Tag Archives: taylor swift

A mom by any other name

My baby just said his first sentence.

But let’s completely ignore that for a minute. Yes, yes, I know. What a milestone! Ooh! Ah! What did he say!? Blah, blah, blah. We’ll get to all that sentimental crap.

But first, we need to discuss what didn’t come before this milestone. Because this is important. Because I’m important. Or at least I should be. I mean, not only did I give the kid LIFE by turning my lady parts into a luxury apartment but I also fed him using my own body and was the one to introduce him to ‘90’s hip hop. If it weren’t for me, that kid would still be jamming to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” like some kind of doofus.

And what thanks do I get?

In the 20 months my son has been on earth, he has only called me “Momma” three times.

THREE TIMES.

And I’m pretty sure one of those times he was actually trying to say “nom-nom” because he was hungry.

Now before you get all “well, some kids take longer than others to talk,” let me point out he already says “daddy.” And “alright.” And “hot.” And “balloon.” And “ball.” And something that sounds suspiciously like “crap.” Hell, the kid can clearly pronounce “blueberry.”

He even recognizes 11 letters of the alphabet already, including “M,” “O,” and “A,” meaning that he is technically even able to spell “Momma.”

And yet, nothing. Nada. Zilch. I don’t even get an adorable gibberish nickname. In fact, the closest thing I get to a personal moniker is a loud “AH!” whenever I dare to pay attention to something other than him, such as peeing without his direct supervision.

So when he said “that’s not cheese” at lunch a few days ago in regard to a poorly made mozzarella stick, my elation was also mixed with a tinge of bittersweetness.

(Although as first sentences go, “that’s not cheese” is pretty baller. You gotta love a tiny human who craps his pants but is still sophisticated enough to appreciate a fine Gouda).

I tried not to take it personally but I couldn’t help feeling like I had earned that title. I mean, I EARNED IT. Not just because I gave birth to him but because I’m the one willing to listen to Taylor Swift on repeat when he’s sick because for some reason the music of Tay-Tay, as he calls her, (oh yes, that red-lipped lollipop head got a name before I did) is the only thing that soothes him.

And he is the only person on this planet thus far that gets to call me “Mom.” So the fact that he refuses to is pretty much the equivalent of my husband introducing me as “his good buddy.”

first sentence

I had pretty much given up all hope and was just cautiously optimistic that maybe by the time he went to college, I’d be bumped up to “aunt who is always telling me I’m too skinny” status. But then, dear reader, I went to visit my family in Ohio. And it was like a light switch went on. He suddenly started calling me Momma left and right. (Well, technically Mom Mom but hell, I’ll take it. I would have accepted Moose Face or any other “M” sound at that point).

And that’s when I finally got it. I finally understood.

He never called me Momma because he never had to before. I’m always there. Every morning. Every night. And pretty much every moment in-between. There’s my big dumb face all up in his personal space. I’m the primary caretaker. And when I am away, Daddy takes over because we have no other family members close by. And since Daddy already has a name, when I return, it’s less “Mommy’s home!” and more “oh good, my meat suit is back.”

Our relationship is essentially that of Master Blaster from “Mad Max.” I’m pretty much just an extension of his body. He rides around on me demanding unreasonable things while I grunt monosyllabic responses and do it, no questions asked, because I’m too tired to ask why he wants to carry the Destin cream and a Tupperwear lid into every room of the house.

But once we got around my large family, where there are roughly 17 moms in any given room at any given time, it finally dawned on him that we are, in fact, two separate people and as such, I deserve a name of my own.

Or some crap like that. Who can follow the logic of toddlers? These are creatures who see rocks and think “yum, I’m going to try to eat this and then stuff it in my dirty diaper for safe keeping.”

The point is, I am Mom Mom. Finally. And there’s no one else I’d rather be.*

*Other than Batman, obviously.

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Without Christmas, it’s just…winter

Sorry, guys, but brace yourselves. I am about to Pollyanna-out on all of you.

Maybe it’s because it’s my baby’s first Christmas or maybe it’s because I’m getting soft in my old age, but whatever the reason is, I am all about Christmas this year. I mean, I am downright excreting Christmas spirit out of my goddamn freaking pores.

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I have to admit, it’s a nice change of pace. Last year I was super pregnant during the holidays, which naturally made me want to stab everyone in the face with a candy cane whenever I left the safe confines of my house.

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And the year before that, well, I don’t exactly remember since all the electricity in my brain is currently being sucked up by the part that alerts me that my baby is trying to kill himself AGAIN by chewing on the cable cord. But I’m sure I was grouchy because the days leading up to Christmas are chaotic and crowded and my liquor store always runs out of the gallon-sized, industrial-strength eggnog I use as my holiday crutch.

But this year? I have Christmas music on constant rotation. I put up ALL the Christmas decorations, instead of just enough so that it wasn’t sad. I bought the good wrapping paper, instead of the $1.99 crap that is made from ancient cobwebs and glitter and falls apart if you happen to breathe too close to it.

And I’ve already bought most of my gifts instead of waiting until December 23, where I will inevitably sprain my eyeballs from all the eye-rolling I will do while waiting in the world’s largest line because the store thinks having one cash register open is a swell idea two days before Christmas.

But most amazing of all, I’m actually being nice. To STRANGERS. Stupid, dumb, ugly strangers who I normally hate. But now? It’s all opening doors for them and “oh no, after you,” and even “why no, those neon hot pink skintight leggings aren’t permanently ruining my eyesight at all.”

I don’t know if it will last. If next year, or even next week, I’ll regress back to my old “bah-humbug” ways. But I hope not. Because this whole “seeing the gallon of eggnog half-full” thing is actually kind of…wonderful.

I mean, do you know what this time of year would be without Christmas? It would just be “oh, hey everyone, winter has started and it’s going to suck so hard for the next four months.”

And with Christmas, instead of being depressed that night now starts at 3:30 p.m., you get “oh hey, we just finished lunch and it’s already dark enough to turn on the Christmas tree!” And instead of being miserable because you’re cold, you get to warm up the house with the baking of cookies and the cooking of giant hams that are bigger than your toddler (and then the eating of all the giant ham all in one sitting because calories don’t count in December). Not to mention, it’s the only time of the year where it’s socially acceptable to punch the person who brought the “healthy” cookies into work to share (ahem…Susan). And while you may think you’re sick of all that Christmas music, just keep in mind that Christmas is the temporary dam that keeps the Taylor Swift tidal wave at bay for a few weeks.

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Christmas makes snow magical, instead of “the demon powder that makes me late to work” that it becomes in January. Christmas transforms decades-old bad animation into beloved holiday classics you actually look forward to watching. And most importantly, Christmas changes going to the liquor store at 9 a.m. on a Saturday for seventeen bottles of wine from “pathetic” to “totally understandable and necessary purchases.”

Not that Christmas doesn’t have its downsides. The mindless consumerism, the deep pit of debt, the never-ending flood of Facebook photos of that elf pooping Hershey kisses on top of cookies. Not to mention, all those helpful people who keep ruining “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” by pointing out how rape-y it is.

But for all our bitching about the holiday season, the world would be a much darker place, quite literally, without Christmas. So I, for one, plan to soak up as much Christmas magic as I can.

Before January comes and slowly strangles all our souls with its cold, dead hands.

Having daddy issues with Father Winter

So, I don’t know who came up with this whole “four seasons that are equal in length” concept, but they should be fired. Or better yet, fired and then punched in the throat. Or, ideally, fired and then punched in the throat and then stabbed, then shot, then stabbed again, then kicked in the junk, then given a series of purple nurples, then drawn and quartered, and then made to listen to Macy Gray albums over and over again until their ears murder their brain to make the pain stop.

Yeah. Suffice it to say, I’m over winter.

Like Taylor-Swift-we-are-never-ever-ever-getting-back-together over it.

And yet, just like an annoying ex who apparently won’t get the point unless I make a platinum album about our lame relationship, winter is refusing to acknowledge that I’ve moved on and am now much too busy fantasizing about much hotter situations to deal with them.

And the worst part? It’s only January.

JANUARY.

Which means winter won’t be moving out for at least a few more months, making for an awkward situation every single time I step outside.

Father winter

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But that’s not even the worst part. I mean…ahem…I’m not as innocent as I look. Growing up in the mid-West, I’ve tangled with my fair share of winters, if you catch my (snow) drift.* So, if it was just the cold and the snow and the sleet and the ice and the wind and the unattractive turtlenecks, I could handle it until spring.

However, winter has started to fight dirty and now I’m not even safe inside my own house. That bastard has turned every single surface into a mini-landmine with my own body serving as the detonator. Suddenly all my light switches have flipped (heh)** into powerful wizards that I have to try to outsmart any time I need some light. And trying to kiss my husband or pet my dog these days ends with a shower of sparks (and not the metaphorical sexy kind…with the whole kissing my husband thing…not the dog thing…just felt it was super important to clarify that).

Or, to sum up, I keep getting shocked.

It’s gotten so bad that I now march, high school band style, from room to room in an attempt to avoid building up a charge. I have become a master at turning on switches with my elbow and closing doors with my arse. Before touching anything that even remotely looks like it could hold a current, I touch 17 other non-electrical looking items, obsessive-compulsive style. And I fully intend to burn all my socks in a ceremonial fire where I call upon the spirits of whatever is the opposite of electricity and trade my soul to them in exchange for a shock-free existence.

And, if that last part should fail to work, I plan to just lay naked in my bed curled up in the fetal position until April.

Oh, and P.S. winter, I was only into you for your holidays. I never really loved you.

*Sorry.

**Again, sorry.