Disgruntled Mom

Dear School’s, Get The Facts, Then Make the Call!

February 9, 2010 in Parenting (Or a Lack Thereof) | Leave a comment

I got a call from the school attendance supervisor. She was kindly calling to find out if The Oldest was feeling ok today. You know, since he was absent.

The problem was, I had dropped that child off at school, with a hug and a kiss, not even two hours before! I watched him walk around the corner of the school toward his classroom as I do every day.

“He isn’t absent!” I shrieked. “I dropped him off this morning.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding like every person who has ever uttered words then wished for the ability to time travel to a point only minutes before so that they could not be having the conversation they are currently having. “Well, there must be some mistake. Let me check the class room.”

Then she tells me that if I don’t hear back from her, it must all be ok.

“I’d rather you call me back no matter what!” I told her. In my mind, I was watching my boy walk away that morning and wondering how I would survive if my last sight of him had been of the back of his camouflage coat and GI Joe backpack. If she didn’t call back, would it be because she found him, or because “procedure” dictates that she first notify the local & federal authorities, who would then interrogate The Middle about his “home situation”. Would they call the media next? Please don’t let them send that bitchy reporter who talks out of one side of her mouth. Do they interview my family & friends before they inform me? Oh, God, not my facebook friends. At some point, they’ll find the blog. I always knew this damn thing would be used against me at some point. It’s one thing to be a crappy mom; I shouldn’t spend so much time flaunting it to the world! They’ll fixate on me instead of finding my son! Who would believe me? How big do they make prison jump suits? Is there really a volleyball team?

The phone rang just as I was about to go into hysterics. It had been the longest 3 minutes I could remember.

“He’s here,” she said. “I was just talking to him when he was going to the bathroom.”

“Huh!” I replied, with an obvious question on my mind. Suddenly I had a new kind of concern.

“No,” she quickly corrected, “I meant I talked to him in the hall. When he was on the way to the bathroom. I didn’t go in”

I’m just saying—sometimes you need to clarify!

How Heavy Metal Prepared Me For Motherhood

February 1, 2010 in Sentimental Stirrings, Uncategorized | 2 comments

During different times in my life I have come across events that will cause me to lose time. An entire day will literally evaporate around me as if I’ve been in some sort of induced coma. Suddenly I look around me only to realize that the sun has set and the day is gone. Historically those lost days have involved 1) movie marathons, 2) clearance sales and 3) hangovers.

At this point in my life I have found one other thing that can cause a lost day: a sick child. As a parent you listen as your tender babe awakens and you can gauge exactly where that little sniffle is headed. The sniffle becomes a sneeze, which becomes a whimper and then a moan, which leads to crying, which causes coughing fits that inevitably end up with vomiting. And each of those steps will take place: On. My. Lap.

There I sit, for the entire day because, as gratifying and aggravating as it is, I seem to be that which comforts them most. Oh, I’ve tried to introduce stuffed animals and blankets, which could offer the amount of cuddling they need with a much softer temperament. But, no, for some reason they seem drawn to me. And so, I cuddle. For days on end. That’s right, because when you’ve created three creatures who are susceptible to germs, they will all fall prey–and not necessarily on the SAME day. (Had I known this I would have given birth only to super-heroes, but nobody warned me early on and I fell prey to the allure of mere mortal babies).

So, I have just spent the better part of a week comforting and coddling. Wiping brows, brewing tea, cooking soup and cleaning out “the bucket”. The Baby ended up with croup and I found myself, very late one night, trying to comfort this crying, coughing, screaming toddler while I sat with him in the bathroom with steam pouring from the shower. This was when I realized one more way in which I suck as a mother: I don’t know any soothing lullaby songs with which to calm my child. I searched my brain for the words to any songs with a slow, rhythmic melody that I may have heard in my lifetime. Bits of lyrics began to jump out at me. Melodies of ballads long ago forgotten filled my head. Before I knew it I was softly singing those songs as I rocked my son into a peaceful state. And someday, my son may find himself in the same position: searching is mind for a song that brought him comfort in his childhood, and he may sing “Still Loving You”, “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn”, or some other power ballad to his own kids.

And so, I now realize that in a number of ways, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the gods of heavy metal. Had I not spent my formative years kneeling upon their altar I would have missed out on so many of the lessons that now help me survive motherhood: the endurance to stay up all night and still be to work by 7 am, the ability to understand even the most screaming/hysterical speech patterns, the belief that it isn’t really a celebration unless someone has puked, and a full mental catalog of 80’s power rock lullabies with which to soothe my innocent babes.

Did you say “Spandex”? Watch your damn language!

January 18, 2010 in Now That I Can't Rely on My Looks | 1 comment

I may be a little late at getting to it but, like many Americans, the new year led me to make goals that I haven’t previously succeeded at. One of those goals, “I will be more informed about where my money goes”, led me on a very new, and frightening journey. Today I went…to the gym!

That’s right, for months there has been a funnel from my checking account to that of a particular exercise and health facility. It’s great in theory. There is some one thing that happens in your life and causes you to seek a healthier lifestyle or to reclaim the body that was once yours. Maybe you had a health scare, have a reunion or wedding, maybe some innocent, cherubic little imp screeched, “Mommy, that ladies FAT!” (or some Alzheimer’s riddled old man said the same). Either way, there is some monumental event that drives a person to go to a gym, follow some thin, well-muscled twenty-year-old around and nod appreciatively as they point out the torturous looking gadgetry that they insist is top of the line (like my fat-ass is sooo schooled on fitness equipment that I’d know the difference). And then, to top it off, we give them the authority to funnel money from our checking accounts on a monthly basis while we sit at home, watching television and thinking, “I should really join a gym or something!”

So, I sucked it up. I got off the couch, dusted off my duffle bag and drove to the gym (and those of you who run or ride your bike to the gym are sick I tell you!). I’m not going to brag about my accomplishments & say crap like, “it was just like I’d never left”. It was nothing like that. I started out easy—the treadmill—because I figured that even though I haven’t been to the gym in a very long time it wasn’t like I’d given up walking! As it turns out, I must have not walked uphill much. Or very fast for that matter. But, damn it, I walked. Like for 20 or 30 minutes. Continuously!

Now, my sister-in-law goes to the same gym. She informed me that the gym is having a 12 week challenge. There is a grand prize of a lot of money! I am a terribly competitive person, so she had me at “challenge”. Money was just icing on the cake. “But,” she told me, “we have to have our picture taken so they can see before & after.”

I signed up for the challenge, of course I had my hair done & makeup on, and then they tell me the rules of the photos: ladies must wear a two-piece outfit so that the results are easily seen.

“I am NOT wearing a bikini,” I barked at the poor kid who signed me up.

“It’s ok,” he assured me, “you can just wear spandex short shorts and a sports bra.”

“I don’t own spandex,” I said and stood up so that he could get a good, and realistic look at what should have been a presumed fact, “for obvious reasons.”

I spent the next few hours trying to remember if I had any of my old spandex exercise shorts. Certainly there had to be one pair that had stretched out enough that I could still breath but not so worn that hints of my mayonnaise colored flesh would peek through the material.

So, if you happen to see a photo of what looks like a softball wearing a rubber band, look real close. Does that softball have a ponytail and blue eyes? That may be me. In spandex. With a blood vein or two threatening to burst.

…But, Your Facebook Rings a Bell

January 8, 2010 in Uncategorized | 1 comment

Last night I put my little cherubs down to bed and grabbed my laptop intent on getting some work done. Instead, I did what any responsible mom/home-based-employee would do: I spent 3 hours farting around on Facebook.

I have to preface this by saying that I’m not a dedicated Facebook user. I’ve had an account for a long time. At first, I would check my page every month or so, whether I needed to or not. Within the past two months I’ve been really dedicated, checking in like, weekly, at least! And now that I’m in an almost daily groove I realized, I’ve never really hunted around to find people that I used to know. And, isn’t that what Facebook is about? So, like any other hunter (albeit a hunter who wants the prize but without the inconvenience if getting up at four am, going out in the cold and actually hunting) I went poaching. That’s right, I went to the few friends I had and I checked their friends just to see if I knew anyone. And, if I could add them to my own list—because are we not judged by the friends we keep?

As I looked through the names of the people I had known at one time it dawned on me that I may need to be very selective in who I send friends requests to. Do the social policies of adolescence still hold true all these years later? As an adult, do you remain on the same level of the teenage caste system that you occupied when you were actually in school? For me, this could be a problem.

The problem with school is that it is a constantly evolving thing. In elementary school you have a small group of “friends”. Almost everyone plays together and by the end of elementary school you may have been “best friends” with almost everyone in your grade at some point. Then you are placed into a junior high school/middle school with all of your friends and kids from one or two other schools. Suddenly, you’re networking. And maybe some of your former besties have become more like “acquaintances”. In some instances, those people may have suddenly become your archenemy. Then, just about the time you are working out all of your interpersonal relationships with these people, you are thrown into high school. Let the tailspin begin! Now, not only don’t you know half of the people you are in school with, you’re at a point when you don’t even really know who you are. Let’s just say that the struggle to assert independence and be unique didn’t work out for the best for everyone! Maybe I didn’t choose my friends well. Maybe I would have more friends now if I hadn’t been so flighty in my teenage social networking. A high percentage of my former friends now have very a very static group of friends, which I am not a part of. Of course, their friends have been largely determined by the Department of Corrections, and, I believe referred to as fellow inmates.

Now I’m faced with a dilemma. I’m looking at the Facebook pages of all of these nice, normal kids that I used to know. Will they remember me? Which me will they remember? The elementary, middle or (gulp) high school me? Am I one of the people that make you say, “Oh, Yeah! I remember her!” or the one that makes you say (with a cringe), “ Oh, yeah. I remember her.”?

So, for now I’ve decided on the safest approach. I will only send a friend request to those people that I: 1) am certain that I never started a fight with, 2) may have supplied booze to at some point or consumed booze with, 3) only knew me in elementary or junior high.

Once, I get those three people, I should be on my way!

The Baby Gets a Haircut

January 4, 2010 in Sentimental Stirrings | 2 comments

The day finally came. My shaggy-haired two year old has joined the world of conformists everywhere. He has traded in his Albert Einstein fly-away locks for a more appropriate hairstyle.

The Before Shot. Maybe just a little shaggy

Sadly, I was the hold out. I was the one who was in denial about just how overgrown The Baby’s hair had become. You know things have gone too far when your toddler is begging—that’s right, begging—for a haircut. The point is only made more clear when he actually climbs willingly into the chair at the salon.

Since we were going I decided to make a group outing of it. The Oldest and The Middle were both in need of haircuts as well so I made an appointment for all three. It was The Baby’s first haircut (I know, I know…) so I was very meticulous in how everything would happen. I had him watch the brothers first so that he would know there was nothing to be afraid of (I’m sure I read that in some parenting magazine when I was waiting for my yearly with nothing better to do!).

Anyway, all of my attempts at a cautious approach weren’t even necessary. The kiddo climbs right up in the chair, his brothers stood nearby and held his hands (a definite awww-how-sweet moment!) and the only tears that were spilled were mine as I watched the butcher hairstylist prepare to cut the locks from the head of my blessed baby.

I sidled up next to her like a cop at a crime scene and murmured, “I’m gonna need one of those locks of hair.”

“Don’t worry,” she told me, “I’ll put a lock of it onto a certificate before you leave.”

The Baby was very proud of his new haircut and posed for several photos before being led by the brothers to the toy drawer.

The Middle stood there with his hands deep in his pockets, looking guilty.

“What are you up to?” I asked.

He pulled out his hand to show me a tuft of blond. “I kept some of my hair,” he giggled.

“What are you gonna do with that?”

A little boy with a sensible haircut, now he just needs a sensible career!

“I’m gonna put it in my collection,” he answered.

“You don’t need to keep hair,” I told him.

“Why?”

“It’s disgusting,” I said as I ushered him to the front door.

“Ma’am,” the butcher hairstylist called as we walked out the door. “Don’t forget the certificate for his first haircut.” She handed me the certificate and…

“Oh, my God,” I gushed as tears formed under my lids, “look at that precious little locket of hair!” (Don’t judge me!)

A New Year, a Thousand Possible Resolutions

January 1, 2010 in Sentimental Stirrings | 1 comment

A new year, a thousand and one vows for all the things I’m going to accomplish this year.

There is a plethora of healthy food that needs to be introduced to my home. There is a ton of dirt, dust and clutter that needs to be removed from my home.

The weight I need to lose, the little tasks I need to accomplish, the organization I need to achieve in my life, the parenting skills I need to work on, the knowledge I need to pass on to my children, the projects I need to do for work, the books I’ve been planning to read, the writing I’ve been meaning to get around to, the friends and family that I haven’t kept in touch with, the photo’s that need to be put into photo albums, the photos that need to be freed from my camera…

Holy crap! There’s just too much to accomplish in a year. Maybe I’ll just grab a pizza and decide on one accomplishment for 2010. (And I’ll bet a pizza that I won’t be choosing the weight loss or healthy food options!).

Happy 2010 everyone!

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.

Useless Info I’ve Posted on Twitter

WTH was I thinking exercising so hard four days in a row? My body is rebelling. 2 hours ago
Got "one of those calls" from the school that you never want to get. Luckily it was just a mix up! http://wp.me/phONV-2c 8 hours ago
It turns out not ALL of my teenage rebellion was pointless. I learned a FEW things that helped me later in life: http://wp.me/phONV-29 1 week ago
Spent days lovingly tending to my sick kids. Wiping brows, making tea & soup, cleaning "the bucket". I've now been rewarded w/ their germs! 1 week ago
Having a girls night tonight. Yippee! I've been marinating in the testosterone pool (my house!) too long. 1 week ago