Just Like Mommy

It has been happening often over the past few weeks. The indisputable proof that my daughter is my child. Don’t get me wrong, I know she is my daughter, I was present during the labor after all. But its the little things that prove she is in fact a miniature me.

Don't let that smile fool you...

Don’t let that smile fool you…

For example, she is a sarcastic little brat. Yup. That’s right. I called her a brat. With her big brown eyes, and sassy little mouth, she shoots out a retort that leaves you momentarily speechless. The way she props her little hand on her hip, and somehow manages to look down on you, despite being a good 2ft shorter than you. The way the sides of her lips tilt up in a cheeky smirk, and her little eyebrows raise in a perfect arch. She. Is. Me. Well except the eyebrow thing, I cannot for the life of me make my eyebrows do that.

Last night, the little she-devil got into the fluff. I noticed she disappeared into the kitchen for a good few minutes when it suddenly struck me. She was getting into stuff. Not just any stuff, the fluff I had just used for their hot cocoa. (Because fluff is way better than those puny marshmellows SwissMiss gives you) As I move, loudly I might add, towards the kitchen, she pops her head out with an innocent smile.

“What were you doing?”

“Looking at stuff.”

“Oh? What were you looking at?” She lets out a dramatic sigh and looks to the ceiling.

“It’s a kitchen, mom, I was looking at kitchen stuff.” She’s not even 5 yet, she’s not allowed to call me mom! I am still mommy, dammit!

“So the fluff on your face just magically got there?” The dramatic look drops off her face, and she immediately tries to hide the evidence.

“I didn’t eat it.” Uh huh. Magic fluff. At least she didn’t blame her sister, I view this as an improvement.

As I investigated the kitchen, it would appear she hadn’t been able to get the cover back on the fluff in time. So I put on my angry mom face, hands on hip, and stare her down.

“Are you supposed to stick your finger in Fluff, or any container of food for that matter?”

“No.”

“And should you lie about it?”

“No.” At this point she is rocking a pout. A full pout with the big doe eyes. Not falling for it. So I tell her she can’t have dessert. The pout morphs. It becomes something I am growing very accustomed to. Pure sass.

“Really mom? Like you don’t eat fluff?” Color me surprised! I do sneak a bit of fluff every now and then! Darn her! After a quick agonizing moment of that sassy, sarcastic smirk, I finally find a retort.

“I use a spoon! Now go wash your hands!”

Kayla: 1….. Mommy: 0

Women of Worth

SAHM-v-WM-1

Originally, I had a post planned for today to cover something simple, something fun about raising kids in 4 feet of snow. It’s great, I promise. No sarcasm there… Anyways I had fully planned it, and even took fun photos to share. However while waiting in line to purchase my life fuel, a.k.a. Dunks Coffee, I overheard a rather interesting conversation. The words are pretty spot on, thanks to my memory. Although my memory only works well when its something that pisses me off. Here it goes…

Person 1: “I know, I can’t believe it. Some people these days.”

Person 2: “But yeah, if they don’t hire her, she will assume she’ll probably claim prejudice.”

Person 1: “It’s got nothing to do with that. I mean she hasn’t worked in like 5 years.”

Person 2: “I can’t believe she expected to get the job even though she hasn’t been doing anything but “raising kids.” (This person even did the quote gesture) I did that too, but I still worked. It’s not like this is the south where they have 5 or 6 kids popping out.”

Person 1: “Raising kids my ass. She lives in Chestnut Hill. I guarantee you she had a nanny.” (This person then laughs, which annoyed me further.) At this point, I am just seconds away from saying something, but I bit my tongue. I hadn’t had my coffee yet, and it was 9 degrees out, so I knew if I opened my big fat mouth it would be to lay waste to their puny existence. But do you know what is even more horrible about this? It was two women, who were mothers (deduced from their conversation), talking about the other woman as being less than them.

Women often feel that they have less advantage in a work environment because men look down on them. We fight for equal rights and equal stance with these men, but what about equal stance with other women? Is a woman who stayed at home raising children any less valuable to a society than one who worked instead? Is a woman who worked any less of a mother than one who stayed home? No. They are both valuable, and they are both mothers. .

Women want to be treated as equals to men. They want to be on the same footing, the same pedestal. Yet at the same time, they put down other women. Working moms put down stay-at-home moms. Stay-at-home moms put down working moms. How can a woman gripe about the unfairness of gender bias, when she does the same thing?  

Perhaps this is a rant, but I couldn’t help it. I don’t know the woman they spoke of, maybe it was a type of position where the gap could affect her performance, but still I think those two women at Dunks need a kick in the damn teeth. Quit bitching and start respecting.

On a happy note, they made my coffee right and I am in bliss. 

Damn You, Cookies!

There are certain times of the year that I suddenly feel a strong sense of ineptness as a mother. The Holidays are one of them. Why? Because I can’t bake. I want you to read those words again. I really want you to understand how bad at baking I am. Even my soon-to-be four year old is suspicious of trying any sweet I produce, especially if it came from the oven. Instant things like pudding, yeah I am okay at those. I still manage to screw them up every now and then though… I won’t lie.

Burnt CookiesMy inability to bake edible things stems from my aversion to following directions. I will admit that when it comes to cooking, I am as against following directions as a man is at asking for directions. What does this have to do with motherhood? Duh. Everything. Okay that’s not true. But seriously. Watch ANY holiday movie, and the women are always baking up a storm with cookies, brownies, cakes, and other sugary delights that make my mouth water. I am lucky I can make pre-made, pre-cut Toll House cookies. Even those I tend to burn to an inedible degree. Hence why I don’t cook them. (Cookie dough FTW)

Now before all you non-baking moms flay me, I am not saying that mothers who don’t bake are bad mothers, it just makes ME feel like an inept mommy. Like I just assumed that when you had children, you were downloaded with all the mommy traits, like baking. I should have known my download was busted when the whole patience thing wasn’t uploaded to my skill set, but still. I just want to bake some damn cookies with my kids! Instead, can I just go through the whole process, and then just skip the cooking part? Yes, I am talking about eating the cookie dough, or brownie dough, or cake dough. (If you lecture me on the whole eating raw egg bit, I will end you.) Is that cheating? Probably.

Part of the reason I am such a novice baker is that it requires exact amounts of things. I don’t cook that way. When I cook, I usually go based on scent. I never measure anything. I don’t even think I have a full measuring cup set, and I know for a fact I don’t have those measuring spoon thingies. I am a pretty good cook if I do say so myself. But baking… it just won’t bend to my will!

Who needs cookies for the holidays? I mean, its not like cookies matter right? Oh wait…. yeah they kind of do. Man, I fail.

Think the kids will be okay feeding Santa meatballs?