Welcome to my blog. I'm Anne-Marie Nichols, a 40-something WAHM to Nathan, 6, and Lucie, 3. I've been married 12 years to their dad Paul, a scientist. When I'm not doing the mommy thing, I'm a freelance writer, and vice president of the board of directors for a Colorado public charter school. In my spare time I like to sleep, eat, read, and decorate cakes.
I created this online journal to share some entertaining and insightful stories from my own experiences as a writer, domestic engineer, and mom. I encourage you to share this blog with your friends, and hopefully it will spark some lively discussions on issues we can all relate to. Enjoy!
Nathan and Lucie wanted hot dogs for lunch. Usually, I heat and slice them up. Using forks, the kids dip the pieces in the ketchup. But Nathan had a different plan. First, he asked for me to take some "soft bread" (what he calls white bread) to use as the buns. I thought that was a clever idea and wondered where he picked the idea up.
Then he asked me to put ranch dressing on the hot dogs.
Ranch dressing?!? Ewwwwwwww! Not only did that seem kind of disgusting, but really off the wall for a dedicated ketchup imbiber. Still I went along with his (and Lucie's) lunchtime request. Yet I insisted that he eat both hot dogs (he asked for two) no matter what. After all, it was his choice to act uncivilized and be a bad culinary influence on his sister.
When I mentioned the lunch time gross out to Paul, he was just as shocked as I. Then we asked Nathan where he got the idea for the bread and ranch dressing.
"Oh, from Joey's mom," he said.
Joey's mom is my friend Julie who occasionally takes care of the kids. She's a terrific care provider and very patient and kind. She gets Lucie to use the potty and even does crafts with the kids. I have full confidence in her ability to take care of my two monkeys. Until now.
Per the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council's website, "Don't use ketchup on your hot dog after the age of 18. Mustard, relish, onions, cheese and chili are acceptable." Ranch dressing must be a Minnesota thing (that's where she's from). I've really got to explain proper hot dog etiquette -- and its New York and Chicago nuances -- to her.
Lucie runs in, tears streaming down her cheeks. Between sobs, she says, "Maamaaa. I think! I broke! My arm!"
I look over her arm and ask her what happened. But still I get sobs and, "Mom! My arm's broke!"
I don't think it is. Instead I offer to get her a "boo-boo buddy," a kind of kid friendly ice pack. After I get a fairly calmed down Lucie on the couch, set up with a buddy, her blanket and her ice pack, she asks, "Mom, can I have some medicine? It'll make my arm feel better."
Since the only medicine she occasionally gets is an antihistamine, I tell her, "Honey, I don't think the medicine will make your arm feel better. How about a Popsicle instead?"
A smile breaks out on Lucie's face. Sore arm forgotten, she leaps off the couch and runs into the kitchen. A special ice cream treat is the best medicine of all.
It's inevitable that I miss the kids' shenanigans going on around me. I've got too much stuff going on from bill paying, to writing, to folding laundry, and I'm just not that good at giving my undivided attention to several things at once.
Like a few days ago when Lucie was having her favorite white trash meal of bologna and ketchup and wanted a second helping. (It's low fat turkey bologna, and ketchup has lycopene, a powerful antioxidant. Really, it's not as bad as you think.) She decided to serve herself, and I came downstairs to find the living room looking like a high school cafeteria at noon -- food, plates, and cutlery everywhere.
Even though I've told Lucie to ask mommy to get her food, this was not the first time she's helped herself. She's an independent child, and likes doing things herself. This explains why there are four half eaten yogurts -- all of them peach -- sitting in my refrigerator right now.
Lucie and I cleaned up. I showed her that bologna belongs on a plate and not draped all over the coffee table, and that ketchup covered utensils don't belong on the carpet. After we got everything in its proper place, I discovered that the ketchup top was missing. We looked under the sofa and between the couch cushions. I scanned the 'fridge and trash can. It was no where to be found, so back the bottle went, as topless as a Folies Bergere dancer.
Often a household item -- or a favorite piece of jewelry of mine -- goes missing because of the kids. While I know it's somewhere in the house and that it'll eventually turn up, it drives me crazy not knowing where something is. Luckily, I found the cap two days later in the toy box with all the Fisher-Price farm toys.
How it got there is beyond me. Maybe Mr. Farmer needed some ketchup with his fries.
