Crack Mommy

Mary Cassatt, Child's Bath, 1893, Art Institute of Chicago

Some of you might have noticed that while I am, in fact, a parent, I haven't blogged very often about the kittens. It's not that I'm not tempted, and perhaps I will in the future, but after spending the whole day (choose one, or mix and match): 

• using dried lasagna to create a racetrack for Matchboxes,
• pretending that the artificial flower aisle at Walmarts or Michael's is a magical garden,
• cleaning the vat of A&D ointment that found it's way onto the walls and forms into clumps around the dollhouse furniture, 
• reading to them about art, mythology, opera and ancient history then enduring the blank stares of the public school teachers that don't know what to do with a child with such eccentric interests,
• cleaning the clumps of expensive lavender hand soap that have been gauged out by a phillips head screwdriver,
• doing the voices for various stuffed animals (which sometimes turns into a double conversation when I, Mumma, am talking to them) or conversing with my little kitten's squeaky sounding feet which she's named Susan (oh, and one hand is also Susan, but the other one is Inchy-Binchy Sfider), 
• being the prince for Cinderella and working out a killer dance routine for their closing number,
  
• doing pilates with a pretty little lump of almost 40 pounds on top of me, and then allowing the workout to degenerate into a circus routine that rivals Cirque du Soleil (sort of like Xtreme flying angel),
• turning up the volume on the B52's, Sublime or the GoGos and having a raucous dance party with two girls and hoping like heck the 7 yr. old doesn't notice the f-bomb in What I Got,
• and, of course, using the yoga mat to transform aforementioned screwdriver/diaper ointment technician into a mermaid,

I'm eager for some grown-up subject matter. If that need strikes me before the day is over then that probably means it's a Crack Mommy day. Crack Mommy is a term my sister came up with to describe less than perfect parenting. This was uproariously funny when we were obsessive first time moms, but now I have evolved into a true Crack Mommy. It's not that I actually do crack...so far, but I have learned to embrace my inner Crack Mommy self. Dinner is a perfect opportunity. When I announce we're going to do Crack Mommy Dinner, my girls now know to scream "yayyyyy!" and run into the tv room. They usually get to pick from cold cereal and baby carrots or surprise plates (with buttered bread, raw veggies and fruit). Unfortunately the term has degenerated a bit in our home, so it's evolved into "crack dinner" or sometimes Mr. Kitty will come home and ask "Are we doing crack tonight?" This has not been a problem so far and I think my youngest thinks it's actually Quack Mommy, but I'm bracing myself for the day that DCYF shows up on my doorstep after some well-meaning adult asks my 7 yr. old daughter what her mom gave her for dinner.

Here's my youngest kitten in St. Peter's Square in Rome last Christmas. Her sister loved seeing the opera and learning about Augustus and she just wanted to chase "chickens" and eat gelato. Let's give her the Bloggy name of Mopsy (unless I've already mentioned it in true Crack Mommy form). She's now about to turn three. Inspired by uber-wordsmiths Kat and Cynthia, here's an entry from my journal about her from last year:

You are glittering flickering movement,

You are a verb,

You are a delicious glow,

That feeds and warms those who surround you,

Curly, funny, grinning joy of a person,

My miracle child.