Disgruntled Mom

Obesity in America, The Halloween Factor

November 2, 2009 in Other Sticks Up My A$$ | Leave a comment

Let me preface this post by stating that I am in no way in the picture of healthy living and healthy bodies. I could keep Jillian Michaels and Bob Harper tied up for years, trying to get my ass in good enough shape to run a lap around a track in less that a day and a half. But I have noticed a disturbing trend, that even fat people have to admit, must be stopped. It happens every year, on Halloween night, and if you’re in tune to your surroundings you may notice it.

Now, Halloween is only the beginning of the landslide into holiday dietary purgatory (or, “binge-and-purgitory” as I like to call it). It marks the beginning of a three month Bacchanalian celebration of chocolate, food and wine. It is the worst time in the world to be on a diet. But, even if you have fallen off that wagon and thrown healthy eating to the wind for the season, there are certain standards that must be upheld.

The problem that I am trying to bring to light, so that we can all discuss it, and heal, and move on, is the habit that people have fallen into of driving behind their children on Halloween night. That’s right, door to door, your precious little cherub runs, ringing doorbells and yelling, “Trick-or-Treat!” And door to door, you follow in the car like a stalker waiting and watching for the opportunity to snatch that innocent lamb right off the street.

First of all, it’s annoying to those of us who are walking with our children. We have to be extra cautious of our own children because the neighborhood has been inundated with cars following kids. There are more cars on Halloween in the subdivisions than any other time of year! We’re constantly on edge, wondering if that car is following that kid–or our kid–to snatch them? Also, the headlights and exhaust fumes are just obnoxious to have to deal with in the middle of all that “fresh air” we thought we’d be getting.

Most importantly though, and this goes back to the idea of standards, if you are going to go out, begging for candy (and you know you’ll be eating your fair share so it becomes your responsibility as well!), get your fat ass out there and walk around the neighborhood while your kid does the begging, just like all the rest of us fat asses are doing!

Why I Love Hockey

October 29, 2009 in Sentimental Stirrings | Leave a comment

I am not one to watch televised sports. I like sports ok, I just can’t sit and watch them on television. If I’m going to watch a sport, I want to have each and every one of my senses assaulted during each and every minute of the game. I want my ears to ring from the noise level. I want my stomach churning from the combination of arena hot dogs with sauerkraut and onions, beer and too much cotton candy. I want my eyes to twitch from trying to follow the game, the big ass tv and the antics of the crowd all around me at once. I want my nose to sting from the bitter smell of peanuts, beer and the vomit on the floor at the feet of the 20-somethings two rows down. I want my hips to scream from the pressure of the stadium seats that press against them while the seat bottom presses behind my knees and slowly cuts off the circulation intended for my feet (really, folks would it be too hard to make bigger seats? If I was built like an athlete, I’d be out on the field with the athletes instead of sitting on my ass trying to balance beer and hotdogs on my belly!).

There is one sport, though that I even love on television. That sport is hockey. Now, I’m not going to try and pass myself off as the ultimate authority on hockey. I have a very rudimentary knowledge of the game, at best. The teams go back & forth across the ice trying to get the puck in their opponents net—got it! My fascination with the game is not so much about the beauty of the game as it is a much more Middle School-type of interest. The fact is: if there is going to be a fight, I’ll show up to watch. And, I just can’t get enough laughs out of some of the sentences that the word “puck” comes up in. Who can get enough of hearing the commentators tell us that the team needs to “get the puck out of the zone”, or “get the puck away from the goalie”? And my personal favorite is when a puck becomes airborne. Who doesn’t want to hear an old guy in a suit talk about “a flying puck”? Oh, the fun we have on hockey night.

Oh, and by the way, Go Avs!! And for those who aren’t Avs fans…take a flying puck!

Back to Bitching!

October 27, 2009 in Uncategorized | 2 comments

I’m back!

I decided it was finally time to put an end to my online “vacation”. The fact is, I’m no more well-rested, peaceful or pleasant to be around than I was several months ago, so why keep all this euphoria to myself?

What have I been up to for all these months? (OK, it’s only been 4 months, but in my mind it has seemed like an eternity to my two regular readers). I’ve done some traveling, both for work and for pleasure. I’ve been to some awesome places and some that you can’t find on any formal map (as a matter of fact, the only maps some of these places are on are the hand-drawn napkin maps provided to me by the good folks at the middle of nowhere Conoco stations throughout the world!). Never in my life did I think that getting directions would include the words “turn at the big weed by the old fence post that’s still standing”, but you don’t know relief until you dodge that last mud-filled rut and almost run over that post!

I was also happy to go to some civilized locations. Phoenix (although I don’t recommend that in July–just sayin’!); Washington; Montana; Portland, OR; Sand Point, Idaho; Denver; and New Orleans (how the hell do you people live with that humidity??).

I spent some quality time with my kids, of course. The whole summer. Three entire months. All day, every day. Yep. Just me and the kids. As you can imagine, the sales for Sunshine Wheat had a dramatic increase during the summer. I think I also single-handedly financed grape harvesting for the next three years at Carlson Vineyards (gotta give a shout out for Laughing Cat Riesling!!).

I did suffer from one devastating event since I last posted. I had another f***ing birthday. Good God, why don’t they ever stop? I was quite clear that I would NOT keep doing that shit past the age of 33 and yet they just keep coming. Like that girl who keeps knocking on my door every 3 weeks trying to share Bible passages with me and invite me to church. I keep saying, “No”, but they just keep coming. I stop answering the door, and they keep coming. I get all liquored up and pass out naked on the front lawn (with a shotgun!), and they keep coming. Eh! It’s so irritating. And I try my hardest to fight off aging. I exfolliate and moisturize and avoid smiling or showing any joy to avoid wrinkling my face (alright, and because I’m just completely incapable of expressing any joy!). Now, the one thing I want out of life, the one thing that will make me happy more pleasant is being denied to me by The Hubbin’. I mean, really, what does it matter if Botox freezes my face? I’m not gonna be smiling anyway, am I? I’m just going to continue looking at everyone with the same neutral expression I’ve been using for the past ten years, the one that doesn’t convey complete disgust with every person I come into contact with. It’s a little Botox. What else am I gonna ask for? A sewing machine? (LOL, oh, crap, I think I peed myself a little at the thought of that!)

So, yes. I’m still the same miserable, crabby, sarcastic, slacker mom I was 4 months ago. And I won’t be keeping my misery to myself any more!

What To Do?

June 17, 2009 in Parenting (Or a Lack Thereof) | 2 comments

My boys have been working on cleaning their room. Well, I wouldn’t really say they’re working on it because working implies that there is some degree of progress being made. And there has been NO progress. Not in two days. That’s right, I told them that they would have no tv or video games until they cleaned their room. That was five days ago. Then I told them that they were going to stay in their room until it was clean (coming out for meals and bathroom breaks, of course). That was Monday evening. It is now Wednesday afternoon and they have made NO progress.

The next weapon in my arsenal was to threaten them with the items they love so dearly. I told them that if they didn’t start making some progress I would come in and begin to relieve them of some of the clutter myself. Beginning with the DVD player. And still they made NO progress.

Armed with a trash bag I stormed into their room to capture my next vicitim in this viscious and unconscionable battle. As I rounded the corner I found my two oldest boys, not cleaning (which I totally knew) but sitting on the bed reading. Now, a part of my mind (the really tiny rational part) thought “Well, at least they’re reading”. But the bitchy, I-told-you-to-do-something-and-you-better-get-it-done-now, part of my brain (the great big throbbing, swollen part) didn’t give a shit what they were doing because the fact is, they were told to get their room clean–not read a book!

And then I heard what The Oldest was reading out loud as The Middle leaned attentively over his shoulder. “And God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.” That’s right. My kids were busy screwing around…reading The Bible.

So, what do I do? I’m kind of an asshole if I punish my kids for reading The Bible when there are so many more pressing issues for them to deal with, like locating the source of the smells wafting from their room. And, I’ve never been terribly involved in my religion (beyond having one and knowing what to do if I ever find myself in Mass with no viable exit strategy) but even I know that I can be subjected to some very bad karma if I mess with the good book. So, I decided to compromise. To make the punishment so miniscule that it would hardly matter, but would still matter a little to the people who have just turned my furious rampage into a slow steam. I grabbed a toy soldier, one of the Barbie-doll sized ones with articulating joints. Only this one has no lower legs and only one hand. And, he’s naked. And neutered. So he really had a lot going against him anyway. I’m pretty sure he’s an unfortunate victim of the Underground Escape Network . He either was injured trying to make a break for it, got caught up with the wrong group of escapees, or was captured by the wardens boys trying to escape and was hobbled. Either way, he was forced to make the sacrifice for the rest of the platoon–which, incidentally, is still laying in the mounds of crap on the bedroom floor of two kids who are working very hard at making NO progress.

Don’t Be Afraid of Spiders. There Are So Many More Terrible Things.

June 11, 2009 in Destroyer of All Things Good and Pure | 2 comments

Here is one of those conversations that, when you’re in the middle of it, it seems like you are leading it into a good and positive place. And then you get to the end and realize how terribly wrong it all went and that you may be single-handedly responsible for further damaging your child’s psyche (if you really want to).

I was watching The Middle and The Baby through the window. The Middle had a Tee set up and was teaching The Baby how to hit the ball. It was one of those moments that you just know you have to get on film but you also know that if you are seen they will stop and the moment will be lost forever. I grabbed my video camera and headed to the one window that I knew had both a great view and a screen that had detached from the corner of the frame. I slid the window open and recorded for a minute or two before being detected. Both boys came over to the window and The Baby reached his pudgy little hand up into the window frame. The Middle jumped back a foot, a mortified look on his face.
“He’s touching a spider web,” he yelled.
“It’s not a spider web,” I said, trying to quell the rising panic and future trauma of having witnessed someone actually touch a spider web.
“What is it then?”
I thought fast, looking for an answer that would seem less threatening. “It’s just a cobweb.” (That’s right, I have ripped screens and cobwebs….judge me)
“What’s a cobweb?”
“It’s nothing, “ I tried to brush it off, “just a dusty…thing.” (Really, the kid is 6 and has lived in my house every year since his birth, he should know what a cobweb is by now!).

A while later he asks, “What’s a cob?”
“What?” (By then I had forgotten about that whole conversation)
“What’s a cob?”
As I realized what he was talking about, I saw a golden opportunity to create my own legacy. A child-hood memory that my children could pass on to their children detailing the little known fable of the great and evil Cob. A creature so hideous, with yellow eyes and pointed teeth, that he is forced to hide in the corners of rooms and windows and under beds awaiting the nights when he is finally free to wander, feeding on anything left laying in his path. His one hope is that some night a child will have left a pile of clothing, toys or books high enough so that he can reach the bedding and pull himself up to the top of the bed. Once there he only needs to feed off the finger of a sleeping child and he will grow to the size of an elephant and will then rule the world. Just one finger is all he needs…

The story grew quickly in my head and tickled my tongue, wanting to be verbalized. And my mind, just as quickly began weighing the pros and cons of what I was about to say. A mental slide show raced through my head with images of me soothing The Middle from nightmares night after night after night. My mind also factored in the distribution of information, meaning that The Oldest would inevitably hear the story of the great and terrible Cob and he would also be up with nightmares every night. And that kid doesn’t need any more to fuel to fire his fears.

I‘m not proud to admit that I wrestled with my decision, and that both choices were equally tempting and I could imagine either decision warming my heart a little.

“Mom. What’s a cob?”
“There is no such thing as a cob, son.” There, I’d done it. I made the right choice. I was free from the temptation. No more stories growing in my mind, begging to be verbailized.
“Then, what makes a cobweb?”
ARRGH….

How I Ended Up On House Arrest

June 6, 2009 in Other Sticks Up My A$$ | 2 comments

There was a time in my life when I considered myself soo responsible. I was responsible for getting myself to work, to school and to the gym on a regular basis. I was responsible for paying the rent on the Party Palace in a timely manner, assuring said party den had adequate electricity, was cleaned and that I had an amazing outfit to wear to any soiree that came up anywhere in town. At the time I considered myself a damn responsible person.

Now I realize that I was just blowing smoke up my own ass. I didn’t know a damn thing about real responsibility and how it comes back to bite you on the ass every once in a while. I had no idea that the time would come when I was responsible for the actions of every living creature that I have housed for a period longer than one nightmarish weekend. Not only am I held accountable for those creature’s every action, I am also judged by them. If my offspring drops an f-bomb in the recess line, it reflects on me. One of my children scribbles graffiti on the bathroom wall during a party at his martial arts studio– my status drops (it doesn’t help that the budding criminal is stupid enough to graffiti HIS OWN NAME!). I have absorbed the scrutiny of the world innumerable times in the few short years since I first unleashed my urchins on the world. Each time I have soundly swallowed my pride and attempted to make amends. And now…well…this time I’m essentially on house arrest for 10 days and I’m pissed.

This is the point at which I need to introduce you to another member of my family. The little bastard, I’ll just call him Li’l Bastard, came into our family about a year ago. Well, he didn’t really come into our lives so much as we went looking for him (a fact that hasn’t escaped me). Since that time he has worked diligently to diminish both my shoe collection and the value of our home.

Recently Li’l Bastard has been going AWOL every time we leave the house. In general, he’s just been a neighborhood nuisance, jumping the fence, running around visiting people and helping lost shoes find a new home. He is a very gentle dog; he wrestles with the kids but has never hurt one of them so I was mainly worried about his safety.

I spent $250 on a wireless fence system thinking it would be a quick fix since The Hubbin was out of town. I spent 2 days trying to get the perimeter of the wireless “boundary” figured out and putting up the white flags so the dog would know where the boundary was. The boundary seemed to move on an hourly basis, letting him through one minute and shocking him 5 feet before the marker the next. I boxed it up and took it back to the store to exchange it for an in-ground, “Stubborn Dog” version.

After my purchase I went to dinner at my sister-in-laws. After I had stuffed myself with a particularly good enchilada casserole I got a call from my neighbor. Li’l Bastard had gotten out—several times—and was now being housed in his garage. That wasn’t the end of the story. It seems as though Li’l Bastard bit someone who was jogging past our house (not that that urge has never occurred to me) and Animal Control had been called. The neighbor assured the dog cop that Li’l Bastard was up-to-date on his vaccinations so he wasn’t hauled off to the pound.

I had to contact Animal Control the next day, a dog cop was sent to my house and I showed proof of his license and vaccinations. Then she dropped the bomb. The damn dog is under quarantine for 10 days (in case he was exposed to rabies while running around). At the end of those 10 days I have a mandatory court date and will have to pay fines and restitution. Li’l Bastard isn’t allowed out of the house except for a potty furlough and isn’t allowed to leave the property. I can’t leave him in the garage because it’s too hot and he would destroy the house if I left him in. So, I am essentially stuck at home with a one-year-old boxer who is dangling from the curtains because he can’t go out and play.

I will accept the fines, even though he is The Hubbin’s dog and I will forever hold this over his head, but when did it become my responsibility to do the time for someone else’s crime? Responsibility sucks.

(And…for those of you who don’t know…if you’re running and a dog chases you…STOP RUNNING!!!)

The Felon on Furlough...and Looking For a Jogger

I’ll Always Blame the Monkey

June 2, 2009 in Destroyer of All Things Good and Pure | 4 comments

It’s that time of year again. The flowers are blooming, summer is just days away, and somewhere in America, some asinine music teacher decides that one more program has to be thrust onto every unsuspecting parent who has a second grader within her grasp. Oh yes the Spring Musical. We gather with our smartly dressed families, charge the batteries of our cameras and check to be sure that we have plenty of memory/film/tape to record every excruciating screech sweet melody. Mostly though, we are hoping that our camera is running when that one asshole parent does something humiliating. Well, ladies and gentlemen, this year, I was the asshole.

This year’s performance was scheduled for a Thursday evening. Now, since The Hubbin’ works out of town, he not only misses all of these m Brody with the monkey emorable events, he’s also absolved of any guilt when things go terribly wrong, as they so often do when I take my wretched cherubs out in public. Since I didn’t have my second-string available, I called in my support troops (mommy, S-I-L, and da’Niece). The Middle had a baseball game and was firmly entrusted to another family member. So, there I sit, in the elementary school cafeteria, with my ass drooping over the sides of a really, really…really tiny chair (I mean really, with the obesity problem in America it isn’t more economical for a school on a shoe-string budget to buy some big-kid chairs for the times when all the fat-ass families are invited, rather than to keep replacing the really, really, really tiny chairs?). I’m feeling pretty good; the numbers are on my side. One kid on the stage (and he’s really the music teacher’s responsibility at this point) and one little 19-month-old in the audience, surrounded by three adults and a teenager; Yep, all my bases are covered. For those who know the story about the death of rule #37 I even have The Baby in his distance-limiting apparatus (because saying “leash” just sounds white-trash).

The Three Piggy Opera was fairly well received. The kids are doing their best to carry a tune be mindful of both the tone and composition of each piece. The Oldest, who seems to know on a cellular level any time a camera is pointed in his direction, has his smile-sing-wave-repeat routine down to a science. The parents and grandparents are being very courteous to each other, taking turns crouching in the aisle of the first row to get those blessed snapshots while squatting amid the collection of toddlers and pre-K siblings who are sitting on the floor. My second row seat is the best in the house to see my pride and joy, and also to serve as the scene of what’s about to go down.

The son of one my mommy friends joins the crowd of kids in the first row. The Baby sees his friend and wants to join him. I have the tail of his monkey “backpack” and plenty room so I let him join the group. He was literally an arms length away. No worries.

Here is where the universe began to unfold its diabolical plot to humiliate me in front of all those judgmental parental units who were there to worship at the alter of their offspring (I’m not casting stones, just saying…if it hadn’t been me, I would’ve been JUST as judgmental!).

So, within nanoseconds, a grandpa steps over the monkey tail with his first leg, almost tripping. I let the tail fall to the ground because The Baby is sitting and I don’t want to be known as the deranged mom who broke a grandpa’s hip. As the tail hits the ground and grandpa kneels over the pre-K brigade in the aisle to get his precious snapshot, The Baby, sensing a new degree of freedom, stands. I lunge for the monkey tail as he takes his first unrestrained steps towards the stage. Grandpa shifts back off of his arthritic knee onto the other, blocking my path. I will my arms to stretch like Mr. Fantastic, just enough to grab the tail of my eloping toddler. I’m balanced on one leg, reaching desperately forward with my gigantic ass in the face of the second row (and all the rows behind them) and my saggy, post-breast feeding jugs hanging over a traumatized 4th grader in the first row. Finally (and I think just to get my breasts off of her cheek) the girl in the first row reaches out and grabs the tail of the escaping monkey. And she just holds it, still completely out of my reach. “Just give it a little pull,” I tell her (hopefully that’s the last time she’ll comply with a request phrased just that way). She hesitantly pulls against the rabid monkey who is lunging toward house of straw where the little piggies are holed up and the wolf is preparing to huff and puff. I manage to slip my fingers into the loop of the tail as he lunges again. I give a back and up yank and pull him off his feet and up into my grasp. He is writhing, of course and the instant I get him pulled to my body, I loose my balance and bump into grandpa, right as I hear the click of his camera. Or, more accurately the click of that perfectly composed photo going to crap.

At this point there is nothing left to do but to take my writhing, screeching toddler and leave the room. And I will always blame that damn monkey!

How Far Can You Go With A Blanket and a Slim-Jim?

May 7, 2009 in Parenting (Or a Lack Thereof) | 5 comments

I’ve been waiting for the day it would happen. In my mind, the day has evolved a number of different ways. It has been a happy moment in which my heart was filled with pride and joyful tears poured from my eyes. It has been a surprise, maybe born from frustration and impulsiveness in which my stomach sunk and I felt as though my heart had been pried from my chest. It has also been a last straw. When fury and defeat have conspired to make a decision that I never thought I’d make, to issue an ultimatum that would be met with the same hostility with which it was delivered. Never, in any of the times that I imagined this day, did I think it would come so soon. But, yesterday, at seven years of age (seven years and 345 days to be exact), The Oldest decided to move out.

It started as a typical Wednesday. Well, a typical Wednesday when school is out for the rest of the week for parent-teacher conferences and my kids are hanging out in their underwear enjoying the first lazy day they’ve had in months. Anyway…at about 10:30 The Oldest and The Middle decided that they’d like to play video games. The rules are: no video games on school days (damn it, they’ve got me on that one) and not until after noon (I still have some time to get what I want out of them). So, I told them that–and they’ve heard this before–if they want to play video games, they need to get their room clean. The first 5-10 minutes went fairly smoothly, minimal snide comments and arguing. Then The Oldest went into his wanting-to-control-the-world shit, and started yelling at The Middle for ridiculous shit, you know, like how he’s breathing (we’ve all been there, right?). The arguing escalated and The Oldest smacked The Middle on the head, The Middle started screaming and chaos ensued. I confronted The Oldest, told him that it isn’t up to him to control what other people do and that he isn’t allowed to hit people just because he gets pissed off. I said my bit and left the room for them to continue their cleaning.

Ten minutes later The Oldest comes out of the room dragging a blanket with a pile of clothes in the middle of it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m moving out”
“Oh.” (I mean really, how do you respond to your seven year-old dropping that kind of bombshell?).
He was having some trouble getting the corners of the blanket tied around the pile of clothes.
“Can you help me tie this?”
“No,” I was still a little shell-shocked at what was happening but I had the presence of mind to know that he was taking one of my favorite blankets, there’s no way in hell I’m gonna help.
“I can’t get the corners tied,” he yelled at me.
Well, that put me right back into my usual state of mind. “Maybe you should take less crap, then.” I told him as I walked out of the room.

One minute later I heard the front door slam shut. The pile of clothes were left where they lay and The Middle began crying that he was gonna miss The Oldest. I tried to assuage his grief. “But, you’ll have a room to yourself and you can have the top bunk.” It didn’t work. As I was in the garage, peeking out the window watching The Oldest pace back and forth between the neighbors on each side of us, I saw The Middle run out to the fence. After a brief fence-side chat, The Middle came marching into the house and announced that he was going with The Oldest. He grabbed a Slim-Jim out of the cupboard and walked out the door, leaving me wondering how the hell it had all come this far.

My two little runaways kicked around in the back yard for a while. I think they were discussing their options. The Middle came in at one point and asked if they could take The Baby with them. He wailed when I told him, “No!”

After about 15 minutes I decided to shut the game down. I packed The Baby into the car and backed out of the driveway. Suddenly they were at my window. “No, wait! I changed my mind,” they yelled, climbing into the car. I let them settle in and buckle their seatbelts. “Where are we going?” Excited smiles had replaced the angry scowls of thirty minutes before.

I smiled as I answered. “Next door.”

OK, I know it was kind of bitchy, but the rest of the day was a joyful, quiet one with no arguing or fighting.

My Headache, My Comfort, My Six-Year-Old Boy

April 14, 2009 in Sentimental Stirrings | 4 comments

Today The Middle turned six. He has been both a joy and a pain in the ass since the day he decided to enter my world. And, of course, I say that with love.

He made his appearance three weeks ahead of schedule. It was a Monday. The Hubbin’ had gotten up at 3:00 in the morning and driven over four hours to work. He had just pulled onto the job site and parked his truck when I called him with the news that I was in labor. “Dude,” he told the guy who had ridden with him that week, “wake up, you gotta get out of the truck.” He then made a four-hour drive back home.

The labor was so much easier than it had been with The Oldest. I was sent away from the hospital once. Told to “go walk around”. I took the opportunity to exchange some of the baby shower gifts that I had gotten double of, bought a watch with a seconds hand so I could time my contractions and glided around on a shopping cart for about 40 seconds every two minutes while my miserable ass was seized with the agony of contractions.

Upon my return to the hospital I told the lady at admitting, “I’m back and I’m ready for my epidural.” She giggled. “No. Really.” Something in my eyes told her that I didn’t want to hear any shit about the checkmark on my birth plan next to the box that read “Natural Childbirth”.

Six hours after I went into labor, I held in my arms an amazing little baby who had been almost wiped clean by the nurses (and let me go off on a tangent here, I mean really, they hand you a little baby, still somewhat covered in that white, smudgy stuff, and then every gathers around, their eyes filled with expectation, silently encouraging you to kiss the baby, and therefore the slime—ick!).

The six years since then have been the sweetest, most amazing and utterly aggravating times I can remember. He is at once the biggest cuddler, the sweetest, most considerate, gentle and humorous little boy. That shell also encases the loudest, rudest, most obnoxious, abstinent person. He is a little boy who loves superheroes and still sleeps with the Winnie-the-Pooh that he’s had since he was a baby, and my heart melts. He is also a little boy who loves to use the word “penis” in as many variations as he can during a conversation and yells across the crowded playground at his brother, the “fucking jackass”, and my heart sinks. And, no matter what he’s done, at the end of the day, he snakes his arm around my neck, tells me that he loves me, and I melt.

And, yes, I gave him the damn gift.

In 4 years that Pooh Bear will still be snuggled up to that sweet, curse-word spewing mouth

Yes, son. You do have a lot of balls. Some things haven't changed in the past 3 years.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Muffin!!

An Ultimatum, a Challenge and a Tough Decision

April 13, 2009 in Destroyer of All Things Good and Pure | 2 comments

I have found myself in quite a quandary. Do I relent and take the “boys-will-be-boys” approach and fail to follow through on a threat that I made? Or, do I prove what a cold, callous bitch I can be? Tough call!

This whole dilemma came about because of a very big event that has been brewing in our family. It is something that has been talked about and planned for the past year. This monumental event will be taking place tomorrow. It will be the sixth annual celebration of The Middle’s birth. That’s right, it is a little boy’s birthday and there is drama in the air.

Now, I have to tell you that for the past several weeks said child has been pretty full of himself. You see, he’s going to be six now. That means that he is nearly a man. And, as a man it is his duty to assert himself, speak his mind, claim his territory—oh, and leave his fucking underwear on the floor. This man has failed to remember that he’s had a birthday approaching and that I am the one person who is solely responsible for how glorious– or miserable– that celebration is. (And, yes I have The Hubbin’ who I always confer with, but let’s be honest, I ask his opinion in a way that is more a statement of how things will be with a complimentary question mark at the end)

As the compassionate and loving mommy I am (yeah, I know, I could barely type that without laughing myself) I pay very close attention, throughout the year to the things that my children are excited about and have added to their “I Want It” list. After I discard all of the items, which I deem to be crap, I file the appropriate gift ideas away in my little mental mommy file, to be recalled at the next gift-giving holiday. Let me assure you, I have some great ideas in that file and sadly, many of them are nowhere near being earned by my heathen offspring. This year, I chose some items, which I knew, were both perfect for the interests of my darling son and congruent with his behavior over the past year. OK, that’s bullshit; I just bought him the shit I knew would rock his world!

This afternoon, in the car, The Middle tells The Oldest, “I’m gonna go home and find my birthday presents.” At that point I was both panicked and pissed. Panicked because I have this pattern: I buy the presents in advance and hide them really well; then I bring them in the house and hide them in my bedroom closet until I get around to wrapping them (always at the last minute!). I was pissed because I’ve outdone myself this year. These gifts are the shit and this cockey little asshole can’t even wait 15 hours until his birthday and he’s gonna ruin my glory? “If you do go looking for them,” I told him (and here’s where the Ultimatum comes into play…) “ I will take them back to the store and you won’t get them.” The conversation ended there and was forgotten by all. Or so I thought.

I arrived home exhausted, hungry and carrying a baby in a crap-loaded diaper into the house. While I was in pig wrestling The Baby to get him cleaned and re-diapered, The Middle apparently let himself into my bedroom, and the closet, dug through the “camouflage” pile of clothes, opened the bag and saw his present. He then made a very serious mistake. He ran straight into the dining room and told his brother, the town crier, what he was getting for his birthday. Such a rookie move! Within 25 seconds I knew what happened. And, as I looked into the eyes of that devious spawn from my loins, he gave me a very confidant, and smug sneer (and, that would be the Challenge!). It was then that I knew I had to crush him.
“It’s an awesome present isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said nodding enthusiastically.
“It’s too bad I have to take it back to the store.”
And…cue the crying.

So, now I’m conflicted. Asshole or Princess? Which do I want to be remembered as? Which suits me best?

It’s a tough call.

A Tough Decision.

The Death of Rule #37

April 7, 2009 in The Death of Idealism | 1 comment

As I mentioned before (see the death of rule #178) i used to have lofty thougths of what my life as a parent would be like. My YCS (younger, cooler self) was an idealistic girl who thought she would always be in control. She believed that all it would take to achieve excellence would be to set goals and be consistent in her expectations and behavior. The thing is, that silly little bitch poorly informed young idealist, never considered that the time would come along when she would grow tired. Very, very tired. And that those rules that she envisioned herself upholding, even in the face of monumental opposition, would someday be rationalized away as having been poorly planned in the first place. And so, I give to you…

The Death of Rule #37- I will never put a leash on my toddler

I have to say, for those of you who’ve done it, I’ve always looked at you with contempt. I always thought that to see a toddler in a leash was the absolute in dehumaizing. In my mind the choke chain and quick tug on the leash weren’t far behind (although I do advocate them for teenagers and husbands. Just saying).

Recently we took a family trip to Denver. After being in the car for a few hours, and ending up in a hotel where I strategically rearranged the furniture to prevent his access to certain areas of the room, we strapped that 18-month old back into the car seat and drove to the Downtown Aquarium, took him out of the car seat and strapped him directly into the stroller. Two hours later, I strapped him into the car seat and we drove to a resteraunt, strapped him into a high chair, ate, back to the car, back to the hotel with limited free space to run. And run he did. He must have covered the few square feet he had available to him a hundred times before I placed him in his next area of confinement, the Pack and Play crib.

The next morning went something like this: strapped into the car, the highchair at the restauraunt, the car, the stroller…and as we walked up to the zoo I realized this poor kid has had NO chance to run (but being that the number of carnivorous animals on the property exceeded the number of fleet-footed parents, it wasn’t really an option to just let the little heathen run wild). We set him free a few times (near the slow moving, vegetarian animals), and each time he tried to escape.

I realized that the poor kid needs some independance and that he would have gotten more out of the outing if he had been allowed more exercise. I also realize (yes, it’s selfish, but I never claimed I was otherwise) that he would have been WAY more tired and slept MUCH better if he had had the opportunity to walk the entire way (and maybe I would have gotten lucky in that hotel room–it’s really been a while since a hotel has paid out for me!).

So, I am now keeping an eye out for one of those toddler leashes, the one that looks like an animal backpack with a tail for the leash (that’s right, it’ll look like an animal is humping my toddler and I’m pulling it off by the tail!).

Oh, and while I’ve re-evaluated my stance on keeping a toddler on a leash at zoos and amusement parks, etc. I do still think that if you can’t carry your toddler through a store or mall, your just being a lazy-ass!

Pretty in Pink-Eye

April 4, 2009 in Now That I Can't Rely on My Looks | 1 comment

I came down with an outrageous cold the other day. My sinuses full, my throat scratchy, my head pounding and my eye watering. That’s right. Just the one eye. That should have been a clue.

By the end of that miserable day my sinuses felt like they were clearing but the fluid in my eye was steadily increasing and thickening (you didn’t just eat did you?). I woke up in the morning with this…

Don't look at the wrinkles...just the color of the eye!

What the hell? Am I nine? I get pink eye?

So now I’m on isolation precautions (Let’s face it, I look hideous and I just shouldn’t be seen in public).

Even more troubling…where the hell did those wrinkles come from around my eyes? The crappy skin tone I’ll blame on the early hour, bathroom lighting and poor quality of the cell phone picture. But those wrinkles? When the hell did that happen?

A Thirty-Second Rant From a Computer Neuter

April 2, 2009 in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

That’s right. 30 seconds. Because that is about all the time I have before my damn computer shuts down. It has been doing that randomly. I tried to be optimistic. “It’s just the power cord. It doesn’t seem to be connecting properly. If I just prop it up with a Snickers bar ,a remote control and some tape it’ll stay in place. See, it’s working just..what the f*@! kind of a piece of crap is this. I just hit the damn “Save” button right as this absolute piece of f*@!ing sh*@ shut down again. Oh, son. I didn’t see you standing there. Yes, Mommy was using her naughty words. Yes, I know I just grounded you for that.”

So, yes. I am a computer neuter. (Makes me regret what I did to that dog a month ago!)

I thought I would be fine. I could just use the Hubbin’s computer. Here’s the problem with that philosophy: His computer bites ass is a bit on the obsolete side. It literally takes 17 minutes from the time I hit the Power button until it’s fully operational. Every time I click on a link, it takes a minimum of 53 seconds for the page to load. That thing has been debugged and defrag’ed so many times it barely remembers that it’s a computer and capable of being a highly advanced method of information sharing and retrieval. At this point, I could send the dog after the proper encyclopedic volume and have the information within a comparable time frame. And, while the computer itself doesn’t randomly shut down (it takes 4 minutes and 49 seconds for it to take that leap!) I have found that the word processing program does and so, before I lose my rant, and am forced to polish off that bottle of Vanilla Absolut (well, I say forced, but we all know I’m looking for an excuse, and it is the first Thursday of the only month that ends with the letter “l”, which is a perfectly good reason to have a cocktail!), I will bid you all, adieu!

Sick Day Hell

February 25, 2009 in Uncategorized | 2 comments

The Oldest is home sick. I got that dreaded call from the school yesterday afternoon; “The Oldest has a fever and you need to come pick him up”.

Now, the really selfish, crappy (and dominant) part of my mothering personality kicked in initially. The thought that almost jumped out of my mouth to take its rightful place in the world of That-Which-Must-Not-Be-Verbalized-But-Suddenly-Has was, “what the hell do you mean come and get him? He’s been ok to be there for the past 6 hours, but now with one hour left, he’s too sick to be at school?” Luckily I just shut my mouth and went to pick him up.

The recessive mothering impulse came out and I did make an appointment. He is now on antibiotics but the physician’s assistant said he has to stay home from school for one or two days.

You should know that this is the child that this is the child who caused the untimely death of Rule #178. The child who talks…and talks….and talks…you get my point. He talks ALOT! And now I am at home with him. My blessed hours of quiet relief from the incessent babbling all the delightful conversation are gone. By 7:40 am I was contemplating my first drink. At this rate I’ll be drunk by noon. The Middle has half-day kindergarten, I don’t think it’ll go over well if show up for afternoon pick-up with a cocktail in my hand. Those first kid in school, over-achieving, PTA converts in the pick-up line wouldn’t be impressed. But, my YCS is still alive and thriving in this well-nourished, slightly wrinkling body and she doesn’t give a shit what those bitches think, so…maybe just a single shot of malt whiskey?

Actually, I’ll be ok without the drink. Today, anyway. I’m still flying high from the power of having neutered a male yesterday. It was the dog, but still…there is one fewer set of testicles in my house today because of the actions I took yesterday. Ahhh, I feel centered again.

Dealing With My Children’s Expanding Vocabulary Base

February 21, 2009 in Uncategorized | 3 comments

The second grade is a time in which—I am finding out—children really expand their vocabulary base. They learn new s-words like “satiate” and “sentiment”. New p-words like “perceive” and “pachyderm”. And, now, with the guidance of my dear 7-year-old, The Oldest, the entire second grade has apparently learned a new f-word. That’s right, my son dropped the f-bomb, right there in the morning recess line.
He flat-out told a classmate to keep his f*@%ing hands to himself. I swear I don’t know where he gets the language. True, my first thought when I heard what he said was, “what the fuck was he thinking?” But, in all honesty, I rarely say the word out loud. I actually gave up the f-word for a while (a little nod to Lent one year, and my first effort—albeit a weak one—to prove that I could make the necessary changes to be a good mother). It was several years before I used the word again. Of course, it was inevitable that someone would eventually piss me off enough that the word would come spewing from my mouth like the green vomit from Regan’s in The Exorcist.
Right now, I’m definitely blaming The Hubbin’. If it wasn’t for the fact that his head would explode, leaving me widowed to single-handedly raise three male children, I would love to sing, “I told you so, I told you so, I told you that you wouldn’t be so happy when those words came out of your children’s mouths” (cue the exploding cranium).
Now I find myself thinking back to all the times I heard one of “those” words uttered by my children. There was the time The Oldest called my husband a f***ing jackass (he was 2; I laughed). The time my very religious mother-in-law asked The Middle why he thought a wasp had stung him and he responded, “Because he was pissed off!” (again, I laughed). I’m also recalling my indecision about how to react when The Middle started using the word “damn” at two years of age. True, it was an inappropriate word for a two-year-old to be using, but he was using it appropriately within the context of the sentence.
So, now we are dealing with the results of our shortcomings as parents. Well, a few of our shortcomings. Who could deal with the results of all of them at one time, right?

Well…

Now That I’ve Put My New Years Resolutions Behind Me…

January 28, 2009 in Uncategorized | 1 comment

That’s right. It’s January…wait…what the hell is the date?

Eh-hem…It’s January 28 of the year 2009. It has taken me 28 days to fully embrace, and then abandon, my new years resolutions. The bad news is that I will still be a chunky, grumpy drunk by the end of the year. The good news is that I now have more time to share my misery with all of you!

So as a late update on my holidays, because even though I know nobody gives a damn, they are my kids and they sat still for 3 photos so I am going to share them with the world! (In all fairness, the Baby was strapped into a stroller and confronted with a large animal so there was no way he was going to move).

I have to preface this little slideshow by saying that, in general I am opposed to putting animals on display in environments that aren’t natural to them and exposing them to imposing crowds of unsympathetic gawking crowds. But, for some reason, I still felt compelled to drag my kids to the straw littered linoleum floor of a local store to watch as the holiday creatures attempted to shield their eyes from the harsh flourescent lighting while enduring the excited screams of the human spawn.

Why doesn't he just fly away?

Don't stare into his eyes! He may think your challenging him.

I think it was only a matter of time before this peaceful creature got pissed and spit at someone

Now this picture was taken at one of the most exciting moments of the entire reindeer display. While you’ll see my kids crouched down at the fence getting a good look, right up close and personal, you can’t see all the other kids that crowded around the periphery with their camera’s getting a REALLY good picture of the action! I may have to add this to the potty pics!

That's right...the reindeer took a crap and the crowd gathered 'round to behold the magic of the holiday season

How My Personal Philospohy and Behavior Have Ruined Any Hope For The Future of My Kids. Reason #43

November 22, 2008 in Uncategorized | 4 comments

Yes, I have a negative attitude. Yes, I reject anything that I am “expected” to do. Yes, I avoid traditional mother/wife activities. I take great pride in being a little different, a little edgier. My kids may not know how to bake (and if it’s based on what they learn from me, they may never even understand the concept) but they are learning how to Ollie a skateboard and they have a healthy appreciation for the music of AC/DC.

That said, there are moments when I realize how my mothering style affects my children in subtle, imperceptible ways, but in ways that might inhibit their ability to exist in harmony with the rest of the world. I realize that they are missing some fundamental knowledge about the world, and everday skills that their peers are privy to.

Case in point: I was helping the Oldest with his homework sheet. The lesson was in reading comprehension. Each problem presented a riddle about an object that is held in your hand and can be helpful. Each problem was paired with a partial picture as a hint. The Oldest easily answered most of the problems: a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a fork, etc. He called for help because he had one problem that he just couldn’t figure out. The riddle was “when your shirt has a rip or a tear/my friend thread and I/can do the repair”. Now, if you know anything about me, it’s that I. Don’t. Sew. I actually blogged about some issues I had with my slacker mentality while making Halloween costumes this year. I have long admired the beauty of the iron-on bonding agent for seams and hems but that is where my clothing repair expertise ends. But, I am aware of the concept of sewing. So, the answer was pretty evident (needle!) and I sat down to try and guide the Oldest to that answer. I posed to him several different ways of thinking about it. This was, essentially, how that conversation went:

Me: Do you know when you get a hole or a rip in your clothes?

The Oldest: Yes

Me: Sometimes it can be fixed, right?

The Oldest: (with a skeptical look on his face) Yes

Me: So, to fix the rip you need something to help close up the hole, right.

The Oldest: Oh, yeah

Me: (head nodding in excitement as I see the wheels of comprehension turning) So, to fix the hole, you get out an….?

The Oldest: An iron!!!

Me: (Stunned silent with the awful, horrible truth of the moment and the realization that I caused this blistering lack of awareness as to how things actually work in the world). Or, (gulp!) you, know how Grandma uses thread and a needle?

Crap! So, there you go. My kids don’t even know that if you wind a needle and thread around and around, you can actually mend clothing. Aren’t I so proud of my nontraditional viewpoints now?

Sometimes, When You Pose a Hypothetical Question, The Answer Will Drop From the Skies

November 19, 2008 in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

I admit it. I asked the question.

This summer I was on a kick about a certain reality show that follows a group of rich women and refers to them as “Real Housewives”. I pulled up my soapbox, perched on top of it with my laptop and created a long, rambling post about “The Real Housewives of Middle America”. Before I got too far into my post (3rd paragraph, last sentance) I, rather bitchely, stated that if the lives those women were living were those of “real” housewives, then where the hell was “Wife Swap” when I needed them. Well, today I got my answer.

Right there, in my little ole “in box” is an e-mail from someone at Wife Swap announcing that they are now casting. WTF? How come I’ve suddenly been invited? I can think of only two reasons: 1) Someone at Wife Swap read my post or 2) Someone who knows me thinks my family is fucked up enough to make for good prime-time television. Either way, I can find a positive slant: 1) Yay! Someone is reading my blog (and they have a tv show!) or 2) we’re good enough for prime-time, baby!!

Just for fun, and let’s admit it, I enjoy being a little bitchy, I will share part of the e-mail with you.

The premise of Wife Swap is that one parent from each household swaps places for a week to experience how another family lives. It is an incredible family experience and opportunity to both learn and teach different family values.

Wife Swap is a fascinating story of what happens when two couples see themselves and their partners in a whole new light. The New York Post says, “It should be called ‘Life Swap’ because it’s not just the wives who learn something here. It’s the families.

Doesn’t that sound like a fascinating experience and interesting study in interpersonal and family dynamics? Yeah–if you haven’t seen the show. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’d end up scrubbing pig testicles in a barn while a toothless charmer named Joe Bob lectured me on “women’s work” from the top of a cheap tractor. The unfortunate thing is that my kids would live the rest of their lives with the image of me handing some chauvinistic douche bag his ass on national television. We could discuss it on visiting days at the penitentiary.

Actually, I think I could handle two weeks with just about anyone. Only the first week would be a nightmare, the second week, we play by my rules, bitches! But, in all honestly, there is no way that I would ever allow Wife Swap into my home. It is the same reason that keeps me from calling Super Nanny: I suck at cleaning my house and I can own that behavior but that doesn’t mean I want it broadcast for the world to see. So, no thank you, Wife Swap, I will not be applying.

Wait, they pay money?

Scream Free Parenting Works. For Some People. Apparently.

November 19, 2008 in Parenting (Or a Lack Thereof) | 1 comment

I came across it quite by accident, I assure you. Really, I’m not one of those self-help book, “how can I better myself?” kind of people. If I can’t get better through trial and error, then I’m prone to continue in the same, dysfunctional life patterns that have carried me through this far. It isn’t an honorable way to go through life but the apathy comforts me. In my perception, there is something insincere in most self-help books. First, it isn’t really self-help if someone else is telling you how to do it. Second, if the author of the book or developer of the program were really interested in helping people better themselves, they would just put the information out there instead of making us spend $30 for the hardcover, or wait a year to spend $15 for the paperback.
So, there I stood in my local library looking at the books on CD section. Again, way outside of my normal pattern because I don’t listen to audio books. Primarily because the only place I could listen to one is in the car, and secondly my ADD-ridden mind tends to drift and I lose huge sections of what was being said forcing me to repeatedly rewind. And, if I’m driving a car, and already not paying attention, do I really need one more thing to distract me from the narrow strip of pavement that I’m maneuvering several thousand pounds metal and combustible fuel across?
With a business trip to the pacific northwest coming up, and a bit of a road trip once I got there to look forward to, I decided to try an audio book (I wouldn’t have the kids with me, which removes one of my distractions, so by adding the CD, I’m still at par on the old distraction tally sheet). As I stepped in front of the metal shelves that hold the audio books my eyes rested on one in particular. Do you know that angelic music that accompanies an “a-ha” moment of divine intervention in most movies? I swear it was like that. Faced with a wall of small square CD cases, my eyes settled on one in particular. Scream Free Parenting. Now, this audio book stood out for a number of reasons. While I don’t scream at my kids, I have been known to get a certain kind of pissed off that leads me to yell. It is a kind of yelling that I know all too well from my own childhood. I know the sound of that yell from a position that stands a little closer to the ground, and a little tighter to the wall than most adults stand. And I hate that yell. Swore I’d never use that yell when I had kids. So, as I stood there that morning, with my throat still a little raw from my latest tirade I wondered if I were being guided by a higher power. I wasn’t really looking for a self-help/parenting book. Fiction was what I was really after, but you can’t really argue with the planets when they line up just right, can you? So, I checked out Scream Free Parenting (as well as a fiction audio book, because a business trip is really like a mini-vacation for work-at-home moms, and who wants to focus on self-help when you only have 30 hours to yourself?).
So, I’ve not only listened to the (entire!) CD, I’ve actually been implementing some of the strategies with my kids. Don’t get me wrong–it isn’t easy. In one week I’ve gnawed a hole through my inner cheek and bitten chunks out of more plastic items than the puppy has (sure is handy to have a puppy to blame that on!). To anyone who doesn’t know better, it must seem like I’ve been stricken with some strange affliction that causes me to breathe deeply with closed eyes before every sentence. I’ve also solved the problem of having spare liquor hanging around the house (notice I didn’t say that I’ve quite drinking, only that there’s no spare liquor around!).
I’ve only yelled once in a very stress-filled week, and it was for a very short-lived period, seconds really. And I patted myself on the back for my reserve. Then I surveyed the battle scene. The Oldest and the Middle dutifully picking up every goddamn toy that I’d just tripped over (after having been threatened several times that if they weren’t picked up they’d be in the trash), looking back over their shoulders at me as they did so, eyes wide and glistening with tears as their lower lips quivering in defeat.
And I was 4 1/2 feet tall again, and I remembered the feel of the wall against my back and how the sound of the yelling reverberated in my ears and rattled every bone in my body. And how small I felt. How very, very small and insignificant. And I realized what an asshole I was to be standing there, patting myself on the back because I’d only yelled once this week. This week.
So, now I’m off to the damn library to find that damn audio book again so that I can listen one more damn time and commit it a bit more to my damn memory. And, while I know how important it is, how critically consequential, I have to admit that it pisses me off to have been showed my ass by self-help (audio!) book.

My Halloween Journey to Self Discovery

November 5, 2008 in Uncategorized | 4 comments

I think I’ve finally recovered. I had to take some time for self-reflection and I think I’ve finally rediscovered my true self (not my YCS…she’s long gone and I still haven’t really dealt with that, which is why I drink, dress and party in a manner that is just sad for someone of my age!). No, I’ve had to reconcile my inner self with my public persona.
I came to a crossroads recently that left me questioning myself. I think that at some point, everyone is faced with that one defining moment when you have to decide where your values really lie and what kind of person you truly want to be. Do you quietly acquiesce as life pushes you into newer, uncomfortable decisions or do you stay the course, remaining steadfast to the path you’ve set for yourself? These are decisions that don’t come easy. Even if you hold tightly to your true course in life, transient thoughts will often invade your mind, making you question everything you’ve ever held dear. And so, I faced this question myself. Do I want to continue to acquire new skills that, were I a traditional female, I should have mastered years ago, or continue on my course as a slacker mom?
Okay, enough with all the soul-searching verbiage. Basically, it was before Halloween and I had a hard time deciding if I wanted to skate by and throw the kids into some crappy, but easy to assemble costumes or show up the other mothers make my kids happy. Well, The Oldest wanted to be Indiana Jones, not too hard, right? The Middle has been practicing his Jedi mind tricks (which means he’s been fucking with my mind a lot lately). The Baby was clueless about the concept, which is a HUGE bonus for me, and yes, I realize that this precious time won’t last long.
After I spent some time considering my options, and the overpriced, poorly constructed, commercial Halloween costumes available in our local chain stores, I decided that even I could come up with a decent costume (and at a considerable savings!). Now, don’t get bent out of shape just yet. I haven’t belied my skills as a mom. I don’t do many most of the things that traditional moms are expected to do. I don’t iron, I barely cook or clean and I don’t sew (oh, and don’t even think about inviting me to your damn scrap booking party because I’d rather hot glue my labia together). Not only do I not sew, my husband once had to buy new shorts because we were about to go on vacation and the button had fallen off of his favorite shorts. Don’t judge me, he could have picked up gone out and bought a needle and thread just as easily as I could have! So, what was it that made me think I could pull off Halloween costumes? Well there is a secret arsenal available to slacker moms like myself. If you are a traditional mom, you may not even know that these things exist, but if you look very closely at the hemlines or cuffs of your children’s classmates you may notice…fabric glue and iron-on adhesive. That’s right, there are moms who use that crap for actual clothing repair and construction. Now, I did mention an iron. However, it doesn’t involve true ironing skills, you simply hold a hot iron against something that melts, and who hasn’t accidentally done that a million times?
So, my Halloween plans were lining up. I bought all of my supplies and carefully planned each step of my creative process. Here’s what I didn’t figure on: making a damn Jedi costume out of iron-on adhesive and fabric glue takes a long damn time. It is too much work to try to slack at! In my darkest, most exhausted moment, as I peeled the dried fabric glue away from my blistered burns, I confessed to my husband, “I never thought I’d say this, but it might have been easier if I had a sewing machine.” He got me another beer to drown out the sound of the unreasonable voices in my head—I love that he knows me so well.
So, next Halloween, no matter how much the kids beg, no matter how much I want to prove that I’m just as crafty as the other moms, I will not subject myself to that kind of torture. I will accept that I am not that mom; I will not pressure myself to conform to unrealistic maternal ideals. I will simply buy extra toilet paper and send everyone damn one of them out as a mummy.

The cause of my breakdown (the costume--not the kid--well, not this time!)

After all the preparation, he forgot his brown leather jacket for the photo shoot! Oh, and it's a fake beard--he isn't a mutant!

The poor child who had to accept that he was just getting ears sewn onto a brown hoodie! He got over it once the M&M's started rolling his way!

The poor child who had to accept that he was just getting ears sewn onto a brown hoodie! He got over it once the M&M's started rolling in

Useless Info I’ve Posted on Twitter

What's with the number of parents who DRIVE while their kids Trick-or-Treat? http://wp.me/phONV-1R 1 week ago
Got up at 5:00 to NaNoWriMo. Also got laundry started, dishes done & baby toy box/room cleaned. Feeling like a REAL housewife *shudder* 1 week ago
NaNoWriMo day #1. Did grocery shopping, nursed a hangover, managed to write 1397 words. Sadly, that blows away last yrs final word count 1 week ago
Am I the only person in town who is willing to humiliate herself by dressing up the day before Halloween? For the kids school parties, btw 1 week ago
Made a slightly average chili for dinner. Topped with a gallon of cheese and crumbled corn muffins it was downright edible 1 week ago