An open letter to the Captain's adenoids.

Dear Captain's Adenoids:

Good evening. I hope this letter finds you well. Oh, wait, you must not be well given that you just willfully and deliberately gave the Captain another ear infection. So that makes 5 ear infections, 5 sinus infections, and a case of the croup, all since November. If this is how you treat your friends, I hate to see how you treat your enemies.

I realize that we haven't always gotten along, but your constant defiance and contempt for the rules I set down is more than appalling. Never forget, I created you, gave you a nice warm home to live in, and plenty of good food and singalongs to entertain you. While I feel that you should be ashamed of your behavior, much to my dismay you persevere.

So let's get down to it. I realize there is not much I can do right now to fight you, but I am working on evicting you. I don't care what it costs or how difficult you intend to be, I will have you forcibly removed from the premises. Start packing your bags; your days are numbered.

Signed,

Mediocre Mama
President & CEO

Where did I go?

In a nutshell, I went to work. And I kept working. And I worked nights. And I worked weekends. And the Lord said, you shall work for 40 days and 40 nights, and at the end of such forty nights, Moses said, you shall suffer in the desert for 40 years, with a child in need of a tonsillectomy and a husband in need of a job. And so I went to the Seder and drank with Elijah and forgot my cares in a glass of Baron Herzog (Kosher for Pesach).

Alright, minus the desert part, it soooo all happened that way. After a massive blitz at my office with little end in sight to the work (thank goodness), and a chronically sick Captain Kid who is seemingly en route to the operating room, my family became a national statistic with a 30 days notice along with a bunch of other people from his office. Such are the times we live in. And so my family goes. And so this Mediocre Mama shifts to breadwinner, if only for a little while.

And so began my first week of brown-bagging my lunches and contemplating consignment sales and hand-me-downs. Maybe it's all for the best. In this wasteful society, I have been heartened by the trend of reusing and recycling. Let's face it, how far behind is the trend of regifting so I can get rid of some of that ugly crap I registered for when I got married a mere 8 years ago? It's all in vogue and I am embracing it, along with my new status and all the uncertainty that lies ahead.

So begins the next phase of this journey of family and motherhood. Less than 2 years ago it was I who pondered my future and the things that lie ahead. Now it's someone else's turn.

And so it goes, and so it goes...

And the least that I can do? Blog it.

The dog ate his dinner.

Yep, and I fed it to her. I'm proud to say that last night the Captain called my bluff and lost.

It started just like any other night. He complained woefully that he didn't want dinner, he just wanted a snack. This seems to be a recurring theme in my household. Organized mealtime=bad, haphazard snacking=good. So I finally convinced him that mac and cheese would be a good idea, which he happily helped me mix and cook. But when the time came for him to eat it, he screamed, "I want fish sticks" and proceeded to push away the bowl of mac and cheese, whining and crying as he made his proclamation. I tried patience. I tried encouragement. And finally, I tried fear. I used our usual threat, that Dog would be glad to finish his meal, a technique that usually makes him snap to. But once again he shoved the bowl away. Over and over again. And then he hit the bowl and something snapped in this mediocre mama's head.

I grabbed the bowl away from him and placed it on the floor before Dog, who gulped down half in 6 seconds flat and the Captain shrieked. I'd decided the Captain had enough and picked up the bowl to give him what was left. And wouldn't you know it? The little bugger hit the bowl again. The dog was then treated to the 2nd half of the Captain's dinner. He screamed and cried. And after about 6 tissues, some deep breathing and a couple of hugs, I finally got an "I'm sorry, Mommy," and with that we made a fresh bowl of mac & cheese, which he ate entirely, no complaints.

Captain Kid - 0, Mediocre Mama - 1, Dog - 1

Mediocre Marketing

I'm always both impressed and horrified when I find a medium to out-mediocre me. Which is why I was in bliss today when I went shopping at our new local market. Now I resisted those kiddie car shopping carts for a long long time, fearing the tantrum that would ensue should none be available. But on one fabulous trip to market, a grandparent who shall remain nameless went the easy path and so the Captain's days of cruising around in one of these bad boys began:

And so too did my laziness begin. If I am to tell the truth, these things have zero steering. And I'm not going to pretend that I've never knocked over a display or two trying to maneuver one of these puppies. But what's a mediocre mama to do? If it helps keep the hostility out of my shopping experience then I'll play ball. And so it came to pass, baby you can drive my car. No harm done, though probably a nasty cold picked up or passed in these horrible germ mobiles.

BUT...

Then some supermarket that shall remain named (Safeway) decided to take shitty parenting to a new level. So behold, now with on-demand:








Yes, for less than the price of a cup of coffee, you too can entertain your child with Thomas, Bob or Barney as you idle about, impulse shopping and viewing lovely advertisements from your video console. And boy did we ever, dropping nearly $200 in one shot. Whoever thought it up is both genius and devil, as it seems they are usually one and the same. Yep, this mediocre mama fell victim once again. Between that and the free sample stations, I'm contemplating just moving in.

Riddle of the sphinx

I was always one of these skeptics who thought Freud spent a little too much time with a bottle in his hand and had one too many trips to the opium den. Beyond a drug induced frenzy, it seemed a little implausible that the average 3 year old boy would want to kill his father and marry his mother. But after a recent growing infatuation, lets just say that we are hiding the sharp objects and locking the door at night.

To call it textbook would be...well...spot on. At bedtime the Captain says that the Deviant Dad gives a bad kiss; the Mediocre Mama gives a good kiss. Of late he's pitted us against each other more times then I care to admit to. And then there's the exhausting list of daily activities that cause fits and meltdowns if Dad does it instead of Mom. Like turning the light on in the bathroom, cutting up his food, or working a simple toy - no matter the task, it's "No, Mommy can do it."

The reality is that it puts me in a perplexing and delicate situation. Not wanting to trample over the Dad, but loving the affection. Not wanting the responsibility of handling all the daily little tasks, but not caring much for the meltdowns either. And then there are the war cries that pit us against each other, from "You're my best friend, Mommy" to "I don't wike, Daddy." And I know exactly how we got here.

My back surgery was exactly 11 months ago as of next weekend. And to date I still can't lift the little bugger and I still don't throw myself into the lion's den when offering up a physical punishment. When he's misbehaving, I have to call to the Dad to take care of it. Nothing I do can be handled with my body, and so my parenting tool is my voice. Is it any wonder that the Dad gained the reputation as the disciplinarian in my house? And I'm sure, being the Deviant that he is, he never envisioned that he'd have to play the bad-cop parent; in his head he's not only the good-cop, he's still the misbehaving child himself.

I know it's frustrating to the Dad and creates some difficult tension, but at the same time I actually think it's made me less of a Mediocre Mama, despite my usual pride in the contrary. Ever since the Kid was 2, I have had him climbing into my SUV, getting into his car seat by himself and handling any physical tasks on his own. And since I couldn't afford to have a kid thrashing about or lying in the middle of the street in protest, I had to learn to use my words more carefully. I had to make him want to do things the right way. And now, I'm his woman. As his teachers recently observed, there's a real love affair going on here. To sum it up, he's smitten.

I know this phase won't last forever. And I walk the line between head in my hands or head-over-heels myself. I just wish it hadn't set up such a twisted love triangle in the process.

Three's a crowd.

It seemed like we were passed the worst of it when the Captain turned 3 last month. Fully potty trained, totally indoctrinated into the Montessori fold and a fierce streak of independence beginning to unfold, the Mediocre Mama and Deviant Dad were finally starting to enjoy some gulp-free moments in our routine. Our function had finally begun to shift from constant kid-appendage to separate and detached. Perhaps we became too comfortable.

Last night after a particularly ornery day for the Captain, he announced that he was going to the potty. He disappeared into his "office" to do his business and moments later came out to announce that he had peed in the shower. We thought it was some kind of weird joke, but knowing him as we do we took the bait. Sure enough there was a big yellow puddle in the middle of the shower.

The logic of a 3 year old is always something to behold, truly you cannot argue with it.

Why did you pee in the shower?

I peed in the shower because I did.

That the subsequent time out and forced cleaup that followed didn't even seem to phase him was troubling at best. He took his medicine, no complaints, and a very insincere, "Oh, sorry," was all that we got. To say that I was pissed off doesn't really get to the heart of the matter.

And a mere minutes later, I noticed the other act of defiance before my eyes. The dog bowl, which was the Captain's responsibility to fill, was half full - the other half of the dog's dinner was floating in the water dish.

Is 3 just about testing limits or is there something much more sinister going on?

To new moms.

A girlfriend poked me on facebook today and asked the burning question that all new mother's to-be ask. Daunted and perplexed as they walk into the baby shop, it's always the same - "what in the hell do I register for?"

I'll never forget my first trip into that dark place. I invited my mother and sister to town, already mother's themselves, to guide me through this dark maze. All the "must haves" and "essentials," the cart filled as my brain emptied. And $200+ later, I was clearly prepared to take on the thing that knew nothing, the little monster who'd never seen a diaper, a diaper bag, a baby swing or a bouncy chair. I was prepared because I had stuff. And stuff prepares you for any emergency. Ha cha cha, you're a mom and you have tons of shit! It's all you, girl. You're locked and loaded.

And then it comes. And you go a little crazy. And you realize the stuff isn't helping. The stuff isn't stopping the crying. The stuff doesn't protect the shit from leaking out the diaper. The stuff doesn't magically put the little bugger to bed. Even worse, you've got so much stuff that as you're sleepily stumbling your way to find the little monster in the wee hours of the morning you trip over the stuff, which you clumsily dropped on your way back to bed. The stuff is your enemy. The stuff doesn't work. You worshipped the golden calf and now, like the ten commandments thrown in your face, it hits you that you're on your own to figure it out.

When it comes to new babies, someone else's stuff is meaningless

"Buy a pump, get the expensive one, you won't regret..."

The Captain didn't make it 4 days on the breast and that very expensive pump spent the next 5 weeks attached to my very sore breast, only to be cast aside.

"Swaddling works like a charm, it will settle him right down. You must get a swaddler..."

The Captain was miserable when swaddled and the only thing that got him to sleep was when he wasn't snug as a bug.

The list goes on. And I'm not saying' it's all useless advice, it's just that none of it prepares you for anything and the investments you'll make, looking for that golden nugget, that miracle that will shut your baby the hell up...it only exists in hindsight.

And so what's MY list of musts? The Mediocre Mama's golden nugget? I could lead new mother's down my own path of comforts and enumerate the things that worked for the Captain, but if my tips work as well as some of the advice I received when expecting, then I'd sooner hold my tongue. Therefore, I guess all I can offer is the practical and not the cure:

Bibs, and lots of them.