Monthly Archives: February 2011

Like a Blowing Stone

Learning experiences come at every age. As a parent, I try to spare my kids the pain and embarrassment of having to learn some of the lessons I did. There are experiences that they’ve had before I could prepare them (i.e.-it may seem funny to laugh milk from your nose, but it doesn’t feel very good when it actually comes out) and lessons that they are still too young for (i.e.-don’t eat rice before going on a whiskey drinking binge, the rice hurts when you throw it up through your nose!). There are lessons that I wish I didn’t have to tell them (i.e.- don’t put your tongue on metal during the winter. Oh, yeah, I saw the movie. And, I tried it! It’s true) and things I never dreamed I had to tell them (i.e.- you’re not allowed to pee on your brothers). It’s exhausting to try and impart on my children all of the sage advise I’ve accumulated in my lifetime. Sometimes, I fear, important things sneak by. And then, I’m reminded…

Now, speaking of lessons–and noses– The Baby learned a very valuable lesson about his recently. That lesson is: Whatever you put into it, your going to have to get out!

Here’s how that went down:

Mama, help me get the ball out.”

“What?”

“I can’t get the ball out.” (pointing to his nose)

“Did you put something up your nose?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shit. Shit. Damn.” I didn’t have high hopes for my retrieval method but I grabbed a tissue and had him blow. Several times. That kid huffed, and he puffed and he blew out a …

Oh yeah, that’s right, my friends. That is a damn rock!

Now, just to give you an idea of the scale of the rock in comparison to the hole it both went into and then came out of….

It makes me shiver to imagine that thing up my nose, and I have twice the clearance!

The good news is, he has learned a very valuable lesson, and I don’t have to tell his brothers not to put things in their noses.


Living With Chaos

I read something today that made me really think about how I live my life. It started with a word that always makes me shudder. One of those rare things in the world that I crave so desperately, yet never seem to be able to achieve. It’s almost become a cursed word for me to say. Every time I say to my family they look at me with confusion, and then laugh, like I’m Punk’ing them. The word that has haunted me for most of my life is this: Organization.

For as long as I can remember I’ve suffered from an inability to organize. I am a pack rat by nature, always have been. You could say I’m a closet hoarder, technically that’s true because the closets are where I keep all of my treasures. I can’t help it. I get attached to things. My collection has included things that, all these years later, even I can see are ridiculous to hold on to: text books from the 80′s (yeah, I’m THAT old!); a stuffed animal from the crazy aunt who left my uncle & took everything, including the light bulbs; a bandana from some band that played at my junior high school; an envelope with each and every part of the braces that finally brought my teeth together. Every few years I get a little nostalgic, open boxes and sit around stroking things and whispering, “My Precious”. It sounds pathetic, but I come by it honestly. One of the parental units used to bring things home from the dump, before they made that illegal, of course. After that, anything left on the curb on garbage day was fair game.  I did get a good deal on a double jogging stroller that way!

It isn’t that I don’t aspire to be organized. I read magazines, watch organizational shows and do actually try to organize. The problem is that my efforts at organization usually lead to more chaos. And, in chaos, I seem to find comfort. Rather than buying a special box for the batteries and putting that box in a logical location, it is easier for me to just make note of where I’ve seen batteries last.

“You need four AA batteries? I know there were three on the floor, behind the box of art supplies and wrenches in the coat closet. And, check under the couch, the cat was batting one around on Thursday.”

Organization has always seemed to put me a little behind in my work as well. I have honestly spent the past two days doing things that I know would help my work be better organized. After two days, I’ve looked around to find piles of organizational stuff that still needs done, and I’m four days behind in my work. OK, I did spend a few hours keeping up with the Kardashians, which put me a little behind, but a girl has to have some personal time, too.

I wish I knew how much money I’ve spent on organization over the past few years. All has gone to waste, and for that, I blame my family. Each and every storage box has had its life ended at the hand of my children. The boxes, canisters, lids, etc. have been turned into sandboxes, jello molds, grasshopper houses, and “science experiments”. They’ve been stacked up, stood on, slept on, slept in, cooked in, skied in, bathed in, and peed in (no, really!).

I can’t win!

And, so, I admit to the world, that, while I’ve seen the light and attempted many times to reach it, I’ve been relegated to the dark. I will continue living in the comforting arms of chaos.


In the Words of Van Halen: Go Ahead and Jump!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Haven’t”

–cue the jump to pea-puking demon

 

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


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