Faux Pas Friday

When I first started blogging, I participated in something that happened on Fridays. But I can't remember what and I'm really too lazy to go back and check. Anyway, I don't come across as many blog carnivals as I used to, but I find that specific topics (ie True Confession Tuesday) help me blog more consistently. I'm the kind of person who needs boundaries and goals. I would have a much cleaner house, for example, if someone were grading me on it.

Anyway, recently I realized that, along with a svelte figure and sleep, motherhood has robbed me of my social skills. I have no emotional intelligence - in fact, I can barely remember to ask people how they are. It's not that I don't care, it's just that I'm trying to keep from ripping my hair out. That takes up most of what's left of my brainpower. Consequently, I make a lot of  les faux pas. And you know the way I handle embarrassment is by blogging about it.

Faux 1

A hot morning. Preschool is over for the year (more on that later). Hot Guy has the car. I need to go to the bank and the library and entertain my kids. So I have the genius idea that we'll walk on all of these errands, with a side trip to the Dunkin Donuts for a munchkin bribe. The bank is not that far, but between pushing a 25 pound kid, 40 pounds of books and the heat, I am a sweaty mess by the time we get there. And of course it's annoying and the baby starts screaming to get out of the stroller halfway through. Fortunately, the air-conditioned mecca of sugar is next door. I assume it will be fairly empty at this time of the morning, but naturally it is crowded so by the time I get the sugar and my diet Pepsi I am already flustered. I can barely get through with the stroller and the big table in the back is blocked by 2 standing women. They are talking to a woman at another table, and don't seem to notice us. So I squeeze the kids in next to the seated woman. When she turns around, I apologize and say pointedly, "There was no other room." She smiles and says hi to my kids, tells the daughter on her lap to do the same. I stand and chug my diet Pepsi and stifle ChunkMonkey's "Out!OUt!" yells with glazed munchkins. The woman asks me if we've walked there and I nod and wonder why she keeps talking to me. She seems surprised that I'm not really talking back. But I'm hot and all I want is for her to leave so I can sit.

It's not until after she's left that I realize she lives down the street from us. Our children have played together in the cul-de-sac. I used to know her name.

Oops.

Exercise Is Bad For Me

You know how when you're home alone with your first baby, you find yourself talking to him/her about everything? It's like you finally have a legitimate excuse to talk to yourself out loud. I also used to talk to my cats, but talking to a baby Ironflower somehow felt more appropriate. I mean, all the baby books said to do it. So I did. But I didn't just say things about her cute little toes or how yummy the cereal was. Oh no, I talked to her about everything. Same thing with Lovebug, although there was more child appropriate talk that included toddler Ironflower.

This might be why my children are extraordinarily verbal. Of course, their verbosity could also come from whatever gene drove me to discuss my emotional well-being with my eight month olds. Anyway. . .

ChunkyMonkey has mostly been spared my rambling. His siblings talk too much to allow me my monologues and when I am alone with the poor kid I generally just want silence. However, since the big kids started camp last week I've actually had hours alone with the baby.

Mostly, we've been walking. It seems to distract him from teething pain and I find it preferable to cleaning my house. Anyway, on our walks through deserted neighborhoods I've taken to talking to him. About stuff that has nothing to do with his chubby cheeks and kissable toes. Usually he just falls asleep.

Naturally he was asleep this morning as I ranted about some things that were annoying me. Which would have been fine, if a horrified woman had not popped up from her flower beds as I was passing by. Even though I'd been talking in a low voice, she'd heard every bitchy word I'd said. To my innocent baby. The look she gave me would have been more appropriate if she'd seen me sticking needles into him. Then she . . . . BACKED AWAY from me, clutching her gardening implements. Like I was a crazy person.

So then I started wondering, AM I a crazy person? Or does everyone talk to their babies about their problems?