Commando Mom has spent the last two weeks not shirking responsibilities, but rather, shoveling food day and night into a seemingly bottomless pit that used to be her Commando Kid, but now has apparently graduated to Commando food processor status.
At the same time, it has become Commando Mom’s second profession to perform recon missions to find longer uniform pants and sleeves all day and night, as Commando Kid now looks like ye olde English lad in knickers and white stockings.
If this were Star Trek, he’d be a tribble and would have overrun the city by now with this rampant growth.
But it’s not Star Trek, so simply with holding rations and uniform upgrades doesn’t appear to reign in the overpopulation of Commando in the camp.
Trying not feed him after 6 p.m. proved unnecessarily painful for everyone, and reminded Commando Mom why she’s never liked the Stairmaster. Many recent nights have passed endlessly as Commando Mom trudged up and down the stairs a dozen times or more for cheese sticks, peanut butter, or a fresh leg of zebra, to the commanding refrain of “but I’m still hungry!”
The boy can no longer eat cereal for breakfast—at least two eggs and three links of sausage are required to give him the energy to last the 6-minute drive from home to preschool without starving to death, and by the time he arrives in the classroom, he needs a longer pair of pants again. He arrives at preschool just in the nick of time, in order to eat his second breakfast.
When he arrived home one recent afternoon, Commando Mom asked her Commando Kid why his father had changed him into shorts after school, but then realized the shorts had actually been pants that morning. Underclothing replacements to have been made to prevent future infertility, too.
Child or Incredible Hulk—you decide. All Commando Mom knows is, the buttons are bursting left and right, and the cupboards are bare day and night.
Commando Mom has therefore come to the conclusion that it would be wise to stock a bunker (maybe the spare bedroom or store room at Camp Gustafson, and maybe the garage too) with emergency rations and an industrial strength sewing machine to keep up with the troop’s basic necessities in a few short years—or perhaps, weeks—when he exceeds standard regulation height and stomach depth.
Commando mom will start hoarding scraps of food and material to feed and clothe him after he’s consumed or outgrown everything else in the city.
The other morning, when the Commando Kid woke for reveille to the sound of his own growling stomach, Commando Mom recounted for him his previous day’s snacks.
Not including the typical meals, these included:
2 yogurts,
3 cheese sticks,
6 saltine crackers,
2 packages of fruit snacks,
1 peanut butter sandwich,
half a package of blackberries,
2 banana,
2 handfuls of pretzels,
part of a chocolate bunny,
1 sucker (red),
1 hardboiled egg (blue).
A good laugh was had by all, including the growling tummy, but by the time Commando Mom finished the recounting, he had outgrown another pair of pajamas.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
A Commando Mom Marching Cadence
In honor of National Poetry Month, we present a special marching cadence to carry Commando Moms through those long marches through the house, picking up toys, following behind Commando Kids, or just trying to keep their eyes open after getting up with a growing Commando for snacks, drinks, and potty breaks three times last night.
Commando Mom Marching Cadence
I don’t know but I’ve been told,
Raising kids will make you old.
Commando kids will beat them all,
Driving mommies up the wall.
Gray hairs—one, two,
Gray hairs—three four
Count ’em, one, two, three, four, one, two, three four
Feed them mush, rush them to school,
Commando kids break all the rules.
While that kid’s gone take a nap,
There’ll be no rest when he gets back
Gray hairs—one, two,
Gray hairs—three four
Count ’em, one, two, three, four, three four
Hide the sugar, batten the hatches,
Commando kids will reach the latches.
If you want things done, prepare to fight,
They’ll wage war all through the night
Gray hairs—one, two,
Gray hairs—three four,
Count ’em, one, two, three, four, one, two, three four!
When Commando bedtime’s come and gone,
You’ll find out who’s number one.
Mom picks her battles, she’s no slouch,
Commando Kid’s crashed on the couch.
Gray hairs—one, two,
Gray hairs—three four,
Count ’em, one, two, three, four, one, two, three four!
With a glass of wine in her left hand,
Commando Mom will make her plan.
To catch some winks, get up, and then,
Prepare to do it all again.
Gray hairs—one, two,
Gray hairs—three four,
Count ’em, one, two, three, four, one, two, three four.
Commando Mom Marching Cadence
I don’t know but I’ve been told,
Raising kids will make you old.
Commando kids will beat them all,
Driving mommies up the wall.
Gray hairs—one, two,
Gray hairs—three four
Count ’em, one, two, three, four, one, two, three four
Feed them mush, rush them to school,
Commando kids break all the rules.
While that kid’s gone take a nap,
There’ll be no rest when he gets back
Gray hairs—one, two,
Gray hairs—three four
Count ’em, one, two, three, four, three four
Hide the sugar, batten the hatches,
Commando kids will reach the latches.
If you want things done, prepare to fight,
They’ll wage war all through the night
Gray hairs—one, two,
Gray hairs—three four,
Count ’em, one, two, three, four, one, two, three four!
When Commando bedtime’s come and gone,
You’ll find out who’s number one.
Mom picks her battles, she’s no slouch,
Commando Kid’s crashed on the couch.
Gray hairs—one, two,
Gray hairs—three four,
Count ’em, one, two, three, four, one, two, three four!
With a glass of wine in her left hand,
Commando Mom will make her plan.
To catch some winks, get up, and then,
Prepare to do it all again.
Gray hairs—one, two,
Gray hairs—three four,
Count ’em, one, two, three, four, one, two, three four.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Commando Cold
Despite a Commando Kid’s valiant efforts to outrun everything, sometimes a cold will catch up with him, and his nose will give him a run for his money. Such an occasion will cause grumpiness, barking commands, and extra latrine duty, but the Commando should not worry—Mom will feel better as soon as every single germ is eradicated from base camp.
A Commando’s first line of defense is, of course, to deny any illness. Illness is a serious impediment to doing more and doing it more often. The Commando must execute daily drills like running, jumping, performing aerial acrobatic moves, and building ramps and digging in the yard, not resting in bed and reading books and having "quiet time."
Not only does illness bring such unwanted activity restrictions, but also, because of her zeal to run a healthy ship and avoid the dreaded doctor’s visit, the slightest sniffle causes the Commando Mom to attempt to insert thermometers, weird tasting chewy grape things, and tissues into places where the Commando Kid knows they do not belong.
The Commando shall commence tissue evasion maneuvers immediately, sucking it up, moving the head rapidly from side to side and, if all else fails, wiping the nose on Mom’s sleeve before she can wipe it with the dreaded tissue. For any stray detritus Mom misses, the world is the Commando’s tissue, so long as Mom’s not looking.
To be avoided at all costs: the bulb-style nose sucker. Mom will try to impale the Commando’s nostrils with this device of torture, but the Commando need only cry at the thought of it to render it a useless exercise anyway.
The Commando must also resist oral medications, chewable or liquid, if at all possible, even if they actually taste good. This is a matter of principle more than practicality—the Commando can exert true control over precious little at base camp, except what goes in and what comes out.
When and if the illness can no longer be denied, however, and the Commando is confined to bed duty, he should attempt to view the unwanted restrictions from an opportunity perspective.
For example, Moms are well-known for seriously limiting screen time, but even Mom knows that the best way to distract a fussy Commando so she can continue with at least a few normal duties, is to institute a movie marathon mission or unregulated computer-game time. If she happens to resist, still clinging to the notion that she can avoid the inevitable, the Commando is encouraged to enter full-throttle whine mode, which is made easier by the fact that he feels whiny anyway (but he is not sick!).
It’s also a good time to ask for ice cream, pudding, toys, anything the Commando wants. Illness is about the only time a Mom will wait on a Commando hand and foot in the hopes of keeping him still for more than five minutes to rest.
In the event that this works, the smart Commando will take full advantage, and pretend to feel sick (even though he definitely is not sick!), thereby suspending all regulations regarding bodily functions, table manners, and t.v. limits.
A Commando’s first line of defense is, of course, to deny any illness. Illness is a serious impediment to doing more and doing it more often. The Commando must execute daily drills like running, jumping, performing aerial acrobatic moves, and building ramps and digging in the yard, not resting in bed and reading books and having "quiet time."
Not only does illness bring such unwanted activity restrictions, but also, because of her zeal to run a healthy ship and avoid the dreaded doctor’s visit, the slightest sniffle causes the Commando Mom to attempt to insert thermometers, weird tasting chewy grape things, and tissues into places where the Commando Kid knows they do not belong.
The Commando shall commence tissue evasion maneuvers immediately, sucking it up, moving the head rapidly from side to side and, if all else fails, wiping the nose on Mom’s sleeve before she can wipe it with the dreaded tissue. For any stray detritus Mom misses, the world is the Commando’s tissue, so long as Mom’s not looking.
To be avoided at all costs: the bulb-style nose sucker. Mom will try to impale the Commando’s nostrils with this device of torture, but the Commando need only cry at the thought of it to render it a useless exercise anyway.
The Commando must also resist oral medications, chewable or liquid, if at all possible, even if they actually taste good. This is a matter of principle more than practicality—the Commando can exert true control over precious little at base camp, except what goes in and what comes out.
When and if the illness can no longer be denied, however, and the Commando is confined to bed duty, he should attempt to view the unwanted restrictions from an opportunity perspective.
For example, Moms are well-known for seriously limiting screen time, but even Mom knows that the best way to distract a fussy Commando so she can continue with at least a few normal duties, is to institute a movie marathon mission or unregulated computer-game time. If she happens to resist, still clinging to the notion that she can avoid the inevitable, the Commando is encouraged to enter full-throttle whine mode, which is made easier by the fact that he feels whiny anyway (but he is not sick!).
It’s also a good time to ask for ice cream, pudding, toys, anything the Commando wants. Illness is about the only time a Mom will wait on a Commando hand and foot in the hopes of keeping him still for more than five minutes to rest.
In the event that this works, the smart Commando will take full advantage, and pretend to feel sick (even though he definitely is not sick!), thereby suspending all regulations regarding bodily functions, table manners, and t.v. limits.
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