Being the mom is weird.

Not quite the same thing and possibly OT, but when I'm in town I find myself staring at price tags and going, "HOW much?"

I'm channelling my gran years after she died. So does it count if I (grand)parent myself?

Cream of chicken soup . . . part of a healthy, nutritious breakfast.

I can't say I'm fond of the 'cream' part, but for goodness sake, make your own soup! What Peaches said about prices holds double-true for a store bought can! It's highway robbery; A pot, some veggies and chicken bits and you can cut that price by about eighty percent and know exactly what your kids are eating...

I'm evolving into my parents slowly. I'm already a thermostat nazi. Even though I still leave lights on in every room, and linger too long with the fridge door open.

ETA - nothing weird yet, but I'm sure that will change when the baby arrives.

The first time I yelled up the stairs, "Turn that damn noise down!" I nearly had a stroke. My children were inflicting rap upon me!

Hell--at least I had taste in music. I only inflicted The Dead Kennedys and the Clash and the Circle Jerks on my parents.

But yeah: that was a horrible moment and one I thought I'd be too hip to ever succumb to.

I've become worse than my parents. And I'm proud of it. I always wanted to be a crotchety old curmudgeon by the time I was 35.

Perks said:

... that bent your brain and your common sense?

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what bent my brain was that they sent us home.
alone.
with a baby!

wtf?


no instruction manual either!

Please. You eat peanut butter on Oreos and think Scottish seagulls are pigeons. You were brokeded long since.

mscelina said:

I only inflicted The Dead Kennedys and the Clash and the Circle Jerks on my parents.

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I can't vouch for if that's going to help with being a better Mom or not, but with those kinda credentials - I want you on the Board of Education! Yes! Finally! Another brilliant mind! =)

You know I'm not a parent, but I just wanted to say that I have an angry stomach this morning that is not helped by the thought of mushroom skim.

Ew. Thanks for that

Perks said:

Yeah, but I've had kids for ten years. I used to be okay. Sort of.

And it's certainly not my fault that Scottish seagulls make mutant pidgeon noises. To my credit, I realized my error as soon as I saw the winged rats.

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Defend your brokededness all you like, lady. My smear campaign continues apace.

Our daughter had a friend, Chloe, sleep over last weekend. In the morning, I made pancakes for breakfast. Chloe likes her pancakes with icing sugar, apparently - not maple syrup. We had no icing sugar.

So, she went to her backup plan - she covered the pancake with a thin, shimmering layer of - yes - Vegemite.

Then she spent fifteen minutes cutting the once steaming, now flaccid disk into about forty pieces.

I felt strange not being the weird one, at least for half an hour.

Perks said:

I do hate you.

Now it's permanent.

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Aw, and I didn't even get to the musk sticks!

I've never had the good sense to eat any particular food only at it's proper meal time.

When my daughter asks for fish sticks for breakfast, we both have fish sticks. Now that the baby's big enough, she'd probably eat fish sticks, too. It' s probably healthier than bacon and sausage.

I'm just an odd eater anyway. I turn my husband's stomach all the time.

I've always found it pretty freaky to hear the echoes of my mother.

Last fall my thirteen year old came walking into the kitchen holding a strand of silk with a spider dangling at the end. "Hey Mom, what kind of spider is this?"

My two youngest and I were in the process of making cookies, and all turned around to see.
He's standing there, looking earnest, while the conspicuously shiny black spider with dainty legs slowly makes its way up the strand towards his fingers.
The first thing out of my mouth when the immediate shock wore off, was, "Whose house did you grow up in? If you don't know what it is, don't pick it up!" (Mother's cardinal rule)

After thirteen years, you would think he could recognize the alarm in my voice, but he continues, still holding the silk. "But what kind is it?"

At that point my five and ten year old both chime in, "It's a black widow, you idiot! Put it down!"

You spend possibly months --and in my cases, probably years, teaching children to potty train. Once you succeed, you spend at least a few months getting them to realize, "It's OKAY. I DON'T HAVE TO SEE THE POOP!"

I think the biggest one for me still was dropping my daughter off at university about 300 miles from home and saying, "You'll be fine." She might as well have been 3 months old. In my head, I was screaming, "For the love of God, NO! Don't do this! Don't drive away!"

My favourite was shouting "My wife is having a baby RIGHT NOW" at a hospital receptionist. There was a ten second pause and then a flood of midwives, nurses and doctors hit the corridor.