A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

Monthly Archives: November 2016

It isn’t just about the mashed potatoes…and gravy…

Many heart wrenching, worrying things I share with the majority of Americans; but much tickles my heart and warms me despite future uncertainty. I’m thankful and privileged to see such strength, determination, and love following the loop hole allowing a disgusting individual and his counterparts to represent the best of us. Unending gratitude social media exists to make me laugh despite the serious nature of what will transpire.

I’m grateful for Rachel Maddow. I’m grateful for John Oliver and Impractical Jokers.

I’m thankful my gray hair that is prospering in droves doesn’t look horrible. Its proliferation is uncertain, but I’ve always found the salt and pepper look attractive…Here’s hoping the same will hold true for me…in six months at this rate.

Unending appreciation that the almost 102 fever I had on Thanksgiving was short lived, and was not fortified by a nose cold. My husband is fighting something. I hope that bit of lovely decides I’m not a hospitable homestead.

I’m thankful my father-in-law saw fit to buy me a bar of one of my favorite brands of chocolate. It’s the dark variety too, so I feel the depth of his love for me. He is now my favorite person in the world…until someone else buys me chocolate, creating a more contemporary warmth in my thoughts.

I’m blessed to have found a less tedious pumpkin pie-like recipe. It was mighty tasty…especially as my breakfast yesterday…and this morning. It’s about time for a second helping. I’m thankful it occurred to me to buy extra whipped topping. In that same vein, profuse gratitude to my friend who made a chocolate cream pie to add to the Thanksgiving meal festivities. Pudding or not, it was chocolate and phenomenal…and was a welcomed breakfast addition to the pumpkin pie I ate yesterday.

My toddler hasn’t napped in two days, consequently has been a disaster for the second half of the day, stretching into the evening. Having family staying with us and generally surrounding him has my son elated in a vibrating giggle beginning at six sharp in the morning. We hear Little Man emerge from his room with the tell tale jingle from his horrid stuffed dog. Within seconds the sound becomes a scurry into our room. An enthusiastic, “hi,” with other random commentary before turning on our bright overhead light. If I’m honest, it is quite possibly the cutest wake-up call ever…I’m thankful I haven’t killed him…yet.

Warrior Queen has made every effort to crawl back into my uterus. I don’t know what happened, but she decided that anyone other than me holding her will not be the game plan for the day. What gets me is that she will be fine until she catches my gaze. Then the slow abhorrence of her situation consumes her face. That said, I’m thankful I’m too tired to be much bothered as the shrill wailing commences…for a few minutes anyway. At some point dogs will start circling, so I have to give in. At seven-months she mostly is all smiles, and I cannot measure my gratitude to be the recipient of some so grand that her whole face is enveloped.

I’m thankful for leggings, which look surprisingly acceptable under dresses. I don’t have it in me to wrangle stockings or tights, and it’s getting cold. Additionally, I’m thankful for flannel shirts. They are an easy way to add color and pattern to my otherwise black wardrobe. I get that black is sexy and all, and it certainly looks good on me, but I don’t quite pull-off Morticia…with gray-ing hair.

Image result for morticia

(I could fall asleep on that chair.)

That said, I pretty much nail the pasty look, and I don’t even need powder.

A final thanks to my husband who took our 2.7 year-old on an outing with his family, so I can rest. My fierce girl is sleeping in our office. I’m soaking in the brief quiet watching a knit/crochet program on television. The second pie helping was wonderful, as were the mashed potatoes and gravy. Sometimes I wish I could predict the future. I’ve never liked surprises, and these days I’d prefer to brace myself. But, while bad days loom, so do the good ones, and for that I am most thankful.




The Limitless Rosie

Six-month-old Warrior Queen has lots to say. When she’s happy or sad it isn’t about a simple cry, but determined and enthusiastic baby babble uterances. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I know what she’s saying. I don’t have an ideal for who I hope she will become as she transitions through her various life stages, but I hope she always will have something to say.

I spent years quiet, intimidated; but none of it helped me become a good, or even adequate listener. I was the floral wallpaper, coated in beige with no colorful or noteworthy markings.

As an approaching forty-year-old woman fortunate to have birthed such a fierce and determined sprite of a girl, I strive to be a worthy model. She hasn’t confronted the forces determined to quelch her into a timid spirit, so I hope to help her navigate those times when she does. Maybe help her rise above those who wish her to be a nice and good girl.

Image result for powerful yelling girl
(Although about time-outs, PBS knows the rightful disposition of a girl.)


I want my daughter to know her place. I want her to internalize that her place is whereever she asserts, and she has every right to scream it from every corner and high rise…except when it’s three in the morning. At that time I’m delighted if she chooses to rest.

Out of the Closet…and Into a Tent

It was a cute evening. I go upstairs to check on my toddler who likely terrorized his bedroom with every article he possesses strewn all over the floor. Surprisingly, it wasn’t all that bad. He looks up from his book, and requests me to follow him and enter his spacious closet. He directs me to sit, and hands me a book to read.

After a few pages, he stands up, once again insisting I follow. He dives into the hand-me-down tent his cousins used over a decade ago. Little Man begs that I enter with him and continue reading. I’m small, but not so small that I can sit upright. I stretch on my side. My sweet little boy curls up along my length, looks up at me with smiling eyes and beaming mouth. Then he gazes on the page of my utterings.

We remained that way until my husband entered the room with our daughter. The spell was broken. Little Man falls over me giggling on his way out. I clumsily exit, taking some of the tent with me. By that time no one was in the room to hear the profane fragment escape my lips, as the tent opening clutched my ankle. I could hear the ruckus downstairs, and it pulled me like a string around my abdomen.

Life’s a…Scream

Dishes piled high; some in the sink.

But, the kids aren’t screaming.

Chocolate smeared faces, and coating the walls.

But, the kids aren’t screaming.

Toys strewn on surfaces; I massacred my feet.

But, the kids aren’t screaming.

Did the toddler just throw that? It dented the wall!

But, the kids aren’t screaming.

Coated head to toe in baby mystery goo.

But, the kids aren’t screaming.

Lunch thrown together. Is grape jam a fruit?

But, the kids aren’t screaming.

The floor is sticky; not sure what it is.

But, the kids aren’t screaming.

Sofa askew, toddler stripped off his clothes.

But, the kids aren’t screaming.

Baby chewing a dog toy; no hope that it’s clean.

But, the kids aren’t screaming.

Is it nap time yet? I’m pulling patches of hair.

But, the kids aren’t screaming

Toddler gives me a squeeze. Baby smiles with a coo.

No longer am I screaming.



Worth 1,000 Words

I’m all about the reading. Reading aloud to my children is one of my most favorite activities, even when the story selection passed its threshold of tedium in the rear view mirror. Beyond the general short and long term benefits of reading to the young’uns, I have ulterior motives. I was illiterate through the fourth grade, and a fairly lousy reader through college. I’m ignorant of the scientific explanation for my troubles, but it impacted everything from my egregious writing to my pathetic understanding of social cues. It’s all part of my path, and I’m proud of who I am. That said, it wasn’t an easy path, and some of my struggles endure. Aware that my genetic composition is the cause of some of the more harsh parts of my reality, I try the best I can to offset their effects should my children inherit some of my dysfunction. Reading is one of those interventions. If my children can’t read as most, I want them to love a story. With any luck it will be a beacon if the literary world presses down its fog.

With this theme ever present in my mind, I’m heartened on days such as today. Certainly there are copious of other events to warm my very core in this arena. Little Man loves tales above all else, and the Warrior Queen at a ripe old age of six-months shows every inclination of possessing the same passion. She has since she was brewing in my belly; developed enough to hear and appreciate my vocal cadence, yet small enough to have room for her interpretive dancing in response to my rhythm.

Warrior Queen is on the cusp of reciprocating as her big brother’s playmate. Little Man itches for these interactions. Today is a new one. When my son was an itty bitty exterior soul, I purchased these Black on White/White on Black books…if you can call them that.

Image result for white on black infant book

 (This is an example of a couple of the book images.)

I couldn’t tell you if these books are actually helpful for babies or just in name, but such a thing doesn’t hurt. Why not invest in a couple? Mr. Man was indifferent as a baby, but my fierce girl is much more delighted by objects in general than he ever was. I gave this accordion cardboard collection another whirl. My son was thrilled by the suggestion before I had the chance to formally present the book to either child. He ecstatically shrieked his request to show the Warrior Queen, and I may have lost a frequency or two in my hearing capability.

I sat on a chair at my desk. My daughter on her belly facing away from me, the book standing on its edges, fanned before her. Her doting big brother sharing in tummy time immediately next to her, reading the images. He was engrossed in the task, oblivious to her vacillated gaze between the pictures like the ones above, and awe of the sweet boy she resembles so closely. And, I melted.


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