Back in  November ‘02 I cooked dinner for my family of 4… Me, the Hubs, a 3 year old boy and a baby girl. Occasionally I would engage in a phone conversation whilst doing my own carnival tricks (a.k.a. “cooking dinner”). Ahhh, but mostly I cooked and survived “the witching hour(s)“ pretty much in desperation solitude. With either a baby or a chubby 3-year-old eye poker on my maternal hip. My evenings pretty much went as follows:

Stir, fix broken toy, stir, apply band aid to owie, chop, help with stubborn puzzle piece, chop, pull son away from firelplace, stir, wipe brow and count to 10– daddy will be home soon… stir, take knife away from son, fill sippy cup, change diaper, coax the potty-trainer, counting to 100… keep big brother from love-smothering baby sister… pray meat didn’t burn beyond repair, look up child’s nose for meat thermometer (because, yeah, it’s not in on the counter where I left it), give into crying (mom, and both kids) — where the H.E. Doublehockeysticks is Daddy!!!, soothe crying baby, open doors and windows, pray fire detectors will turn off soon, 3 year-old unconvinced that he does NOT have to watch mommy on the potty, wipes down counter, more crying/weeping/gnashing of teeth, … orders pizza, counting to 1000…

*que myocardial infarction* CLEAR!!!! *kachunk* “Beep, beep, beep…”

Fast forward to November ‘08… This is where I integrate the title into my post! I am such a responsible writer. I digress…

It is 6 years later. A lot has changed in my journey as a mom. I have 3 children now (3,6, and 9), but no baby *wipes brow*. I deal with the emotionally exhausting manipulations of a blossoming personality (a.k.a. a 3 year-old); the creative messes of my incomprehensibly scattered 6 year-old (those creatives!); and my “just-like-mom” tightly wound 9 year-old son who, as much as he thinks he’s helping guide his sisters to be better human beings… he is just mothering them to death… and I do that just fine by myself — thankyouverymuch. 

And also there this social media BOOM… blogging, SMS, Twitter/Twhirl, Facebook, Flickr, Picnik (not social media, but certainly a side show of it!)… these are my personal vices in this brave new world. 

And the process of cooking dinner (that “witching hour”) is forever changed. Yes, I still have the 3 year-old insisting she join me as she holds vigil next to me on the potty… and I still *occasionally* have to throw open the doors and windows to get the fire detectors to stop screaming, yet it is different. Take a peek:

Open laptop, melt butter, open can of green beans, plop can of said green beans into a pan… in 11 seconds — the time it took to melt the butter, Twitters/Facebooks “The Great Green Bean  Accomplishment of ‘08″:

“Applause please: just took me 11 seconds to find can opener, open can & pour said can of green beans in pan. Mama is cooking veggies 2NIGHT!”

… mushes meat for meatloaf and stuffs it in pan, listens to 18th 1st-grade level joke in as many minutes, reminds 3 year-old to say “please” and not yell at Mommy, gives in to chocolate milk request so Mommy can peek at email, reads Twitter reply regarding “The Great Green Bean Accomplishment of ‘08″ from @Violettheverbose,

“>clap clap clap clap clap clap<;”,

I laugh and Twitter back,

“*takes a bow* Thank you… thank you… *blowing kisses*”

@Violettheverbose responds:

*whistles*

I laugh some more, butter breadsticks, check on loaf of meat in oven, help son with math, step on a crayon, I peek at a few RSS feeds and find a HILARIOUS video at Momgenerations.com… laugh, vacuum, smash toes with vaccum apparatus — feel like vomiting for a moment for all the pain… I check my Make Me Laugh Monday post to see if anyone else has posted something funny… take video of 3 year-old dancing and singing, because I think I want to start vlogging, check green beans, log on to Picnik to edit this photo:

And I laugh…

Now, let me be clear… I am still moved to tears on occasion, but… Do you see what has happened here? The advent of social media gave me a connection with someone not in my kitchen needing me to do or be or whatnot. Social media gave me an opportunity to share my great accomplishment with others and receive validation for my mad green-bean-makin’-skillz. I am not a complicated woman. I just want “Three Cheers” like any other regular broad. I’m not picky… tell me I’m beautiful, tell me I’m hawt… clap for me when - in 11 seconds - I make sure my family gets veggies with dinner… See. Just a regular red-blooded American woman.

I would also like to thank Target for beginning to sell select food items, such as canned green beans. Without this newest service, veggies would not have been possible last night. Mama was not going to go to TWO stores!!! Like a said, a brave new world…

BTW, you can follow all my “Witching Hour” observations and celebrations on Twitter! My Twitter id is *drumroll* jennyonthespot

!

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• I’d allow MY children to wear a saggy diaper.
• I’d yell at the sweet and innocent fruit of my loin.
• I’d wear socks with flip flops, but only in emergencies…
• I’d wonder if I had birthed the spawn of the devil. 

***The “threes” are the worst. Watch. Your. Back. Mark my words.***

• I’d yell say things like, “No Cocoa Puffs until you finish your donut!”
• I’d need to turn the music DOWN.
• I’d consider dried (but wiped-up) spit-up on my shoulder a sign of “arrival”… importance.
• I’d kiss their heads SO! MUCH! *swoon*

Nor did I ever think…

• I’d really, truly… NEED a drink. A strong drink. A double strong drink.
• I’d have 3. I have 2 arms, 2 legs, 2 eyes, 2 ears, THREE children. 3!!!
• About the fact that little people needed to be taught HOW to make pee-pee and poo-poo in the potty.
• About how many times I would have to CLEAN-UP pee-pee and poo-poo which did not make it into the aforementioned potty.
• I’d talk about pee-pee and poo-poo So. Da*@. Much!
• About the fact that they are not babies/toddlers FOREVER, and one day my oldest son would ask if he could wear deoderant and I would have to smell every brand in the deoderant aisle to make sure I wouldn’t be sending my 9 year-old son to school with sexy smelling armpits.