Tales from the Mommy Trenches

I’m always at a loss as to how to begin a blog post. I can never come up with something snappy like, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . .” or “Marley was dead: to begin with.” I wonder if these things come to one in a flash of brilliance or one spends years agonizing over it.

Well, my French lavender is dead: to begin with. It smelled so good and looked so hardy when my mom gave it to me for our wedding anniversary, but as soon as we put it in the ground it shriveled up and died. I’m still mourning its loss.

And this pregnancy certainly has been the best of times and the worst of times. I finally started feeling the baby kick and move, which is hands down the best part of pregnancy. But, I have also developed a case of symphysis pubis dysfunction, which makes doing even the most ordinary things extraordinarily painful. I’m currently on husband-enforced bedrest in order to avoid real bedrest, crutches, or a wheelchair. As much bedrest as I can do with four young children in the house, at least. Our 20 week anatomy scan is looming large, and that ultrasound always makes me incredibly nervous. You moms know how it is.

I have this hummingbird feeder outside my window that my mom gave me that I love. I was too lazy to take it down last winter, so some ants met their unfortunate demise inside of it during those long winter months. Once the weather got warm again, I filled my feeder with the hummingbird nectar, ignored the dead ants, and waited with eager anticipation for the hummingbirds to come flocking to it. None came. I asked my mom why she thought they weren’t coming, and she said it was because of those few little dead ants inside it. I thought she was pulling my leg and continued to watch my ghost town of a feeder. There is no way those hummingbirds could be that fastidious! Like my cousin quipped, were they going on hummingbird Yelp and giving me bad reviews? “Do not eat here fellow hummingbirds, the hummingbird health inspector gave it an F for insect infestation.” Finally, I broke down and cleaned out the whole feeder and put it back up with some fresh nectar. And lo and behold, the hummingbirds started flocking to it. Now, I’m the crazy hummingbird lady who hides behind a curtain so that I can take pictures of my hummingbirds to send to my indulgent family members. A happy ending for everyone, especially those unnecessarily picky hummingbirds.

Me creeping behind the curtain on some unsuspecting hummingbird. What’s that? Do I have a close up, you say? Is that even a question?

They’re so cute, even if they are extremely high maintenance. Speaking of cute yet high maintenance . . . .

I am the only one with young children on my side of the family (so far), so when I describe my parenting style to my family members, I try to put it in the context of the trendy parenting styles these days, and they of course, not reading parenting blogs on the daily like I do, have no idea what I’m talking about. So I switched tactics and decided to describe my parenting style in a literary context to my cousin today, and the closest thing I could come up with was: Dickensian. My reaction to the girls clearing their plates and wanting seconds after initially turning their noses up at the dinner I have spent two hours making is quite similar to the one in Oliver Twist. “MORE? You want some MORE?” Preschools and soccer practice? Not for my girls. I’m looking for a proper workhouse that will teach them real life skills. Like how to make your own clothes and not get your arms caught in the machinery. Wren got her arm stuck through the freezer handle the other day, so she would obviously benefit from this. “Trying to pilfer some ice cream and your arm got caught, eh? Gruel for a week!” And while I cannot condone pickpocketing as a way of life, I can only hope that some day my kids will have nicknames half as cool as the Artful Dodger. Forget hugging it out until your child’s bad behavior disappears, try sending them to bed without supper. That will teach them to dig into their gruel with relish.

And if you doubt the efficacy of Dickensian parenting, just wait until you hear the tiny voice pipe up at meal times, saying, “God bless us, every one!”