kicked back in to gear after my second child, I never know who will greet me when I stumble to the bathroom for my A.M. tooth brushing.

I was always that girl that found make-up application to be far too complex an art to master. I was forever extolling the virtues of a fresh scrubbed face. When other girls were shrieking and running for cover in the event of a sudden downpour, I was always the one raising my face to the heavens and smiling at the gentle patters of rain on my cheeks. Oh, and my hair? Never worried about that either – a fact that is tragically documented in every unprofessional snap shot ever snapped of me.

That was one nice perk about choosing to subject myself to the near constant rejections of a modeling and acting career – on those lovely occasions that I booked something, professionals were hired to make me look fabulous, AND I got paid!

How nice would it be to have my own staff of make-up artists and hair stylists to perk up my tired look each day? Nothing too fancy – just an evening out of my skin and a nice blowing out of my hair.

Well, I’m writing today, not to mourn bitterly the passing of my former face, but to celebrate her life. She would have wanted it that way.

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I’ve been making Karis little felt animal buddies lately. Today’s creation is a hoppy little hair band. She is thrilled with it, and I am thrilled with her hair being out of her face. It’s a win win!

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Karis wanted a butterfly face today. Never one to deny Her Highness, I dusted off the ol’ face paint kit and tried to remember how to do a butterfly. The result was less butterfly, and more gory carnival insect, but she was delighted.

Brecken is fascinated with it. He stares at Karis, mesmerized, wanting to touch her colorful face.

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These are a few shots of Brecken on his party day from the one memory card that wasn’t erased.

I think he looks a lot younger than 1 year old. Most people guess his age somewhere around 9 months. It must be a combination of his skinniness, and lack of hair. Regardless, I think he is *perfect*.

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Our car battery decided to die today when I was picking up Jesse’s bike from the shop. A kindly patron gave me a jump, and I was hoping that would be the last I knew of it, as our car battery does this from time to time. The connectors are screwed up, but every single mechanic we’ve ever asked to replace them always says the same thing. “Naw man, you don’t need to replace ‘em. I cleaned ‘em with a wire brush.”

I took Karis to a birthday party at 4:00 and we were all set to return home at 6:00. Imagine my delight when I discovered the battery was dead again.

After getting a jump from a party-goer, I decided to go straight to an auto parts store and get a new battery. I am *NOT* a fan of auto trouble, and would gladly make a car payment every month for the rest of my life to stay in a new, safe, reliable vehicle.

I got a foreboding feeling as I pulled up to the Advance Auto Parts store. If today had been a horror movie, now is about the time the creepy music would start and you would shout at the screen, “No girl! Don’t go in there!”

Jesse had called ahead to make sure they would help me so late in the day, so I knew they were expecting me.

“Hi, I’m here about a dead battery.” I said to Sal.

Sal pointed to the back counter and told me to ask for a guy named Tahir.

There was a gentleman in front of me in line. Tahir took my vehicle information and pulled the proper battery for my car. I was told to wait for “that guy” (pointing at crowd of red shirted men milling about the front of the store) to come back and he would replace my battery.

So we waited. And waited. And danced animatedly around the air freshener display stand. And waited. And used the back room potty, which Karis declared to be her “favorite bathroom ever”, but the back storage area was deemed “Very messy!”. And waited.

Finally “That guy” came back, followed by the gentleman that had been in front of me in line. “That guy”, whose shirt proclaimed him to be “Boris”, was saying that the gentleman’s battery bolts were corroded and therefore he was unable to replace his battery. The gentleman was saying, “No, they are not corroded! You aren’t using the correct tool. If you would please just try a deeper socket wrench…”

A fat guy behind the counter -  we’ll call him “Fat F@#K” because we don’t like him – said under his breath, “If his bolts are corroded he’s going to have to move along. We do batteries as a COURTESY. He can’t be takin’ up all our time.”

I glanced over at the gentleman. He was exasperated, but keeping a reasonable tone. “Please, just let me try a deeper socket…” I gave him a sympathetic look and followed Boris out to my car.

Boris was joined by Cesar. It took me approximately 37 seconds to realize neither one of them had any idea what they were doing. Cesar managed to shock himself while trying to unscrew the first bolt. A bright spray of sparks shot into the air, spurring Karis to say, “Oh! Fireworks!” Meanwhile, Boris was standing over him with an air of self-importance, trying his best to make it clear that he was the senior associate. He was telling me about the gentleman before me. How he had kept giving them advice, and trying to tell them how to do their job. “If he knew so much, why didn’t he just do it himself?” Boris asked indignantly.

The second time Cesar shocked himself I couldn’t resist making a joke about telling them how to do their job – only I wasn’t joking. Boris looked at me and answered, “It’s ok if you tell us what to do, because you are a beautiful woman. I don’t mind it coming from a beautiful woman.” Sooo smooth, that Boris.

We’ve been out in the parking lot for a good 30 minutes by this time, and they still hadn’t even loosened the battery connectors. For those of you that are unfamiliar with how long it should take to change a car battery, the answer is ten minutes. Tahir comes out to see what the hell is taking so long. He takes one glance at the battery, pulls out a vice grip, and proceeds to loosen the appropriate bolts. Thinking Boris and Cesar are now on the right track, Tahir returns inside the store.

Suddenly, up walks a very pretty young woman, with a very pregnant belly. She sees Boris and Cesar leaning under my hood and comes over to investigate.

“Cesar, are you teaching him how to change a battery?”

“Pshaw, woman. I’M teachin’ HIM.” Sputtered Boris.

She raises her eyebrows in surprise and says, “You know how to do this stuff?”

She obviously knew Boris and Cesar very well, and her surprise at seeing them under the hood of a car did not bode well for my schedule.

Another thirty minutes pass. Sweet Karis is being so patient! I am astounded by Boris and Cesar’s ineptitude. Out comes Tahir again. He makes quick work of yet another set of bolts. As he is leaving, he suddenly remembers, “Oh! There was a phone call for you inside.” Jesse had called, wondering where the hell I was.

We are in the home stretch now – or so I think. When the connectors are put onto the new battery Boris realizes the coil he took off and tossed to the ground was actually needed to secure the connector. He sends Cesar in to ask for advise. Fat F#@K comes out to see what the problem is. I am in the back seat entertaining Karis and before I can jump out and see what Fat F@#K did, He slams the hood and tells me I’m good to go. Then he rushes back in to the store.

I am not stupid. After just having wasted the better part of my Saturday watching these clowns stumble around my engine compartment, I wasn’t about to take Fat F#@K’s word for it. “Let me see how you’ve secured it.” Boris was more than happy to show me their handy-work.

That fat bastard had wrapped the discarded coil loosely around the connector. It was still completely loose. “That’s not secure.” I said.

My final thirty minutes with the fine folks at Advance Auto Parts consisted of the only person who knew anything about auto maintenance – or unscrewing something for that matter – Tahir, coming out and fixing my battery connector. While he was doing this, Boris  was busy showing me his drivers’ license, and explaining that his real name is Ushindi. “This is the only shirt they had when they hired me.” He explained, pointing to the cursive “Boris” on his breast. The pregnant woman returned and Boris was horrified to be forced to admit she was in fact his wife, because one of the other employees insisted he be introduced. Boris glanced at me to judge my reaction to this news. Aw Boris, you cad! And to think, you could have had a shot if I never found out about your pregnant wife.

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Karis has taken to drawing hollow eyed little happy faces. Or not so happy faces, as evidenced by picture 1. Frankly, picture 2 isn’t looking so happy either – more like mildly misunderstood.

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