mombrain

Ah, Family Life

Two Blind Mice As if it isn't enough that the Big Guy is wearing my jeans, now he's wearing my contact lenses.

Big Guy: (squinting and rubbing his eyes) Man, my eyes are irritated today.

MomBrain: Did you sleep okay?

BG: Yeah, but I think I'm getting a cold or something. (Holds newspaper in, then out, then in.) And I can't see a thing. (Throws the newspaper down in despair)

MB: (staring blindly at side of sink) Have you seen my contact lenses?

BG: I told you I can't see a thing.

MB: (picking up her empty lens holder) That's because you're wearing my contacts.

BG: No I'm not. I have a cold and I can't see.

MB: Sweetie, you're wearing my lenses. Look. (Holds out his full lens holder.)

BG: Oh. 

Chicken Little
The Little Guy has three chores: feed the cat, put his dirty clothes in the laundry basket, and get the newspaper in the morning. I'm flexible about the first two chores, but I don't budge on the newspaper thing. My neighbors have seen me in my jammies too often, and the Little Guy is usually happy to run outside in his underwear. He's not always that thrilled, though. Here is this morning's negotiation:
 
MomBrain: (Opens the front door) Little Guy, can you please get the newspaper for me?

Little Guy: I'm sorry, Mommy, I can't. (Plunks down on floor) I hurt my leg very badly and now I can't walk.

MB: Oh, no! You can't walk? What did you do?

LG: I bruised it.

MB: Oh, poor sweetie. Can you run?

LG: No. But I can chicken dance!

MB: Can you chicken dance to the newspaper?

LG: Sure! (Flaps his elbows and hops on tippytoes all the way down the front walk, wearing nothing but underwear.)

Innocent Passerby: (Smiles and looks away)

LG: Hello! (Still hopping and flapping) I can do the chicken dance!

IP: Yes, I see that.

LG: (Flaps back inside)

MomBrain: Little Guy, remember I told you not to talk to strangers unless I am close enough for you to touch me?

LG: Yes, but this time I was the stranger.

MB: I'll say.

Why I Love My Husband

Why I Love My Husband, Part 1 The Big Guy is arm-wrestling with my new computer, trying to convince it that it does indeed have a mouse and a keyboard. He is under my desk as I type, wrapped in wires tighter than Spider-Man's web. Speaking of which ...

Why I Love My Husband, Part 2
He lets me ogle Tobey Maguire.

Happy birthday, Big Guy!

Happy birthday, Big Guy!

The Great Clothing Debacle Part II

The Great Clothing Debacle continues, but this time virtue is on my side. The Big Guy emerged from the laundry room stiff-legged and steamed that this is NOT his week for clothes, and SOMEBODY put his jeans in the dryer, and now they're so TIGHT he can't even button them.

MomBrain: Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry - I've screwed up again.

Big Guy: Now I don't have ANYTHING to wear!

MomBrain: Where are your other jeans?

Big Guy: AT GOOD WILL.

MomBrain: Wait - turn around. (The Big Guy does a pirhouette.)

MomBrain: Uh, sweetie, those are my jeans.

Big Guy: No they're not - they're mine and someone dried them.

MomBrain: Look at the tag.

Big Guy: Oh.

I made sure he knew that now my jeans are so STRETCHED OUT that I can't wear them. But secretly I was very happy, because the day the Big Guy fits into my jeans is the day I jump off the 520 bridge.

The Great Clothing Debacle Part I

MomBrain, thy name is mud. I am so in the doghouse - a musty, dank doghouse that I have not seen in years. I do not visit the doghouse often - I am a Good Wife, and the Big Guy is a peaceable sort. But I might as well get comfy because I'll be here for a while. This is because I gave half of the Big Guy's wardrobe to Goodwill. By accident, of course. But the Big Guy is now a ragamuffin, and I am now in deep doo doo.

It is not exactly my fault that the Big Guy's Goodwill pile was on top of his laundry pile. But I did notice it filled an entire Hefty bag. And I did haul the bag to the curb and wave bye bye as it merrily drove away in the friendly white truck. Clearly, I am the perp.

I made an emergency trip to the mall, where Jason at Nordstrom's was only too happy to earn his tidy commission. And I spent so much money at J Crew they were practically serving me tea and crumpets. Many gift-wrapped bags and two melted VISA cards later, I presented my contrite self to my spouse. Sometimes it is not enough to say "I'm sorry." Sometimes you have to *do* something - anything - to make amends. Replace what you lost. Fix what you broke. Something.

The Big Guy was sweet. He said all the right things, and looked especially charming in his threadbare shirt with the frayed cuffs. But I will be sleeping in a bed of straw for the next little while.

Putting the FUN in Dysfunctional

Spousal Abuse ... The Big Guy is fast digging himself a hole right into the guest room, where he may have to sleep permanently. This morning I went to an airline office and made complicated travel arrangements, went to the ninth circle of bureaucracy hell to renew my driver's license, picked up a lamp that had been repaired, and then picked up the Little Guy from preschool. No shower, no breakfast, just a bunch of mad dashing, then home to meet the Big Guy for lunch. And what is the first thing he says? "I see you didn't get the car washed." He is very, very lucky I didn't pummel him to death on the spot.

To be fair, I had told him I would do it. But, in one word, priorities, man. Priorities.

Child Abuse ... Today's conversation with the Little Guy. We were running late and I was trying to get him to eat breakfast and get dressed for preschool.

MB: C'mon, we're late. It's time to stand on your head and drink prune juice through your nose.

LG: (Tearing up) But Mommy, I don't wike prune juice.

MB: Then you can drink lemonade through your nose.

LG: Okay.

Self Abuse
Today I am wearing a plastic shirt. It's been rolled up in a ball for almost a week, but looks pristine. It's shiny. It swishes when I move. And it makes me sweat like crazy. I'm sure it's some kind of weird space-age fabric made for moonwalks. And why would I wear a shiny, noisy, sweaty plastic shirt? Duh. It makes me look thin. As long as I hold my arms out from my body and don't move, no will know.