Mommy Power, Activate! … Activate! … Uh …

Mr. Embee maimed himself making me happy. He’s a good man.

The Mr. arranged for my family to come over for a birthday picnic. This was after making sure Sally provided the requisite homemade birthday card, a present I wanted, and dutifully singing happy birthday to me over cake. It was very sweet and proof that in a mere 6.5 years, you too can train your husband to remember a calendar date and plan ahead for it. I’m going to have my technique patented.

Anyway, so he planned this picnic and was making his delicious guacamole. I was packing the picnic basket when I heard the knife drop and a sharp sucking in of air. I knew right then what had happened. I looked up. Another thing about living with someone for 6.5 years: You know by mere changes in electrons around them when things are serious. I don’t remember what was said but it was enough to alarm Sally, who climbed halfway up the stairs and stayed there. That’s where she goes when things are serious, like the time she realized our library system discriminates against the illiterate or when I tell her that No, her suitcase cannot ‘live’ in the family room in the event that she needs to travel suddenly.

Shhh . . . it's watching us. Photo: Muffet/Flickr

Whenever the Mr. released pressure from his right index finger, it bled. So like a good techie, he tells me to get online and figure out when a person needs stitches. A few minutes later it becomes clear — I’m going to need to view the wound. I’m not worried. I’m a mom. My mommy power makes me invincible — no silly scratch is going to freak me out.

Um . . . Turns out mommy power doesn’t work so well when we’re not dealing with our own children. Everyone in the house was pretty calm until Super Mom here yelled “HOLY COW, Go to the emergency room NOW! OH MY GOD! That is HORRIBLE! That will NEVER heal!”

Two stitches. It’s healing fine. But it will probably leave a scar and he’ll never forget my birthday. That’s right, patented techniques, baby.

It’s My Party, and I’ll Die if I Want To

Photo: timeless/iStockphoto

I turn 33 this week. So let’s talk about death, shall we?

I’m not personally worried about death. Many of my friends and family — in fact, all the ones born prior to 1977 — are older than me. But Sally, who affectionately told me that when I was 33 I’d “get even bigger!” thinks death is wild.

I don’t remember exactly how the fascination started, but it’s not uncommon for kids her age to ask about death. She asks questions about it in the middle of a TV show, or in the car, or during dinner. So we’ve had discussions that I am woefully unprepared for about how people die, whether I know anyone who has died, why they died, if we can come back after we die, whether the pineapple on her dish is dead, if she could die in the bathtub, if she can kill the spider herself . . . just . . . normal stuff . . . right? After many discussions, I’m enlisting the help of some books. Why? I’ll show you why. Here are the rules of death, according to Sally:

* We die when we are old and sick. Or when we fall off trees. Or when Mommy forgets to water us.
* People can be reincarnated, but if you are not nice, you might come back as an annoying fly. Very Eastern Religion of her.
* Heaven sounds great but is unlikely. Much like this newly introduced concept of stores that sell only candy. Definitely too good to be true.
* If you fall into the pool without wearing your swimmies and without an adult around, you might die. Wait, you might (enlarge eyes to point of popping out of head) DIIIIEEE.
* Killing bugs might be incredibly awesome and fulfilling, but Mommy won’t allow it because going from enjoying insect murder to becoming a serial killer is just not that big a leap.
* Mommy will kill her own child if she gets a tattoo or drops out of school.
* Turning 4 will be fantastic, except that then one is closer to death.
* Mommy is not old enough to die. But she’s getting closer. Much, much closer.

Happy Birthday to My Blog

June 28: Mom-Colored Glasses turns 1 today. Isn’t it cute? I love how it toddles around eating crumbs off the floor.

But seriously, the blog started a year ago today, and we’ve come a long way, baby. From my entire audience looking suspiciously genetically related to having loyal readers I’ve NEVER MET. You’re all making my wildest dreams come true. Except the part where Matt Damon knocks on my door and hands me a multi-million dollar movie deal and his undying love. Can someone get cracking on that? Still, in one year we’ve covered a lot of parenting ground. And on my blogging birthday I’d like to do what any 1-year-old would do: drool all over my cake while my parents reminisce about the year gone by. . . .

I ask you to join me on a trip town memory lane. FYI, all the images link to the posts they reference, in case you’re obsessed with me and want to relive the year. Okay, here we go . . . (insert ’80s sitcom cop-out episode effect where they transition to snipits of old episodes with wavy lines — doodle-doodle-doo, doodle-doodle-doo, doodle-doodle-doo)

It all started when I said "I don't want to clean. I wish I had a hobby." And Mr. Embee in his infinite wisdom said "Stop whining and start that blog you always talk about." And I thought, "Hey, I'm good at whining. I should start a blog!" And Mr. Embee said "I divorce you" three times but it didn't work.

My first post was about how Sally and I get into homicidal arguments when it's hot out. My mom liked it. So did my dad. Mr. Embee was happy because he got to play video games for an hour while I wrote it.

My relationship with bugs has been well-documented. I hate them. They hate me. May the best organism win.

You've watched Sally grow from a 2 3/4-year-old to a 3 3/4-year-old. This growth involved A. LOT. OF. DRAMA.

I asked you all to send out skinny vibes before my college reunion. You failed me.

I was going to count how many posts mentioned boobs, but that would take forever. It's a lot.

And don't forget the time I said motherhood was the No. 1 most stressful job in America. Bajillions of people read that and started World War III. Pretty much the most fun day of my life.

Ah, good times. And I didn’t even include the ones where Sally painted swear words at daycare or became fascinated with bodily noises. This post is my 78th. You’ve contributed 581 superior comments. And there have been 22,788 hits in exactly one year. It’s just the beginning, folks. I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve for year two. Like getting the blog potty trained and off the boob. Awh jeez, there’s another reference. See what I mean?

Thanks for reading.

Birthdays Cut to the Bone

This is one of Sally’s birthday presents. It is one of the Disney Fairies. They did NOT advertise the razor sharp plastic remnants she was still trapped in after 10 minutes of work to free her. That’s what we call a bonus. Here you go, Sally–oops, don’t cut through the screen door with it, sweetie!

In case you haven’t purchased, oh I don’t know, ANYTHING in the past decade, this is how many toys and other products are now packaged. As I tried to release poor Silvermist, Sally helpfully increased the tension by chanting “You can do it, Mommy! Get her out, get her out!”

Sally’s birthday was just a few days ago, and Mr. Embee and I are both fortunate we didn’t require stitches after opening all the plastic packaging. Seriously, you want to protect international borders? May I suggest encasing your nation in a plastic clamshell. I used to think I couldn’t get into them very easily because I’m not an engineer. But then I married an engineer and he’s no good at it either–though he isn’t as likely as I am to pitch the entire package against a wall. Last Christmas I bought the hubster a gadget that is supposed to cut right into clamshells, helping you to maintain a healthy blood pressure and thereby adding five years to your life. When I got to the check-out stand at Target I whipped out my health insurance card, sure that they’d cover this bit of preventative medicine.

Turns out the thing DOES cut through the plastic, but then you’re left trying to wedge your hand in between two transparent swords to reach your stupid wrench set or whatever. I could see my husband’s obituary: “He died unexpectedly when he accidentally slit his wrists while assembling Calico Critters products on Christmas morning.” So we don’t use it all that often.

Everyone has had to make their way through this garbage to get at the product they’ve purchased, but when you have a child salivating over you, DYING to play with their new dump truck (which is taped, twist-tied and vacuum packed as if we were transporting the Hope diamond) it’s . . . well, it’s just that much worse.

Luckily we have two months to let our cuticles heal before we have to break the Christmas toys out of their form-fitting pope mobiles. But this birthday served as a good reminder: I’m asking Santa for liquor in our stockings to take the edge off.