Frito Dogs and 13 Other Summer Bummers

Don't get me wrong—summer is my favorite season.* I love fresh air, extra daylight, beefsteak tomatoes off the vine, the smell of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass, my blue hydrangea, the great stink bug retreat out of my house into the Great Outdoors. But summer has a few pests, as well. A tiny swarm of gnats, if you will. Nothing some DEET and a frozen poolside margarita can't take care of, though. So, spray your body, salt that rim and read on unafraid!

(Well, maybe just a little afraid.)

14 Summer Stinkers

1. Must the debut of the greatest season of the year bear the name of a certain vaginal cleanser? C'mon now. We can do better.
2. When Popsicle juice meets sand/dirt/clothes. Boss looked like True Blood's Bill after his wild berry ice treat today--blood-covered and dangerous (but not nearly as smoldering).
3. An average of three outfits a day for Boss (see above). Laundry is for losers, I keep telling myself. That mountain of T-shirts and shorts? It's better than leaves for human dive bombing.
4. The screaming bunny clawing a chalkboard in the yard at midnight during a cat fight. What?? Oh wait. I mean the sound of a @#&@*#&@! fox below our window looking to score. Get a room, Red. We've got a nice shed out back. See FatAss, the resident groundhog underneath, for keys.
5. Freckles … that move? Much worse. Deer ticks!
6. Turning my flailing-arm, bug-be-gone moves into a silly dance so as not to feed Boss's fear of insects. Video clips strictly forbidden.
7. Humidity hair. Or, Richard Simmons meets Cher. Hell, just Richard Simmons without a trim.
8. Later bed times for the kids. I blame it on extra sunlight. It's not because I'm a spineless Wimp or anything like that. Especially not when Boss pleads, “One more Thomas!” baring dimples while poking the air with his Lincoln Log-sized finger.
9. Outdoor chores—pool duty, weed hell, fountain scrubbing, shrub trimming, flower watering, curse-word bellowing. Your choice: A clean inside or a clean outside. I don't go both ways.
10. Fear of neighbors hearing me shriek at the kids when the windows are open. Just kidding. I'd NEVER do that. That's the crazy lady down the street, making a jackhole of herself. Nooooho-ho-ha-ha-ha. Never moi, silly!**
11. The neighbor's cats plucking our screen door, clamoring for vittles. Dudes, the restaurant is CLOSED! No more mooching from momster! (See #8. Wimpy left the premises.)
12. Sweat. It's my body crying.
13. Swimsuit shopping with new stretch marks. Thank you polyhydramnios! You should be pleased with your award for most fluid ever when Stinker was in utero. My ob/gyns were floored. And the floor in my delivery room—soaked.
14. Corn chip feet. Pass the dip, people! As in, dip those dogs in some bubble bath! Unless you want hungry cats, randy foxes and a chubby little groundhog licking your toes.

*Next up: what to love about sumsum.

**Psssst, Fox! We'll call it even. No charge for the shed.

Stay-at-home vs. working moms—still a battle or just a crappy sandwich?

The debate between working and stay-at-home moms seems to have gone the way of cloth diapers vs. disposables. It still exists, but diplomacy has (thankfully) quelled the attacks, throwing sand on the fire instead of in each other's eyes—at least when no one is looking. I'm no fool to think it's gone completely, mostly for two reasons—the grass is-always-greener factor and that pesky thing called our insecurity.

As a stay-at-home mom who once worked while Stinker and Boss were in day care, I've seen both sides of the picket fence. As expected, each has pros and cons, with new information popping up regularly to validate or worry moms like me. Recently, for instance, I read that children in day care are significantly less likely to fall behind in language development than stay-at-home kids, thanks to more socializing with peers. Day care kids also get sick more often, but the trade-off is a more robust immune system once they're skipping off to the school bus.

Happily, I've seen enough information on the benefits of working with or without a paycheck (i.e., employed vs. at home with tots) to not fret much one way or the other. And often, there's no choice in the matter. Some stay-at-home moms who want to work can't find a job in this economy to save their sanity. Others would give their right ovary to chuck the briefcase out of the minivan and be home with the kids.

I did once think the latter was the dream life and, don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to have this chance to bond more with the boys after the Big Layoff—especially after struggling to have kids for six crazy years. But as I posted on Facebook today for 3 minutes before deleting my whine: “Some days are hell, with no pretty little hand basket in sight.” It was nothing too out-of-the ordinary, either: Boss left the screen door open and the cat escaped, then he frolicked in a stagnant fountain, ingesting brackish water and delicious mosquito eggs. Next, he mastered the gate latch in the yard, practiced the general art of fits and defiance, and tormented Stinker A LOT—causing Stinker to shriek A LOT. Oh, and also, I ate four doughnuts.

I wished I was back in the office editing articles about radiology equipment and hunting down docs too busy saving lives to get their promised submissions in by deadline. (I mean really.)

But truth be told, while life with a 1- and 2-year-old can be exasperating, life at work was challenging, too, with a mile-long to-do list, never-ending stress and 4 a.m. insomnia routinely knocking on my pillow. Yep, both pastures have their dandelions—no surprise there.

The thing that does surprise me a little is when people tell me, now that I'm unemployed, that being home is better. Not saying it is or isn't (again, pros and cons), but wouldn't they be a tad embarrassed if I went back to work tomorrow? It's like telling a ditched spouse that she's better off without her husband, only to see them smooching in the driveway a month later. (Foot and egg sandwich, anyone?) I learned that lesson in 7^th grade, when boyfriends lasted four days on average, and circles of friends all dated each other.

Honestly, though, most people mean well. Of course, some are just chomping on that sandwich, oblivious to the egg and toenails decorating their beards and eyebrows. But hey, no worries—that's why we have mirrors and napkins. And more importantly, a sense of humor. Because toenails in eyebrows? All you can do is laugh.

Penis Envy and Playing Favorites

I'm not sure whether it's a blessing or a curse to be the favorite parent. Oh wait—sure I do; the correct answer is curse. To which I add: “Bahahahahaha!” That's the prize of being loved best, Hubbo!

I don't let it hurt my ego (much) that my husband has been Boss' favorite since almost the beginning. At least I had the edge during my maternity leave when Boss and I were home all day together for three months, taking walks, nuzzling and becoming bosom buddies, so to speak. In fact, I may have kept the lead even longer since I nursed for eight months. And let's not forget pumping, whipping out the udders twice a day at my desk, e-mailing single-handed while holding those cozy plastic funnels in place. True, Boss didn't know about that, although I did my best to tell him via a few loud nursery songs and stick figure diagrams.

Anyway, whatever status I had as tops faded fast when I got pregnant with Stinker. The fertility docs banned me from picking Boss up for three long months, and told me to limit heavy lifting until Stinker arrived. While I threw in extra cuddles and only cheated as needed (which was a lot; I mean c'mon—not pick up my kid?), Hubbo ramped up his parenting duty. He was already very hands-on, and Boss lapped up the added dad time like an eager little puppy. I didn't sulk or pout—any more than any normal stressed-out, bloated pregnant lady would have. Ahem.

Once Stinker joined our family, I was nursing again and, well, Hubbo and Boss may as well have been immersed in poker games, Fantasy Football and testicle scratching with all the male bonding going on. But for each sliver of my envy, I was a thousand times more grateful. After giving birth, it was a rough stretch with Stinker—he was losing weight, crying nonstop, and the effects of his shoulder dystocia (he got stuck coming out) weren't clear. Without dad, I would have tripped over my own toenails and limped back to the hospital to check MYSELF in. On purpose!

That's the back story. The current story is: During the weekdays, Boss, Stinker and I enjoy our own brand of bonding—blowing bubbles, playing tug-o-towel, reading books, licking sandy Popsicles, enduring time-outs, grocery shopping, finding a “venture” outside the house, and searching for other fun stuff to fill our time. Life is like a lollipop—wonderfully sweet (candy in mouth), and only rarely a sticky mess (candy in hair).

Then come nights and weekends when it's DAD time! Because DADDY's home. Marcia! Marcia! Marcia! I mean, DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!

I say that with a grin, though, as it also means break time for momster! Who cares if Boss's first words every SINGLE morning are: “Where's Daddy?” I get to snicker at Hubbo when I try putting “Bob the Builder” on, and Boss yells, “No, DADDY have ma-mote!” Or I try pushing the stroller, and he shouts: “DADDY do it!” During dinner, it's Hubbo's “yap” he wants to sit on, not mine. (Tee hee hee.) And tonight when I tried horning in on tuck-in time, I got blasted out of the room with some mattress kicking and a, “Noooo, DADDY tickle back!”

Oh, fine, fine, fine, my sweet little nutball. I'll take the extra “me” time quite happily. Because when I hear you inadvertently call Hubbo “Mommy,” which happens to be about three or more times a day, I know where I really stand.