Who's the Boss? (I'll Give You a Hint. It's Not Me.)

Hello. My name is Kami and my three year old is undermining my status as one of the two authority figures in our household. Because, evidently, he thinks he is more of an authority than I am.

It's my own fault. He is the way he is because I trained him to be that way. And because he's ridiculously, absurdly, incredibly mensa-material smart. At least according to, well, me. And if you are looking for a slighty more objective perspective, my husband agrees.

He's so advanced, that he's saved, "eleventy-four money to buy someting at the cash register." And, sure as shit, he did not inherit money-saving strategies from me. There's no way in hell that I could ever save eleventy-four money. Even if I knew how much that actually was.

See, he's the perfect child. Smart, handsome, kind, and craftily stealing my mom thunder. Because it turns out that my 20 month old baby would rather listen to him, than to me. Which is so fucking cute, that I could throw up.

Literally.

It's that infuriating.

For example, first thing in the morning, when I would like to change the baby's shit-filled diaper because, uh, it's disgusting to frolick and play when you have shit sagging in your diaper, my three year old butts in and offers options. Yes, that's right. He assesses the situation, processes that the baby is pissed off at the idea of getting a new diaper, and offers up, "don't you want to get a new diaper downstairs? We can eat breakfast first and then mommy can give you a new diaper! Doesn't that sound like a great idea?"

Yeah. It's a great idea if we have voted against containing the stench of baby shit to the baby's room. I, myself, have no recollection of participating in such a vote. Fine. He made a suggestion. He was just trying to mediate, to resolve the conflict between the screaming baby and frustrated mother. The result? The baby's all, "Ok! Dow stairs!" And just like that, I lose. I mean, everybody knows the kid is just as likely to acquiesce to a new diaper downstairs as he was upstairs. Good plan, three year old. Who's the smartypants now?

So, instead of having the simple luxury (and immediate gratification) of wrestling my youngest son to the ground with one hand, pulling his soiled diaper off and replacing it with an unoffensive, clean one with my other hand, I'm suddenly being gained up on my my own spawn. And even though they are only three apples high, I'm defeated. Mostly because my older son is just that bossy. I mean, persuasive. But a little because I'm lazy and don't totally mind procrastinating The Saga of the Stinky Diaper.

But I do mind being thrown under the bus like that by a three year old. Especially on a workday morning.

Single Momming It

My husband, my dependable, awesome, generally-home-from-work-by-6:30, never-brings-work-home-to-do husband, will be out of town, on and off, for seven of the next ten days. This never happens. But due to the mal-alignment of the planets, it is happening. Starting today. And (gulp!) I'm freaking out.

I would have gone with him on one of these two trips, but, I couldn't find anywhere to put my kids. And I think they're too big at this point to stow neatly in the overhead compartments or below the seats in front of us. Even if they are sedated.

So.

I'm momming it solo. I know, I know. Women do this all the time. Like for instance, all those single moms out there. You go, girls. That's some serious female empowerment right there. And like my work at home mom cousin, who's husband travels on business for weeks at a time leaving her alone to mom her two girls, ages almost 3 and 6 months. Or like my doctor friend, who's husband often doesn't get home from work 'til 9pm leaving her to alone to mom her two boys ages 3.5 and almost 6. Or, like my stay at home mom friend (I refuse to use the acronyms WAHM or SAHM which both of which annoy me as much as DD, DS, and DH. Click here for Angie from A Whole Lot of Nothing's explanation of those ridiculous terms.) who's partner works two jobs and often doesn't come home except on weekends, leaving her to mom her THREE girls ages almost 1, 2.5 and 4 who ALL just got kicked in the ass with swine flu. You ladies are pretty fucking tough. Like The Spice Girls.

The thing is, I'm not. I'm a pussy.

Over the summer, I went to Thailand for a week, leaving my husband alone to take care of the kids. And the cat. And all the God-damned fish that seem to be reproducing as fast as bunnies in a barnyard. And the three-footed turtle. I guess this is payback. (Except for the fact that I was totally psyched to go to Thailand and he wants to go on these two trips about as a badly as he wants a slow, unanesthetized, vasectomy. But that's besides the point.)

Ok. I looked at the calendar. I've booked us solid. Two+ activities per day. Activities of awesome proportion. We are going to be the social butterflies of the century. Our time together as a family of three will be super-cool. And, of course, I've enlisted back up where I can.

In the meantime, I'm hoping, nay, praying that the thick, green snot running out of my 20 month old's nose is simply a figment of my imagination. And I'm diligently wishing my own sore throat and stuffy nose away. Because being sick over the course of the next ten days is not an option. It's just not. Unless I could hire someone to take care of me, make me chicken soup, entertain my children and give me a pedicure in the comfort of my own bed.

Any takers? Mom?

Though I will miss my man terribly, with every ounce of my being (being that I'm totally and unhealthily codependent and have great difficulty making even the most rudimentary decisions like which socks to wear, without him) I am looking forward to some things. Like staying up really late watching Lifetime movies. And reading the shit out of my blogroll. And eating ice cream for dinner without getting the stink eye. And my kids penchant for waking up absurdly early on inopportune days, like Saturdays, for instance and being the only one around to supervise them. And by supervise, I mean, make coffee and then drink it while sitting on the couch watching them pretend to be baby kittens. Really fucking cute baby kittens. Who whine.

Yeah. I'm totally looking forward to that.

I Aim Low

Last week, I attended my very first blogger event. I popped my blogger cherry on the Aiming Low Party, sponsored by Hewlett Packard at the Boston Sheraton. For me, it was like a coming out party. I was so nervous. And anxious. I had nothing to wear. And, what does one wear to a blogger party anyway? Also, oh mah gah, there were going to be other bloggers there. Sizing me up. Sizing up my writing. (As if.) Bloggers who are respected. Bloggers who I respect. Bloggers who are awesome. Who probably wear sunglasses indoors at night because Corey Hart and the guidance counselor on Glee say it's cool.

I felt like I was playing out a B high school movie. I RSVP'd in advance, you know, just in case it like sold out or something (even though it was free), so for weeks leading up to it, I had diarrhea. Yes, that's how my stress manifests. The prospect of the Aiming Low Party gave me diarrhea.

Mostly because I hate people.

Ok, that's a slight exaggeration. I hate crowds, small talk, self-promo, and milling around aimlessly while silently hoping that someone will start a conversation with me. Not that I want to be part of a conversation, just that it would nice to know that someone would like to be in one with me.

I WAS TERRIFIED OF GOING ALONE.

So, I enlisted my doctor friend. "You had me at free booze," she says. Oh, thank Jesus! But her husband got home from work late and I ended up having to go alone anyway still making her swear up and down that she'd meet me there as soon as possible.

I drove into Boston by myself. And I found somewhere to park. By myself. And I located the room the party was in. All. By. Myself. This is a big God damned deal, people. I am directionally dysfunctional and by all accounts couldn't find my way out of a shoebox. Well, according to my husband anyway. Thanks, sweetie!

Sheepishly, I walked up to the registration table to sign in, then, I quickly found the bar. I mean, if I'm all by myself, I may as well have fun, right? As I was waiting, I was approached by Shauna Glenn, who's awesome and happens to be part of the Aiming Low crew. She says hi and thanks for coming. Ok, I become a little more comfortable. And then. As my wine glass makes first contact with my sweaty palm, I see her. Just 5 steps away from me. Wearing jeans. (Fuck, I knew I'd be overdressed...)

I Carpe diem.

"Brittany, I'm so sorry to interrupt you," I note the exceptionally tall man she's talking to,"but I just wanted to tell you how much I love your blog and I hope your H1N1 kid is feeling better and how was the flight, I know how you hate flying and I'm totally not a stalker I just go through your garbage after you're asleep and can I give you a hug even though I'm a complete stranger and you're a germophobe?"

Fortunately, she (Brittany of Barefoot Foodie and Aiming Low fame) only looked at me a little funny before she conceded to the hug. From that moment on, I was in heaven.

Chocolate fondue heaven.

FINALLY, my doctor friend showed up, but only after I had the chance to chat with Barbara Jones from the One 2 One Network, Christy from More Than Mommy and the lovely Sheri Gurock, owner of Magic Beans. That's three people. I spoke to three people. Not including Brittany of course, who I had the opportunity to chat with again later on in the evening.

And I even got a sweet 8x10 studio-quality photo of my kids apple picking out of it, thanks to Hewlett Packard.

Subsequently, Brittany asked me if I was hooked, after attending my first blogger event. I wasn't entirely sure. Until I got invited to another blogger event this week. That I can't go to. Because I have no childcare. And I'm pissed. Which I suppose indicates that yes, I'm hooked.

I guess that means I'm a "real" blogger now. Right?