It’s raining outside. Like, pouring. We have a storm front coming through. My babies are napping. It’s quiet in the house except for the sound of rain and CNN. (Whoa! Looks like they could use this rain in Southern California.) The skies were ominous when I went to Target and then to pick up Charlotte from preschool today. I snagged a Disney Princess and Sofia The First paint set from the $1 bin. Just $2 for rainy afternoon entertainment? I’ll take it!

I stripped her down and let her paint, explaining that “Paint is only for big kids!” She was delighted. I’m working on being more “in the moment” with my kids. I left her clothes on the floor and the bags and the door. I stopped everything and and painted with her for a bit. It lasted through painting Sofia’s purple dress when Henry piped up.

I went to change him to find an epic poop explosion. I’m talking liquid stool dripping down his leg. He needed a bath but, I remembered the storm. I heard my mother’s voice in my head, “You can’t take a bath during a thunderstorm! You’ll get electrocuted!” But, I couldn’t leave my baby like this. The crap was settling in between his leg rolls. Oh, and I left the wipes I had just bought at Target in the car. That’ll teach me to be “in the moment.”

I looked outside. It hadn’t actually thundered that I had heard, just rain. I said, “Charlotte, keep painting, I’ll be right back. I need to wash Henry.” I said anti-electrocution prayers as I shuffled my sticky little shit nugget upstairs. Okay, no lightning, no thunder. We’d be okay. I didn’t submerge him. I put him in his little bath seat and just poured water on him. I kept him away from the faucet as if lightning would shoot through it and kill us all. I think I saw that in a movie once. I prayed more as I quickly scrubbed him. It was a terrifying 2 or 3 minutes.

He was dry and clean. I took him down for his lunch. We have just started solids and he got to try squash today. I wanted to feed him right when we got home, but I was all “in the moment.” So, naturally this happened moments after I bathed him:

I went to the car and got the wipes. I wasn’t going to go to the trouble and risk death by electrified bath water for the second time in one afternoon. I still haven’t heard any thunder or seen any lightning, so I keep telling myself the threat was minimal and I’m not a careless  endangerment to my child. I look forward to the squash poop I’ll get to clean tomorrow, hopefully without shocking anyone.

Charlotte’s princess love runs deep. That’s typical for a 3 1/2 year-old girl. But, a new love has taken us by surprise. Love? Obsession? Call it what you will, but a new cartoon has become a huge part our lives. Actress Lily Tomlin’s voice fills our house and pipes out of my iPad everyday. Little Richard’s catchy theme song haunts my dreams. I sing his tune in the car and in the kitchen.

I hear, “Mama, do you want to play Magic School Bus?!” All. Day. Long.

For the uninitiated, “The Magic School Bus” is an animated series that originally aired on PBS in the mid to late nineties. It was based on a series of Scholastic books. It ran in syndication for awhile in the early 2000’s. All of this happened way after I was into children’s programming. I have Netflix and my step-brother, a well-meaning millennial uncle, to thank for introducing my daughter to this show.

Apparently Ms. Tomlin won a Daytime Emmy for her starring role as Ms. Frizzle. Ha! She’s got nothing on me. I play the role of Ms. Frizzle constantly. From the moment I am out of bed, through baby brother diaper changes, in the preschool carpool line, while I’m answering emails and even when I’m on the commode, I am Ms. Frizzle.

I hear, “Ms. Crizzle?! Ms. Crizzle?!” through the bathroom door. I say, “Yes, Ralphie?” You see, Ralphie is her favorite of the gang. I’m not sure why. He strikes me as the chubby slacker with his cap on backwards, but apparently she digs that. I then need to think of some adventure for this group of ethnically diverse tweens while incorporating elementary science education. Biology? Physics? Physiology? Climatology? Pick a concentration. I’m pretty proud of our trip “inside a flower” the other day. Without getting all “birds and bees” I successfully drove the bus through a flower, pointing out pollen, nectar, the stamen, the pistol, stem, roots etc. I should find my fifth grade teacher on Facebook and thank her.

I feel really guilty, but I must confess I’m getting pretty sick of it. It’s exhausting. I even suggested we play “Frozen” the other day for the millionth time, simply for a change of pace. Playing “Frozen used to be easy until Elsa froze something and the Magic School Bus slid on ice. I had to explain salt melts ice, not acts of true love. Charlotte knows that I am utterly repulsed by the episode where the bus gets into Ralphie’s bloodstream through the scab on his knee under his Band Aid. So, she loves to discuss that one. Gag. Some of the books we found at the library are over her head at age 3, so she focuses on the kids and their relationships.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE that she loves this show about science. It’s a really good show. It’s very educational.  I hear your argument, “Amy, we need to promote science and math to our girls!!!! STEM!!!! What is wrong with you?!?” I get that, but having to act it out all day is wearing me down. I don’t want to squelch her enthusiasm, but sometimes I need a break from driving the bus.

But, then she says, “Mama, my white blood cells attack the inflection!!!” ::sigh:: That bit of learning alone makes pretending to drive a bus through a scabby knee less gross. So, I’ll see you tomorrow on the bus, fighting “inflections” and doing my part for STEM education.

There are looks only we get to see as mothers. The looks on the faces of our children. It starts with milk dribbles down their chins with sleepy, smiley eyes as they peek around our breasts or their bottle. They meet our gazes and grin between suckles.

Only we get to see the adoring eyes from a stumbling toddler when they say, “Mama!” Those sparkling, drooling smiles are for their mamas.

Their looks of horror after scraping a knee or hearing a loud noise are scary, indeed. But, they are faces that show that only you will do, mom. Only you.

I love the excited face, the face after you are reunited with your child after a few hours or days. The face of joy that we see and we can’t help but scoop up our babes, relieved they are back in our arms.

Enjoy the looks. Those faces make life better and they are for us, alone. Happy Mother’s Day.

Since being home, my wardrobe has gone to shit. When I was working full-time I may have rocked a low ponytail too often. It did have a side part to look “professional.” Let’s be honest, it was just in a low ponytail because it was dirty, but I was dressed for work. I had on clothes that weren’t yoga pants. Now I frequently squeeze into these spandex running capri things because that’s what the other moms wear when they sweat it out with me and our screaming children in strollers.

So, yesterday I was psyched to wear a dress for the preschool Mother’s Day Tea. I had every intention to dry my hair and wear it down, but the road to low ponytails is paved with good intentions. The first dress I tried on was way too short. I was worried I would flash my vag to the three-year-old’s if I had to sit in those tiny chairs, so I opted for one a little longer. Well, I ended up being a tad too scandalous for the kids, but didn’t know it.

You see, Henry slept through the night Monday night! Woop woop! He has only done that a handful of times. My husband says I rejected his advances when I rolled over in deep, blissful sleep yesterday morning. I have no recollection of this shunning. I slept until 7:00 am! It was glorious and everything I thought it could be. Greyson woke up with Charlotte, so I could sleep. This meant that when I did wake up my boobs were like ZOMG, full of milk! I fed him, dressed the kids and decided on this purple dress.

I packed my pump in the car with everything else to pump while I drive. That’s my thing. Vehicular milk expression. But, I was wearing a dress. Blerg. Well, it was only an hour, forget it. I figured I’d be alright. I didn’t pump. I was a little lopsided since he ate on one side, but I’d be okay. Right?!

The tea was adorable! We got flowers in pots the kids had painted. Oh, God a flower! I kill anything in potting soil. I really hoped to keep this little flower alive.

I got to hear my girl sing her class songs in her pretty dress. I was able to squat down by the tiny tables in a ladylike way to take a selfie.

But again, I suck at selfies. My friend Clare caught me taking forever to take a selfie.

After the tea I got back to the car and something happened that hasn’t happened in MONTHS. My overflowing boobs leaked on my dress. I also forgot my nursing pads/nipple covers so I was straight up nippin’ out of the dress. I was so full my cleavage was busting out of the top. Yep, nips and cleavage at the preschool in the Baptist church.

Then, as if the pump was throwing itself in my face to prove a point, I was forced to slam on breaks leaving the tea. The pump slid and knocked my flowerpot, sending dirt all over the car.

So the preschool tea gave me a physics lesson I already knew. If your boobs are too full, they will overflow. I guess that’s really biology, but you know what I mean. The other biology lesson? If there is a plant, even a precious one given to me by a child, I will kill it. That’ll teach me to try to wear a dress. Today I’m back in my shitty wardrobe.  Spandex with a low ponytail and proud of it!

You know those moments when you can’t believe something so ridiculous is happening to you at that time? You know the ones. They make your face look like this:

I’ve gotten better at controlling my face in recent years. I think it was all the crazy I interviewed as a TV news reporter going on only a few hours of sleep. The crazy trained me to control my face.

Three things lately made me make this face.

1. I was rushing to get both children out of the car and into the double stroller for my workout class. If you recall, I’m really trying to properly utilize the SAHM time by making sure I’m exercising. Plus, I’m paying for it, so let’s get this booty poppin’. Anyway, I was unloading the copious amount of crap that I haul around on a daily basis when I opened the passenger side door. That’s when I heard it fall.

One of Henry’s fancy $9 bottles rolled out of the car and hit the pavement. I knew it would roll. It was like slow motion. It rolled and spun like the basketball at the end of an after school special where a young teen overcame adversity to make the winning shot for the team. It spun right into the damn sewer! Of course it had a personalized bottle band wrapped around it too. Lord forbid my kids have anything without their names on it. Charlotte was very concerned that bugs would get on his bottle, not knowing it was gone forever. I was just glad I still had milk in the pump bottles and not in the sewer bottle. I made the face.

2. I came downstairs one morning after Greyson had already been up with Charlotte. I knew we were short on groceries, but I figured he fed her. Oh, he fed her. I glanced at the plate and thought it was peanut butter and jelly on a hamburger bun. I cringed. Not an ideal breakfast, but I had not been to the store. I only had myself to blame. Turns out, I had him to blame. I asked Charlotte what she ate. “Ketchup sandwich!”

He fed her ketchup on a hamburger bun for breakfast when I knew good and well there were some eggs in the fridge.  I made the face.

3. After one of Charlotte’s extracurricular classes recently, a visiting grandparent was chatting with the instructor. This overzealous southern woman explained to the instructor that she was from a small town. She told the teacher how wonderful it is that children in our city have opportunities like this class. The kind teacher smiled and said that she was from a small town in Michigan and understood.

Let me add here that the grandmother is white and the teacher is black. I feel I need to say that to give a frame of reference for the turn the conversation then took.

The grandmother looked at the instructor and said, “I’m originally from Mississippi. You know, my daughter was born at Jefferson Davis Memorial Hospital.”

The face! The FACE! I could tell the gracious instructor was trying not to make it too. Why, oh why would this woman feel she needed to add the tidbit about the hospital named after the Confederate general?! I can only assume that is  what this woman came up with because she doesn’t see many black people. I guess that’s what she came up with instead of blurting “I’m white, you’re black!”

That face had a little more to it:

Please note that Jefferson Davis Memorial Hospital has been Natchez Regional Medical Center since 1993.