Binkytowne

Tae Kwan Tech-do

I want to go home.

He was nervous. We made it to the square green carpet tiles next to the floor. But not on it. That would have required taking off shoes and that was not going to happen.

Five more minutes. We had survived the first fifteen minutes of observing tae kwan do class. We made it through the well-meaning instructor with the booming voice who appeared every few minutes and caused my son to clutch me tightly and bury his face in my neck leaving me to try and smile politely while I sent him a message with my eyes. That message? Note to loud talking Tae kwan do teacher WE ARE FINE MOVE ALONG.

I kept saying five more minutes, carefully gauging his freak-out meter. I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to want to stay but I knew overstaying his tolerance would mean we would never be able to go back again.

With the techno music blaring behind us I held his hand as we walked out the door. Twenty minutes under our belt. I could tell he had enough of "exercise class" and I wasn't sure I blamed him. The shouting, the music, the television screen, the flags.  The intensity level was red hot.

I don't want to go to exercise class anymore, he tells me in the car. Okay, is my non-chalant answer. I'm not going to fight this. Save the sparring for the pimply faced teenaged boys with the black belts.

At home I put a pillow in front of me. Come on, I taunt him. I know you can do what those kids were doing in exercise class.

He didn't miss a beat. Roundhouse kick! Roundhouse kick! Black! Belt!

I tried to hide my surprise. And delight. Again!

Roundhouse kick! Roundhouse kick! Black! Belt!

We're going back tomorow.

Really.

Me: Why on Earth is Danny Gokey wearing a vest that ties in the back while he's trying to sing Aerosmith?

Husb: Because he's from Milwaukee.

Me: Oh yeah. I forgot. That makes total sense.

~~~~~~~~~

PRMan: Thanks for agreeing to review this product! We have limited inventory so please return to me promptly.

Me: Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer not to review products that are on loan. I'm sure you understand. Let's try to work together on something else.

{One minute later}

PRMan: Good news! I just 100 more items in stock! I'll send you one and you can keep it.

Me: MmmHmm.

Cleaning Person Wanted

I'm very serious.

I have a friend who used to complain about having to clean her house before the cleaning lady came. I would then insert eyeroll *here*. Poor you, I would think. How riddiculous.

Then I got a cleaning lady. And I did the exact same thing.

Then my cleaning lady moved away.

Then I cried.

We interviewed replacements. Either they weren't available around our schedule, or they charged WAY too much or they came in and looked at my house, which wasn't that bad, and clucked about the mold in the shower. Thanks, but no thanks, I don't need to pay you to make me feel worse about the state of my household.

Every Sunday my husband cleans the house. This probably seems ideal, but it's not. He's not happy about it. It takes a big chunk out of our already too short weekend afternoon and the house is trashed again by Wednesday night at the very latest.

We need help.

I've been calling someone who came highly recommended, but she never answers her phone and when she calls me back she leaves messages for me in an accent as thick as the grease on my stovetop so I'm not sure if I'm supposed to call her back or not.

Parent Bloggers Network has teamed up with Pledge for a blog blast.  I hate to spend the money on cleaning help, but really, I can't do more than keep up with the required dishes/laundry/little-boy-pee-on-the-toilet. So 'fess up. Do you have a cleaning person? Is it worth it? Are you as happy as a clam when you come home to a clean, shiny house? Or is it more work to keep up?

Are you better at this than me? Write a post on your blog about how you clean, and feel free to include your top-secret tips and tricks. Post anytime this weekend April 24 to Sunday, April 26. Visit Parent Bloggers Network for details.

SATC

Sex and the .....Crap I still hate this movie.

I was quiet about this when the movie hit the theaters because I was weeks away from having a baby and I couldn't be bothered. Unless someone asked me, and then I would tell you, I thought it was crap.

Spoiler alert: If you haven't seen the movie and think you might, look away and go about your business.

Still here? CRAP! I can't believe I held out this long.

At first I thought just the happy ending was bullshit. Really. Did anyone watch the series? Did everyone forget what that guy did to her over the span of ten years? Anyone? Just me? Apparently so.

But wait. Forget the end, let's start with the beginning: Message: You must be married. Or else you are unhappy and unfulfilled.

Hang on, I'm just getting started.

Charlotte: Clearly had a labotomy. She didn't have one intelligent line in the whole flick. She just acted like a fifteen year old pollyana. How many times did she scream in this movie? AAIIAAAHHHH!

Carrie: Yeah. We all wear pearls to bed. Whatever.

Miranda: Nice earings.

Samantha: Why would she dump Smith? WHY?

Product placement? Shameless.

Dialouge: Weak "We get it. You like to color."

Then there was the middle: Message: Friends are everything. Unless they make one off hand comment to your fiancee that makes him question your ten year relationship and chicken out of your very big, very well publicized wedding. Then you are already-chewed gum stuck to the bottom of a Jimmy Choo. LAME.

Back to the end: It's totally the right move to marry someone who left you at the alter because, you know, you love him.

And throw in a baby, because you know, every woman should have a baby. Isn't that what they are for? Oh, no, they are also here to plug Vivienne Westwood. I forgot.

I am not a hater. I loved the series, I really did. Because it was real. Because these women had depth. They had good fortune and bad breakups and hot sex and not-hot sex and they worked it all out at the diner, not some fancy-shmancy hot spot in a dress. With a belt.

I forgot the belts. Who can even afford one of those belts? Come on.

I'm sorry, I really tried. Watching back on cable was more painful than sitting in the theater. I hear a sequel is in the works. What was that about not wanting to stay at the party too long? I guess those Manolo's aren't cheap.

But if Carrie has a marital crisis and then a reconcilliation and then a baby at age 43 without reproductive assistance? I'm totally done.

Like I have time to read

Read about Buddhism for Mothers over at Milk Bank today

http://milkbank.com/2009/03/this-mom-recommends/

Going, Going, Gone

A couple of weeks ago, while getting ready for work, I shuffled through my closet looking for something inspiring. It is February after all, and I am tired of the gray and black that seems to dominate my wardrobe. On a whim I reached to the back and pulled out a pair of pants I haven’t seen for many months. I did the unexpected and tried on a pair of PBP’s (translation: Pre-Baby Pants).

The good news: They fit.

The bad news: They fit.

Read more about being "done" over at MilkBank...

It wasn't the egg

The chicken came first.

After Christmas break, the first morning that I tried to take my son to school he got so worked up about something that he picked up a container of baby wipes and threw them at me.

Having had approximately three hours of sleep at a time for weeks before that, I reacted. Badly.

I sat at my desk that morning not able to stop the tears. I was drowning in frustration and feeling a level of inadequacy as a parent I had not experienced since he was an infant. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do, was all I could keep muttering. I really didn't.  Time outs were a game of trying to chase him as he laughed and ran. Taking away privileges and treasured trinkets didn't work, it only escalated his emotions to the point where he couldn't come down. I couldn't keep it together and keep my cool as he fell apart again and again, wearing me down to the very last nerve.  

Acting on a referral I had been given by a neighbor, I called and made an appointment with a child psychologist. The appointment was yesterday.

Yesterday morning I called and cancelled. I chickened out.

I don't think there is anything clinically "wrong" with my son.  He is a difficult mix of sensitive-intensity. I don't know how else to explain it. I'm not sure someone with even a semi-compliant child would understand it. I need help. If the worst case scenario is that we spend an outrageous amount of money for someone to tell us he is demonstrating age appropriate behavior and it seems like a waste of time, so be it. If the best case scenario is that my husband and I hear the same message and come up with a plan and it helps us help him, even a little, it will be time well spent.

But the night before we were supposed to go I started to turn this around and around in my head. What do we tell him? It's not exactly a doctor appointment- he would know this was different than that. I don't want to call it "therapy" it's not that either. We contemplated calling it a meeting, but he associates that with us going to work. I was afraid I would not be able to talk about this overall situation and my feelings of failure without crying, something I don't want to do in front of him. The appointment was for late in the day, which meant a disruption in schedules and a tired and hungry kid. Oh yeah, there was also the fact that he would miss his yoga class at school. We both shook our heads. Yoga is cool and all, but I don't think either one of us believes that yoga is more critical than dealing with this problem, but still, we both clucked about how he shouldn't miss yoga, etc. etc.

I'm not just saying this, he's really been better since I scheduled the appointment. Also, here is the rock feeling in the pit of my stomach: I think sitting with a professional and talking about my son's emotional outbursts is going to pretty much suck, hard. I did not cancel for that reason, but in all honestly, it sure made it easy to rationalize not going.

I set up another appointment for two weeks from now. We'll see where we are at that point. The next one gets us in first thing in the morning and gives us more time to think about what we really want to accomplish by doing this, or if we really want to do it at all.

I know we should. I don't want to. We should.

But I don't want to.

Because milk is good for you

Have you ever arrived at daycare or at a sitters only to find that an entire bottle of breastmilk has leaked into the bottom of your bag? (Then had your brain explode?) I have. It's not pretty.

Lucky for me, there is MilkBank, a patented, clinically-proven breastmilk storage and feeding system that treats every drop like the precious commodity it is.

Parent Bloggers Network gave me the opportunity to try the Milk Bank System and I'm glad they did.

Read about it here at The Full Mommy.

Crying it Out. In Reverse.

Yes, I cried.

My baby is not a champion sleeper. What he does do brilliantly, is fall asleep. Every night he might fuss and cry if he's still up between eight and nine, but then I take him, hold him, nurse him for about five minutes and he's out. Staying down is another story, but going down is never the struggle.

It started in November when my husband got hurt. He couldn't walk the stairs so he slept on the first floor. To keep from waking everyone during the late night feedings, I put the baby in the bed with me.

And he hasn't left.

I never dreamed I would be a co-sleeper. I never expected to sleep as soundly as I do with a warm, squirming, sweet baby next to me, listening to him breathe and snore and wiggle.

Of course he is my baby, but he's not really a baby anymore. At seventh months old he is becoming very engaged. He's starting to demonstrate that he's aware of his surroundings. As much as it pains me, I know I can't let him continue to fall asleep and wake up tucked snugly between his dad and me.  He needs to learn what his room looks like. 

I hate it.

My oldest is and was a terrible sleeper. I know that doesn't mean my youngest will do the same, but I'm afraid of making the same mistakes I did the first time. At some point soon I'm going to have to stop the midnight feedings and he needs to sleep, I need to sleep. I've been working and functioning on so little sleep for so long. I want him to know his bed before he realizes that the one he sleeps in has not been his.

I counted the steps between our bedrooms. Nine steps.

Still, I held my pillow and I missed him and I cried.

He slept all night.

And so did I.

Worth every penny (and a lot of them)

I was kind of shocked when they totaled me up, smiled sweetly and said "That will be one hundred and sixty five dollars". It shouldn't surprise me, but for some reason it always does that sitting in a chair for two hours can cost that much. Doesn't even matter. She could tell me that she was doubling her prices and I would swallow hard, mentally calculate how many sets of outgrown baby clothes I would have to sell on eBay to make up the difference and book my next appointment. I love getting my hair done.

At my last visit my stylist trimmed a couple of inches off, layered it up real pretty, gave me some awesome Farrah-Fawcet-come-Madonna-in-her-wacky-purple-bodysuit curls that made me feel like I had one teensy bit of style for a change, a hand massage, warm tea, groovy music and the chance to sit for thirty minutes and do nothing except read trashy magazines.

It's true I stretch out my visits to the salon farther and farther apart these days. Not just because of the price tag but because it's hard to find two hours (two and a half with travel time) in a row that I can be gone without sacrificing time at home, but it's something I absolutely will not give up. Because this is a trendy salon in a trendy part of town I even dress the part when I go in. Well, not exactly, I'm not capable of trendy, but I don't wear yoga pants and a baby food stained fleece. When I leave, wearing sort of cute clothes with my hair smelling lovely I always remember that there is lip gloss in my bag and I come home feeling like a new woman. I just can't put a price on that.

This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a sweepstakes sponsored by BOCA. Parent Bloggers Network has partnered with Boca to talk about how you keep your own sense of self intact while fulfilling your job as a parent and balanced living (or how to strive for it). Visit Parent Bloggers Network for all the details.