(Or: “Why is Mommy drinking so much eggnog?”)
Because it’s good. Anyways, you parents know what I mean…it’s that time of year when the children start thinking about what they want for Christmas/Chanukah/Kwanzaa/Saturnalia/Whatever. Okay, I’m way behind…kids think about that ALL YEAR LONG. But this is the time when they start acting like Santa has an unlimited budget. Santa does not. Santa cannot drop 300 dollars per child and toy stores seem to think
I Santa can. I remember one year I asked for a beautiful Barbie with brown hair, a soft blue dress, and a pearl necklace (shut up you perverts). I did not get her. She was 7 dollars, if memory serves me right.
Seven dollars. I saw a beautiful doll when we went out shopping for ToddlerGirl and SchoolGirl (we didn’t buy much for BabyBoy…what the heck are you supposed to get a two-month-old anyways other than some rattles?). She was gorgeous and beautiful and the little girl in me (because we women never truly grow up, show us a pretty doll and a part of us will still sigh wistfully and go “Ooohhh…”) came alive and wanted that doll with the same fervor that she had for that Barbie she wanted 22 years ago. Mr. Wench told me to get her. I was going to…until I price-checked her. 45.95. Are you freaking kidding me?
Ahem. Allow me to rein myself in…but again, the outrageous price of toys…is outrageous. Mr. Wench got SchoolGirl a Sheriff Woody doll with the pull string and he talks…yeah, forty bucks. Ridiculous. Which is why I could never ever justify spending 45 bucks on a stupid piece of plastic with plastic “jewels” and a stupid dress made of cheap fabric that I could have sewn, and look at her wings! Cheap flimsy pieces of way too breakable crap! How could I ever own her without my own girls ripping apart the box at the first chance?! Sigh…get back in your cubicle, 6 year old me, there is no room for you here.
There is a new blog I love to read….People I Want To Punch In The Throat. Jen is hilarious and is a mother after my own stylings. Check out her entry on Overachieving Elf on the Shelf Mommies. I love it. And it kind of got me thinking…it’s not just overachieving Elf moms…it’s overachieving moms in general. I had a mom telling me “Oh well my little Prescott (because a mom like her probably has a pretentiously named kid) loves it when I make him homemade pitas, and then I buy fresh chickpeas to make him some hummus, and I let him paint it all over our table, I do love to let him express himself.” Lady, that’s not expressing himself. That’s making a darned mess. I let my kids express themselves too…on paper. Not with hummus. My kids could eat healthier, I admit, but seriously lady? Maybe YOU have time to make homemade pitas by the batch each and every day, and maybe you have time to make homemade hummus, but I don’t. You only have one child. I have three, two of whom are high maintenance. Very high maintenance. I barely have time to feed the baby his bottle without ToddlerGirl picking that precise fricking moment to ask me for something. Even when I ask her beforehand….”ToddlerGirl, do you need anything before I sit down to feed the baby/go over to change his diaper/go to the bathroom/take a breath. Do you mind if I breathe? Thanks.” She will STILL wait until I am in the middle of doing something to ask me for whatever she wants.
So no, I do not have time allotted for folding the mountain of laundry created by a household of five. Why no, I do not have time to scrub down the bathroom when the cat decides to pull down a blind and just go all toddler-like on my bathroom. That time was allotted to bathing ToddlerGirl, BabyBoy, and myself…and now it’s been handed over to something else. My sink is rarely empty unless I am trying to make crap like cookies….or eggnog. Alton Brown has a great recipe here. Do the cooked version. You can’t be too careful with raw eggs. My kids’ room is a mess because I absolutely REFUSE to clean it for them only to have them destroy it 20 minutes later. I try to make them clean it, unlike Prescott’s mother, who seems to think that it is perfectly acceptable that precious Prescott is 9 fricking years old and doesn’t pick up after himself. That’s nice, lady.
In fact, I took the time (45 minutes) out of my sleep time and gave it to writing this blog entry…because I haven’t posted in forever and I love blogging and I deserve some time to do something *I* like, darnit.
Tomorrow, should BabyBoy cooperate, will be laundry day. To fold the mountain of laundry that, to conquer, is a feat almost Sisyphean in nature.
More to come tomorrow.