Awkward Mom vs. Priorities

As if we didn't already know that hers were messed up.


So, our babysitter came over tonight. My house looks like this:

Did I ask her to play with the children, so that I could clean? Unpack? Find the missing checkbook? Learn how to cook? Figure out world peace? Take up knitting? Maybe break down a few boxes? Why am even posing these questions? We all know the answer:

Nope. Awkward Dad and I went out for chili cheese fries and saw Rock of Ages.

Because I have my priorities in order. It might be backwards order....which is still technically an order...of sorts.

I have spent the week in heaven, Readers, and I have many a tale to tell you. We have walked to the pool, twice! We have met the neighbors; they seem nice! (Didn't intend that rhyme, but I kinda like it.) We have played in the yard. We went to the farmer's market and Excellent Mom bought chard. (OK. Forced that one.) Yesterday I felt downright European; we walked to Trader Joe's (By the way, check out Crunchy Mom's Ode here.) and I bought stuff for dinner, took it home, and cooked it. OK. Burned it. But it was an attempt and I have high hopes for this kitchen, Readers. I can't exactly see the kitchen over the boxes, but those hopes are there....just gotta find them.

I am having too much fun. I love this house! I love our neighborhood! I am so busy being in love that I can't unpack. No, that isn't quite true. I did unpack somethings:

It's all about priorities, right?

The location may have changed, but the awkwardness remains. Tune in soon to hear about our house adventures. There will be plenty and they will be awkward. We always have our awkward priorities in order, we promise!

Awkward Mom and Princesses

Costumes count, but they never conform.

So, I am sitting here, watching Super Preschooler play princesses. Princesses is a favorite game of the under 4 set, and it raises its tiara-laded head again around age 14, although the dresses seem to get shorter for some reason. Anywho, I digress. My real reason for telling you about this is to point out how versatile "playing princesses" can be. If I close my eyes, I can see a castle full of them.

Marvelous Preschooler flounces nearby in a dainty flutter of satin and sequins that stands in stark contrast to the screaming orders she flings to her minions. That her minions are imaginary, some passing ants, or her friends, who are actively ignoring her, bothers Marvelous Princess not a wit. Princesses are above such things. Her dresses are plentiful and tend to change at a rapid rate, leaving one to wonder if Marvelous Princess has her very own fairy Godmother, poofing like a Mad Hatter, hiding behind that tree. Her feet, wrists, and hair are all bejeweled and it hurts a little to look directly at her, which is as it should be. At least, according to Marvelous Princess.

Excellent Preschooler dances by in a blur of color and song. Because her mother has an eye for these things, Excellent Princess could be wearing a dress-up dress or her own dress, one can't quite tell. The elegance is just always there, swirling out from her in perpetual dance. Her sweetness creates a cloud around her, and yes, it totally smells like strawberries. I keep looking behind her for 7 dwarfs, a parade of woodland creatures, and the entire Disney storyboarding team, but they are probably really good at hiding. She is belting something from the Lion King to the 2 giraffes she is rocking to sleep, and her curls are swaying to the music, covering her "babies" in a gentle cocoon of fiery red hair.

Awesome Preschooler buzzes by on a mission of extreme importance, 18 toys piled into a basket draped over her arm. She is wonderfully careless to her tulle and lace and doesn't seem to notice her hem trailing into the mud. Awesome Princess has other stuff on her mind; she has friends to help. She shouts hello to the passing birds, boosts her friend up a slide, sings a ditty to a neighbor dog, and hurries off on another mission of mercy, re-skinning her knee in the process. Awesome Princess is no idle beauty. That she is a beauty is apparent in endless eyes and the thickest, shiniest hair ever, but she is not sitting in front of any mirror. No, Awesome Princess is on the move, and her many bruises and scraps will tell you just how much she loves her friends.

Super Preschooler is looking for crowns. Not for himself, mind you. His is sitting on his head already, jauntily jutting to the left. No, Super Preschooler is hunting for his fellow princesses. Crowns. Crowns. He repeats it like a spell, pushing up the tattered sleeves of his light blue dress-up dress to demonstrate that he means business. The poor thing looks so much like Cinderella (pre-ball) that I want to cry. But he claims the ratty old dress I bought for 2 bucks at that church rummage sale is "gorgeous." His quiet confidence totally pulls it off, even the trailing ribbon that the cat is chasing.

Princesses are always in a dress. Super Preschooler is very insistent on this rule. (He also has very particular thoughts on crowns, clearly.) But Princess Preschooler could give a fig what your dress looks like; brand-new, Disney-sanctioned, Grandmother-sewn, your everyday dress, school dress, church dress, Daddy's shirt, an artfully draped drape, or barely-held-together rags. He is down with whatever you want to wear, as long as you let him find you a crown. And maybe some bracelets. A ring or 2. Some pretty necklace....

Princesses (according to Disney) are beautiful, resourceful, and generous. They are curious, good, and forgiving. They are kind to animals. They like shiny things. They aren't afraid of a little danger. They are covert superheros, hiding behind a frothy confection of silk and sugar; don't underestimate them. Once properly accessorized , they are ready for all the adventure any crabby old witch (or mommy) can concoct.

What's that? Oh, you thought Awkward Mom was going to be offline until next week. Well, I can understand that, given that she told you just that. Well, the move went very well (that post is coming) and they discovered that the current cable feed will be turned off the day that their cable is turned on. So, they are stealing it. Yes, well, let's not linger on that fact and just enjoy that fact that Awkward Mom is blogging once again!


Oh my. Just what happened at this ball of yours, Super Preschooler?

Awkward Mom vs. Moving

Go west, young Awkwards!

We are in the process of moving into a house! Readers, a house. Anyone who has read my thrilling ode to stairs knows that it is time to move. I can't even tell you what a mess this apartment is right now. Most of our stuff is at the house thanks to the Awesome, Excellent, Wonderful, and Phenomenal Families. (It pays to have superhero friends.) But we are sleeping here at the apartment, as we are renting a truck tomorrow to move our furniture. It is wild. I can't find knives, combs, Windex. But most disturbingly, I can't find my corkscrew.....

But no need to fear, Awesome Mom is bringing hers over later, and we are gonna have a little wine to celebrate the new house and fortify for tomorrow's move extravaganza. I may have a little extra to cope with the fact that I am going to be without you for a couple days, Readers. Our Internet won't be set up in our new lair until next week sometime! I know. I know. How on earth am I going to survive without you. Without Pandora. Without Amazon. Without imdb. No idea. But I am gonna call on my inner reserves and muddle through. And probably drink more wine.

Back soon, Readers! But while we are gone, maybe you could ponder and come up with a name for our new lair! The Batcave is taken. Stark Tower doesn't really suit a ranch-style house. And Fortress of Solitude is just laughable....Fortress of Screaming, maybe. We are leaning toward the Awkward Asylum, thoughts?



The Supers with the only toys left in the apartment, which look plenty to me. Maybe I just won't unpack the other 857847584899.

Awkward Mom vs. Neighbors

Oh Readers, just when you thought it was safe to walk around your house in your underwear....

OK. So, it is late, but I have to tell you about the awkward shenanigans that just went down. The thing is, our trips to and from the Special Olympics (Shout out to Uncle Awkward on his Gold Medal!) were so awkward-free that I was starting to relax. I was thinking, "Hey, Awkward Mom, maybe you are misnamed. Maybe you have a handle on this whole motherhood thing. Maybe you can start to congratulate yourself and your parenting skills, once in awhile. Could be that you even have a modicum of grace somewhere in there." Sigh. Yes, well, you all know that I shouldn't have even opened my awkward mouth. Well, I thought it. Opened my awkward brain? That sounds weird. OK. OK. I'll get to the point.

It is 9:36 and no one is asleep. Awkward Dad, who has been fighting a stomach thing since we got home, is simultaneously moaning and trying to write a note for work. Super Baby's tooth has finally broken through and the only thing that seems to help is gnawing on my finger. The Super Boys have decided that their room "looks scary" with nothing in it (most of our apartment is packed into the Tower of Boxes in the dining room and it is leaning dangerously to the left), so they have decided to go to sleep in our bed. And by go to sleep, I mean spill an entire bottle of water on my side of it, fling themselves onto the bed from the chest across the room, and sing what sounds like sea shanties at the top of their lungs. The kitchen has exploded, there are Cheeries on every flat surface of the house, and I am screaming for everyone to be quiet.

About 9:45, the boys are winding down, if a little damp, and I am settled onto the couch, glass of wine in one hand and the other hand in Super Baby's mouth. I am watching MobWives on Netflix. (Hey, do I come into your Queue and judge you?) I breathe a sigh of relief and gasp with horror at Renee's fur coat, and then there is a knock on the door.

Now, the yelling 10 minutes ago was pretty intense, so I pause the show and am gearing up to tell our downstairs neighbors (who think we stomp too much and let our children stay up too late...and they have a point) that I am sorry and we are moving in 3 days and would they like some of the jam I just canned (upcoming post, I promise). My geared-up speech dies on the vine, when I open the door to 2 adorable Mormon girls. Now, how did Mormon girls get into our building and why are they trying to convert me at 9:49, you ask? And if you didn't, you should.

Well, a little back story. We live across the hallway from an apartment that is rented by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. (Super Preschooler thinks Jesus actually lives there because they have a picture of him on their door.) We have a rotating parade of Mormon youth, on their mission year, living there, and they are lovely neighbors. They borrow sugar from time to time, are always taking out our garbage when I leave it by the door, and completely lose it over Super Baby every time they see her. They are great kids and we have reached an unspoken understanding about religion. When a new pair of them move in, I always make them some banana bread to ensure that they come over to thank me and see the large picture of the Virgin Mary that I have in our front doorway. We are like an ecumenical council over here, it is great.

OK, well, no one needs sugar. What they do need is to borrow the phone. Apparently, they only have a cell and they lost it somewhere on campus. Well, without thinking, I usher them right in and hand them ours. And step on a Lego. And notice the Super Baby is falling off the couch. And look down and see that I am still wearing the too tight Captain America shirt that Super Preschooler bled on earlier today. And chase Super Cat away from taking a swipe at their tempting-below-the-knee-skirts. And realize that a box just fell off my moving pile. And take in the full extent of my messy house in their frozen, polite faces. Then I look past their faces to my television, which I have paused on Drita, clubbing, in a leopard-skin dress, "assets" all over the place.

I am trying not to eavesdrop, as they huddle in the doorway, under the Holy Mother's picture, and I am failing. It appears they might miss a prayer meeting, due to the phone mix up and that sounds serious. I start picking up toy cars, playing with Super Baby, and making all kinds of ruckus in the hopes that they don't turn around and see the ode to perdition that is paused, mid-swig of what appears to be tequila, on my television. I don't even think they have a television. I have moved onto picking up Cheerios when I hear the toilet flush. Oh. No.

You see, I thought that Awkward Dad was in the office, safely working. Nope. It appears that he is in the bathroom and will now leave said bathroom, in plain sight of everyone in the living room. This would not be a big deal, but I know for a fact that, unless a magical wardrobe has poofed itself into our bathroom and that suddenly Awkward Dad can read my thoughts, he is gonna walk out of there the way he walked in: in nothing but his underwear. I somehow teleport to the bathroom door in time to fling myself in front of him. He is momentarily quite pleased to have me so close, until I frantically whisper something that sounds like "Mormons. Underwear. Don't wanna go to hell." He nods, walks backwards down the hallway, mostly hidden by me and my waving arms, and dives into the office. I slam the door and saunter back to the living room like that didn't just happen, and we all silently agree to pretend that it didn't. But I see them nervously glancing up at Mary to save them. Heck, I understand. I have been praying since I realized that I am wearing jeans with spit-up on them, have no idea if I brushed my hair today, and can hear Super Preschooler talking about zombies from the bedroom. I do NOT need a visit from DCFS on top of everything else I have to do this week.

They finish using the phone and all but flee into the hallway. I am all solicitous and friendly, but it probably looks all creepy and weird. I offer them our phone anytime they need it. They mumble that they might need it tomorrow at 8, and I say "no problem," while giving my best June Cleaver smile. But it probably looks more like the Joker. I close the door, thank Mary for her help, and return to the couch. Super Baby is indignant that she doesn't have a finger to chew on. I flip MobWives back on and relax into my personal Sodom and Gomorrah for exactly 4 seconds. Wait. Did they mean 8 A.M.?

Yikes! Well, Awkward Mom needs to get to bed if she is gonna be awake and actually wearing pants at 8 in the morning. Wishing you all a good night, free of shaming neighbor visits and full of trashy TV.

Awkward Mom vs. the 3 Ts

Troubles tend to come in threes......

Point proven.

We are dealing with travel, tummies (as in the upset kind), and tramps (as in that is what we are gonna be, if I don't get my act together and pack up this house)! I'll deal with that later though because right now, T number 1 needs to be dealt with. We are off to cheer Uncle Awkward on in the Illinois Special Olympics. I have my cheering section mostly ready to go:

Their technique might need a little work....

Have a awesome weekend, Readers! I am sure our will be Terrifically Troubled and Awesomely Awkward. Tune in next time to hear about it!

Awkward Mom and the Awkward Symbol

Readers! Check it out:



My ally, Professor PHD, made it for me! She (and it) are so awesome, right? I know!

What's that? Why yes, that is a photo of a scan that I made off of the Word Document she sent me. I couldn't figure out how to make it show up here in Blogger. I did said she is awesome, not me.

So, anyway, here is what I am thinking: How about someone figure out how to tape this thing to a spotlight? Then I just need to get myself a Commissioner Gordon to shine it into the sky whenever awkwardness is a'foot. That way I will know where my particular skills are needed at all times! Good plan? Good plan.

Awkward Mom vs. Poetry

Oh, Awkward Mom....you are NOT Emily Dickinson....or a 13 year old goth, who thinks she is Emily Dickinson.

Baby Girl,

be the bee.

Of course, you flower,

but I know that you can fly.

To be fair, it would be hard to not write poetry about that face.