Disgruntled Mom

There are so many cyclical events in my life–and they all seem to involve the almighty dollar. Either I’m shelling out the cash or involved in some scheme to reel it in on behalf of some entity. Right now, we are in the middle of Little League season. Since Day 1 of practice I’ve had my eye keenly tuned to the group of parents in the stands, huddled together against the bipolar Colorado spring weather (tanning one day then ass freezing cold the next). I’ve been waiting for the day she would make herself known. You know who I mean: the Team Mom. The over-eager, ultra-organized, Delegator-type who has over-the-top ideas about all the great things we, as parents, should accomplish for our team. Not only does she have all of these crazy-assed schemes ideas, but she comes with charts and graphs about who has been assigned to do what, and when it’s to be done. Every day we went to practice, and every day she didn’t rear her head. Then I realized maybe, in order to throw off the parents who were avoiding the Team Mom/Delegator they had enlisted a Team Dad. And so, I waited.  No dad. No team snack lists. No overly decorated four-wheeler tractor/parade float plans. Could it be? No fund-raising? No parental responsibility (beyond delivering the players to the game and yelling at the umpire, of course)?

Don’t get me wrong, I know that all of these activities my kids are involved in require funding. I just don’t understand why so many people think its easier to bake two dozen damn cupcakes and take my kids out to peddle them at the feet of all the un-registered offenders  in town than to just hand over the cash.

And then, four games into the season, just when I thought we were home free, Coach announces that he has a list of dates that our team has to help run the concession stand and we have to send three parent volunteers–and for the record, they use the word volunteer incorrectly, they are actually referring to parent draftees–to work for 2 1/2 hours. So there I am, in a group of parents and facing the coach, what else could I do? I picked the first night and sent The Hubbin’ off  to sling soda and snacks for an evening. So, don’t ever let it be said that I won’t do my part and sacrifice for the kids.

I (so, so, so) frequently find myself in the position where I think I am about to congratulate one of my spawn on a job well done, only to find out that their boisterous claims are really about something that’s going to make me  go all Linda Blair on them. I try not to make that jump– from smiling, pleasant Stepford mom to head turning, pea puking, demon– too quickly.  Don’t want to frighten the little buggers!

This morning The Oldest came into the room, bragging about how he’d just broken his all time world record.

“You did?” I asked, with true enthusiasm, as I imagined some wad of gum that I didn’t know about that had been chewed in secret every night for 62 days, or a some other Guinness-worthy record breaker.

“Yeah,” he responded, so proud and excited. “I broke my teeth brushing record.”

Now, there are a few times, as a seasoned veteran at this whole parenting thing, when you catch whiff of something stinky. Ironically, just last night, that thing I caught whiff of, was The Oldest’s breath. That little puzzle piece paired with this new claim set me onto a path I didn’t really want to get to the end of.

“What teeth brushing record is that, son?” Like I don’t already know where this is headed.

“Umm,” he starts, realizing he may have painted himself into a corner he isn’t equipped to escape from, “the record about how long I (muffled mumble) brushed my teeth.”

“How long you what?” Innocently, but again, like I don’t know what he’s suddenly decided was a bad idea to come bragging to me about.

“About how long I (muffled mumble) brushed my teeth.”

“How long since you have brushed your teeth, or haven’t?”

“Haven’t”

–cue the jump to pea-puking demon

For the record, because I know some of you really want to know, the record stands at 10 days!!!

One of the great things about Christmas is that there are still people out there who will save a kid the torture of an ugly sweater, a foreign-language biopic that “he’ll learn to appreciate later in life”, or a festively wrapped summer sausage and will just give ca$h! This year, with those kinds of people in our lineage, my kids cleaned up!
Now, considering that today is a full five days after the celebration for the blessed birth of the baby Jesus, my kids couldn’t stand to let that money go unspent for even one more day.
After a simple act of bribery on my behalf (“if you want to go spend your money, you need to get your rooms and bathroom cleaned,”– having that carrot to dangle is a little Christmas miracle for mommy) we headed through the snowstorm to the mall (or the “galleria” as The Middle has taken to calling it in preparation, I assume for his big move to California where he will become a pro skateboarder and share trick tips with Tony Hawk and Ryan Sheckler over a 6 pack of McNuggets!).
The Oldest and The Middle have two distinctly different buying styles. The Oldest takes for-ev-er to decide what he wants to buy. Then, he is struck with buyers remorse, before he’s even left the aisle! He changes his mind 10 times before leaving he store–sometimes without having bought anything at all! The Middle, on the other hand, is a swirling tempest of untapped buying power. Each selection he makes is followed with the question, “Now how much do I have left to spend?”. He won’t stop until every penny has been sent out into the world to do it’s part to help stimulate the economy.
So, after having spent most of his money at the alter of XBox, The Middle went in search of some toy that would wrap up his little spending spree. What he walked away with would, in the marketing and retail placement world, be described as a “game”. My stomach rolled a little as I realized that I had, indeed , played this game, and another very similar version, myself. This game consists of a cup and a couple of ping pong balls. The goal, if you haven’t guessed this already, is to bounce the ball onto the table and have it land in the cup (yes, some of us used to play that game with quarters…hmmm, now what was the name of that game? Oh, yeah! Quarters!).
Initially I was a little concerned that my son is getting such an early introduction to drinking games. Then I remembered how the games where played. It’s the person who lands the ball/quarter in the cup who gets to make the rules (remember the thumbs rule?) and ultimately takes the fewest shots. The best player is really the most sober kid at the party! I’m actually preparing my son for a more successful college experience and I owe it all to some product development guy at Hasbro (who, quite honestly is probably some 20 year old intern who stayed up late playing beer pong or quarters the night before the big “new product brainstorming session” and could think of nothing else to offer as an idea). Now, I need to find a way to “borrow” the new “toy” for the next wine & cheese Beerfest I’m throwing in our kitchen.

A kid can go far in life with a mom who'll let him get a faux-hawk & teach him drinking games...right?

Certainly every parent out there has laughed at one of their children being tortured, right? No? Just me? Well, to make matters worse, not only am I laughing at the torture being inflicted upon The Oldest, I am also the proud mother of the perp, or as I like to call him: The Middle.

To set the story up there are a few things you need to know about my two oldest boys. The Oldest has wanted to be a soldier since he was two years old. He lives & breathes the military and his ambitions have been unwavering. He shows a deep reverence for all things military & still has the letters from his soldier pen pal and a plastic bag that his soldier’s wife gave him that had pencils & other military themed objects. I cannot stress how obsessive serious this boy is about his future in the armed services. Now, as devoted as The Oldest is to all things military, The Middle is just as steadfast in his ambitions to continuously fuck with his older brother.

The Oldest went in to shower this evening. Being very careful about one of his most precious items, dog tags actually engraved with his name (imagine Gollum stroking the ring while cooing, “My Precious…” and you get the idea), he closed the drain & put the tags in the sink.

Feeling a shift in the universal balance between the good and evil–and finding an unlocked door– The Middle made his way into the bathroom, discovered the cherished item and made off with it.

Here is how I came into the story: I had just finished the dishes when I heard a funny noise. click-click, click-click, click-click. I went back and forth from the kitchen to the living room. click-click, click-click, click-click. It was then that I noticed the dog following me…

Notice the appropriately placed "Dog Tags" hanging from her neck?

I immediately knew who the perpetrator was and called him into the room to chastise him. “You know how mad he’s going to be,” I told him. To which The Middle responded, “I know. When he asks where his dog tags are I’m just gonna tell him ‘I don’t know, did you check the dog?’” At that moment my heart swelled with a very conflicted sort of pride. And I knew that, although I should use that moment to make him more aware of how his actions, even in jest, can affect another person, it just wasn’t in my heart. This was too damn funny!

(…and before you send me a shocked nasty-gram about this: The Oldest thought it was damn funny too!)

I awoke to a beautiful site today. I opened the blinds of the kitchen window to find my new back yard covered in snow.

There was a time in my life when I hated snow. I believe that time closely correlates with the time in my life that I realized that being “treated like an adult” required me to get my ass out of bed and be to work. Yes, even if 8 inches of packed, white, cold powder covered every road in town, I was expected to be there & ready for work at 6 am.

As I’ve grown older I’ve reconciled my feelings about snow with other things that are important to me. Christmas, for instance. I am semi-fanatical about really love the Christmas holiday season. From the minute the Thanksgiving Turkey is wolfed down until the Christmas decorations are put away in March I am filled with holiday spirit. And, recognizing that snow is a very important part of that time has helped be become more tolerant of, and even learn to enjoy, the snow.

And so, when I found the world outside of door covered in snow this morning I was at peace. Christmas carols filled my head and I gave a silent nod, welcoming the true arrival of Father Winter. I woke the Oldest and the Middle, excitedly telling them about the snow. And then set about to make their breakfast so they could go off to school with…wait…school. Snow. Cold. “Oh, shit!,” I yelled, “We don’t have winter coats for the kids!”

Now, in my defense, the weather in western Colorado is a little unpredictable. A clear, 65-degree day can be followed by the worst snow storm in centuries, which will be followed by a week of 65-degree days. We had barely broken out the light jackets so winter coats hadn’t really entered our minds yet…and that’s partially due to my slacker tendencies.

So, there I am, rummaging through the closet to find a matching pair of shoes for my own feet, while shucking my coffee-stained T-shirt for a more appropriate “public” shirt.

“Gotta run to WalMart. Snowing. Need coats. Kids eating breakfast. Love you.” I called to The Hubbin as I hurdled two dogs and rushed out the door.

As I stood there, in an almost empty super center, holding three coats, three hats and three pairs I gloves–and faced the post-retiree cashier who knowingly appraised my purchases and sized up my parenting skills in one glance–I had to hand it to Sam Walton and his chain store posse. Years ago they recognized parenting trends across the US, postulated that a time would come when parents could need any number of items at 5 am, and they built 24 hour SuperCenters within 30 minutes of every American home. And, from this underachieving mom I’ve got to say, God bless them for that!