Thursday, October 28, 2010

A Goof Mom

When my son was a few months old, I received a text from Daddy. “You’re a goof mom.” Followed almost immediately was another text, written somewhat frantically. “Good, not goof. I meant good. You’re a good mom.” I just laughed, knowing that he was right on both counts.

I am a goof mom (and a good one, too). I like to play on the dirty wood floor, being tigers and zebras stalking each other across the plains. I like to build blocks and then teach Bjorn to walk through them like Godzilla. I have even been known to dance around, making silly faces and singing nonsense tunes, just to see the tiniest of baby smiles from Bjorn.

I always thought I wanted to be a MILF. I wanted to be the mom who takes her baby to Baby Music Mambo wearing skinny jeans, slouchy boots and always the latest accessorizing hit (scarf, bangle bracelets, one big gaudy ring). I wanted to be the mom who elicited stares of jealousy, even back-handed envious comments, from other moms. Really, I wanted to be Heidi Klum.

But who doesn’t?

But, a few months into being a Mom, being a MILF stopped sounding like fun. I stopped wanting jealousy from the other mama’s, I wanted friendship. And if I skipped a shower or two, throwing one of Daddy’s old ball caps on to cover the mess, was Bjorn then not going to want to play? Perfection is hard work, and there is enough hard work in mothering that I didn’t need to add anything else to the mix.

Being a goof mom is good enough for me.

Being a goof mom means that all the playdates are at my house, where the kids can shake out an entire box of cheerios, dance along to the Wiggles and spray each other with the garden hose.

Being a goof mom means that I don’t worry what the stranger beside me in Target thinks as I’m twisting and gyrating to the sound speaker pop music, just so I can entertain Bjorn while I shop.

Being a goof mom means that I think it’s kind of funny when Bjorn pukes all over himself while running errands, and since I have forgotten to pack extra clothes for him again, he has to spend the rest of the day wearing nothing but khaki shorts and a pair of socks.

Being a goof mom means that I never have to worry about looking good, because every crazy woman looks pretty with a smile.

A goof mom usually has a cheerio stuck in her hair, mismatched socks, and earrings that don‘t dangle enough to be in the reach of grabby little hands. Goof moms have friendships with other moms and playdates at the park with wine and cheerios.

Goof moms can be good moms. I know. I am one.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Crap to Craft: Take 2

This was intended to be another step-by-step "Crap to Craft" post, but things don't always go as planned around here.

Here are the chairs I bought at Savers (while still pregnant - that's planning ahead!) and the table I bought a few weeks ago at a consignment store.

Here is what I wanted to "craft" it into.

After enlisting the Hubs help, this is what we wound up turning it into. (Why, yes, that IS a chalkboard paint top. My newest favorite way to paint things. Chalkboard everything!)

(Masked rider chair not shown.)
And this is what happens when you let your husband around spray paint and homemade stencils.

Yes, that's right. He spraypainted a Double T and Masked Rider on our freezer.
Tomorrow he is going to spraypaint our cars. I love crafting.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Crap to Craft

I've been attempting to narrow down my To Do list lately and the top three items that have been carried over from list to list for months now all have to do with crafting.

How is it that I can keep the Hubs in clean clothes, the kiddo in diapers and the dog out of the trash, but I can't manage to get a teeny-weensy little crafting done?

Thanks to the help of my very-soon-mom-to-be friend Meg, who is the only reason my shelves are hung straight and pictures are in frames, I was reminded that I have a blog specifically for crafting and I need to get off my lazy ass, take some pictures and post on it.

So I did.

But then I realized that no one really reads that blog. (Does anyone read this one?!) Maybe because my last post was Friday October 16 2009 and the Blog World tends to give up on you in a year?

So I've kinda chucked that blog to the side and you, dear Bjorn Blog Readers, get to savor in the fruits of my crap. Craft. I meant craft.

Here we go. Martha, watch out. I'm back in town.

(Martha may have to watch out, but Ansel Adams is safe. Bill Gates, too. I am the worst photographer ever and I don't know enough about computers to know how to rotate my pictures. Yes, I am that computer un-savvy. It's enough that I know how to create a blog!)

After literally months of scouring antique stores and Target for a key and mail holder that looks like it came from Pottery Barn but costs just a fraction, I realized that I had exactly what I was looking for in my very home. It just needed a little tweak.

Behold. The perfect key and mail holder. Which will take my mail off the counter and my keys where they can always be found. This has been hiding behind a door. When we first moved in (3 1/2 years ago!), I hung this in the laundry room before I realized that it would always be hidden behind the open laundry room door. Oops. So I forgot about it.But isn't it a little too boring? I thought so!

You like the mini waffles and half a fruit bar? Nice touch, don't you think? Bjorn thought so. I laid it on the tile floor to take the picture, and he thought the chalkboard was the perfect place to sit and eat his snack. I let him. This was a $10 purchase from IKEA 4 years ago. If he broke it before the tweaking started, I really didn't care.

Not broken. So off to the first step: Newspaper to cover the chalkboard. It's very sad to say, but I had to call Meg again to ask how she covers what she doesn't want spray painted. What can I say? It was my first time using spray paint in years. I blame the aerosol from the last use for my lack of brain cells.

So I'm new at this taking pictures while I post thing. I missed a step. See all that red showing through the black? That's because Step One was to spray paint the entire thing brick red. Why? Because I googled "How to Spray Paint to make wood look rustic" and the first website I picked told me I should paint Brick Red first and then layer Black on top. And it was on the internet, people, so you know it was right. They can't make this stuff up.

One coat of red and three coats of black spray paint are done. I'm questioning why I even went to the trouble of painting red, waiting eight hours for it to dry and then doing the same with the coats of black. Why not just start with black?

Ah, the joys of photography. "Look kids, a blurred picture of my hand and a small piece of sandpaper!" Just wanted to show you that I was too cheap to spend $5 ($5!!!) on a piece of sandpaper at Lowe's and this is the only sandpaper I could find in the huge workspace that is my Hubs garage. I don't really know what this midget sandpaper attaches to. A sander for dwarves? An electric hand sander for children?

After sanding. Can you see a difference? I couldn't either. And then I took this.

And realized that it actually looks pretty good. The red shows through just enough to have that rustic-y, this-has-been-used-but-in-a-good-way feel to it. I love it. I used to be a white wood, country cottage kind of decorator, but after getting married to a Big Strong Man who is afraid of anything white, I now prefer the dark woods and blacks with a slight antiqued, used feel. Which is what I got with this $10 IKEA piece, two cans of spray paint and some crafting time.

I am now in the process of spray painting everything in home black. You think I'm kidding. Wait until my next crafty post.

Grocery store ads on one side, mail on the other, places to hang keys and (although you can't see it) there are thin holders for the chalk above the mail holder and below the chalkboard, and that is where I now stash my sunglasses. Sigh. I still prefer Pottery Barn, but I also prefer to pay my mortgage and not eat Ramen. For my wallet, this is perfect.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Post of the Never Ending cliches

The Irish author Brendan Behan once said "There is no such thing as bad publicity."**

I think Bjorn knows this quote, only he doesn't know what publicity means, so he decided to make it his own.

"There is no such thing as bad attention."

So when I say "No" as he starts to put a rock in his mouth, he thinks 'Wow, I have Mom's undivided attention. This is so cool!'

He knows it's wrong. He really does. I can see it in his smart, little, beautiful baby eyes.

But as wrong as eating rocks is, doing something that causes Mom to leap ottomans and singing caterpillar toys in a single bound only makes him laugh. And then eat the rock all over again.

Apparently, if eating rocks is wrong, he doesn't want to be right.

**The actual quote continues and says "There is no such thing as bad publicity except your own obituary."

Saturday, October 9, 2010

A farm, a goat and a very good day

Most of the time, I can't think of two good reasons why we live in AZ.

Then, fall slides in on the tails of 115 degreee weather, and in one short week, the doors and windows are kept open and walks around the neighborhood begin.

And, of course, there are the pumpkins. And the fairs. Oh man, all those photo ops. . . .

Friday, October 1, 2010

It's all fun and games 'til. . . . .

It started as a game. Just a simple game.

I, in the hallway, picking up dog hair, kids blocks and random miscellaneous crap, and Bjorn, in his room not ten feet away, closing the door from the inside, knocking and laughing hysterically when I opened it again.

A game.

Which lasted until I was done picking up crap and went to open his door for the last time.

Only to find it locked. With Bjorn alone inside the room. He has somehow locked the door. And this is how it went. . . . . .

Omigod it's locked. Omigod omigod omigod.

Bjorn starts crying and banging on door. Ummm. . . . I bet our house key fits all the bedroom doors too, right?! It has to. . . . keys. . . keys.. . .

Find my giant, bottomless pit of a diaper bag. Root through diaper bag for five seconds calmly shouting "Bjorn, it's ok. I can hear you. You're alright." before very un-calmly dumping diaper bag on kitchen table.

Cheerios fly everywhere.

Keys, keys, where the f&^* are my keys?! Can't find keys. Ummm. . . spare keys are in kitchen drawer. Grab them - right where they are supposed to be, Thank God - and run to Bjorn's room.

There is no key hole. Only a tiny slit.

Flabbergasted. No key hole? NO KEY HOLE? What kind of door doesn't have a key hole?!

All the while, Bjorn is sobbing and screaming, banging on the inside of the door.

"I'm here, Bjorn. I can see you. Can you see me?" while I wiggle my fingers under the door, pretending this is a game. "See?! I'm here. You're ok."

And I can see him. At least from his ankle bones down. As he runs from the middle of the room to the door and back to the middle of the room again. And back to the door again.

Must call Hubs. He always knows what to do.

Phone. . .phone. . where the f&*^ is my phone?! I don't remember seeing it the pile of rubble from my purse. F^&$!!!

Remember that we do own a home phone, we just never use it. Call Hubs number. He is leaving Home Depot to come home. Tell him calmly (ok, calm-ish-ly) the situation.

"Well, you will just have to bust down the door."

Can't do that. The kiddo is standing right behind the door. I could hurt him.

"It's ok Buddy. You're ok. I can see you. Mommy is here."

Bjorn's crying has turned to wailing. The banging continues from the inside.

"You will just have to break in through the window."

Not what I want to hear. I want to hear that there is a secret passageway from the laundry room to Bjorn's room. I want to hear that we have a key for a doorknob with no key hole. I want to hear that he has it all figured out. I hang up with The Hubs so I can concentrate.

I run to the garage, searching for a screwdriver. I am going to break through the friggin' doorknob with no key hole.

Screwdriver. . . . screwdriver. . . where the f%^& are the screwdrivers? Hubs, why did I spend money we didn't have to buy you two Craftsman tool boxes that could store every tool you could ever dream of having if you aren't going to put the f&*^ing screwdrivers back into this overpriced excuse of a tool case?!

Found one. Lying on the toolbench.

Continue to reassure Bjorn through the door using the same safe words.

"You're ok, Bjorn. Really. You wanna sing? Let's sing together."

Wailing from inside the room gets louder. Could be because of my singing voice.

Prying with the screwdriver. Can't get the friggin' tip behind the knob base to pry it off. But I will. pry, pry. . . prying. All the time singing and talking to Bjorn.

Hubs calls back.

"The dog can usually get into Bjorn's room even after we shut it. The latch is a little loose. Just throw your body weight a few times into it."

That's right! Dog is able to get in there somehow! Check under the door - Bjorn is a few feet away from the door.

I throw myself at the mercy of the door. Thud. Thud. THUD THUD THUD!

I have five new bruises and a door that still won't open.

"DOOOOOGGG! DOG! Come here and help. DOOOOGG!" She is not coming to help.

I can hear the Hubs on the phone still. "Omigod, I am going 80 miles an hour. I'm almost there. You are doing good. You can get him out of there."

I finally pry the knob base off the door. Lots of wires and contraptions. Can't get the whole knob off. Why the f^&% won't this knob come off? It must be the toughest doorknob ever made. The armored truck of doorknobs. I poke and prod with the screwdriver, jiggling and wiggling. Something has to freakin be the freakin wire that opens the freakin lock. IT HAS TO OPEN SOMEHOW.

I step back, take a breath and get ready to throw myself at the door again.

Randomly, I put the screwdriver in the tiny slit where a key hole should be and turn.


And the door opens.