B.C., "Before Christ". A.D., "Anno Domini".
If you ask someone about these abbreviations, there are likely (hopefully) going to tell you what they stand for and will also know that they are used to refer to a point in time either before or after the birth of Jesus Christ. However, if you ask a parent, more specifically, if you ask me about the abbreviations B.C. and A.D., you are entirely likely to hear something other than "Before Christ" and "Anno Domini"; you just might hear "Before Children" and "After Delivery". Because, let's be honest, just as the birth of Christ is a dividing point in our world history, the birth of children is a dividing point in life as it was once known.
So many things are different during the A.D. era than they were during the B.C. era. For instance, "Before Children" sleeping in meant sleeping until close to noon. "After Delivery", sleeping in means sleeping until 0830. I'm not saying one is better than the other; I am merely recognizing the differences in the two eras. Unless said "sleeping in" is on the heels of a night out with one or two or five too many drinks. Then, I am completely inclined to argue that B.C. is far superior to A.D.
There is no denying that the love you feel from and for your children is better than anything you have or will ever experience in life; however, the road that you quickly turn onto once you bring children into this world and into your life is astonishingly different from the one you were coasting down B.C.
To further illustrate my point, I'd like to retroactively invite you to dinner at my house last night; it was quite a peaceful one.
B.C., had you asked me what a nice, quiet, peaceful dinner would entail, I would have likely explained a quiet evening at home with something delectable served on nice plates, maybe some music playing in the background. And, if my husband was trying to get "lucky" that night, maybe even some candles on the table. Now, A.D., if you ask me same question, my answer would be nothing short of a narration of last night's dinner.
Having put dinner plans off until the eleventh hour, we opted for burgers on the grill and corn on the cob. Chris wanted stuffed potatoes as well, which we had, despite the carb overload that comes with carb A, corn served alongside carb b, potatoes. Whatever. The kids were thrilled and I managed to avoid the usual dinner consumption negotiation with Zach, our four year old. Consumption negotiations - that's something that's new with our generation's parenting, I believe. I cannot remember a time when my parents negotiated with me on this subject. I can, however, remember a time when I ate sweet peas, all the while fighting my gag reflex, out of fear of punishment. And it's not just my household that was like this - just ask my husband or mother-in-law about the timer on the stove. Ooohhh, that thing going off in their house at the close of dinnertime, coupled with food still on the children's plates, was nearly Apocalyptic. Okay, maybe not Apocalyptic, but almost.
So, here were are, or rather were, with burgers, corn on the cob and potatoes ready. This is where the difference in definitions begins. Remember those nice plates I spoke of in my description of a quiet, peaceful dinner in the B.C. era? Yes, well last night's dinner was served on paper plates - the kind that are adorned with Elmo, Abby, Big Bird and other Sesame Street characters. Why? Because as all parents know, dinnertime is the start of the nightly evening marathon that we all run - dinner, bath, bed, kitchen clean-up. And lessening the amount of kitchen clean-up by even a mere four plates is worth not being "green" for the moment. So many fancy shmancy things get pushed along the wayside in the A.D. era. Plates are but one.
Gone are the days when we would light up a torch in our kitchen to fire up a perfect creme brulee. Nope, we now resort to break 'n bake cookies; which, by the way, are quite tasty.
Back to our peaceful dinner...almost. Notice that I have dropped quiet and am now just going with peaceful. Why? Because for those of you without children, we parents can tell that quiet and peaceful do not necessarily coexist. Peaceful takes on a new meaning in the A.D. era. It comes to mean being able to do anything without interruption. And I mean anything: showering, checking the mail, using the restroom, you name it - once you have children, it can just as easily be peaceful as it can not.
A mere five minutes into dinner, Paige, our 15 1/2 month old "Firestarter" (refer to previous post titled "Fireman Sam") is waving her arms to relay to us that she is "all done". She likes to eat a little, get out of her chair, play and stop back at the table for a bite here and there. She's a fan of the drive-thru, I suppose. Zach is not too far behind her; however, thankfully he has outgrown the waving his arms stage and now asks if he may leave the table. Ah-ha! Some shred of proof that we just MIGHT be raising him right.
Chris and I are left at the table alone to finish our dinner in peace, and we do. However, let me tell what finishing your dinner in peace during the A.D. era looks like.
It looks like Nickolodeon blaring on the television versus the soft sounds of relaxing music. It looks like a four year old and a 15 1/2 month old having a screaming contest; one that I am sure, had I taken the time to check the crystal prior to typing this post, could cause me to report the discovery of shattered stemware. It looks like a one-eyed dog, named Frankie, barking and running around the house because the screaming contest is getting on his nerves and he is long overdue for a prescription of Prozac. Lastly, it looks like G.I. Joe figurines and used Kleenex strewn on the table versus the romantic candle or two.
So, while many a childless couples probably enjoyed quiet, peaceful dinners last night, we were thrilled to have had a peaceful one, albeit, not at all quiet, in this A.D. era home.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Fireman Sam
I do not consider myself an unfit mother. After all, my children ALWAYS wear shoes in public, RARELY does their lunch consist solely of Cheetos, and I am most proud to say, that ALL of their bruises are of their own doing. Now, that's not to say that they are covered in them, but the occasional leg bruise on our four-year old is always from him having run into something or horseplay. Our 15 month old, well, you know how new walkers are.
The events of last night, however, make me wonder about this unfit mother business...
And the story goes like this:
Chris was working until 10pm so I was home alone with the kids doing the dinnertime routine which consists of first bargaining on the menu, preparing it, and finally, bargaining again for its consumption. Alas, last night it was settled that they would feast on mac n' cheese and fried shrimp. Everything went very smoothly - Paige and Zach played while I whipped everything up.
A few minutes later, shrimp was fried, mac n' cheese was cooked and their plates were served. Time for them to eat...not quite. I noticed that the kitchen was a little smokey and figured it was the fry pan on the still-hot burner. I thought to myself "put this plate down in the sink then turn back to the stove and remove the fry pan to cool burner." Well, when I turned back around to face the stove, I caught a glimpse of a fire in the wall oven. My knee jerk reaction was "Holy Shit". While trying not to exude the panic I was feeling, I picked up Paige, grabbed the phone and said to both Zach and Paige "let's go outside for a few minutes guys". Of course, by this time, Zach was wanting to know what was going on.
I made the call to 911 explaining that there was a fire in my wall oven, was patched through to the fire dispatch and was told that a fire truck was being sent out. In those quick moments, I could not recall whether we had a gas or electric wall oven and my fear was that if it was gas, it may well explode. Hoping that I could get our neighbors to watch the kids while this all went down, we walked over. Quickly though, our neighbor ran from his house to ours, opened the oven, pulled out the pizza box that was ablaze and poured water over it. Fire out and no fire extinguisher mess to clean up (yes, we do have a fire extinguisher in the kitchen pantry). Only thing was that I'd already called the fire department and could faintly hear the sirens.
Minutes later, there was not just one, nor two, but THREE fire trucks at our home. One right in front, one blocking the road to the left and the third blocking the road to the right. Oh, and the fire marshall - he came out as well. What a little party, right?
Two firefighters from the first fire truck make their way up to the driveway where I explain everything. Our dog, Frankie, is going apeshit at this point because they are in their suits with tanks and masks on. He's ready to eat them and seriously starts considering it as they enter our house. I am left outside to apologize profusely to the fire marshall for what I feel is gross overkill. He assures me that it was certainly not overkill and that I did exactly what I was supposed to do. That made me feel a bit better. But really, you're supposed to call 911 and receive three firetrucks on your doorstep in minutes for a pizza box that has caught on fire in your oven? Apparently so.
Now granted, this could have been a much different story had the wall oven been gas. Luckily, it is an electric unit. This, I remembered after I made the 911 call. You see, we are about 2 weeks away from the demo phase of our kitchen remodel and I recalled our contractor saying that relocating the wall ovens would not be a major undertaking as they are electric and would not require the running of new gas lines. Now, can you imagine that flags that would have went up at the insurance company when they discovered that the kitchen that burned to ashes was about to be remodeled. Hmmm....that has insurance fraud written all over it, does it not?
So, how did this all happen? My dear, sweet 15 1/2 month old was the culprit. To say that she gets into everything is a massive understatement. "Curious", some people call it - "Holy Terror", I say. Anyhow, it would seem as though little missy here, waltzed right up to the oven and began pressing buttons, hit the right combination and voila', the oven is on at 400 degrees.
I can vaguely remember her being by the oven for a second or two before I told her to play with her kitchen.
So, while some events teach you to slow down and take time to smell the roses, not this one. This event has taught me to check my oven every once in a while to make sure my little spitfire firestarter has not turned the damn thing on and to use the lock controls.
And now, you know the rest of the story...
The events of last night, however, make me wonder about this unfit mother business...
And the story goes like this:
Chris was working until 10pm so I was home alone with the kids doing the dinnertime routine which consists of first bargaining on the menu, preparing it, and finally, bargaining again for its consumption. Alas, last night it was settled that they would feast on mac n' cheese and fried shrimp. Everything went very smoothly - Paige and Zach played while I whipped everything up.
A few minutes later, shrimp was fried, mac n' cheese was cooked and their plates were served. Time for them to eat...not quite. I noticed that the kitchen was a little smokey and figured it was the fry pan on the still-hot burner. I thought to myself "put this plate down in the sink then turn back to the stove and remove the fry pan to cool burner." Well, when I turned back around to face the stove, I caught a glimpse of a fire in the wall oven. My knee jerk reaction was "Holy Shit". While trying not to exude the panic I was feeling, I picked up Paige, grabbed the phone and said to both Zach and Paige "let's go outside for a few minutes guys". Of course, by this time, Zach was wanting to know what was going on.
I made the call to 911 explaining that there was a fire in my wall oven, was patched through to the fire dispatch and was told that a fire truck was being sent out. In those quick moments, I could not recall whether we had a gas or electric wall oven and my fear was that if it was gas, it may well explode. Hoping that I could get our neighbors to watch the kids while this all went down, we walked over. Quickly though, our neighbor ran from his house to ours, opened the oven, pulled out the pizza box that was ablaze and poured water over it. Fire out and no fire extinguisher mess to clean up (yes, we do have a fire extinguisher in the kitchen pantry). Only thing was that I'd already called the fire department and could faintly hear the sirens.
Minutes later, there was not just one, nor two, but THREE fire trucks at our home. One right in front, one blocking the road to the left and the third blocking the road to the right. Oh, and the fire marshall - he came out as well. What a little party, right?
Two firefighters from the first fire truck make their way up to the driveway where I explain everything. Our dog, Frankie, is going apeshit at this point because they are in their suits with tanks and masks on. He's ready to eat them and seriously starts considering it as they enter our house. I am left outside to apologize profusely to the fire marshall for what I feel is gross overkill. He assures me that it was certainly not overkill and that I did exactly what I was supposed to do. That made me feel a bit better. But really, you're supposed to call 911 and receive three firetrucks on your doorstep in minutes for a pizza box that has caught on fire in your oven? Apparently so.
Now granted, this could have been a much different story had the wall oven been gas. Luckily, it is an electric unit. This, I remembered after I made the 911 call. You see, we are about 2 weeks away from the demo phase of our kitchen remodel and I recalled our contractor saying that relocating the wall ovens would not be a major undertaking as they are electric and would not require the running of new gas lines. Now, can you imagine that flags that would have went up at the insurance company when they discovered that the kitchen that burned to ashes was about to be remodeled. Hmmm....that has insurance fraud written all over it, does it not?
So, how did this all happen? My dear, sweet 15 1/2 month old was the culprit. To say that she gets into everything is a massive understatement. "Curious", some people call it - "Holy Terror", I say. Anyhow, it would seem as though little missy here, waltzed right up to the oven and began pressing buttons, hit the right combination and voila', the oven is on at 400 degrees.
I can vaguely remember her being by the oven for a second or two before I told her to play with her kitchen.
So, while some events teach you to slow down and take time to smell the roses, not this one. This event has taught me to check my oven every once in a while to make sure my little spitfire firestarter has not turned the damn thing on and to use the lock controls.
And now, you know the rest of the story...
WTB? Why the blog?
"Never a dull moment"...something you hear people say when they are trying to relay the absolute chaos that is their world. Well, since becoming the mother of two, I am one of those people, because trust me, there is never a dull moment in the Lawrence home. It seems that each and every day something happens that is, at the very least, worthy of a reality tv-show episode. Perhaps even, the basis for an episode of Modern Family. So, I've decided to start a blog to chronicle this crazy (excuse me) shit. At my expense, I hope you enjoy a hearty chuckle as you read along.
A final caveat...I'm not always the best at punctuation, but I think you'll be caught up enough in the content that you'll not notice my absence of a comma here and there. If it gets to the point that it absolutely bothers you, please take the opportunity to edumacate me a bit more.
A final caveat...I'm not always the best at punctuation, but I think you'll be caught up enough in the content that you'll not notice my absence of a comma here and there. If it gets to the point that it absolutely bothers you, please take the opportunity to edumacate me a bit more.
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