Okay. I know I haven’t posted in a while. Weeks in fact. I plan on getting back to the keyboard soon. But in the meantime, I couldn’t let a Thanksgiving go by with offering up the greatest Thanksgiving gift of all. The thing for which I am most, well close to most, thankful.

My brother John’s Thanksgiving Song. It’s historical and hysterical. My favorite combo.

Watch. Enjoy. Share. And Happy Thanksgiving, my MAMMAKAZES!

We recently bought a new family car. American if you must know. The first time in, well, ever. We’ve always been Honda and Toyota folk. I also had a VW Bug in college. Red. Cherry. Nice. 

But Randy the perfekt husband felt very strongly that we should “Buy American”. You know, what with everything that’s gone down the last few years. Also, the car we bought got fabulous reviews. Better gas mileage and safety ratings than the new version of the Honda we currently own. And we’d read that the American car companies were really stepping it up to compete. Soooo… we took the plunge.

Well, within 3 weeks, the car developed a SQUEAK in the back. With all the driving Randy does, it was driving him crazy. Soooo… our new American car had to go into the shop. After a full day of researching, they found the problem.

The Service Guy called and told me that the problem was in the back cargo door.

SERVICE GUY: We put a shim in to keep the door from banging.

So when Randy got home from work that night and he and Julia (our 9 year-old)  and I were hanging out, I explained to him all about the shim.

JULIA: What’s a shim?

ME: It’s something they wedge tightly in between two things to keep them from banging.

We weren’t thrilled about this development in our brand new car, but that’s not the point of the story.

So the next day is Saturday. And Saturday is usually our sleep-in day. But sometimes, when the house is quiet and all creatures are sleeping (and by creatures I mean Julia) Randy and I take the opportunity to “spend some MUCH NEEDED quality time together”. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more.

So I snuggle up next to him. He puts his arm around me. We smooch, ignoring each other’s morning breath knowing that the clock is ticking and getting up to brush our teeth will only eat away at precious minutes.

We lock in an amorous embrace when SUDDENLY… pad! pad! pad! That well-known sound of little feet approaching.

Randy and I share a final lingering look (you know, the same one Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio shared right before the Titanic hit the ice cold water and sucked them down into the dark depths)  bracing ourselves for the inevitable onslaught of skinny arms, legs and elbows.

And sure enough, we bounced in the air as 62 pounds of 9 year-old hit the bed, crawled over top of me like I was nothing more than a bump in the road, and WEDGED herself right in the middle of her father and me.

RANDY: (groaning) OOmph! Ow!

ME: Excuse me! What do you think you’re doing all wedged in there?

And here’s what she said. I kid you not.

JULIA: (sporting a big grin) I’m the shim that keeps you and dad from banging!

Randy and I looked at each other. No truer words were ever spoken.  Sigh.

Maybe next Saturday. Or when she goes off to college…

Our lives have changed a lot since we discovered Julia has a sensitivity to gluten and refined sugars. Most notably are the multiple weekly trips we take to Whole Foods. It’s one of the only places we can get the food she can eat.

I’d never been there much. I was always a Trader Joe’s gal because it’s cheaper and I found the extra two mile drive to Whole Foods to be pretty daunting. And all those Priuses! Jeez! Yes, I know I drive one. But I don’t buzz around acting like I’m single-handedly saving the planet. I mean, I still haven’t totally figured out the recycling codes on the bottom of those plastic containers. And can’t for the life of me remember if construction paper and milk cartons go into the green trash can.  And anyone who tells you they have it figured out is LYING!

Anyway, I ran across this video. It’s really true. Especially the part about the lady in yoga pants. It’s a required uniform for perusing the gluten-free aisle. Which is why I get dirty looks. I don’t have yoga pants because I don’t have a yoga butt to go in them. But that’s a different post.

Enjoy this music video. Heads up though. If you don’t know what Quinoa is, you might not get it.

Of all people, Randy the perfekt husband shared the link to this video with me. He knows how I feel about that show TODDLERS AND TIARAS which showcases the world of child pageants where these moms dress their preschool daughters up like tarty dolls and parade them on stage in front of people in desperate attempts to get attention for themselves.

Judgemental much, you ask? Yep. When it comes to the exploitation of kids. Yes, I am.

Anyway. Tom Hanks did a spoof of this show when he appeared on Jimmy Kimmel. You may have already seen it as, as usual, I am the last to know.

Enjoy. Or be disgusted. It kind of evokes both emotions.

What is it with kids and their infinite ability to annoy their parents? Why do they do it? Is it learned behavior? Are they hard-wired? Is it part of nature’s evolutionary drive to prepare parents for the eventual empty nest? You know, so that we feel relief rather than grief when they finally leave home?

Whatever the reasons. It’s FREAKING ANNOYING!

Just today Julia – who is rapidly approaching age 9 which seems to have kicked her annoyance creativity into high gear – was repeatedly rubbing the flat side of an emery board against a blank 3×5 notecard!

How she came to be in possession of these two seemingly disparate and unrelated items is a mystery. What compelled her to continually rub that card with the board resulting in one of the most  irritating sounds since fingernails on a chalkboard or metal pans scraping together  - is also a mystery. The end result, my heightening irritability – was a foregone conclusion.

And it’s not just this. It’s a series of things. Why, just last week I was made to repeatedly listen for the almost imperceptible squeak of air exiting her tear duct as she held her nose and blew.

Again and again she wanted me to hear it. Not because she was proud of it or fascinated at discovering new things her body could do…. No. I’m convinced it was simply to annoy me.

A few weeks back it was the DORKY FACE. This was where she would contort her face into a really dweeby expression and do a thumbs up gesture. Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal. I mean, it’s a free country. Look like a dork to your heart’s desire. It’s what the founding fathers intended. HOWEVER….  

 How many times I had to LOOK MOM LOOK! I can’t even tell you. But if I had a nickel for every time. Well, I’m sure I could have purchased a $20 Starbucks card…minimum.

Yes, I tried the “your face will freeze like that.” I’m not opposed to lying in dire situations. Like when irritating behavior (hers) meets hormonal fluctuations (mine) in what could potentially be a China Syndrome situation. But she’s too smart for that. She would only smile and do the dork. AGAIN! Thumbs up for the try, mom!

Sometimes the torture takes the form of Britney Spears. Yeah, I know. Horrifying, huh? But it gets worse. Julia actually shrieks the words to “Toxic” at the highest range of her vocal chords while I’m drying her hair. To make matters worse, this usually occurs around 8 pm after 12 hours of cumulative small annoyances. As you can imagine my tolerance by then has worn thin… very thin.

Am I a bad mom because I  don’t find absolutely everything my child does to be delightful and worthy of kudos? Am I a bad mom that sometimes I want to yell at the top of my lungs STOP IT! YOU’RE DRIVING ME FREAKING INSANE!

I don’t do it. Know why? Because I remember that in college I was famous for a little thing called THE SAILOR CHICKEN FACE. So famous in fact that I almost did it on live TV once… But I begged out.

And when I look at my kid, contorting the left side of her mouth so that it almost touches her ear, sticking out her tongue in an attempt to reach her nose, crossing her eyes in opposite directions while making a sort of  “bastard child of a thousand maniacs” sound — ALL AT THE SAME TIME… I remember, I was like that too. And it didn’t stop until I was WAAAAY past legal drinking age. In fact, I think it got worse around that time.

So maybe she’s doing it to annoy me. Or maybe it’s genetic. From her mamma. Like her astygmatic brown eyes and her love of carbs. And well, I can’t blame her for being who she is… can I? Then I WOULD BE a bad mom.

COMMONLY HEARD MOMVERSATION:

MOM #1: Want to go for a cup of coffee after drop-off?

MOM #2: Can’t. Got to get home and clean. My cleaning lady is coming today.

Bizarre but true. Most women I know who have someone come and clean their home feel compelled to actually CLEAN before the cleaning person comes. Why you ask?

Well, after talking to many moms and doing a little much-needed soul searching, I have found that there is more than one reason for this.  And sometimes, these reasons work in tandem to create this bizarre and, yes I’ll say it, ridiculous behavior.

WHY WE CLEAN FOR OUR CLEANING PERSON  

1) We’re hard-wired to please.

2) We don’t want the cleaning person to think we’re dirty.

3) We have to get rid of the mess on top of the dirt so they can actually get to the dirt to clean it.

4) We don’t want to seem rude.

5) We live in mortal fear that they will discuss our personal dirt with one of our neighbors for whom they also do housework.

This strange pre-cleaning cleaning is not only exhibited in stay-at-home moms who, arguably, have a more flexible schedule that allows them to more easily engage in this baffling ritual. Nope, it is also a common phenomenon displayed in even the most haggard, overly-booked and stretched beyond her limits working mother who barely has time to shave her legs in the shower let alone pick up for someone whom she is specifically paying to pick up.

Even I, a working mom who works out of my home, have been guilty of this. Because it mortifies me to think that, while I am typing away at my computer, my cleaning person  is in the bathroom next to my office quietly judging the condition of my toilet. Or that she shares the details of my family’s personal hygiene with friends over margaritas. Ew.

I mean, how can I look her in the eye knowing that behind  her smile she is secretly replused by the little hair clippings I may have neglected to brush out of the corner of my countertop last time I got too impatient to wait for my next hair appointment and took my dull scissors to my bangs. (Sorry Patrice, but yes, you’re going to have to fix those….AGAIN.)

I don’t know what the solution is. Meditation. Xanax. Growing out my bangs.

Until I figure it out, I will continue my pre-cleaning cleaning compulsion. And continue to wish that the complusion manifested itself WITHOUT the impending visit from my cleaning person. It’d sure save me a few bucks. Sigh.