Of Mice and Men

A few days ago, I found mouse droppings all over our kitchen counter. I had made the fatal mistake of leaving some dirty dishes on the counter overnight because I was just so effing tired that I didn't feel like dealing with them (know what I mean?). I have done that before without any problem, but not this time. Some little rodent nimbly made it's way across the shiny granite, stopping to paw at some peanut butter stuck to a plate and leave his "calling cards" all over the place. Grossed out and irritated, I spent the better part of 2 hours (you heard me) sanitizing the kitchen and thoroughly washing everything that was on the counter. I even flushed out the coffee pot in case the furry little bastard felt the need for a caffeine fix.

After the kitchen was sparkling, I dug up some mouse traps that had moved with us six years ago. I had almost thrown them out in a fit of cockiness ("We'll never have a mouse problemhere."), but something buried deep in my subconscious mind made me keep them. Luckily. I am an animal lover, but I have my limitations. I don't mind mice if they are in a field or even scampering around my garage. I just don't want them in my house, and certainly not in my kitchen. Since baiting and killing animals is not really my thing, I asked my husband to take care it. I told him that I thought the mouse was getting in through a side door that leads from the outside directly into out kitchen. He put a small cracker topped with peanut butter (seeing as the mouse seemed to like peanut butter before) on the trap and left it sitting by the door, waiting for our unsuspecting and unwanted visitor to nibble. That was four days ago and the peanut butter cracker is still there.

I briefly thought to myself, "Maybe it was a rogue mouse working alone and just needed to cross through our kitchen on his way to bigger and better things." I mentioned this possibility to my neighbor who promptly laughed and shook his head. Guess not. But, we went two days without seeing any sign of a mouse. So, I began to hope. But, alas, yesterday I found a single turd balancing atop of my gorgeous cantaloupe that was ripening in my fruit basket. After whispering some expletives so my toddler wouldn't hear me, I wiped up the aforementioned poop and decided it was time to break out a second trap, this one to be strategically located directly on the counter near where the mouse seemed to like to hang out. I placed the trap on a paper towel and asked my husband to bait it for me again. I went to bed, hoping to be done with this mouse thing soon.

I woke up and checked the traps. Nothing. No sign of a mouse at all. I shrugged and told myself to be patient. As I was making my coffee, however, I took a closer look at the counter-top trap and laughed out loud. My brilliant husband had baited it with peanut butter AND chocolate! Clearly he assumed the mouse was a PMS-ing female. I was so amused by this that I almost forgot how annoyed I was that we even have a mouse situation in the first place. Almost.

So now we're on day 5 of mouse alert and nothing. I am beginning to wonder if the peanut butter combinations are not suiting the palate of our furry friend. Maybe it's time to try good old fashioned cheese.

Expanding my repertoire

So, I intended this blog to be an homage to my lovely son, now just a few months shy of 2 years old. I enjoy writing about him and his experiences, partially because he's hilarious and I need to document that, but also because it helps me cope with the insanity that is my life. Plus, I am hoping that my wise and thoughtful remarks will be saved for posterity, so when he gets married I can dig up all this crap I've written about him and embarrass him at his rehearsal dinner.

But, recently I've been feeling like I need to expand my repertoire a bit and perhaps write some musings about my life in general. Of course, I am sure that Cole will often be the focal point of this blog, but it's hard to write a blog about one specific person. So, I am widening the scope. And, to begin, a vignette about my husband...

He is a wonderful guy, with many, many talents. Cooking, or anything to do with the kitchen, is not one of them, however. So, when I asked him to heat up some vegetable soup for our growing toddler, I figured how hard could that be? The soup is in a Pyrex bowl, ready to be microwaved and then eaten. Easy. However, he found the avocado-yogurt dip I made, also in one of the aforementioned Pyrex bowls, heated it up and offered it to Cole. Not surprisingly, Cole wasn't interested. The dip, if used as it was originally intended as a creamy, tangy accompaniment to raw veggies, is delicious. Heated in a microwave and spoon-fed to our child, under the guise of it being soup, well... kind of disgusting. So, when I came home and realized that he was attempting to feed Cole dip ("I thought it was pea soup") instead of soup, I was reminded just how specific I need to be when giving instructions that involve the kitchen, preparation of food, and/or eating food. Saying something like, "Please give Cole some of my homemade vegetable soup for dinner. It's in a Pyrex class bowl in the fridge" simply isn't enough. Rather, I should have said, "Please give Cole some of my homemade vegetable soup for dinner. It's the brothy-like substance that is located behind the head of broccoli on the middle shelf of our refrigerator. It has carrots and spinach and potatoes in it. You might have to move the head of broccoli in order to actually see said soup. And, oh, make sure you don't confuse it with the thick, sage green substance in the Pyrex bowl. That's avocado-yogurt dip, not soup." Well, now I know.

Shell Shocked: Memories from My First Few Months of Motherhood

Recently, some friends and I were reminiscing about the early days of motherhood. We were chuckling about how tired we were, about how big and swollen are boobs were, and how we felt overwhelmed, or as one of my friends aptly said "shell shocked." I hadn't really stopped to think about it before, but that term pretty much described how I felt. I loved the early days and of course I love my son, but looking back it all seems like such a blur. My only rationale: I was indeed shell shocked.

In my typical over-zealous, let's-try-to-do-everything-for-everyone attitude, I approached motherhood full on. I even left the hospital early because I just wanted to get on with it. When we arrived home, I remember feeling confident and prepared. My parents were visiting, and amongst other things, mom was cooking and shopping for us and dad was helping with the dog. They stayed for a month and it was amazing having the help. It wasn't until they left that I began to feel overwhelmed. Take breast feeding, for example. I vividly recall being totally perplexed as to how I was going to prepare and cook dinner, while trying to care for a child. In theory, it doesn't seem that hard to do, but reality is much different. I cannot tell you how many times I had to leave pots bubbling on the stove to breast feed a hungry infant. Or, how many times I would sit down to eat a meal with Cole snuggled up on my lap feeding, blissfully unaware that I was trying to breast feed while also trying to nourish myself. But, perhaps the most ridiculous breast feeding attempt was at a mom and baby yoga class where I was dutifully doing my Warrior 2 pose while Cole was actually latched on feeding. What the hell was I thinking?

I remember desperately wanting to feel connected to the outside world. So, I was constantly online. In hindsight, I think it was my way of staying afloat and not feeling drowned in the sea of motherhood. Thank god I hadn't yet joined Facebook, or I think I would have been updating my status every 5 minutes. Laura Brereton is breast feeding Cole now. Laura Brereton just changed a poopy diaper. Laura Brereton is SOOOO tired.

I also made lots of phone calls and invited everyone and their grandmother over to visit. I was so concerned that my before baby life was just going to evaporate, so I over compensated. I became exhausted, but I was still trying to ride the adrenaline wave of "HOLY SHIT, I HAVE A KID!"

It wasn't until recently that I realized how nuts my life was. Running around, working, cleaning, cooking, caring for Cole (no- this sentence is not meant to be an example of alliteration), walking the dog, showering (next to impossible), interacting with my husband (carefully chosen words), and desperately trying to express my creativity. How could any one, sane person do all this?

The answer is that they can't. But, that didn't stop me from trying. Hence, the shell shocked feeling. I can only hope that when it comes time for baby #2, I will have learned something. I don't have to make a fancy 3 course dinner. I don't have to have a clean house. I don't have to do yoga with a baby on my boob. Following the wise advice of the nurse in Cole's pediatrician's office, all I have to do is love my baby. That's all.

Thanks For the Nice Lunch, Mom, But I Think I'll Just Throw It on the Floor Instead

Perhaps a nice grilled cheese sandwich with cheddar cheese on organic whole grain bread? Or, maybe a veggie burger, with zesty hummus to dip it in? Maybe you're more in the mood for a simple peanut butter and jelly- an American classic and one of my personal favorites, as well. Hey, I just remembered, a few days ago you gobbled up the tri-colored pasta with peas that I made for you. Maybe you'd like that? You sure seem eager enough to eat the thoughtful meals that I prepare for you. Okay, here's your fork. Why don't you try to put the food on the fork and put the fork in your mouth. Hey, good job! Isn't that delicious? Would you like some more?

Oh, I see you've decided to express your emotions and independence by looking me squarely in the eyes, giving me a mischievous grin, and throwing the aforementioned delicacies right on the floor. You've been told time and time again that it's not ok to throw your food on the floor and that's it's rude to do so. You even know that your food gets taken away when you throw it on the floor. And, yet, the temptation to hear your veggie burger go SPLAT! on the hardwood and then be promptly eaten by the dog is just too much to resist. I've tried firmly saying "NO!". I've tried ignoring it. I've tried laughing a bit and saying with a sigh, "Oh, c'mon. You know we don't do that." Nothing works.

Toddlers seem to be pre-programed to go through a phase of throwing food on the floor. I have been reassured by more than one friend that this is only a phase and that he will grow out of it. I keep thinking that he's not going to grow at all if he continues to throw all his food on the floor instead of eating it. I suppose it must be fun, and I am more than sure that it is sheer entertainment for toddlers to see the look on their parent's face as the food takes it's plunge to the floor. For the parent, or I should say, for this parent, it is sheer frustration and confusion. Why would you want to throw perfectly good, tasty food on the floor? Why don't you want to eat? When you do eat, why do you only want carbs? Why do you love something one day and then refuse to eat it the next? I guess these are the mysteries of being a parent.

Trucks: A Love Story

I am not all that surprised that my toddler son is extremely excited about all forms of transportation. He points to the sky and says "armane" when an airplane flies over head. He gets giddy when a cyclist zooms past the house on a "bie." He enjoys watching the "tray" that rumbles through our town taking all the commuters to Boston. But, without a doubt, trucks are his favorite. In the world of my son, they are the gods of transportation. Nothing incites more hysteria than when a large dump truck or gas truck drives past our house. He points and screams as loudly as possible, "TRUUHHHHH!" If there are several trucks in a row, he completely looses his mind. When Cole was first born, I was concerned about living on a busy street. We've been very careful to protect him from the Massholes that drive around here. But, I am ironically grateful to have all these cars flying past our house each day because they provide hours of entertainment and happiness to Cole. He loves watching them and pointing out each truck that goes by. He sometimes even does a little victory dance when a particularly cool truck happens to go past our house.

I've been curious why trucks, or transportation in general, are so interesting to small kids. My husband thinks it's because they are big, loud and have lots of things on them. Certainly a valid rationale, but I can't help but wonder if there is some deep, emotional thing buried in the psyche of a toddler that causes them to be incredibly excited about trucks. I mean, if I saw an adult acting the same way about a truck, I would think they were 1.) mentally retarded, 2.) insane, or 3.) just a little strange. But, when a toddler shows such enthusiasm for transportation, it's not only charming and endearing, but encouraged. And, even more interesting, is that his love of trucks has worn off on me. I find now that every time I see a truck, I not only point it out to my son, but I actually am excited about it! How did that happen? I don't really give a s@#* about trucks, but somehow they've become an important part of my life. Just another wonder of motherhood.

The Christmas Spirit

So, I had these grand plans of having a wonderful Christmas prep day. You know, get the tree, put up the lights, decorate the house. Listen to Christmas music, light a holly berry scented candle, drink some hot chocolate. All of those things actually happened, which is a miracle in and of itself. But, of course, I was cranky because I haven't slept well. My husband was not as in to it as I'd like him to be (and why does this still surprise me?). I thought that my toddler son would enjoy strolling around the Christmas tree nursery, looking at all the pretty trees, wreaths and decorations. All he did was fuss and arch his back in an attempt to squirm out of his stroller. So, my husband took him back to the car, fed him a snack, and let him fall asleep in his car seat while I got the tree and picked out a few nice poinsettias. Not exactly the family outing I had in mind, but I have learned that being flexible and learning to adapt are the two best qualities to possess as a parent.

My husband, god love him, spent about an hour and half putting up the outside lights and I must admit that they do look great. He's an artist and by his very nature he is a perfectionist when it comes to something like hanging lights. With him in charge, the lights were not only distributed evenly, but carefully stylized and artfully hung.

My son and I stayed inside while my husband froze to death in his quest for perfect lights. I was surprised that Cole (aforementioned toddler) showed absolutely no interest in the Christmas tree. As if it was totally normal that we suddenly erected an 8 foot tree in the middle of our living room. All he did was look the tree up and down once, pointed to it and said "TREE!" Then he moved on. I am hoping that he will show the same indifference once we put on the lights and decorations. One can hope.

The Ultimate Parental Crime: A Confession

I think deep down inside, every parent hopes that they don't do the same annoying things that their own parents did to them. I, for one, am at the top of this list. I have vowed never, ever to tell my kids to suck in their stomachs. I will hopefully never embarrass my kid when their first date comes over to pick them up. And, I vow here and now, with all of you as witnesses, never to insist that my kids answer the phone by saying, "Hello this is the Brereton residence, Laura speaking." Yes, that's how we used to have to answer the phone in my house. I hated it. It was long and awkward and it sounded like I was the receptionist at a law firm.

Ironically, however, I have caught myself doing and saying some things that were frighteningly close to things that my own parents did that annoyed me. More often than not, I catch myself in the nick of time before the words slip from my lips. Or, I stop just in time to avoid looking like a complete moron. But, a few days ago, I committed the ultimate parental crime: I licked my finger and used the saliva to wipe something off my kid's face. GASP! I'll give you a moment to recover...

It has been on my mind for days, keeping me up at nights and torturing my psyche as I try to convince myself that I am not turning into my parents. I remember vividly my mom licking her thumb and then wiping a bit of crumb from the corner of my mouth or a bit of dirt off my face. Who in the hell decided that someone else's saliva is more sanitary than food crumbs or a little dirt? Clearly, this childhood experience has left me scarred.

And, yet, I did it to my own child. My beautiful, funny, easy-going, all-around-great kid. I don't even remember the specifics or what was on his face. It all happened so fast. I just quickly licked my thumb and wiped his face. It was innocent enough, but the minute I did it, I regretted it. I was in shock, honestly. If my husband hadn't been there witnessing the horror, I think I would have just repressed the action somewhere deep in my subconscious mind.

My kid seemed completely unfazed by the entire experience (thank god!). I, on the other hand, am so annoyed that I did it. My mind is still reeling, trying to figure out what in the world would make me do it. I guess it was kind of a knee jerk reaction. But, if anything good can come from this experience, it is that at least I am aware that I did it and hopefully won't do it again. That's all I can hope for.

Oh, it looks like you have a little something on your face. Here, let me get it...