I’m just not ready

My youngest princess-ninja just turned 4 and I was not ready for it. Just the other day I was changing her diapers and today she’s asking me for privacy every time she needs to go potty.

I’m not ready to send her off to kindergarten, even though that’s 1 year away, but in mommy time it’s really 5 minutes.

I’m not ready for her to stop wanting to sleep in our bed, even though she has made a permanent dent on my ribs.

I’m not ready for her to stop playing Barbies and babies, even though I get on her nerves every time we play because I just can’t get their voices and accents right (obviously, they all come from different islands, each with their own exotic accent, and it’s not enough for her that I already speak with one).

I’m not ready for her to start being more independent, even though I try to teach her to be and secretly love that she won’t leave my side even when I’m in the bathroom.

I’m not ready for her to give up her tantrums, even though it makes the vein in my forehead want to pop, because I know that all she wants is my attention.

I’m not ready for her to start talking like a big kid, even though sometimes I don’t understand half of what she says, mainly because I don’t know if she’s speaking english, spanish or spanglish, but I’m pretty sure she makes up her own words most of the time.

So I sat down with her and tried to reach some sort of agreement.

I tried to convince her to stop growing so fast, because sooner rather than later she’ll be as tall as me and is going to take my clothes without my permission, but I’m really just not ready to stop shopping at The Children’s Place. And her response was:

“Well, then stop feeding me veggies and give me more candy.”

I asked her nicely to never, ever stop talking like a baby because it’s just so damn cute. And her response was:

“Can I PLEASE then stop going to school?”

I politely asked her if it was ok for us to pretend she was turning 2 instead of 4. And her response was:

“Don’t worry mami, I’ll still love you even when I’m 4. I’ll even love you when I turn 148.”

I tried to persuade her into choosing the nearest college so that she would never have to leave the house. I even went as low as telling her that I don’t ever go anywhere without her, so she should never go anywhere without me. And her response was:

“The reason you don’t go anywhere without me is because you have no social life.”

Ok, so I made the last one up, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she does say that when she understands what having a social life means.

Clearly, I was getting nowhere with this kid. So I did what every other mom in my predicament would do. I got pregnant. No, not really, I just went out and bought her a toy baby, because that’s what babies play with.

Isn't she a beauty?

Isn’t she a beauty?

 

 

 

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what I really wanted to say was…

If you’re on the have a baby, they said blog bandwagon, you’re awesome and also hopefully read my last post on the eternal road trip I had to endure to get to my brother’s wedding in Indiana.  If you’re not on said bandwagon, I’m not going to judge you, but seriously, get on it. And if you’d rather read the newspaper, a book, or the back of a cereal box for that matter than to read my endless, pointless rants, well then you my friend, are one smart cookie.

Anyway, my brother and his wife decided to celebrate their elopement by throwing a pretty amazing party at her parent’s house, which by the way, it’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen and Scarlett O’Hara would be totally jealous.

When I got a call from him a couple of months ago telling me about the celebration, my big mouth asked him if he wanted me to say something at the party. He was VERY excited. I would do that for him any day of the week, don’t get me wrong, but the fact that I don’t get drunk anymore (because I’m lame) and would have to do it sober in front of 150 people was giving me panic attacks.

How could I get out of it? I couldn’t, he’s my brother and I had promised him, and then he would not teach my daughter how to swim like I was planning.  Damn it. The sacrifices you make for your children.

Of course, two months pass by and I didn’t write a word because procrastination runs my life. Actually, scratch that, I did write down a few ideas of what I wanted to talk about, but never really got around to putting together a coherent paragraph, not even a sentence. In my mind though, I had the perfect speech, people would fall off their seats laughing and the bride’s parents would fall in love with me, adopt me and offer me a room in their Gone with the Wind house.

I planned on writing it when I got to the hotel the night before, but after an 11 ½ hour road trip, 8 of which were spent watching 2 of my kid’s movies on repeat, I was beat, I couldn’t feel my legs and my brain was fried. So the morning after was my last chance, but then I realized I had left both my daughter’s sweaters at home and hello target! 2 hours later I was back at the hotel getting ready to write and procrastination happened…again.

Fast forward to that night and the bride’s dad gave the best speech ever. In Spanish! I don’t even think he speaks Spanish, he even had his own personal translator (my brother).  People laughed, people cried, how could I ever top that? At least I looked pretty (I hope).

Time for my speech, I was handed the microphone in what seemed to be slow motion, I take it and say:

“I’m not drunk enough to do this.”

Those were the words I chose to introduce myself to my brother’s new family. Not good evening, not Hello, my name is Linda and I’m the groom’s not alcoholic sister. Nothing.

I start to ramble, of course, and then both my daughters decide to stand by me while I disgraced my family join me and mid speech literally grab the microphone from me and start to display their multiple talents, which completely threw me off my train of thought, not that I had one to begin with. I don’t remember much of what I said after that, but it must have been amazing because ONE person laughed.

When it was finally over (again, I would do it over and over. I know you’re reading. I love you.), I sat down and realized I didn’t say what I really wanted to say. I really just wanted to give them both some marriage advice, because being married 9 years obviously makes me an expert.

I wanted to tell her that as soon as they say I DO, men develop a serious case of Selective Hearing. Even when they say they heard you, they didn’t. Whatever it is you want or need, you better get it in writing.

I wanted to tell him that no matter how many times we say nothing is wrong, something is wrong. And you better figure it out and fix it. Fast.

I wanted to tell her that you should praise him every time he completes a chore, like doing laundry or cooking (yes, for some of us, cooking becomes a tedious chore). Give him a kiss or a high-five, whatever you choose. Kinda like giving a puppy a snack when you’re training them.  Get what I’m trying to say here?

I wanted to tell him that he better think twice before asking her if she really needs another pair of shoes.  We ALWAYS need another pair of shoes, as well as boots, jeans or any other item of clothing. Just don’t ever go there.

I wanted to tell her to run as fast as she can every time he gets sick. Because a sick man is like having 6 sick toddlers and 8 teething babies together at the same time. Hire a nurse or call his mother, just run. I’m just kidding, please take care of my brother.

I wanted to tell them both to choose their battles carefully.  Sometimes the dumbest things can start a massive outrage. Remember what happened when The War of the Worlds was narrated on the radio way back when? Same thing can happen if you leave the toilet seat up or you forget to put the leftovers in the fridge (I forget all the time, no worries).

And finally, I wanted to tell you both that you are now part of an equal relationship, neither of you should wear the pants in your marriage. Seriously, no one should wear pants, its way more fun that way, until you have kids of course, then it would just be weird. Put some pants on!

road trippin’ (writing as I go)

I know I haven’t blogged in a while, but it’s mostly because I’ve been at home for the past three weeks, and let’s be honest, I don’t do anything when I’m home. Also because I usually do all my writing at the office and I’m telling you this because my boss doesn’t read this blog, she thinks I work diligently. It’s been a long three weeks and I’m ready to go back, but not before driving from Virginia to Indiana for my brother’s wedding, who actually eloped and got married in Hawaii (genius) a couple of months ago. I really think they’re throwing this wedding celebration just to get me in a van with my in-laws, my dad, my husband and my kids for 8 hours which I’m sure will turn into 10. What did I do to deserve this? I don’t know, but I’m liking the sound of the word revenge. 

When you get three old friends (in-laws and my dad) together in a car for 8 hours all they’re going to do is talk…and talk…and talk some more. And when they’re done, they’ll talk some more. And here I am in the back of the van because I’m 5 ft and no one else fits in between my daughter’s car seats but me, and I’m about to throw up, maybe because I just swallowed a bag of mini Oreos and writing this on my phone on the back. I’m also watching Frozen for the 68th time so the thought of pulling over and puking actually seems like a fun break. 

We’re driving through Pennsylvania or Maryland. I don’t even know, but I made the huge mistake of asking my dad, a geography enthusiast, because calling him a geography freak would be rude. He pulled out a map because why wouldn’t he. 25 minutes later he was still pointing out roads and stuff.
Now he’s listing ALL the states and asking me if I know their capital, which I obviously don’t because I only memorized them to pass my US History test in middle school like 20 years ago. 

The capital of California is Sacramento, NOT Hollywood. 

I just figured out that we’re in Pittsburgh, I’m sure because we had to stop to buy a blanket because I guess everyone in the car is going through menopause and the AC is blasting. I got a throw at a rest stop for $30. That was THIRTY dollars for a penguin throw which I’m guessing is the pet of their something team. Go Penguins??

The capital of Pennsylvania is Harrisburg, NOT Philadelphia. And apparently Tom Hanks does not live there.

Of course, now it’s scorching hot because there’s no way to cover the sun coming in through the back window, I have 2 huge dolls and a Penguin blanket on my lap and we’re watching Tinkerbell for the 54th time.

The capital of New York is Albany, NOT Times Square.

4 more hours to go. Namaste. Namaste. Namaste. Namaste. Namaste. Namaste. Namaste.

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