Helping Husbands

I love my husband. He is a much better person than I am in every way. With that said, what the hell is wrong with him? This morning I am running late as usual and I have 10 minutes to get the kids dressed and in the car. I ask my husband to help me. He dutifully answers the call and starts to clean dishes and empty the garbage cans? Huh? He sure is working hard...but how exactly does washing dishes help the kids get ready for school?

What about when company is coming and I am in a panic cleaning the living room. I am picking up toys, dusting, and vacuuming at the same time. I ask for help and again Dave springs into action. He quickly runs down to the basement and starts washing & folding the laundry like a madman. Thank God! Because nothing ruins a party like piles of laundry in the basement. The unfinished basement that nobody except for us ever sees...So why is he down there? In my mind he has just blown me off and left me to clean the whole house alone.

I know that I am not alone on this one. I recall a friend cheeks bright red with fury tell me about her "husband helper". She was having her family over for Thanksgiving dinner, she was cooking in the kitchen all day. All her husband had to do was clean the living room. After an hour or so she poked her head out to the living room to get a cookbook and found CD cases and CDs spread all over the living room floor. When she freaked out and asked her husband what he was doing he replied, that he was alphabetizing the CD collection. I can still recall her face, flustered and confused. CDs, I have 12 people coming over for dinner and the living room is filthy and he is playing with the CDs?

I had another friend who was in the hospital after giving birth to their first couple's child. Her devoted husband took the whole week off from work. She assumed so that he could be with her and the baby at the hospital. No, he was hardly at the hospital at all. He was too busy working on the house and yard. He spent the week putting in doggy doors, painting the shed, and mulching the flower beds, because the house has to look nice for... the baby? T make matters worse, my friend was sharing a hospital room with the princess and her doting prince of a husband. He brought his wife roses, balloons, a little blue box with a white ribbon, and he even slept by her side each night. My poor friend felt so sad and rejected. We all know that in girl world, that her husband's actions meant that the shed was more important to him than her and their new baby? Not to mention that her princess neighbor commented on how amazing it was that my friend was going to raise her baby alone. My friend begged me to blow off work to go hang out with her, at least then she could pretend to be a hip lesbian couple. Any explanation is better than...well you see my husband loves our shed...

I know the husband's have it rough being married to girls like us. We ask so much. Like when I am with the kids all day. Some days I almost loose my mind, when my husband comes home from work on those days. I jump up and praise God, because I am saved, usually with just minutes to spare before the evil yelling mommy takes over my body. .. I tell Dave that the kids are driving me nuts and I desperately need help. He agrees and decided to clean the whole kitchen, from top to bottom for me. After he herds the kids into the playroom, to keep them out of his way, he rolls up his sleeves, grabs his sponge and digs in. I am so happy that he is cleaning the kitchen, then I go and sit in the play room, pull out my book, before I finish one page a Lego flies at my head and I realize that kids are still in my care, HEY WHAT THE HELL! I am still with the kids! How is cleaning the kitchen giving me a break from the kids? How is this helping me? Can you please explain it again? Can anyone?

The Top 10 Funniest Things the Kids Said This Week

10. "Mommy, are you going to die?"
"Yes, honey we are all going to die, someday, but I'm not going to die for a long, long, time."
"Well, when you die, can I go and live with Grandma?"


9. "Don't worry girls there is enough Dylan to go around. "

8. "Baby, come here" I call.
"I no baby!"
" Big girl, come here?"
"No! I no big girl!"
"Alice, can you please come here?"
"I no Alice!"
"Who the heck are you then?"
"I Anthony!"


7. "Mommy, Bobby has no mouth, that's why he can't talk."
"Yeah and he can't eat either" I say.
"Bobby doesn't eat! He's a stuffed animal!"

6. "Alice see the mommy penguin? Where is the daddy penguin?"
"Momma, da daddy at work."

5. "I know, Alice doesn't have a penis, she has a Pahgina."

4. "Momma, I go swimming? I wear my babysoup?"

3. "Hey Dylan, How come Harold the Helicopter doesn't have eye brows like Thomas and the other tank Engines?"
"Mommy, helicopter's don't have eyebrows."

2. "I Hate Tub! No Tub! Hate Tub! Nooooo! Tub!.....Momma I go my tub, now?"

1. "Mommy, we both farted at the same time, that's so Romantic."

Lightening Always Strikes Twice

Two nights ago I am happily sleeping in my nice cozy bed, next to my warm husband, and fluffy soft dog when I hear the screams. I run into Dylan's bedroom and straight into my biggest nightmare. Intruder? Blood gushing from a fresh wound? Electrical fire? Missing limbs? No worse! Diarrhea! Diarrhea on the bed, on the pajamas, and all over the boy from upper back to toes. I stand there for a moment wondering how I will get him to the bathroom without leaving a trail. Alice walks in, walks over to the bed and says:

"Ohhhh Gwoooosss!" then she runs out of the room. A girl after my own heart. She quickly returns with her toy camera and starts taking pretend pictures of the stained bed sheets. Trying my best to stifle giggles, I ask her please to stop. I then run and grab a chuck that we stole from the hospital when I had Alice. A chuck is a thick waterproof pad. If you are ever in a hospital, I suggest grabbing one, they come in handy. I lay the chuck on the ground and have Dylan climb on to it. Then I grab a corner and pull Dylan, like the King of Arabia, down the hall to the bathroom. Then I put him in the tub, shower him off, put the offending materials in a plastic bag, wash him, try my best not to puke, and be a sweet and caring mother.

After he is cleaned, dried and dressed, I check the clock, 6:30am. Holy crap! I need coffee! I take comfort in the fact that this is an isolated incident, he has been potty trained for 2 years and this has never happened before. Plus lightening never strikes twice and I am right as always. The rest of the day is fine.

The next night, I am awakened by screaming, I sit up and look at the clock, 3:30am. Then I look at my husband sleeping soundly next to me. I gently shake his arm, I roughly shake his arm, I start yelling & shaking;

"Poopies! Dave! Dylan needs you! Poopies!" Dave slowly rises from the dead and zombie walks into Dylan's room. He returns a few minutes later.

"Dylan threw up in a trash can. He's o.k. now". Dave settles back into sleep. I on the other hand am fuming. Throw up? I had to face the demon sheets from hell, and all Dave had to do was pour out a bucket of puke? Such is the mother's burden. I fall asleep for a few hours until I hear more screaming. Damn it's my turn again! But hey, what's a little throw up in a bucket, I can handle that. I'll be back in bed in no time. I jump up walk down the hall and am quickly overcome by the stench. NO! I scream in my head.

There is my beloved son kneeling on his bed covered worse than the night before. I look up at his pajamas smeared with unmentionable matter. I try to stay calm, but the rancid nose hair curling aroma over powers me.

"Dave? Honey! We have a situation here!" I yell out Dylan's door.

"Poopies?" Dave yells back from the bedroom.

"Yes!" I respond and I hear the Calvary making his sleepy way to my rescue. Together we get the boy into the tub and the bed clothes into a plastic bag. At one point I run like a sissy, dry heaving all of the way down stairs. I would make a horrible soldier. At the first sight of sickness I abandoned my troops and run for cover. I am a weak weak woman. Thank God for Dave and his high tolerance for human filth. I hated leaving him in the trenches, but sometimes you have to save yourself. Thank the lord for Dave who let me use my get away from poop free card. Maybe he recognized that me being the hero the night before was enough. I mean I can't be expected to deal with that two nights in a row? I guess lightening always strike twice, in my house, and for the record I was once again wrong, like always.

Rosebud

I live in New England where the weather is beautiful 50% of the time. Too bad that the other 50% of the weather is split evenly between chilling cold and hot humidity. So sometimes the weather is perfect and the rest of the time it's as if the Heat Miser and the Snow Miser are battling over their New England turf. I mean the leaves changing color is magnificent and all, but the winters and summers suck. The only logical answer that I could come up with is amnesia. Like childbirth, I honestly think that my body forgets how sucky the weather actually gets here, because after 39 years I still manage to get surprised.

This weekend we had amazing fluffy snow. On Sunday Dave and I bundled the kids up and happily drove our Subaru confidently through the snow covered streets. We were meeting friends sledding at a local park. We arrive at the park and witness a real life Normal Rockwell painting. Moms, dads, kids, and even a few dogs, sledding together on a beautiful small hill. No the dogs weren't sledding smart ass, they were chasing the sleds down the hill gleefully barking. At the base of the hill are woods as far as my eyes can see. I get a lump in my throat. I was raised in a condo complex in Brookline, a large suburb next door to Boston. My sister and I used to get yelled at by our grumpy old landlord for walking on the small strip of grass in our courtyard. Now my kids live in a country town full of open land and friendly people!

As we park I think about how much I love the outdoors. I love the fact that we live here. I wonder why we don't go sledding more often? Heck, why don't we teach the kids how to ski? Why did I ever stop skiing? I can't recall. We finally slip and slide into a parking spot and I open my car door with the enthusiasm and excitement of a kid. The car door swings open and a frigid Arctic blast hits me in the face. The air is so cold that I am sure that my nostrils have just frozen shut. My feet slip and slide on the ice skating rink of a parking lot. Dave and I grab the sleds, and the kids and head north into the great white tundra. O.K. so, it was only a few hundred feet to the sledding hill, but I swear the North Pole couldn't be that much colder.

Dave and Dylan start sledding and having a blast. Alice is playing in the snow, throwing snow up in the air and petting a friendly black lab. I am standing with her, frozen like an ice sculpture. My first friend comes clad in ski pants, heavy boots, ski parka, gloves, hat, scarf, and a hot cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee in her hand. I look down at my freezing cold feet in my way to light boots, and my jeans. Obviously she has done this before, I take note that there might be something to this fancy gear she has on? Not to mention when you live in New England every activity is better when punctuated with a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. She has her act together. I am always up for coffee but, you know me. I am way too cheap to spend my money on expensive snow gear. I smile at her through my teeth chattering.

After about 30 minutes I can't feel my toes and my face feels frozen and sore. Alice has gone down the hill a few times and her face is pomegranate red. Her cheeks and nose look like they are on fire. I decide to go to the car and get her a better hat. I walk carefully over the sheet of ice covering the parking lot, my boots slipping and sliding. I get half way to the car slip, on the ice and fall Chevy Chase style, arms and legs flailing, and fall flat on my ass. I carefully get up, my jeans are wet, it is only a matter of minutes before the wetness freezes. I get to the car retrieve the hat and wonder if I shouldn't just wait in the car until the family is done?

Then I see my other friend arrive. Damn! I wave, smile, slip and slide over to where she is standing. She too is clad in snow pants, and heavy boots. She tells me that she has just purchased her great snow pants for $50.00 dollars. They were 40% off. Now I remember why I have never bought myself snow pants. Then she tells me how warm her legs are. Seriously, at that moment I would have actually spend $50.00 dollars to warm up my stinging ice cold legs. I try to be friendly but I was so cold that I couldn't be terribly social. About 20 minutes later I want to do a back flip when Alice says. "Momma, I cold. I all done. Me go car."

I was thrilled to tell my friends that poor little Alice was just way to cold and needed to go into the car to warm up. I scooped up Alice, then slipped and skated back to the car as fast as I could. I popped her in the front passenger seat, put the seat warmers on high, cranked the heater, and smiled. Eventually I drove the car over slowly over to the hill so we could watch the sledding from the comfort of the car. My friends came over to tease me. I agreed with everything they said. I am a big weenie who hates the cold! I do hate the cold weather. I hate being too cold. I hate sweating in ski gear thats too hot. I hate wet socks from snow melting off of my pants. Ilove winter in New England as long as I can enjoy it from the warmth of my house, or in theis case in my car.

I eventually warmed up enough to go back to sled down the hill with Dylan. The sledding part was so much fun. Sledding is amazing! Zipping down the hill wind in your face. The sound of the sled thundering against the snow and ice, exhilarating and awesome! Now if only we could go sledding indoors? Becasue damn it! I am still freezing!

My Mother-In-Law, Myself

Why do we all complain non-stop about our mother-in-laws? Daily I hear friends complaints. I understand, in the past I have had problems with my mother-in-law as well. Some of my main complaints were that she is a drama queen, she is passive aggressive, and she believes that her children can do no wrong. She also idolizes her mother and depends way too much on her mother's opinions and advice. "She's immature." I would stamp my feet and whine to my husband. "She is so passive aggressive, and she complains about me behind my back." I would complain to my friends. My mother-in-law also has issues with food, shopping, and people pleasing. Hmm...this all sounds strangely familiar?

Are you getting my point yet? My husband like yours, has married his mother. Because my misunderstood mother-in-law is just like me. We were carved from the same block of crazy. I should have been complaining in to a mirror because every bad thing I said about her I could have said about me too. Once she and I realized this fact, we had a laugh, and became great friends. Dare I admit that I love my mother-in-law and I am like the dysfunctional daughter that she never had. Also being friends instead of warlords has greatly benefited the family that we both love so much.

What? Lydia has lost her mind! She's a traitor playing for the other team! I am not at all like my mother-in-law. You think with disgust. Come on, aren't you ? You hate how she acts like an overbearing control freak, doesn't she know that you are the top bitch in this dog pack? She acts like the selfless martyr and therefore no one appreciates any of your many sacrifices and endless hard work. You hate how she acts like the movie star at family functions sucking up all of the attention for herself, nobody even notices your fabulous outfit and your stunning new hairstyle. She always thinks that she is right when obviously you are the smart one with all the correct answers. She never backs down from an argument and that pisses you off because she is wrong and you won't let up until she admits it. Does any of this sound right to you? Come on can you just admit that perhaps a ounce of what I am saying is true? Accepting that you and you mother-in-law are peas from the same alien space pod might improve your whole family dynamics.

If you are still in denial and refuse to believe that your husband married his mother, think of the fact that you married your mother-in-laws baby boy. That woman who you glare across the Thanksgiving table at for suggesting that you add more salt to the mash potatoes, is your husband's Mommy. She is the the first woman in his life. The woman who dried his tears and kissed him goodnight. The woman who taught him how to treat other women. If your husband is a sweet, loving, kind man, who respects you, thank his mom. If he is a thoughtless ass, then he doesn't deserve you and it's not her fault that you are still married.

If this doesn't convince you to wave the white granny panties in peace, then think of this. Your mother-in-law is doing the best that she can. I hope that when Dylan marries, that my daughter-in-law can see beyond my many flaws and put up with me.