My 8-Year Old Eats Like a Velociraptor

Not since Jurassic Park have I seen such murdering of foodstuffs. Food smeared all over his face like a twelve month old with his first spoon, my eight year old son comes up covered, slathered, chin to nose every single time he puts food in his mouth.  Be gone helpless taquitos, green beans and rice!

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Marin Mommies

Living in Marin County, you can’t help but notice the sweet pheromones of the powerful women who prowl the streets. It’s Clan MILF vs. Clan Cougar, and every mom KNOWS to which clan she belongs.

Clan MILF meets at the Mill Valley Depot for coffee. Surrounded by her young, 3.5 blond-ish children (their hair might be a tinge of green from too much swim team at The Club) the MILF’s coffee cup is recyclable and re-useable, and her coffee beans are 100% happily grown by cheery, eager, South American farmers. Her muffin has no preservatives, no fructose, no flavor.

And her heart goes out to the children who have to wear clothes made from synthetic fibers, instead of 100% organic, sheep-chewed cotton. Oh, forget those plastic baby bottles filled with BPAs — she was an early adaptor and switched to Kleen Kanteen years ago, right after the fertility drugs kicked in.

Clan Cougar meets at Bungalow 44, Buckeye Roadhouse, and D’Angelos, or places just like them. Coiffed in her salon-fresh highlights and paralyzed forehead, the Cougar’s hyper-vigilance about raising her now high-school aged children has relaxed, unlike her brows, and she’s looking to fill some me time. Her first husband has been dumped and now she’s single, sassy and looking for a little more carnal fun.

Let the cleavage begin!

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Mai Tai Mommy

I will never, ever go on vacation again. Normally, I find myself saying this after carting my three kids under five years old to Boston and back on the red-eye that stops through Denver to switch planes. HELL ON WHEELS – or wings, in this case.

But this time, I will never, ever go on vacation again because I left my household of three kids, one giant yellow lab, one German student, one wide-eyed husband and many unwelcome vermin in the basement – and went ALONE on vacation with another mom.

Yes, ALONE. No children. Solo. Single. Alone.

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Reality TV Addicted Mom Fesses Up

I admit it. I’m a fan. Or an addict.

As I watched Jason, the formerly dumped dad, finally pick his whisper of a bride-to-be on a Monday night on ABC, twirling and twirling her gowned figure around and around, as only a short man can do with an itty-bitty woman, I thought, grabbing a tissue, sniffle, True Love!

But then, at the Most Shocking After The Rose Ceremony Ever on Planet Earth, where we’re supposed to finally meet, live, and have kids, the happy couple who’d been twirling and twirling and pulling the moon into an alternate orbit — the bomb drops. Jason doesn’t really love his ex-Dallas Cowboys cheerleader sprite. He wants the other one. The one he dumped. Flat. On. Her. Incredulous. Face.

If you don’t watch the show, let me lay it out for you. Single, unlucky in love dad goes on a date with twenty-five women. He gets to play with all the women however much he wants – kiss, tickle, tempt them with his shirtless body, take helicopter rides and laugh – ha ha! – for the countless cameras that surround their every move. And then politely dump them by not handing them a rose. Dating under a microscope is the appropriate cliché, ‘cept this microscope has twenty bazillion fans (addicts) who just can’t get enough of poor Jason’s quest for love.

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So Full of Crap

On my desk where I write sits three combs; a tiny nail clipper; an orange bead from a broken kiddie necklace; two pink pipe cleaners; a broken calculator; my camera; Purell; wipes; bank statement from a year ago; an unsent thank-you note to Auntie Boo from Christmas – whoopsie!; a random unfunctioning TV remote; a January Us Weekly stolen from the dentist; a Rolodex from the ‘90s; mouse stickers; a 2004 birthday card; T-Ball raffle tickets expired in March; Target sunglasses; Miss Kitty sunglasses; sunglasses with one lens missing; spinning “organizer” crammed with 30,000 pens; pencils; air tire gauge; more hair combs; mangled Post-Its; broken iPod earphones; rusty Leatherman; red puzzle piece; very tired hair elastic; Aleve cold & sinus packet of eight with one missing. . . need I go on?

And this is just my desk. A 4” x 3 ½” foot space.

Now take this list of crap, times the size of everything by twenty, add wheels or dust or broken musical bits to most of them and – voila! – that’s my basement. Crammed. Full. Stuffed with crap.

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Pigtails Makes the Girl

I have a favorite picture. It’s lost in someone’s basement. Probably my Dad’s, possibly mine. I’d always thought I’d be more organized than my Dad. Nope.

It’s a picture of me as a two-year old in a field of bursting yellow dandelions in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. I’m on my Dad’s shoulders – piggyback, which I now appreciate, as a mom of three, as quite a test of strength.

My body starts aching after the first 100 steps, with a little twenty-pounder on top. How did my Dad do it??

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One Twin Gets Mommy All to Herself!!!

My girls were born at 8:01 and 8:02 a.m. on a nippy February day, screaming in their full pink-faced, harmonious glory. They’ve shared a birthday, a hairbrush, a room, and a mommy for every single moment of their twenty-three plus months.

Today we split them in half. Madeleine was shuttled off with Daddy down to grandma’s house. And I had Charlotte and all of her delicious one-ness to myself.

WHAT JOY!

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Me and My Flat-Screen TV

They stagger under the weight, two young, strapping men and my husband. Their faces are red, and their hands clench at the prized wooden box as they lift it out of the semi-truck blocking all traffic in front of our house. The box is as big as an elephant, an abominable snowman I think as I watch from our front porch.

In the front yard, they open the box with crowbars, prying off the protective, hard exterior, allowing the high-tech, delicate insides to see sunlight for the first time since Japan.

The once cloudy sky clears and a golden ray of sun beams down on us. I hear the chorus of “Halleluiah!!!!! Halleluiah, Halleluiah!!” Angels sing. My husband’s face is rapt, in awe, in love – here it is, finally – our giant, flat-screen HDTV.

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Mom and Her Monthly Warthog

Once a month, the warthog emerges. Like a werewolf in a full moon, she bursts, full-throttle, from the dark, sinister depths of her home office, hair uncombed, breasts throbbing, voice peeling the paint and the crayon doodles off the walls.

Run, children, run, for this creature shall force you to eat all three carrots on your plate! Run, children, run, for this creature shall make you put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket instead of on the floor next to said laundry basket. Run!

The warthog has no patience and likes to nibble, slowly on naughty, defiant children. Foraging in the refrigerator and cabinets for something sweet or salty, she ROARS with frustration that only organic squeezie yogurts and Annie’s Ranch Bunnies are available for devouring.

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Wanted: Playmate for My Husband

Wanted: Married weary female mother of three seeks playmate for my late-30s-year old husband. Must be fun loving, not tired all the time, peppy, happy, consistently cheery, and able to have dinner ready at the end of the day.

Must not be blond, under 26 y/old, or a former capital “P” Playmate. Absolutely no “secretaries” or “assistants” or “flight attendants” need apply.

Must like late, weekday nights out at Bimbos, the Warfield and the Fillmore. Must know what the Boom-Boom Room is and how to get there. Must dig all kinds of music, have a working knowledge of the ‘80s greatest hits, and be able to karaoke Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” in its entirety with a pool cue. Any air-guitar experience a bonus!

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