The Lounging Room

by

Amber M. Dubois

I love Christmas, don't you?  I love the lights and the presents and the sweet look of greedy anticipation on my daughter's face.  Christmas is just about my favorite holiday, right after Halloween and my birthday.  I love every little thing about it--well, ALMOST every little thing.  This will seem mean to some, but I don't like Santa Claus.

I like the idea of Santa--the giving without getting, the "be good or else!" aspect that we parents get to wield heavy-handedly, the tradition and the innocence of children who believe.  I love Santa in the movies and on TV, and I love how excited Peyton gets when she sees Santa.  I can't wait to see Charlotte get just as excited.

But, dang that Santa, he gets all the credit!  I spend all year shopping for these presents that I KNOW these kids are going to adore, and in the end, I have to sign them all "From Santa".  The bike Peyt got last year--Santa got the credit.  Charlotte's first stocking...Santa.  The cookies and carrots I had to eat (we leave carrots for Rudolph.  Hey, the reindeer do all the work!), all Santa.

I long for the days when my daughter, all aglow with joy, looks at me and says those words we all want to hear, us Moms:

"Thank you, Mom!  I love it!  You shouldn't have!"

Alas, that is not to happen this year.  This year, we're all about Santa.  We're all about asking questions about how Santa can get all over the world in one night (he suspends time) and how he can fit all the presents in one sleigh (he can't.  He has sleighs all over the world.) and how they can make all the toys the same as the ones that are in the store without getting sued (there's a law that gives Santa immunity from prosecution), and why the elves don't just shop for presents the way Mommy and Daddy do (it's because of the intrinsic reward of a gift hand-crafted, which Mommy and Daddy don't need because we have real jobs).  This year we're worried about Santa's heart and wondering if he might need to shave a few pounds off to prevent heart disease and if we maybe shouldn't leave Santa an orange or some Cheerios, or better yet, just a nice, big glass of water.  We are worried about the stress Santa must be under, what with the demands of all the children, and we want to know if Santa offers a benefits package including health insurance for all of his elves, and do they get workman's comp if they get hurt on the job?

Being five seems a lot more complicated than I remember it being.

For example, I don't remember my presents from Santa having special wrapping paper that was different than the other gifts under the tree.  But, Peyton's will.  Why?  Because last year she happened to put two and two together and figured out that all of the presents had the wrapping paper she'd seen in our house.  Whoops.  So, this year, I not only have to hide the presents, I have to hide the bloomin' paper, too!  Not just paper--tags, ribbon, you name it--it all has to be hidden.

I'm pretty sure if I asked my Mom about the wrapping paper on my presents from Santa as a kid, she'd laugh at me.  My Mom worked two jobs--she wasn't up for all this nonsense about special Santa wrapping paper.

At this point, all I'm left with is the hope that she's one of thsoe kids who precociously stops believing in Santa Claus.  I don't even know the average age when kids stop believing, but I'm not going to be the one to tell her the truth.  For all the whining I do about wanting the credit for the gifts, I know someday that will come.  Someday no answer I give will convince my girls that Santa is real anymore.  They will stop believing, and a little piece of Christmas magic will be gone forever.

Mom and Machines Mondays - To Whom It May Concern

By Amber Dubois (Humorist and Mom)

Dear Coyote That The Newspaper Insists Is Living Somewhere in my Neighborhood,

Go away. Seriously. You're creeping me right the heck out.

But also, when you go, could you take my oldest daughter with you? I fear I've ruined her and I'm thinking that you might do a better job than I could. Now understand, I'm not offering her as a food item. I love her and do not wish to see any harm come to her, I simply would like for her to turn out to be a decent human being who I can trust to not commit serial murders or to use her super-genius powers to become an evil criminal mastermind. I clearly am not capable of causing this end result, thus I shall entrust her to your care and nature-driven guidance.

Please teach her that it's not OK to hit her Mommy. Teach her that we don't scream at our sister to shut up when she cries. It's not OK to make the baby sad. Let her know that just because Mommy is otherwise occupied doesn't mean that we up the brat quotient to nearly intolerable levels. Let her know that time out isn't something that I necessarily care that she likes. Make her stop quacking angrily when she's mad. Please make her understand that she needs to obey the rules, not willfully disobey them and that it's wrong to take advantage of another person's disability/inability. Make sure she eats some veggies. Make sure she wipes her butt from front to back. Make sure she gets to bed by 9.  Teach her how to read and help her figure out how to count to fifty in Spanish.  Maybe you can help me convince her that "a hundred" and "one hundred" are the same number, and that the word is "dragon", not "jragon".

While we're at it, if you could take the baby with you, that would be great.  She needs a lot of snuggles.  She likes to blow raspberries on inappropriate parts of her Mommy's chest.  She'll stretch out the neckline of Mommy's shirts to do it, too.  She likes to cut teeth and poop through her diapers.  Sorry about that.  Please help her figure out why bedtime has to be a struggle every night.  Please don't give her chocolate--she makes an unholy mess with it.  Walk behind her when the slopes are too steep, because she tends to crawl her legs out of the legholes of her sleepers, and she might trip over her clothes.  Please, oh please teach her that Mommy's nipples are not to be used as handholds with which she can pull herself to a standing position.  Neither is Daddy's chest hair.  Also?  We all know she can walk, but she just thinks we won't carry her if she shows us.  Please let her know this is not the case.

If it's not too much trouble, make sure they know that their Mommy loves them. Tell them that she's sorry things had to go this way, but that it was either I send them to live with the coyotes, or I list them on eBay, and there might be pedophiles on eBay so this was the safest option.  Give them plenty of kisses and hugs and snuggle them close to your furry selves before bedtime.

I love my daughters, but they might have to go. No matter what, though, you do.

Sayonara,

Amber
Mom of the Year Candidate
2009

Relentless

by Amber Dubois

I feel that I need to preface this entry by reminding everyone that I adore my children.  I adore them senselessly and completely and unendingly, but this has been one heck of a week, folks.  It started with disastrous car problems and ended with TWO fundraisers kicking off on the same day and TWO birthday parties on the same day.  In between we had more snot (Beeka is still sick.  Argh.), being woken by a small baby with pointy fingernails pulling up my eyelid and poking me square in the eyeball, fighting with Mr. Dubois and more attitude off the big girl than any normal person could reasonably be expected to tolerate without seriously considering if Thelma and Louise might not have had the right idea.

This is the crap they don't tell you about in your childbirth classes.  They don't tell you about how for the first four months or so after you give birth, all of that beautiful, thick hair you grew during gestation will fall out.  Invest in Drano.  (Buy it at Costco, it's cheaper in mass quantity there.)  

Although, if you had a girl, that acne will go away, too...there's that.

They don't tell you that school fundraisers don't kick off at a time that will make sense or that will be convenient.  They will happen when you have no money to throw at them.  They will happen in pairs, or threes or fours.  They will be for things that no reasonable person wants to buy, at prices that nobody wants to pay.  My butt does not two pounds of frozen Otis Spunkmeyer cookie dough for $15 a box, people!

And although this has nothing to do with parenting, why, in the name of all that's holy, do cars break down the literal instant you get done paying them off?

I've spent at least three days this week contemplating sitting in a dark corner with a bag of fun-sized Snickers bars, eating myself into a diabetic coma.  The other two days were spent contemplating sitting in a dark corner with a bottle of Johnny Black, drinking myself into liver failure.

Don't worry...I would have waited until my husband had gotten home in either case.

The thing that they really need to tell you in childbirth classes is this: parenting is relentless.  It's unending.  There are no breaks, there are no time outs.  It's not an 18 year commitment, it's a rest-of-your-life sort of deal.  The most painful part of the whole deal is NOT giving birth.  It's not labor or the episiotomy, it's the "...and now what?" that you start to feel after the glow of having that baby finally here fades.  The minute you start to realize that they expect you to take this small, needy bundle HOME.  With you.  To your house that you've just realized has a stove and an entertainment center and stairs and is, subsequently a death trap for babies.  And to the husband who is suddenly struck deaf when the baby cries or can't be found when it's time to change a diaper.  And to the you who doesn't know what the heck she's doing, but everyone looks to when the baby cries or needs a new diaper.

That, my friends, is when it gets real. 

I'm not writing this to scare anyone.  Parenting isn't all bad, or all hard.  There's some flat out rapture in there, too, and some moments that you never want to end.  There are times when your face will hurt from all the smiling.  But those aren't  every day.  Sometimes they're few and far between.

You don't need me to tell you about the happy times.  You need me to tell you about the times when you take the kids and run to the car because you know if you're there another minute, someone's going to call child protective services, knowing that the only reason a child would scream so loudly is if they're being abused.  You need me to tell you about the things you do as a parent that you're not proud of, but that you've done because you're at the end of your rope and there's nobody offering a helping hand.  You need me to tell you that it's OK to put the baby in her crib and go outside and take a deep, clean breath--or seven.

The thing you really need me to tell you, though?  The thing that's going to make it easier to sleep tonight when you feel like the worst Mom ever?  It's this:

If, at the end of the day, everyone is alive, fed and clothed; if the barf and snot and poo have been contained or at least cleaned up after the fact; if you have lived through whatever the day had to throw at you, then you've done a good job.  Solid work!  Rest up, and rest up good, 'cause the other thing I have to tell you that might not make it easier to sleep tonight is this:

It starts all over again tomorrow.

Nighty 'Night!

Once upon a time in a land not TOO far away (but far enough to be completely and totally fictional), there lived a slender, willowy brunette princess named Amber.  Princess Amber was fair of face and stunningly attractive, possessing all of the physical attributes that make females desirable to the opposite sex, but modest and kind enough to be a friend to all the damsels in the realm, too.

I did say it was fiction, yeah?  Good.  Let's carry on.

Princess Amber had not been an easy child to raise.  As a baby, she was unwilling to be held and expected her dear Mother to dance constant attendance on her else she would let forth with a banshee-like cry that would wake all of the servants and the townsfolk alike.  She grew into a teenager who frequently snuck out of the house at night to do...um, things.  (I won't go into detail.  My Mom might actually be reading this.)

At any rate, Princess Amber's Mother, being a clear candidate for sainthood, survived the long, hard years, raising her glorious daughter into adulthood.  On the day Princess Amber left for college (in a land even farther away than our story began in!) there was much celebrating in the castle.

Eventually, all things being equal, Princess Amber settled down, learned a few things and realized that her Mother was always right.  About everything.

This is where our story begins.  Princess Amber one day met her true love, Prince Eric.  In the due passing of time, Princess and Prince were married in a beautiful ceremony by a stunning lake.  Before their first anniversary had passed, Princess Amber learned that she was expecting the couple's first child.  Amid the plethora of well wishes and the love and delight expressed, Princess Amber's Mother uttered one sentence sure to rock the foundations of the very earth.

"Oh, I hope that she's a girl, Princess Amber, and I hope she's JUST LIKE YOU."

GASP!  The collected family and friends could not believe that the Mother would place such a heinous curse upon the Princess!  But she had, and it was destined to come true.

The baby, young Peyton, was indeed a girl, and she was born smiling and happy and content.  She enjoyed being snuggled and giggled and cooed and made everyone's life merry and delightful.  Princess Amber smugly thought she had beaten her Mother's curse.

"Drat" thought the Mother. "What have I done wrong?  Did I use too much Eye of Newt?  Not enough Tongue of Frog?  Perhaps my rhyme or meter was off." and she muttered and grumbled to herself as she paced her spell room.

Eventually, Peyton became a lovely toddler, then a gorgeous child.  Each year that passed, Princess Amber breathed anew a fresh sigh of relief.

When Peyton was 4, Princess Amber gave birth to the second daughter, Charlotte.  The Mother was SURE that this would be the child to challenge Princess Amber in the way that she had challenged her mother before her. 

But, no.  In fact, the tiny Charlotte was even more engaging and delightful than her sister had been before her--cuddlier, too!  The Mother hung her head, sure her curse had failed.

And then Peyton turned five.  And, geez, Mom...did you HAVE to make her JUST like me?  Grief.