Mom's Can't Wear Red

After the Sex, Watermelon and my signature summer color Mango Madness (it's prettier than it sounds)were my forte. My nails and toes were adorn in bold and bright, until I had children. The fifteen dollar mani/pedi deal at Best Nails that I frequented every Monday has now turned into an occasional mani/pedi at Angel Tips for an upcoming occasion. Two months ago (flip-flop season) one of my girlfriends came over and was horrified to see my toes chipped and barely polished. "That's disgusting," she teased. Though I joked with her about it, sarcastically telling her to come see me when has two babies, 17 months apart, hanging from her arms and the latest still up through the night, I did agree. My toes were pretty disgusting. My nails, now short and sometimes filled with poop underneath, were for scratching dried up yogurt off my white kitchen walls, pulling out toy batteries (why are they always so hard to get out?) and pulling out splinters or a random grey hair that ends up in my eyebrows from time to time. Gone are the days of beauty and luxury. Now I am a function. And red nails is not one of them. Not that I don't still look down and appreciate my new manicured look and the rare occasion that I get one, more appreciative for the simple beauty and pampering now than ever (sometimes I want to cry out, "I'm a mom of two wild children, one who has just been labeled as 'colic,' and the other who climbs my body like a jungle gym and just received 16 stitches when he tripped head first into a front lawn of bricks. Please take your time and 5 more minutes on my hand massage."). It's just that days later, hands plunged wrist deep in bath water, dish water, toilet water, faucet water and knuckle deep in mud to fish out that last worm for my son, the polish isn't as nice and neat as it was post-children. Little red specks of paint begin to adorn the side of my sons head, another gets mistaken for blood in my four month old diaper in a moment of panic and the remained, now blotched and holier than a lace tablecloth, become a reminder of a pampered day that was once well deserved and will now spent its remaining days on my fingers until the last bit falls off. Note to self: next time I get clear.

Frogger-fied

Quarters upon quarters were lost in the several arcades of my youth. Centipede and Frogger were my favorite, next to Ms. Pacman that is. I still can recall the buttons, motions and colors of these games, the way the circle spun under my hand in Centipede and the quick movement of the stick in Frogger. No matter if I was dodging spiders, that is what those things in Centipede were right, or cars the purpose of the game was clear-dodge to stay alive. Keep your eyes on your surroundings, have quick reflexes and be ready for what was coming next. So who knew that these games were actual trainings for motherhood?
Pushing a single stroller was hard. Pushing a double stroller is harder and pushing a triple is almost impossible, but you do what you have to to survive. You weave in and out of traffic, you run for your life as the "Walk" light on Long Beach Road tells you exactly how many seconds you have before you can no longer cross (talk about being 8 months pregnant and pushing a single stroller across this road in 11 seconds! STRESS!), inch your way over to the far end of the sidewalk to let bicyclists and other stroller moms by, start and stop up grocery (forget about even attempting Associated Market) isles, hating the displays that stop your flow and cause you to back out of the isle, back your way in and out of store doors (who knew your butt could be put to such a good use)and pushing, heaving and pulling your baby, or babies, over tree lifted sidewalk bumps and in and out of your personal cargo.
Playing Frogger could not only be seen as a tool to enhance these skills, but a mom forte that should be played and studied by all during those nine long months of pregnancy. Driving in Long Island might be dangerous, but strolling your child should be covered under special insurance. That's right, here comes the cheese, it should be called 'Froggerfied.' Haha.

I remember the first time my friend came over to go for a walk. She helped me

The Reality of Manny

I recently realized, as I type that is, that my perspective on fiction and reality has become warped. Or should I say my perspective on cartoons and reality has become warped. Hmm.
It's a lazy Sunday, though it should be an active one since the sun is shining and Irish Day is no longer happening. However, as I hand Nugget his cup of milk and nuzzle up with my latest,I call him Meatball, he's so big already and he just turned 4 months, on the couch I notice that Manny has yet again walked into Kelly's shop and she had just what he needed. The tools love her. She's semi-cute, if you don't count the slight matronly look to her, and she has her own successful business just like Manny. I quickly wonder when they're going to make these two fall in love and realize they're made for each other. I mean I think it's obvious enough that Kelly and Manny secretly love each other already. Look at how they laugh with each other, speak their own mechanical language and always run to each other when a tragedy happens, like last week when there was a blackout and they were trapped in her shop together searching for flashlights for the town. If that doesn't say love I don't know what does.
Meatball finishes his bottle and Nugget helps me tap him on the back for his burp (Nugget loves to make the 'burp' sounds while doing this), meanwhile Manny is back at Kelly's shop to thank her for helping him today. "Kiss her," I find myself saying. "Take her in your arms tightly and tell her what she means to you already."
"Mommy," Nugget excitedly exclaims. "Mickey Mommy. Mickey!"
That's right. Mickey is about to come on. Mickey. Mickey Mouse. The cartoon. Like Manny and Kelly. A cartoon.
Oh Mommy, you really do need to get out. Or put the morning news on for a while.