Mama needs to master photoshop in order to “stay in the picture”

Oh look! It’s one of those really flattering “Mom Stays in the Picture” shots where I am not supposed to crop myself out even though I am out in public with airdried product-free hair and no makeup in order to prove to my children that I did in fact participate in their lives. Incidentally, the baby’s hair was decidedly unblowdried and her face is bare, yet she still looks beautiful. So unfair.


On dreams and the legend of The ReproductiveOrgan curse

Every morning, I ask Stumps what she dreamt about the previous night. Today she said “Last night I dreamt that you were the best mommy in the whole world ever and that you always stayed with me my whole life and we eat apple slices forever and also cherries forever.”

While I remain hopeful that I can gently boot Stumps out of the nest sometime before she reaches her mid-twenties, everything else about her recounted dream pretty much melted my heart.

When I was a teenager, my mom endured a several-years-long period where she questioned why she ever decided to parent anything other than a hoarder-size collection of cats. (She is now making up for that by accumulating numerous feral felines in her late middle-age). At some point during my adolescence, she bestowed upon me “The ReproductiveOrgan* Curse.” (In the interest of full-disclosure, mom’s maiden name of course was not “ReproductiveOrgan”. It was a synonym for reproductive organ, and arguably slightly worse. “ReproductiveOrgan” stands in for  Mother Catlady’s actual phallic last name of origin.)

Apparently my grandparents originated “The RO Curse” two generations ago in the 1960s when Mother Catlady and her brother were teens. The curse upon my mother and uncle was placed as follows:

“May your children grow up to be as rotten and miserable as you are!”

As a result, my uncle opted to bear no young whatsoever (My little brother, Sasquatch**, and I incidentally ended up with zero first cousins). Fast-forward to the late 1990s, and my mom was a firm believer in it’s powers. In turn, she placed the curse on me (and I assume ‘squatch as well, but he was always her favorite so I am not entirely sure).

I am only moderately superstitious, but when my little Stumps recounted her most recent dream to me this morning, I decided in fact that one of three things must be true:

1) The ReproductiveOrgan curse is powerless and MotherCatlady had such great fear of it that she turned it into her own self-fulfilling prophesy.

2) She somehow misremembered the very specific wording of the curse and unfortunately miscast it, rendering it useless. (To mom – Ha! Ha! Ha!)


3) The curse was a complete success and that little girl me was pretty much angellic.

As rotten as they can be, every day I marvel at how overwhelmingly much I love these little girls and feel truly undeserving of children this freaking sweet. They are like winning the baby lottery twice and I continue to remain in a state of utter disbelief.

If I had to guess, I would expect that Mother Catlady did not begin uttering the curse as early as 1985 when I was four years old (but MC is tricky so one can not be absolutely certain). Ask me again in ten years, and I may be hurling the third incarnation of The ReproductiveOrgan Curse at adolescent Stumps and Beans while dancing and chanting scantily-clad around a fire fueled by bits of my children’s photographs, artwork, hair, and nail clippings to insure it’s accuracy, potency, and inevitability.

*Husband felt this was a terrible ID for the curse and that I should have nicknamed it either “The Hotdog Curse” or “The FamilyName Curse” in the interest of good taste. Since I already spent an hour writing and editing the blog and my mind is perpetually slightly in the gutter, it stays for now. Seeing as how “ReproductiveOrgan” is the nickname that I chose for Mother Catlady’s maiden name when there were other more benign options available, is it really any surprise to anyone that this is the same woman who put a curse on me?

**For inquiring minds who want to know, my brother earned the blog nickname Sasquatch by embracing the mysteriously trendy mid-adulthood male aesthetic of free-range-neck-hair. Not surprisingly, ‘squatch is now in his thirties and has absolutely no intention of bearing young and risking the perils of The ReproductiveOrgan Curse himself.

In shape

Somehow I have become the (reluctant & unlikely) coordinator of a workplace wellness program. I am trying very hard to stifle my inner-hypocrite and follow the program. I just completed my first GetFit cardio DVD with MotherCatlady, who is in town today. I struggled/swore/sweat while my 59 year old mother schooled me, trash-talking the entire time.

Humpty hump

When I turned on the radio this morning and heard – of all things – “The Humpty Dance”, I immediately became a believer. The Mayans were right. Surely that has to be one of those signs of the arrival of the apocalypse. It’s been nice knowing you guys.

Peace and humptiness forever.

Three going on thirteen

(I am in my bathrobe this morning putting on makeup to get ready for work.)

“Mommy you can’t WEAR that. People will SEE you!”

At least she didn’t call me two-syllable “mo-om”