Awkward Mom vs. Bodily Fluids

Yes, it is gross.

Sigh. We here in the land of Awkward are fighting a battle on 2 fronts and it is wearing out our troops:

The entire Awkward family continues to battle their yearly visit from Cold-of-Death. He always seems to strike during the February Blahs. I am starting to think Cold-of-Death vacations here every February with his whole family; Running-Nose, Hacking-Cough, Plugged-Ears. Even Aunt Intestinal-Discomfort and Uncle Cold-Sweats join the party for the annual sojourn at the Awkward house. It's going on week three over here and I am starting to wonder just how much vacation time Cold-of-Death gets a year...

Just to make things interesting, we decide to add Super Perschooler's potty training in on top of things. Just a jam-packed vacation for Cold-of-Death over here. Kinda like going to Hawaii and instead of lounging on the beaches, we are hiking up to volcanoes...or more accurately, jumping in them. You know, just hanging out with colds being a vacation in Hawaii and volcanoes being potties, and you know, I think I may have lost control of this analogy.

Anyway, to answer your unasked question, yes, Super Preschooler is a little old for potty training. You must be keeping up with your BabyCenter emails! He has flat out refused any and every attempt at potty training since we started a year and a half ago. For a year, he has been telling us that he will do it when he turns 4. Well, he had his 4th birthday party this Saturday. (The fact that he isn't really 4 until next Sunday and we had the party early because of a bunch of complicated reasons I don't need to bore you with is irrelevant.) He had cake. He got gifts. He thinks he is 4, so we are forced to go with it.

The drama (and unpleasant bodily fluids) going on in this house are not for the weak of heart and I am too close to the situation to creatively and humorously convey them to you. (creatively convey dramatic bodily fluids....ummmm, gross, just gross.) Potty training is one of those parenting areas that can fill hundreds of books, tons of babycenter threads, dozens of Freudian theories; everyone has an opinion or method. But the truth is, as so clearly evidenced by Super Preschooler and his will of iron, every child is different. Every child comes to these major milestones, these tremendous transitions in his or her own time, from his or her own path. I would be lying if I said that it was not frustrating that he is so independent and unrepentant on this issue. That he won't just do it. That he doesn't seem to want to do it. That I have to fake smile and fake interest when well-meaning moms who notice his diaper offer advice. Like I haven't already tried it. Like I haven't already tried it all. That I am terrified other kids won't want to be his friend. That I am terrified other moms won't want to be my friend. That this is going to be one more area of failure and delay that I can review at night when I can't sleep and can't find anything better to do than beat myself up for my terrible parenting. It can hard to be the mom of a late bloomer in a society that praises the fast, the quick, the early ones.

But then that little late bloom comes in here while I am writing this and hugs me and says he loves me.

He did, I am not making this up. I was gonna go on for awhile yet about society and patience and stress and blah blah blah but I think I will stop complaining now. What on earth is hard about being his mom again? That hug made me lose my train of thought, but I am pretty sure it wasn't a train I needed to catch anyway.

We'll let Awkward Mom mop up her tears. And a few other fluids that they are dealing with over there. Hey, we never said this blog was ick free! Parenting sure isn't.....love ya, Readers! The next post should be a little less moist.....ummmm gross....yes, we promise there will be less "fluids" around here next time! See ya soon!

While the rest of the Awkward family takes on Cold-of-Death, Super Baby has a battle of her own to deal with.....the villainous Red Balloon!

Awkward Mom vs. The Henry Ford Museum (part 3)

Preschoolers and toddlers and babies, oh my!


So, we finally make it to the Wonderful Wizard of Oz exhibit, after an extended stay in the land of toy trains. It is very difficult to explain how this tiny corner of the museum has been transformed. Furthermore, I am quite sure that I can't convey how a 3-year-old, with a deep love for sparkles, an unrelenting imagination, and a huge Oz fetish, sees this room. The closest I can get you is to ask you to try to remember that moment when Dorothy opens the door into technicolor amazement. Do you remember her face? Toto's face? The face of whichever of your siblings you were watching it with? Remember that and then you will know what Super Preschooler's face looks like right now.

And then, he sees this:

Honest-to-goodness magic slippers; yes, we have officially left Kansas.

It is hard to see his face in the ruby red aura, but, believe me, I was there, and it was worth every penny of that membership. I have 2 seconds to bask in the gloriousness of pleasing my child before I realize that Super Toddler isn't gazing at shoes with us. Nor is he contently sleeping in the stroller, like Super Baby. I glance left. I glance right. I look under the stroller for some unknown reason. I start to peer into other people's strollers. I look in the case with the ruby slippers (which, by the way, Super Preschooler is still staring at), but Super Toddler isn't there. And then, panic settles into my stomach. My dear readers who have small children, children who were once small, or animal-friends will understand this panic completely. That out-of-control feeling that just takes over. That icy feeling that steals your breath and hijacks your brain and all of a sudden you are thinking that flying monkeys taking your toddler is a perfectly reasonable explanation. Some parents handle this by becoming deeply calm and assessing all possible outcomes in a methodical and orderly manner. Some seek the nearest guard/police officer/person in charge and turn over leadership to cooler heads. Some alert all nearby adults and spread out the worry. Some keep their children on leashes and never have this problem. Some rely on their adrenaline and let it power them through a search of all nearby hiding spots. Some parents tap into their unique skill sets to guide their particular response to this frightening but completely manageable problem. I am not some parents; I totally freak out.

I trust the ruby slippers have Super Preschooler under a deep enough spell and leave him in a whirl of stroller wheels. I careen through the entire section depicting the Gale Farm. Pretend tomatoes and ears of corn crunch under my feet, as I race across the yellow brick road manically. I upset some children making homemade tornadoes and 2-liter bottles go flying in my wake. I barely notice; I totally would have taken out any munchkins had they been trying to sing at me. I don't see Super Toddler anywhere. He isn't coloring a picture of the tin man. He isn't building a crown for Glenda. He isn't dressing a scarecrow. He isn't changing the horse's color. He isn't conferring with the Wizard or crawling through the lion's woods. My eyes are darting everywhere at once and I can not for the life of me remember what shirt he is in. I circle the room at a sprint, two-wheeling the stroller around the corners. He isn't watching the movie on any of the 6 televisions in here and he isn't hiding under any of the couches. The scene playing is the flying monkey scene. Of course, it is. He isn't pedaling Miss Gulch's bicycle and he isn't peering through the witch's magic portal. He isn't climbing into the witch's lair and he isn't one of the dozens of children pretending to sleep in the poppies. People are staring, of course, they are staring. I look insane. I am talking to myself. Saying his name over and over, like some deranged magic spell. He isn't making up lullabies to the left. He isn't twisting and turning in the tornado house to the right. He isn't playing a matching Munchkin game and he isn't building a lego yellow-brick-road.

What he is doing is strolling out of the gift shop, one hand jauntily jammed into the pocket of his itty-bitty jeans and the other holding the biggest lollipop I have ever seen. I screech to a halt in the middle of an entire field trip of first-graders and feast my eyes on my missing child. I am panting. I am shaking. I am drenched in sweat. And I am so damn happy to see that tiny little boy as he saunters across the room, benignly smiling at the chaos around him and calmly eating his stolen goods.

I march the new head of the Lollipop Guild back into the gift shop, pay for his bounty, and strap him into the stroller. We head back to the ruby red slippers to get Super Preschooler. Who is not there.....


Oh readers, fear not! As evidenced by this photo, Awkward Mom did have all 3 in her sights...at least for some of the trip:
Sadly, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz exhibit is now closed. They are replacing it with one on the Titanic.....and yes, we are now taking bets on who she loses first at that one.

Awkward Mom vs. Busy

Hey there, true believers! We haven't forgotten you, it is just that Awkward Mom is dealing with awkwardness of unparalleled proportions and hasn't had a moment to write any of it down. (much less finish that long overdo Henry Ford Museum missive.) This time of year the Awkward family battles their nemesis, Busy. This is because there are 3 birthdays within a very short period of time, and this year, they are adding Super Baby's baptism, right in the middle of it all. Holy awkward! (Quite literally, it would seem.) Tune in soon because you just know that somebody is gonna fall in the baptismal font, and solid bets are on anybody but Super Baby.

Until we meet again, check out this blurry but beautiful photo of Super Toddler admiring his new train table. Don't make 'em much cuter!



And, for no particular reason, a series of photos we like to call "Awkward Home Repair." Extra awkward points for the fact that they were apparently watching an infomercial in the middle of the day. And no, we have no idea where Super Toddler got a curling iron.







No super child was harmed in the making of this photo series....Awkward Mom's heart rate was seriously elevated though....

Awkward Mom vs. Romance

We interrupt your regularly scheduled Awkward Mom for love letter awkward....oh so much more awkward....

What is romance? Is it all those kissing-in-the-rain scenes from movies; the music swelling with the storm drains? Lingering looks in shadowy rooms? That parting overhead swirling shot of an endless embrace that fades into credits? Maybe. But not always.

I think romance is changing the 44th diaper of the day and still being interested in what someone else did at work. Reading books on opposite ends of the couch in easy quiet. Taking off your partner's glasses after he/she falls asleep in a heap next to the crib. Washing someone else’s socks. Sure, it’s I-love-yous, but it is also how-did-that-presentation-gos and wow-this-is-tastys. I think romance opens doors and closes the books left on sleeping chests, remembering to stick in a bookmark. Romance drives you the spare key when you lock yours in the car and doesn’t complain too much about it. I think romance is endless and strong and slow and hanging around after the credits, even if the soundtrack is the Wheels on the Bus on a loop.

Sure, there is still room in the daily tired for romance of the flowers and passion kind, but that isn’t where romance lives. It might visit there on occasion, but true romance lives in the million tiny touches that make up a union. The little overlapping gestures and words that weave together and make something stronger than a swooping crane shot and a catchy tune.

Of course, none of this is gonna prevent me from watching Casablanca for the 800th time later tonight, knowing that when I fall asleep about the time they sing la Marseillaise, my own Humphrey Bogart is gonna make sure my glasses aren't cutting into my nose, as he covers me with a blanket and turns off the light.

Ugh...aren't they cute and all that? OK, we will return you to your regularly scheduled Awkward Mom, and as soon as she wakes up, we are sure she'll have some tripping tales to tell you.

Awkward Mom vs. the Henry Ford Museum (part 2)

You know, the part where we are actually at the museum....

So, we finally make it into the Henry Ford Museum, and thanks to our handy dandy museum pass, we don't even have to stand in line! We can head straight into the museum, which we do....well, I suppose it could hardly be called "straight in." We shed coats upon our entry, some of us onto the floor. This requires removing said coats from under some teenager's foot and on to the hangers in the coatroom, which involves leaving the stroller off to the side, where it is moved by someone accessing a magical broom closet that I swear wasn't there when I placed the stroller there. This causes me to freak out and accuse some poor sweet janitor of stealing my baby, which is not my proudest moment, so I gather my herd and head to the bathroom to hide. Plus, I drink too much diet Pepsi and I have to go. I block the sinks completely with the stroller (it is rather limo-like in size) and race into a stall. Super Preschooler, the only one not shackled into the stroller, is incensed at being left outside, so, to my horror, he crawls under the door. I burst out of the door to find a woman washing her hands over Super Toddler's head. I think I remember to apologize as I scoot the stroller over and scoop Super Preschooler into the sink, where I wash every exposed inch of him and debate burning his clothes. I throw him onto my shoulders, where he loudly complains that he would be taller if Daddy where here, and I reclaim the stroller. I somehow wrench the door open with my foot and kick it as hard as I can, while trying to push the whole stroller through before it closes on us. The result being a jerky lumber out of the bathroom, that rams a lovely gentleman in a wheelchair in the process. (which I do feel bad about, but a man his age should know that lurking by the bathroom door will result in unpleasant surprises every time) This parade of shame concluded, we head straight into the museum.

Super Preschooler has a trick up his sleeve today; he wants to go to the trains first. I am shocked, as he is usually already running into the Oz exhibit before we have fully parked the car. I am also a little scared, as the train exhibit is the farthest thing from us right now. It takes us 20 minutes to get there. Would it take you 20 minutes? No, it would take you about 3. But Super Toddler decides that the gift shop and its lava lamp are worth a detour. Super Baby wakes up and decides that FDR's car freaks her out. Super Preschooler decides that he wants a Mold-a-Rama Rosa Parks bus and is still having trouble with the word "later." But after about 17 minutes, we all remember that we want to see trains and race to the other side of the museum.

Now, the Henry Ford Museum has real trains. Big trains. Like, how-on-earth-did-they-get-these-in-here big. The boys thinks those are OK. But nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to toy trains, and this toy train set is amazing; 7 different trains. All whizzing in and out of tunnels, past little towns with tiny water towers, and over itty-bitty bridges, flecked with fake snow. One train has a camera on it, so you can watch yourself flash onto a big screen when the train passes you. Even I have to admit, it is pretty amazing. To a toddler with a train fetish, it is heaven on earth.

I think Super Toddler is about to pass out from joy, but then he beholds what is next to the regular toy train. Another toy train set....completely made of legos. Working train tracks, made of legos. Little trees and sheep, made of legos. Enormous skyscrapers, made of legos. Little lego window-washers on little lego scaffolding. And acres and acres of racing trains...all made of legos. Are those angels singing? I think we just found the holy toddler grail.

Super Toddler watches the lego toy train set for 30 minutes. 30 minutes, readers. That is like 30 years in adult time. I don't know what to do. I have never seen him still this long. Even when he sleeps, he is more active. Super Preschooler makes some friends and builds his own train in the interactive section. Super Baby is lulled to sleep. And I stand there, watching my middle child. You know, the one who is always on the move. The one who just got ousted from babyhood by his sister's arrival and won't let me cuddle him anymore. The one I can't catch. The one who makes me catch my breath. The Henry Ford Museum opens a magical time/train portal and everything stands still. Super Toddler stands at the railing and smiles beatifically at the whirling trains; both hands tightly wrapped around the bars in a stillness I didn't know he had. He ignores me, his brother, his sister, other onlookers, the sweet museum volunteer who keeps trying to talk to him. We don't exist, nothing exists but the whirling trains. It is like he is under a lego train spell. It would be slightly scary, if it wasn't so perfect.

You know what is scary? Awkward Mom's inability to finish this post. And the sound coming from the nursery. Sound wins, must dash. Back soon.

Let me in! Let me in!

Awkward Mom vs. the Henry Ford Museum (part 1)

Stop the presses and hold on to your hats, Readers! Have we found a way to time travel into a 1940s newspaper drama? No, but how cool would that be?! I mean, feisty fedora-wearing dames pounding the pavement for a story; so cool....umm...where was I? Oh yes, hat holding. Well, hold away because Awkward Mom is at it again! You know how the crazy woman fire-knife-juggled and took all the children to Target? Well, she is at it again; only this time she juggled some chainsaws blindfolded, while standing on an elephant. Awkward Mom took all 3 children to the Henry Ford Museum. (For our non-Ann Arbor readers, she took them somewhere like the Field Museum....on field trip day.)

Bear with me, I swear this relates: Super Preschooler has a Wizard of Oz obsession. Big surprise, right? Daring-do, dancing scarecrows, shiny shoes, and princesses (Glenda being a princess, according to Super P....we'll get to the good witch/bad witch aspect of it all when he is ready for Wicked.); the whole thing is right up his alley. Now, the Wizard of Oz happens to be my first movie memory. Remember when they used to show it on TV once a year? Yep, sometime in the early 80s, there was a young Awkward Mom hiding behind the couch with the Awkward Uncles , trying to escape the flying monkeys. This particular memory urged me to hold off showing it to Super Preschooler, but he tends to have a mind of his own. It popped up on Netflix one day, resplendent in its rainbowness, and he just had to know what it was. So, I turned it on and waited. And waited. And waited. (To be honest, he was utterly freaked out by the tornado and watched that part from the hallway, peering around the door frame in horrified fascination.) The second she opened that door and Oz appeared in all its technicolored glory, he sat down and never took his eyes off the screen. Witches, flying monkeys, apple-throwing trees, lions, tigers, and bears; he loved it all.

Fast forward to sometime this past fall and the Henry Ford Museum opening a "Wonderful Wizard of Oz" exhibit. An exhibit Super Preschooler found out about, who knows how. I blame Awkward Dad. An exhibit that Super Preschooler has seen 5 times now. An exhibit that necessitated the purchase of a yearly museum pass. An exhibit that is about 30 minutes away. An exhibit that has him referring to the movie as "the Wonderful Wonderful Wizard of Oz" (which, frankly, is the cutest thing ever and I hope he doesn't outgrow it for a good long time). An exhibit that he just had to see yesterday, despite Awkward Dad's return to work, Super Toddler's cold, and my complete ineptitude at juggling 3 kids in public. Oz obsessions are strong, my friends.

OK, I am not gonna discuss the car ride. Nothing noteworthy or awkward happens. Mostly because I may have the music on really loud and I may be pretending I am alone.....don't judge. We get there and I am immediately heartened by the lack of cars in the parking lot; I have high hopes of an abandoned museum and, as it is a Wednesday morning in January, they look like they are gonna be fulfilled.

OK, dismount time. Here's how it normally goes: Open the automatic sliding door closest to the boys. Get out. Get the stroller set up next to the open door. Unbuckle Super Preschooler, who is in the middle seat. Dive into the last row (hitting either my head or side) to grab Super Toddler, who is either asleep or playing with something, but always unwilling to leave. Wrestle with Super Toddler for awhile and eventually pull him out of the car seat onto the back seat (hitting either my head or side). Back out into the doorway (freaking out anyone parked next to us) and haul Super Toddler into the middle row. Have long and unnecessary conversation with Super Preschooler about how big boys can get themselves out of their car seats. Lift Super Preschooler out of his car seat. Grab Super Toddler from the driver's seat and plop him into the stroller. Struggle to hear Super Preschooler over Super Toddler's screaming. Wait for Super T. to take a breath and then explain to Super P. that Elmo has to guard the car and won't be coming with us, nor will the Halloween bucket full of 18 action figures. Place Super P. on the standing part of the double stroller, which was not intended for 2 kids. Tell the boys to stop fighting. Sigh. Grab the diaper bag out of the front seat. Push the screaming stroller towards the trunk. Tell the boys to stop fighting. Close the trunk. Sigh. Start walking to our destination. Turn back to close the automatic sliding door. Continue to the destination. Run back to the other sliding door and grab a sleeping Super Baby. Plop Super Baby and her car seat into the stroller. Resume walking to the destination. Turn back to close the sliding door. Realize that door isn't automatic. Race stroller back to van and close side door. Sigh. Lock doors. Trip. Yank stroller out of the way of a passing car. Tell the boys to stop fighting. Take a deep breath. Resume and complete journey to the door of wherever we are going; an hour late and no longer fully convinced we will be welcome here at all.

OK, you can resume your presses and let your hat go, Awkward Mom has to send you on a commercial break. She has been typing with Super Baby on her lap and just noticed a new aroma to the air. Super Preschooler has declared a need for play dough, and no one has seen Super Toddler in awhile. Best dash. Tune in super soon and we'll tell you about toy trains, mold-a-rama drama, and why the Wonderful Wizard of Oz should move their gift shop. Same Awkward Time, Same Awkward Channel!

Awkward Mom vs. Photos

No sleep. Breakfasts that consist of diet Pepsi and Candy Canes. Weird crusty stuff in one's hair, at all times. Accidentally answering the talking toys like they are phones. Never really locating the source of that smell. Deciding to blog in picture form because the words you are typing all blur together. Welcome to Awkward Mom....3.0.

So, I decide to take a picture of all three of my children; to capture the exhilarating joy and heartwarming charm of life with 3 little superheros. A photographic treasure by way of Norman Rockwell meeting Hallmark in the von Trapp mansion (minus the Nazis). Just a tiny time capsule of sweetness to brighten the dark winter ahead.

Yeah.........Here is what actually happened:

Well, 2 outta 3 aint bad. We are thinking of framing the last one, despite the presence of rouge maracas and bug eyes.

And no, we have no defense for why Super Toddler looks like a member of Our Gang.