We recently bought a plastic toy gate at a garage sale to help as we start babyproofing. It’s in relatively good shape, but clearly needs a new set of batteries.

We’ve had many toys over the years that have become possessed once their batteries start to fail. A music table that started to sound like a funeral procession. A baby swing that refuses to shut off (we stopped using this one after a harrowing baby extraction).

But this gate takes the cake in terms of creepiness. I added a few of my older daughter’s most haunting dolls for effect.

Seriously – if I die in my sleep tonight, I know without a shadow of a doubt that this doll did it.

So. Who wants to come over for a playdate?

I had lunch today with a former coworker. Last night I prepared myself for the possibility that it could make me miss my job a bit. So I thought long and hard, “Do I miss it?”

The resounding answer was “No.” I can count on one hand, maybe one finger, the number of times I’ve missed my job in the past 8 months. I was ready to leave. Mentally and emotionally burnt out. Spent.

This morning before I left, I read this article titled “Generation Xhausted,” which describes the plight of professional parents in their late 30s. Good Lord did I identify with this. It talks about the challenges we face as “victims of two colliding trends” -having children later in life right as our careers are also peaking. Amen! Train wreck!

Reading it reaffirmed my decision to stay home.

So without any lingering doubt hanging over my head, I enjoyed the chance to catch up with my friend at lunch and hear the latest office gossip. Budding romances, client drama, happy hour shenanigans – I got all the scoop.

Then she informed me that a former business partner passed away last month of a heart attack. I only met him once and rarely worked with him.

But all day I’ve been thinking about him. He was a rare combination – extremely successful and good at his job, while being genuinely kind and smart. His reputation preceded him everywhere. Not to mention, he was working for and with organizations that truly make a difference helping those in need. Without a doubt, he made a positive impact in the world.

And while all of that makes for a tragic loss, the most gutwrenching part is that he was only 32. And his wife is pregnant with their first child.

On a day when I was already feeling the need to appreciate this time with my kids, away from the stress of a job, I can’t help but feel an even stronger need to savor every minute.

Even if it ends tomorrow, today I was lucky enough to watch my daughter take a 10 a.m. swim class on a Monday, followed by an afternoon trip to the zoo. One year ago, sitting at my desk at work, I never imagined this would be possible.

I went for a walk today. These are things I saw.

A funky blue boat fit for Magnum PI.

Captain – get me my boat shoes and a mustache

A sad blue car.

😦

A warning to the canines of America.

For dogs who can read?

I’m going to repurpose that one and hang it above my master terlit.

Mailboxes that remind me of my grandma’s old cabin in northern Minnesota.

They don’t handpaint ’em like this anymore

Artchoke flowers. I HAD NO IDEA. My husband informed me that artichokes are the buds of a plant, and if not harvested, would flower just like this. Am I the only person who didn’t know this?

I’m totally gonna make a dip outta you

So fascinated by this discovery I had to look it up. Learning is rad.

A pedestrian walkway OR a murder scene. TBD.

Dead man walking

My in-laws just left after a week-long visit. Due to my new stay-at-home status, this was the most time I have spent with them without my husband.

It’s always fun to feel that your in-laws are watching your every move, silently critiquing your parenting skills. It’s extra fun when your spouse is not around to share the spotlight. This was just me and my A game on display.

On day two my daughter jammed her hand up my father-in-law’s shorts, using the exact same maneuver she used on me. I didn’t witness it, but I saw her chasing him around afterward and feared the worst. I asked what was happening, which led to an awkward conversation in which my father-in-law tried to explain this odd encounter by telling me my child did some “penis touching.”

I do not wish that conversation on my worst enemy.

I spent several minutes trying to stop her from doing it again, but she was having trouble taking me seriously due to my giggle fit the first time around. “Mom – remember, this is funny!” Very effective and responsible parenting.

On day five we were packing up after several days at a vacation property. My husband had already left because he had to work, so it was just me, my kids and the in-laws. Both kids were in meltdown mode, but the 4-year-old was particularly saucy. She was demanding more orange juice, which I normally limit, but in my desperation to get the hell out of there, I poured her another glass (#3? or 4?), gave her my iPad, and asked her to stay quiet.

Thirty minutes later I heard her screaming, “I’m going potty on the carpet!” I looked over the balcony and saw her standing still, peeing down her legs, making no attempt to move whatsoever. For some reason I also froze and just watched her with my mouth hanging open.

My mother-in-law sprang into action, shooed her into the bathroom, and then began cleaning up the puddle. As I finally came to, I wiped up my daughter’s legs and asked her why she didn’t go to the bathroom. She explained loudly that she was afraid to leave the iPad.

Next time before I waterlog my child, force her to watch a movie and tell her not to speak, I’ll make it clear that bathroom breaks are allowed.

I appreciate that my daughter saved the most unimpressive parenting opportunities for the moments when my husband was nowhere in sight.

To return the favor, yesterday during the final hours of my in-laws’ visit, I walked out of the room, went upstairs, and pulled a nap attack, leaving my daughter on her own to entertain them.

HA! Take that, you 4-year-old!

As I re-entered the room 2+ hours later, with bedhead, pillow indentations on my face, and only 15 minutes left before they had to leave, I felt confident knowing for sure I came out of that situation looking like the winner. Or notsomuch.

I read this post last week and it got me thinking so much I’mma write my own post about it.

The author laments the dumbing down of our culture as evidenced by ridiculous shows like “Honey Boo Boo.” Have you heard of it? I hadn’t until I saw it getting a bunch of attention on Twitter last week (yuup, Twitter is my CNN). It’s an offshoot of Toddlers & Tiaras, which I have only ever seen 10 minutes of, and that was enough. Those fake flipper teeth freak. me. out.

As I read the post, I nodded my head in agreement. How can you not admit that we celebrate and obsess over some pretty stupid shit in our society. As part of this “cesspool of inanity” she mentions Honey Boo Boo, Toddlers & Tiaras, Snooki and Sarah Palin – check, check, check, CHECK.

She points out that among other negative implications, giving attention to these nutjobs can take away opportunities from others more deserving.

And then I found myself making some pretty fuzzy distinctions.

Damn right – I do NOT watch Toddlers & Tiaras. I do however partake in other TLC fare on occasion like Hoarders or Storage Wars. But that’s totally different…right?

I did NOT watch Jersey Shore. At least not the last few seasons. I did however watch the first two, but the cast was unknown, and it was still so new that I watched out of fascination, disbelief and novelty. It’s not like I bought The Situation’s cologne or anything. So that’s different too.

I did NOT support Sarah Palin’s endeavors in any way. No doubt on this one.

Huh. I thought about my other media consumption habits.

I do NOT watch Keeping Up With the Kardashians. Yet somehow I know that Kourtney had another baby, Kim is dating Kanye and Khloe wants a baby…so I guess I’m keeping up with them somehow.

I do NOT watch Big Brother. But I loves me some Survivor, and I have been known to watch a few episodes of Amazing Race. But the people on those shows are put to the test mentally and physically. Big Brother contestants just sit in a house, eat chips and make out/fight. Very very different.

I did NOT enjoy the last season of The Bachelor. I’m still pissed that he picked that bitch Courtney. But I did enjoy The Bachelorette.

Ahem. So maybe I do feed the beast of inanity a wee bit.

However my pop culture indulgences are far fewer than before I had kids. And I think it’s OK and downright necessary to give yourself a break from reality with some mind-numbing trash every once in a while.

But I realize that since quitting my job, I’m not balancing the scales like I used to. My consumption and knowledge of ‘real’ news has declined almost as quickly as my hygiene.

My job required me to know what was happening in the world. Every morning I read a summary of global headlines. I listened to NPR on the way to the office and I read the news online with regularity.

These days the only thing anyone expects of me is to know what channel the Backyardigans is on, and how to download a new episode of Dora (NOT the Snow Princess one – FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SHE’S ALREADY SEEN IT!).

But just because no one is paying me to stay informed, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t. I do like knowing what the hell is going on in the world and being able to hold a conversation with adults about things other than how my baby’s sleeping or pooping (don’t get me started on the latter – I won’t stop).

So my goal starting today is to wake a tad earlier each morning and ensure I consume some news – and not just via the abyss known as Twitter.

My favorite quote in the post is this one:

• The only way to revive the American Dream, and resuscitate the intelligence of America, is to stop providing oxygen to the stupid.

OK OK I GET IT. I will also cancel our cable TV like I’ve been promising to do. Sheesh.

This post by Rita Arens about being halfway to death, although said more eloquently, is one I liked, probably in part because I’m about the same age and have shared many of these thoughts lately. My 20 yr high school reunion is next year. So I guess I’m officially old enough to be having a mid-life crisis. yay.

I also like this post by Galit Breen about being an introvert. I’ll be honest that the #1 reason I love it is that she admits she takes a nap every day. Oh. My. Hero. But I really like the message about figuring out who you are and what you need in life, and not apologizing for it. “…first, you need to know your zone, what fills you up, and what empties you.” Naps! God I could rule the world with more naps.

This last one is a humdinger about the stupid Chik-Fil-A situation. It’s laced with profanity, which I endorse wholeheartedly on this topic in particular. I loved reading this.

I went to Costco today. This was my second trip. The first one was with my mommy and daddy, because I was too scared to go alone.

There are a number of reasons that place freaks me out, first and foremost being the way everyone looks like they are shopping for the apocalypse. Who needs that much toilet paper? Why does he have so much bottled water? What do they know that I don’t?

It also entails one of my biggest domestic dislikes: grocery shopping. Dear Lord how I hate grocery shopping.

It stresses me out. I accidentally buy the wrong thing. I buy too much or too little of something. And most frustrating these days, I just plain overspend.

Last year at my job I managed a $2 million client budget.

Today I stood staring at a 3 lb bag of tortilla chips for 5 minutes trying to figure out if it was more or less expensive than my regular brand. Just staring.

It’s like something in the grocery air clouds my judgment and I either mentally shut down, or I make illogical purchases.

You would think that buying in bulk could alleviate some of the pressure. Hone in on an item you know you will use, buy a ton, and lessen the need to shop so often.

But I ventured into bulk purchasing once before and it didn’t end well.

Several years ago I tried to help my husband, who then did all the cooking, and bought a box of 12 marinated chicken breasts from a door-to-door salesman.

That’s right. I bought chicken from a stranger who knocked on my front door. Cock-a-doodle-doo!

At the time I thought it was brilliant. That’s 6 meals! I just did us a favor – no need for the grocery store this week!

I still remember the look on my husband’s face when he came home and saw it in the freezer. He was so confused. I won’t open the door for an angel-faced Girl Scout, but I bought chicken from a middle-aged man carting it around in the back of a truck?

Of course it tasted terrible and I threw out the 10 uneaten breasts within a few months.

So this morning as I was bracing myself for my pilgrimage to crazytown, I paused for a Twitter check and saw that Outlaw Mama had just been to Costco. I told her I had the sweats in anticipation of my trek, and she confirmed my worst fear by saying, “it’s barbaric in there.”

My sweating intensified. I postponed my mission so I could triple check my shopping list.

When I finally entered the parking lot a few hours later, I had a clear strategy – stay focused and only buy what I came for – paper towels, toilet paper, diapers. I need these items. I have heard that Costco paper products = savings. Anything else can be purchased another time. You can do this.

Five steps in the door I was bombarded with sight of huge TVs next to huge bottles of booze next to huge boxes of baby wipes.

Well, I can always use more wipes… No – stay focused.

Two minutes later I was picking out a package of socks for my daughter.

This is not what you’re here for. But she needs socks! Fine, just this once.

And this is how it went for the next 45 minutes. My cart constantly stopping as I’d pass something shiny and consider purchasing it, while the voice in my head reminded me to move along. All the internal chatter started to drive me nuts after a while.

When I finally got to the cash register it only took him a minute to ring me up. Great! My load isn’t that bad!

“That’ll be $165.”

Exsqueeze me? How the F did I just spend $165? Therein lies the rub with Costco – since you are buying huge bins and tins, it takes them a millisecond to scan your items. Unlike the grocery store, where you at least have the luxury of flipping through US Weekly, Costco takes your cash and kicks your overflowing cart to the curb.

I walked out feeling financially defeated, but grateful to be done.

Then I got back to my car and realized I had two strollers and a bike in the back, leaving no room for the enormity of my haul. Thank the stars I only had the baby, because I had to cram the paper towel and toilet paper in my other daughter’s car seat.

Sorry, honey – Mommy needs to leave you at layaway so I can take home these paper towels.

I finally started to unclench on the drive home, and realized I was ravenous. At a stoplight I tried to quickly open my 3 lb bin of peanut butter pretzels – what? shut up – but couldn’t pull off the paper cover.

Hurry hurry! The light’s going to change!

I grabbed a pen and stabbed it repeatedly into the top. STAB STAB STAB. I looked over and saw the driver of a bus in the lane next to me, watching.

Faster faster!

STAB STAB STAB.

The force of my battering hand dislodged the ink cartridge and left the pen stuck hanging there, useless. I made a fist and punched my way into that bin, squeezing my fingers in until I could grab a few pretzels and shove them into my salivating mouth.

The victim

Talk about barbaric. I think I need a few weeks before I try that again.

My mother has perfected the art of the helpful reminder. Her medium of choice: Post-It notes.

When I was young she used to put Post-Its in my school lunches that said “S.U.S.” = Stand Up Straight. I was tall and slouchy – still am – and apparently needed a reminder to lift my chin off my clavicle. It was a game of sorts to see if I could find the note before it would fall on the floor or get stuck to my shirt and embarrass me in front of my friends. The horror.

I say ‘reminder’ because she has usually already conveyed the message to you in person or by phone. But just to be safe, she will also put it on a Post-It.

We stayed at my parents’ house this weekend while they were gone and even I was impressed by the number of Post-Its hiding in every nook and cranny.

By the sink!

In the closet!

In the cupboard!

These are reminders about how to open/close a cupboard, or how to keep the windowsill area dry. Very important. And fun like a scavenger hunt, no? Wait, there’s more.

In the pantry!

On the washing machine!

On the heater!

They’re so common that after a while you stop noticing them. But this one is my favorite.

In the fridge!

Nevermind that if you failed to close this little compartment, the fridge door wouldn’t even shut. Or maybe that’s her point? I’m just grateful I don’t need to learn that life lesson the hard way.

They used to drive me nuts, but the older I get, the more I love those damn Post-Its.

I’ve been avoiding a Highs and Lows post because quite frankly, I have not had many domestic highs lately. But maybe if I acknowledge this openly it will motivate me. Right? Riiiight.

In cooking, I’ve been coasting on the fumes of tortilla soup. Talk about beating a dead horse. A dish that once was eagerly anticipated, with every bite savored, is now met with dread and disappointment. My husband’s favorite joke: “What’s for dinner? Tortilla soup?” Effer.

So. I need some new tricks.

However. I have griped about how recipes overwhelm me, so I feel the need to share my newfound love for The Pioneer Woman. I am way late to this game since she’s basically an Interweb celeb, but I love her step-by-step recipes – with photos. The photos are key.

I made this macaroni salad and it was the least stressed I’ve been when attempting a new recipe thanks to the handy visual aids. The only thing that would make it easier is if she were holding my hand, saying things like, “Excellent job dicing those olives.” Or “I have heard the legend of your tortilla soup.”

But despite this discovery I am still struggling to find my mojo when it comes to making dinner. The hours of 4-6 are easily the worst of my day. At least one kid is always having a meltdown. Today it was the 4-year-old, who was in a fit of hysterics for more than 20 minutes because she couldn’t say the word “world.”

• “Ward. Waaard. Ward. WARD.” Sobbing. Screaming. All with the volume level on eleventy billion.

Inevitably both kids are hungry and cranky at this time. But since I can’t yet feed them the same food, it’s a chaotic scramble to calm, cook, distract, feed, rinse, repeat. Meals that require much preparation are less and less likely to happen.

So I am excited by my other discovery – A Year of Slow Cooking. Oh snap! I loves me my slow cooker. I mean, it gave me tortilla soup. So I cannot wait to dive in and find other recipes I can throw together in the morning and spare myself some dinnertime pain.

As for the rest of my domestic pursuits, the one thing I did finally accomplish was to stain the swingset. Voila.

At last, I can cross something off my check list.

The only other item of note, or not really worth mentioning but oh well too late, is that I decided to abstain from toenail polish for the rest of the summer. Maybe the rest of the year. Why? I had the urge to feel rebellious. To throw caution to the wind. Also? I can’t afford a pedicure anymore and I’m too lazy to paint them myself.

So I am pretending that my naked toes are symbolic. A rejection of unnatural beauty standards. A protest of war and evil things. A refusal to distract from the real star of this show, Paul Bunion.

Yesterday my 4-year-old pulled my pants down in public.

We were at the paint store buying stain for the swingset (fret not, there will be a photo of that later). I was wearing workout shorts – you know, because that’s when you wear your exercise clothing – when you are painting.

I don’t normally wear shorts. It’s rarely hot enough in Seattle anyway, but that aside, my pasty white legs are best kept under wraps. You’re welcome.

So when my daughter was standing next to me at the checkout, apparently she became intrigued when she saw my bare-skinned legs glowing at her. So she touched them. I jumped a little because it tickled. That was all the ammo she needed.

The next logical step in her mind was to stick her hand straight up my shorts. Not an innocent toddler-like stroking. More of an aggressive ‘Imma make Mommy jump by tickling her butt and pulling on her panties’ maneuver.

It worked. I jumped. I also couldn’t help laughing, because apparently my bum is ticklish. Do what you wish with this information.

This was exactly the reaction she was hoping for. I tried my best to quell her behavior by removing her hand and telling her to stop. In between my giggles. But I could see the purposeful look in her eyes and knew the best course of action would be to leave the premises as soon as humanly possible.

As I went to sign my receipt, my savvy child saw an opening and went back in for more ass-grabbing.

The unfortunate series of events that followed are no doubt among my least attractive public moments ever. And I have had many.

In her quest to tickle my tushy, she inadvertently – or perhaps intentionally – yanked on my elastic-waisted shorts. I grabbed them in time to avoid a full moon, but I’m pretty sure the old man behind us could tell you the color of my granny panties.

My daughter was still tickling me at this point so I was also laughing. Not cute laughter. More like open mouth guffawing. Which in turn caused me to drool on the counter.

You would think that would have been mortifying, but I was so distracted and intent on getting the hell out of there that all I could do was grab my bag and run away from my child. She was truly chasing me out of the store.

This whole scene was so chaotic and un-parental that I’m just hoping the checkout clerk assumed I was a babysitter. A 37-year-old babysitter.

As I reflected back upon this public de-pantsing, it occurred to me that it represents a new world order. One in which I now have a child who is smart and strong enough to take advantage of me in moments of weakness. Gone are the days when discipline was as simple as enforcing toy-sharing rules, or dealing with a tantrum.

Now I run the risk of being overpowered or outwitted by my charming, mischief-loving child.

Who, me? Do not be fooled by this innocent expression.

Don’t get me wrong. If it came down to brute force, I could totally take her. Unless she’s just eaten chocolate. Then it’s best to steer clear for at least 30 minutes until the cocaine chocolate has coursed through her veins.

Go ahead and run, Mommy. I’M COMING FOR YOU.

In short, I am no longer just an offensive player – it’s time to hone my defensive skills.

First and foremost, start belting my shorts.