I Feel Pretty

Charlie has always been a cute kid. From the moment he was born, he looked perfect and well formed, never awkward or squishy and red. Are we biased? Definitely. But pictures don't lie, in his entire 4 years of life, there has not been one bad photo.

Gregory entered the world as blessed as his brother; color me biased again. Though his cuteness seems to be evolving into downright prettiness. At least once a week, people mistake him for a girl. Even dressed in camouflage pants, skull and crossbones t-shirt, baseball hat and black high top Chucks - an outfit that screams testosterone - someone will remark, "What a beautiful little girl. How old is she?" Maybe it's the eyelashes that touch his forehead, or those huge blue eyes, but I honestly don't get it.

Clearly there must be something there. The past week or so, Charlie has begun calling Gregory, 'Mrs. Bentney'. As with all things Charlie, we have no idea where this came from. But I'll be damned if Gregory doesn't come running like a servant when Charlie beckons, "Mrs. Bentney. Mrs. Bentney? MRS. BENTNEY! Come here this instant."

When asked why he calls Gregory Mrs. Bentney, his response, "I only call him that when I need help opening the door." I thought this would blow over, that Mrs. Bentney's novelty, and ineptness (the boy can't even turn a door knob), would wear off and he/she could go back to being just Gregory. But it seems Mrs. Bentney's responsibilities have only been added to. Last night when I was making dinner, Charlie came running in, breathless, holding a bunch of buckets, "Hey Mommy, do you need a bucket?"
No thanks, Charlie. I'm all set.
"Well, if you do, Mrs. Bentney's selling them out back and can get you one."

This morning I was even more confused when Charlie referred to Gregory as Stephanie. I thought the early hour had effected my hearing, until, "Stephanie, I need you to come and help me fill up this dump truck."
Though I hadn't an ounce of caffeine in me, I ventured down that road, So who's Stephanie?
"Gregory is Stephanie."
Where is Mrs. Bentney?
"No, Stephanie is Mrs. Bentney."
Then Gregory is Mrs. Stephanie Bentney?
"No, he's Mrs. Bentney Stephanie."
When do you call him Stephanie versus Mrs. Bentney?
"When I want to." His response was so matter of fact, like I had just asked Little Lord Fauntleroy when he would like his tea. He turns on his heel, heading into the the kitchen, casually calling over his shoulder, "Stephanie, it's time for breakfast. NOW!"

I do take comfort in that the relationship seems to have taken on a less formal tone. And at least he's feeding the help.

I Hate You, I Hate You, I Just Don't Like You

You know those mornings where you wake up and you hate your job? No matter how many trips to Starbuck's you take, personal calls you make, or want ads you search, you just can't move past it. In my former life in sales, I would have called it a day at lunch and gone to the gym or shopping; start fresh tomorrow. But I'm at a loss on how to handle this situation in my current role.

When my kids keep me up till the wee hours of the night, then rise before the sun, I wake up hating them and my job, which are one and the same. I spend most of my day locked and loaded, ready to aim my passive aggressive rage at anyone who gets in my way - like my kids or the condescending librarian who glares at me as both of the boys run screaming down the aisles of the adult non-fiction section yelling, 'poopie, poopie, poop.' What's a Mom to do when she's trapped at 'the office', having bad day, and her old bag of tricks just isn't cutting it in this new position?

In the past, commiserating with co-workers made me feel better. But in our office of 3, complaining to Charlie and Gregory about how they've ruined my day by only allowing me 4 non-consecutive hours of sleep doesn't quite have the same therapeutic effect. Charlie's response, 'Mommy, if you want, you can take a nap and I will watch Gregory because I'm the adult.' As he tries to assure me he can handle the situation, his hands begin to form a noose like grip around his brother's neck while slowly dragging him toward the bathroom.

Other times I could rely on my sense of humor to get me through the day and just laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. But there is nothing amusing about being stuck in the house with my kids when all I want to do is sleep and all they want to do is find new ways to remind me that escape on this rat wheel is futile.
"Mommy, can I have something to eat?"
Charlie, I don't care what you do.
"But can you get me something?"
What do you want?
"I want you to get me something, but make it a surprise."
No, I'm not playing that game. Just tell me what you want.
"I want a surprise."
Charlie, I am tired, you know what we have to eat. When you figure it out, tell me.
"But I want a surprise. How about from the fridge?"
Ugh. Yogurt, cheese, apple, or grapes?
"Surprise."
Just choose.
"No, you."
I yell as I throw yogurt down in front of him. Charlie, I've lost my patience. Take the stupid yogurt and do not say another word to me.
"Mmm, stupid yogurt. I love stupid yogurt. It's just what I wanted, stupid yogurt."
Then Gregory chimes in, "Tupit, tupit, tupit."

I do not even have the energy to go there as I storm out of the kitchen. I know if I attempt to make a run to Starbuck's they will follow me. If I try to use my computer to search for employment opportunities outside of the home, my efforts will be high jacked in order to watch singing cats, flying penguins, and rocket launches on You Tube.

By 10 am, I have screamed to the point of being hoarse, bribed the boys with everything from cookies to playing in the toilet. Finally, I admit defeat. For Charlie, I put on a video. Gregory gets 20 Matchbox cars thrown into a huge soup pot with the lid on. My hope is that he'll make enough racket to drown out Charlie's movie and any potential crying that ensues from the 2 of them being left unattended.

I lock myself in the laundry room to eat chocolate chips sprinkled in a jar of peanut butter. Ahh, silence - at least with door closed and the din of crunching chocolate chips in my mouth. This works. I'll have to add this to my new bag of tricks.