Every Day is Groundhog Day

Lately I've been living my own little version of Groundhog Day, the epic Bill Murray movie wherein he relives the same day over and over and over again. Except I'm reliving specific moments of the day over and over and over again. This is due to Violet's newly discovered independence. She must do everything by herself and if I slip up and get the milk out of the fridge or put her potty seat over the toilet on my own, God help everyone, including the dogs who have bore the brunt of her resulting rage on more than a few unfortunate occasions. After her rage subsides we must redo the task until it meets with her very stingy approval.

Most recently I had the unmitigated gall to pour her a cup of milk and serve it to her at the table. How dare I? In response? A milk boycott of epic proportions. She couldn't be near the tainted cup of milk, couldn't even have it in her eyesight, so ruined was this cup of milk that mom had the nerve to procure without Violet's careful instruction and subsequent assistance. Her highness has ruled the milk disgusting, UNDRINKABLE, therefore it must be sent into exile. And I am the worst mother ever what with all my willy-nilly, permissionless milk-pouring.

The aforementioned milk boycott manifested in Violet leaving the dinner table in tears and placing the small cup of milk on the floor of the living room, like some sort of shrine or offering to the Milk Gods, where she wouldn't have to see it and where Max would immediately gulp it down without regard for the Milk Gods. And then, AND THEN, 30 seconds later she calmly requested "Cold milk, please." in a no nonsense tone that implied No more shit from you, lady, or there'll be hell to pay. As if the whole thing never even happened. Cool as a cucumber she got the milk out of the fridge and assisted in the pouring and returned to the table to drink it down, lickety-split.

This kind of thing happens all day long. If I dare pour milk (or attempt to accomplish any other similar task involving Violet) without express permission and assistance from her highness the milk is tainted, immediately rendered undrinkable and we must painstakingly repeat the milk-pouring routine to Violet's satisfaction. Same goes for snacks. Hand her a cookie from the container and it's no good, asshole. She must choose which cookie from the package on her own. Therefore, the offensive cookie mom grabbed from the package is put directly back and then she must wave some kind of magic wand in her brain to erase what just happened because she then proceeds to pick a cookie as if one wasn't just given to her. Sometimes the cookie she chooses is the very same one I just handed her and sometimes the cookie choosing process involves up to five minutes of handling seven to ten cookies before her little fingers settle on just the right one. As if the fate of the planet rests in this one decision. Violet is Ben Affleck and the cookie is a giant asteroid headed straight for Earth. Minutes tick by, months tick by, Jessica Simpson gets pregnant for forever again and gives birth in the time it takes Violet to pick a cookie. It's like she's mentally communicating with the cookies, determining whose time is up. Back and forth between this cookie and that. Back and forth, this one or that one?

Finally, after what feels like three hours, when my insides are begging for mercy, screaming for the kid to just CHOOSE A FUCKING COOKIE ALREADY she plucks one from the pack and utters the sweetest "Thanks, mama!" you ever heard and, like the Grinch, my heart immediately grows three sizes. Of course, it immediately shrinks like a dick in cold water ten minutes later when she tries to kick Henry down the stairs, but, well, you gotta take these small mom victories where you can get 'em.

She's also turned into a big ol' know-it-all. But she's twisted. For example, if we're driving through the woods I'll say, "Look Violet, we're in the woods." Her immediate disgruntled response is "That's not woods, it's a forest!" The fact that I'm an ignorant asshole is implicitly implied. Okay, all right, I'll go with your forest, kid. The difference is negligible. But recently she's just started fucking with me. "Look, chickens!" I'll say in feigned Mom Excitement as we pass a bunch of scraggily chickens meandering down a country road. "That's not chickens, that's cows!" She'll yell at me as if she finds my stupidity astounding on levels that I couldn't even possibly understand. That's when some inner need to prove to a 3-year-old that I'm not an asshole takes over and i respond "No, those aren't cows, they're chickens, silly."

Big mistake. Huge.

"NO, NO, NO! Cows! COWS! Not chickens!" I mean, she's just messing with me like some tom cat batting around a defenseless little mouse, isn't she? We're both looking at an assload of chickens, clear as day. She knows these are chickens, dammit. If I'm feeling feisty (suicidal) I'll try one more time. "No, look, chickens. What does the chicken say? Bawk, bawk, bawk!" My confidence is faltering and the forced joviality backfires. The kid smells fear like a cadaver dog closing in on remains.

NO NO NO NO NO. That's not chickens, IT'S COWS. COWS! COOOOWS! Then she checkmates me with the waterworks. There we are, arguing over chickens and cows and Henry's gawking at her like, Oh for Chrissakes, what kind of shenanigans are you trying to pull here? Even I know the difference between a bunch of chickens and cows. But it doesn't matter, people. Those chickens are cows now as far as this family is concerned.

"Okay, all right. They're cows!" I'll say.

The tears stop immediately and I swear to God I see her smirk and then, as if nothing untoward just occurred, in the sweetest, kindest voice you ever heard she says "Ice cream?"

Mom - 0, Violet - WINNING



You can read Serge's version of the same scenario here: Conversations With A 3-Year-Old Part II

For Mama

_{The union that brought about my existence.}

I haven't written about my mom in a while which certainly doesn't indicate how much I think about her. I think about her a lot. I have much guilt for moving her grandbabies so far away from her. I know she's upset that she doesn't get to see them grow up first-hand. So today, in honor of Mother's Day, here are a few posts about my mom. The good, the bad and the ugly. Love you Mama. Thanks for being my best pal.

Genesis: How my mom met my dad.

Sexual Stigmata: The story of my parents, continued.

Divorce Express: Life with the Butlers in the Eighties

Motorcycle Mama: Yes, my mom rode a motorcycle when I was growing up. She STILL rides it.

Growing Up Gangsta - This might be my favorite thing I've ever written about my family.

One Never Nose: The time my mom got a nose job and I went to the recovery room and held hands with the wrong bandaged up woman, thinking it was my mom. Yeah, really.

The Snow Shovel, The Firewood, The Mom and her Daughter: Unfortunately this really happened.

I Am Mean : A snapshot of living with mom just after marrying Serge, before moving to Brooklyn.

Barefoot In The Snow: One of the first stories about my childhood I wrote on this blog.

He's a Maniac, That's For Sure

Violet has taken to calling Henry a maniac because she overhears me doing so. Rolls of toilet paper discovered in the toilet: maniac. Bloated, soggy dog food floating in the water bowl: maniac. Rifling through my tampons for the billionth time in the bathroom: maniac. Shoving bananas in his diaper while eating: maniac.

Kid can't sit still for a second. But I like that about him. He's got shit to do, places to go, stuff to ruin, you know? Ambition. I admire that in a person.

Henwy is a maniac, Violet will shout when she sees my exasperation on discovering his latest "accomplishment". But damn if he isn't the sweetest, loving-est little fella you ever did see. Randomly, while in the midst of trying to pry up the floorboards or dig through the trash, he'll pause and run over to me, bury his face in my legs, wrap his arms around me and squeeze as hard as he can. Then he returns to whatever act of terror he was involved with and continues the mayhem.

This photo illustrates it perfectly. Nothing stops the kid. Water must've been a hundred degrees below zero and the kid waded in there like he was vacationing in Jamaica and refused to leave.

GET OFF ME: Top 10 Things Couples Argue About In The Bedroom

Look, I didn’t need a study to tell me there’s more fighting than sex going down in the bedroom. My husband and I generally retire to different bedrooms at night because we simply cannot reconcile our sleeping requirements. A new study shows we are not alone. Far from it, in fact.

Behold: The Top 10 Things Couples Argue About in the Bedroom... It's what I'm babbling about.

Balancing Act

We've trained Henry to balance on Serge's forehead using only his pinky toe. He's very agile.

Seconds of Today

The Life and Times of Tiny Incisor

I don't mind telling you that I have veneers. I didn't get them because I was trying to be a supermodel or anything. I was in high school, coming off a really intense multi-year affair with a hardcore set of braces, and my dentist recommended the veneers because I have really small side teeth. Not my front teeth, but the two teeth flanking my front teeth. What are those teeth called? Lateral Incisors. Thank you Tooth Anatomy Chart.

So I've always had tiny incisors. Which should totally be my rap name: Tiny Incisor. Tiny Incisor in da hizz-ouse. Let's turn this mutha out, bitchez!!

Did reading that last middle-aged-white-woman-using-nineties-rap-lingo sentence make you as uncomfortable as it makes me? Awkward pause.

Anyway. Tiny incisors pretty much suck because they make your two front teeth look largish even though they are of the normal front teeth variety. And largish front teeth are also called buck teeth and we all know it blows to have buck teeth regardless of how cool Bugs Bunny was, is and always will be.

Here is a photo of your gal Tiny Incisor circa 1987.



See the tiny incisors? Or are they too tiny for you to locate? They are there, right next to the largish looking Central Incisors (thank you Tooth Anatomy Chart). Another shot of Tiny Incisor (what up, What Up, WHAT UP, YO!) when I was in the 5th grade.



I wasn't really bothered by my tiny incisors until the dentist brought them to my attention when discussing my need for braces. Thus began the braces years:



Years of braces-wearing that felt like lifetimes of braces-wearing. I got them put on the day before 8th grade started and wore them through my sophomore year of high school. I didn't kiss a boy for the first time until after the braces were installed and so my first non-braces kiss didn't occur until I was, like, 17 or something. Yeah. A lot of time with those bad boys. Lotta time covering my mouth with my hand while eating and then rushing to the bathroom to pick the food out of the metal in my mouth with a safety pin. Good times. I had rubber bands, the whole thing. But, as you're probably aware, while they can straighten your teeth and even pull them together, braces don't actually grow your teeth, it's true! And so even when the braces were finally, blessedly removed, the tiny incisors remained.

I don't remember being super upset by my tiny incisors, even in high school, but my dentist was apparently really bothered and fashioned a retainer with two false teeth attached to it. Oh my God, I cannot even believe I wore that thing, but yeah, I wore a retainer that fit over my teeth that had two false teeth that perfectly capped my tiny incisors and made me look like I had a full set of choppers. Aesthetically speaking, it really was a pretty neat solution for a self-conscious teenager who couldn't afford thousands of bucks for veneers. Although my girlfriends were forever mocking me and my "dentures" and the actual mechanics of taking the thing in and out kind of sucked. You can imagine how well it all went over when heading out on a date and hoping for a little suck face action.

BOY: You look so pretty tonight, Monica.

ME: Really? You think so?

BOY: (Moves in for a kiss)

ME: Hold on a second while I take out my dentures. There! That's better! What? What's wrong? Hey! Come back!

The whole thing just sucked and was exhausting and made me absolutely dread going to the dentist/orthodontist. And then, at some point, I don't remember exactly when but it must've been before I graduated, I finally got veneers put on my tiny incisors.



Look! Evidence I am scholarly and such! And see, there is a full set of choppers with a coupla veneers covering the tiny incisors. And life was good. Until I was around 21 and another busybody dentist told me that my veneers didn't match my two front teeth, my Central Incisors, if you will. He said I would look so much better if I got veneers over my front four teeth so they all matched. So, being a grown-up working girl who could afford her own veneers (or a payment plan that would help her afford her own veneers) I got veneers put over my front teeth.

Shiny white veneers, yay! But, if you have veneers you know what a grueling ordeal the whole thing is. They grind down your teeth until you look like a Ferengi on Star Trek and then they fit you with a temporary set of choppers that feel like you've got a set of wooden teeth rattling around in your head while you wait for the final, porcelain veneers to be made.

If you can come out of the whole experience and not be freaked out by the dentist and teeth and drills and such then I commend you. I am not that person. Plus, my temporary teeth fell out all the time. Like, can you imagine being on a date with a guy and you bite into a burrito and your fake tooth comes out? Is still, in fact, biting into the burrito when you have long since put the burrito down on the plate in horror. Yes, people, this shit happened for two weeks while I waited for my permanent veneers. It may sound trivial, but at 21, when you're trying to be sexy dammit, it just sucks droopy, gray-haired old man balls for your teeth to fall out and the guy to shit his pants over the snaggletooth he suddenly finds himself sitting across from, not to mention the tooth just chilling in the burrito he just bought said snaggletooth in hopes of getting in its pants later.

So the dentist finally puts my permanent veneers on just in time for a trip to Mexico. While in Mexico I was smiling and feeling really great about my teeth when one of the guys on the trip says, "Did you bump your front tooth? It looks gray." Sure enough, one of the brand spanking new veneers was off-color. Like a significantly darker color than the other three white teeth. I was so miserable. I had to go back to the dentist, he had to knock those four veneers off, like he basically had to break them out of my mouth and start the whole damn process over again. Temporary wooden teeth that fell out, the whole thing.

At this point my nightmares became all about teeth falling out, being toothless, swallowing my teeth, falling on cement and landing on my teeth which shatter out of my head, people breaking out my teeth with hammers - that kind of thing. But I finally got the permanent veneers and life was good albeit I now have intense teeth trauma and a very healthy fear of dental visits.

In 2005 I had the veneers replaced and have been rocking those same veneers until now. While the veneers have been okay, I still have nightmares about breaking my teeth. Intellectually I know the veneers are solid but it still bothers me that they're even there, that I just don't have my very own nice, square teeth. But I have no choice unless I want to be Tiny Incisor forever. And actually, considering they ground down my two front teeth when they put all four veneers in place, unless I land a starring role as a Ferengi on Star Trek, I think I'm pretty much going to have to rock four veneers until I die. And that's cool because nowadays a lot of people have veneers, I think. Do they? I mean, it seems like I'm always reading about Lindsay Lohan or Hilary Duff or someone getting their teeth done.

So all was well and then it happened. Worst nightmare of the past decade of my life comes true. I went to bed with a mouth full of teeth on Friday night. Nothing unusual, just reading a little and then watching some TV before turning off the lamp and yet when I woke up I looked in the mirror and saw this:



The nightmare cometh true and teeth horror continues. Can someone please explain to me how you can chip a tooth while sleeping? I mean, seriously?!

One Week To Go

My reaction to reading a survey that reports moms don't want breakfast in bed for Mother's Day was of the NO DUH variety. Nearly 20,000 moms polled said, for the love of god, just let me sleep in this Mother's Day. Yes, the kids are adorable but getting jolted from sleep at 7am for some burnt toast and runny eggs is not anyone's idea of bliss.

When I shared this news with my husband he looked at me as if I am the biggest bitch in the world and, let's be honest, he looks at me with that expression a lot these days... And still, I am standing firm that breakfast in bed is more about the kids than mom and just whose day is Mother's Day anyway?

That said, here are ten things moms really want for Mother's Day. This list is mother-approved, I promise. While there is some debate over a few items featured here I again stand firm: this is what moms REALLY want for Mother's Day. What I'm saying is, get the woman in your life something from this list and you can be certain the smile she flashes your way upon receipt is not the fake smile you would have received when placing a so-so breakfast on her bed in the early a.m. as the kids body-slammed her into consciousness.

Are you listening, Serge? You have one week to go starting... NOW.

I Wike Da Beastie Boys!

The news that Adam Yauch, better known as MCA of the Beastie Boys, died today really caught me off guard. I don't really need to get into why. If you grew up with these guys then you know why.

Tonight I was sitting here watching MTV attempt to remember MCA with a bunch of hastily thrown together clips of the guys performing over the years and it took me a good twenty minutes to notice that Violet was just as into the whole thing as I was. Actually, to be honest with you, she was entranced.

This is the very same child who showed lukewarm interest in seeing The Fresh Beat Band live. But maybe we were playing the wrong music all along? Maybe we should have just kicked the Fresh Beats to the curb and started schooling Violet in the best ways to fight for her right to party?

Her unprecedented exuberance for a musical performance - and it being the Beastie Boys - on the day of Yauch's death struck a chord with me. To see my kid suddenly come alive, hopping around the room shouting at me to "Check it out, Mom, I wike da Beastie Boys!" just makes me giggle. I am currently on what is, perhaps, my twentieth viewing of this (which Adam Yauch recently directed and if you haven't seen I fully recommend you watch immediately!)

There are a billion worse ways to spend a Friday night. In fact, dancing to the Beastie Boys is how I spent many Friday nights of my youth...

I can think of no better tribute to MCA and a body of work that spans more than three decades than this. If a 3-year-old digs your music, well, that's pretty much the toughest music critic right there, no? Channeling Travolta circa Saturday Night Fever at the end is my favorite part. It's like she choreographed that shit weeks ago. And is that some old skool break dancing at the halfway-ish mark? Damn, girl. MCA would be proud.

Evening Walk