And They Wonder Why I Drink

You know, I've always accepted this parenting business ain't for wimps and the older my kids get the more I realize that the job of parenting is like a roller coaster.  One minute, it's exhilirating and my ass has left the seat with the force of all those gs; the next, I just wanna launch my lunch.  No wonder I've always hated the damn things.

What the hell is the world coming to?  I accept not everyone lives the way we do.  I get it.  Not everyone lives in a straight, mommy and daddy living in the same house as man and wife, WASP environment.  Fair enough.  As the kids have gotten older, I've had to explain divorce and the single parent household; the same sex parent household; and the racially diverse household.  It's all good; I'm an adult and I can handle it.  I've explained the standard 'these are your parts and no one touches 'em ever' rigamarole.  But someone please explain to me the precociousness of today's children.  It's ridiculous that some parents treat kids as mini-adults. 

NEWS FLASH: they aren't mini-adults.  That's why we call them CHILDREN!

For several years, I've had an eye on a friend of my son's.  It's unkind, but the child has future hootchie written all over her to the point I've cornered the mother and told her to have a talk with her child about boundaries and keeping her hands to herself.  It's no surprise, considering the environment she lives in, however, no amount of me saying (politely, mind you) 'knock it off' seems to work.  I feel shitty for feeling the way I do and yes, I genuinely feel badly for this child.  She gets shuttled to our house when mommy's boyfriend du jour is on the premises or to her grandparents' for weeks on end.  If this child's clothes got any tighter, they'd qualify as skin and she's constantly all over my son.  It's to the point I feel like a warden watching over the inmates when she's over to play.  What kind of 10 year old child (no, I'm not joking) acts like a hustling twentysomething?!  Today, she flatout asked if she could spent the night as my son's guest. 

Pardon me whilst I scrape my jaw off the pavement.


W-T-F?!

ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?!?  Let me think about it a minute...um, HELL NO!

Am I missing something here?  Would you let your kid have an opposite sex friend spend the night?  When I blindsided Himself with the whole conversation, he had the same reaction to the sleepover question, but still feels it's perfectly okay that they continuing playing together.  I say the difference between 10 and 13 is huge and that's the end of that.  On the other hand, maybe if she's away from home more she'll start acting like a normal 10 year old.  What do you think?  Am I wrong?

Where's the wine?

Totally Tearful Thursday...Pass The Kleenex

This morning, Captain Studly and class left for two days of adventure in south Texas, including a trip to tour NASA.  'Excited' does not begin to cover how enthusiastic he's been for WEEKS about this trip and getting away, even for just two days, from the old Ball and Chain (that would be me and Himself).  I can say with total honesty that The Diva does not miss him.  The dog will park her furry white hiney by the door until he's home.

Y'all, it is horribly quiet around here.  Although, at thirteen, he's become a functional mute (unless you count the grunts he now employs in lieu of actual verbalizing), at least I know he's still in the house.  As much as I grouse about all the crap he pulls and his eyeball rolling and his snarky teenage comments, I miss my Beanie.  If this is a precursor of what's to come when he leaves for college, I fear I'll have to knock over a convenience store or two..or ten.. to pay for all that Xanax.  Then again, I get that same feeling when I think he may never leave home.  It's true what men say...women are never satisfied.

He'll be back tomorrow night and I'll be back to bitching about everything Captain Studly, but in the meantime I am a sad sack.  And no, I haven't had my Xanax.  I'm saving it for college.

Y'all, I CLEANED OUT MY CLOSET TODAY AS A DISTRACTION.  Do you know there's actual carpet in there?  Is that a sign of a sick mind or what?!  I stopped myself before I snatched up the mop but it was a battle of epic proportion.

Okay, enough of that...here're some things currently in progress from my sewing corner.

That's me, before Captain Studly left, quilting the Albatross.  It's about 90% quilted and I cannot wait for it to be OH-VER!

I chose to quilt it with straight lines (I believe the modern quilters call them 'organic lines', however, I just call 'em straight...whatever works, right?) mainly because I can't free-motion quilt on my new boy-toy there in the picture.  Captain Studly's just grateful it's almost done.

I also have another rag quilt to snip and then it too will be finished.  Rag quilts are very forgiving and go together very quickly...love 'em!

Well, now that I've snivelled and whined a bit, I feel better. 

Happy Thursday, y'all!

While The Cat's Away...

Mama Mouse will play clean out the cesspool that is The Diva's room!  This is exactly how I pictured spending my day off...along with doing laundry, swabbing toilets and generally picking up the homestead.  I have threatened, pleaded and bribed.  Today, I grabbed a Hefty trash bag, checked that my immunizations were up to date and entered The Pit.  Even Captain Studly's room isn't this bad and he's thirteen!

After two hours, the trash bin was well fed...

The neighbors gave me a funny look when I took this picture

and I'd barely made a dent.

I'm not even counting the stuff I smuggled into my trunk for donations.   But, do I feel guilty?

Ummmm...

  That's a negative, Ghost Rider.   The Diva wanted to know if I'd thrown out her most favorite stuffed animals.  No (that's the truth).  Did I throw out other assorted treasures?  No (that's a lie).    Can I live with it?   You bet your happy hiney.   TGIF, y'all!

Then It Cliqued



Ahh, cliques...the hair flipping, eye rolling, lip curling, you can't hang with us because the label on your butt is so last season...'oh. my. gawd Becky, look at her butt..it is sooo big!'

Wait a minute, that last part's from a Sir Mixalot song...oops!

Anyhoo, you get the point.  I thought, erroneously as it turns out, that I was done with cliques once I left the confines of high school.  Stupid, stupid girl.  How could I have forgotten I'm the mother of a girl?

The Diva got her first taste of one of these coteries last year when she was painfully excluded from playing with the cool girls because she was too 'tomboy'.  Frankly, this just means she could beat the snot of out 'em and go on about her rat-killin'...but was still so uncool that to be seen in the same day with her would've sounded the death knell for everyone else's social life.

Imagine my surprise (and skepticism) when she announced last week that she'd been assimilated into the in-crowd because she was now considered 'friendly' to the group.  Sounds like the Collective from Star Trek.  Or the U.N.

Funny how you don't hear about male cliques, now that I think about it.  Nuh-uh.  Guys have gangs or if they're honorably inclined in the behavior department, 'bands of brothers'.  Girls?  They have Estrogen Posses.

It's woefully inadequate to tell The Diva to just be the same sweet girl she's always been.  "Just be you and remember when it was you on the outside.  Don't be mean to the non-groupies, okay?" I lectured from the driver's seat.  Cue her eye roll.

If she starts wearing skirts and headbands and gives up her dream of being able to pee while standing, I'll give 'em a ringing endoresement.  Until then, The Estrogen Posse rides again!

Wish her me us luck!

Bill Cosby Is Right!

I watched this video BEFORE I had kids and thought it was an absolute scream.  Now that I have them, it all makes perfect sense.   



If you need a laugh for your TGIF, may I suggest this link...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dbaI-JK3WJA&feature=related

Happy Friday, y'all!

You Don't Want To Go There

Pardon me while I rant.  Or don't pardon me.  It's your call.

This goes out to every judgemental asshat who thinks they have a say in how my husband and I parent our children, specifically about our decision to medicate them because of their ADHD.  If you're one of those folks that thinks ADHD is about bad parenting or out of control children who just need a good old-fashioned ass-whoopin', let me assure you you don't know shit.  ADHD is a medical condition related to brain chemistry and brain anatomy.  It can be hereditary.  Don't believe me?  Look it up.  And before you go all snarky, no I didn't drink or do drugs while I was pregnant.  And no, I've never done dope at any other time, either. 

A friend summed ADHD up this way...imagine every movie, TV show and commerical you've ever seen and every song you've ever heard.  Now imagine all those sounds and images barrelling through your brain at once.  All that WHILE trying to learn and live a normal life.  Sounds like a picnic, right?!

Both my kids struggle: one with grades, the other with behavior.  I'm proud to say one child's last report card was mostly Cs...no, this isn't me being sarcastic.  The other one struggles to make and keep friends because they play like an NFL linebacker and ping-pong between activities.  They get in trouble for fidgeting and talking out of turn, stuff neuro-typical children can control and parents of neuro-typical children take for granted.  You think this is easy for them?  Screw off!

Come live ONE day inside of them and see what it's like.  You couldn't hack it.  I'm the Mom and I only see part of their struggle.  I cannot imagine what it's like to have ADHD, nor do I care to do so.

You don't like the fact I put them on amphetamines?  Trust me, you wouldn't like them off of them.  You, you judgemental asshat, would be the first to bitch and whine about their behavior and why aren't you as a parent doing anything about it!  They are truly lovely children even though I bitch about them on this blog.  I'd like them even if they weren't mine.   

Do not question our decisions as parents about how/when/why we treat these children with medications.  It's for their benefit, not yours.  Rest assured, we monitor their weight and make sure they have a good diet.  We watch them closely for side effects.  Not that this is any of your affair.  They are, after all, my children not yours.

I am the mama bear.  Don't mess with my cubs.

Really?!

My children are absolutely committed to the notion that I just fell off the turnip truck.  In Texan, this means they think I'm utterly gullible.

Several months back, Co-Defendant #1 learned the fine household art of doing laundry after I found a stack of clean, neatly folded clothing buried under a pile of dirty underpants in his hamper.  You'd think #2 would've learned a thing or two from this experience.  She gloated over #1's unfortunate circumstances and went her merry way.

Apparently, I'm not raising rocket scientists here.

Behold...

I'm sooo tired of doing laundry!

Shoving dirty clothes into your dresser drawers gets you instant membership into the Do Your Own Laundry Society.  Welcome!

I am one happy mama! 

Mother's Day Humor

Wishing you a Happy Mother's Day from Texas! 

My shirt sums it up for my household...

Whether they grew under your heart or in it, whether they're still little or all grown up (or think they are), whether they've passed on or are still with you, may you have an awesome Mother's Day because...

MOMS ROCK!!

Ouch Dammit!

Friday morning, Co-Defendant #2 had a poetry recital where, complete with props, she recited Daddy Fell Into The Pond by Alfred Noyes with poise and confidence.  I was so proud.  And if you're interested, I can recite the damn thing in my sleep.  By recital day, I was ready to shove Daddy into the pond and hold him under.  Bad mommy...

Afterward, the mommies all gathered round their respective offspring for hugs and high fives and I was no exception.  Down the hall in her classroom there awaited a Mothers' Day reception where I'd perch myself on an impossibly tiny, hard plastic chair and partake of a cupcake and Kool-Aid and try my hand at conversation with women with whom I had absolutely nothing in common.  Well, other than an obnoxious seven year old, of course.

There she stood with a shy smile and pink cheeks as I congratulated her on a job well done.

Then she said:  I don't mean to be rude, but I don't want you to come.  I don't want to be embarrassed.  Would you please just leave?  I'll give you twenty kisses when I get home, okay?  Bye, Mom and waited expectantly for me to get the hell out. 

I'd heard the expression like being stabbed in the heart and now I knew firsthand what that meant.  THAT FRIGGIN' HURT!  I couldn't believe what I was hearing, pausing to ask her to clarify what she meant only to have her assure me what she wanted was for me to leave.  Bye-bye...ta-ta...see ya later.  Talk about don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out!  After calling my mother who totally got the magnitude of what I was experiencing and my husband on whom the whole concept was totally lost, I went home and got my mad on.  I so did not sign up for this shit.  Not fair shouted my inner child as she stamped her foot. 

I came to the conclusion that for her, school was her domain and she didn't want Mom to be a part of it.  Fair enough, but I didn't have to like it.  My work schedule doesn't allow for me to put in many school appearances so when I'm able, I go. 

She got in the car at pickup time and informed me she'd missed me terribly after I left and was sorry she'd made me go.

Crickets chirping...

Let me get this straight, I said.  Your exact words were...I want you to go.  I don't want to be embarrassed.  I left as you requested.  You got what you wanted.

Dead silence.  Even my son, the master of Blunt and Thoughtless, was stunned into silence.  I caught the  sideways Holy crap glance he directed at his sister and knew she was squirming like a fish on a hook.  I let her know that while she was allowed to express her thoughts and feelings, her delivery was a bit off and my feelings were hurt.  She was apologizing before I even finished my spiel.  I informed them that given the opportunity, I would be present at school functions but that I solemnly swore I would not pick my nose, scratch my butt or fart...uttered with my right hand raised.

They are satisfied.

Take A Deep Cleansing Breath

At least that's what I'm telling myself, but it doesn't seem to be working as well as I'd like.  They can push the buttons, can't they?  Oh sorry, I'm referring to children here not anything even remotely quilting.  If it were a quilt, I could take out my angst by ripping out seams like the Incredible Hulk ripping his way out of his shirt.  Maybe that Tommy Jordan guy of YouTube fame had the right idea when he plugged his ungrateful daughter's laptop full of 45 caliber slugs.  Grrrrr!!

Co-Def #1 is on the cusp of teenage-dom and there're days when I'm fairly certain I should've eaten him at birth.  Today he informed his father and I that he's 'tired of being a slave'...we asked him (brace yourselves) to please put out the place settings for dinner.  Quick, someone alert CPS!  Wrong thing to say especially since I'm PMSing all over the place and packing enough hormones to level a third-world dictatorship.  But, I digress.

This post is actually about action, not words.  Every parent gets a tad, ahem, aggravated with the offspring and we wind up griping to our friends (or perfect strangers....thanks blog readers!) and nothing really gets done.  Not so this time.  Last week I finished up a mountain of laundry and doled out the parcels to the various family members with instructions to put 'em up where they belong.  To an adult (and my daughter) this is a fairly clear and simple task. 

Three days later, I found the neatly folded clothes in the bottom of #1's hamper, covered by dirty socks and boxers.  Picture steam coming out the ears of a cartoon character and you've got an idea of what I looked like.  Did I yell?  I think not.  Did I plot?  You bet your heinie!  I very calmly approached him, drummed up my cheeriest tone (side note here: if a Texas girl is talking to you with a cheery tone of voice and you know good and well she's mad, you should run like heck 'cause she is plotting her revenge) and said Guess what...Mom's gonna teach you something fuuuuuunnnnn!  His eyes twinkled as he contemplated what delights might be in store, silly silly boy, when I singsonged I'm gonna teach you how to do your own laundry!  

HEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE!

Behold...

He folds...

He grouses...

He collapses in a heap...

If this makes me one of those Mean Moms, may I revel in it because dammit I'm tired of fishing dirty boxer shorts out from under the bed and wadded up sweatsocks that made their way through both the washing machine and dryer only to come out a smelly sodden mess because he's too 'busy' to be of a little help.  I'm not your friend, your maid or your banker.  I'm your Mama and as Ms. Aretha says R-E-S-P-E-C-T find out what it means to me!

WIP

I've gotten alot of quilty stuff done this weekend...NOT!

Friday evening, Co Def #1 had a friend over for a few hours (I hate and despise the term 'playdate'), then it was out to dinner for us.  I managed to sneak in a little quiet time at the bookstore Friday evening, knowing what was in store for me come Saturday afternoon.

The Boys went to a Houston car-show Saturday morning, leaving myself and Co Def #2 all by our lonesomes...somehow we managed just fine in spite of not being pestered by the Testosterone Twins all day.  I picked up a pair of flannel pajamas for her...you know, it gets SO cold here in Texas during the artic winter months (cue the eyeball roll)

I thought the sewing motif was pretty cute...the dolls themselves, yes, Lalaloopsy dolls, are tacky as all get-out.  But that's just me.  I guess I should be happy they're not American Girl dolls, huh?

Co Def #2's friend came over Saturday afternoon and it was non-stop inside/outside/movie time/where's the popcorn/coloring/crafting/dressing the dog up...bless her patient heart and generally driving me up the freakin' wall time until about four o'clock.  Give me a houseful of boys any day!  At least they can entertain themselves.  Not girls, though.  Nuh-uh, one must have all manner of things to do so as to avoid catfights and assorted sulking.

So, this is what I managed to eek out in the sewing department...

The Popsicle top is completed and I finally got all that paper peeled off the back.  You know, that's the ONLY bad thing about paper-piecing.  Sure, all your points match and everything goes together wonderfully well, but you still have to pull off all that stinkin' paper!  Anyway, this one's ready for quilting.  I also got half of the plethora of HST sewn into rows...it's amazing how fast they go together when you put the pedal to the metal.  I missed my calling...I should've been a racecar driver.

Glad That's Over

Well, the last few days have certainly been interesting ones for us.  It all started with one of 'those' phone calls from the school.  In my usual snarky fashion I asked 'What's he done now?' only to be told Co-Def #1 was sick and to please come pick him up.  When you nominate me for Mother of the Year, please be sure you spell my name correctly on the ballot, okay?

Anyway, one doctor visit and a prescription of antibiotic later, we make it home where the real fun can finally commence.  Here's the Cliff's Notes version:  he ran fever for 48 hours, his tongue swelled to three times its normal size, he lost the ability to speak and the back of his throat swelled to roughly the diameter of a pencil eraser.  Who says we aren't exciting people?!  Yippeee!

I haven't prayed this hard or this much (sorry, Lord) since he was born.  I am happy to say, he's now on the mend.  I think it's more from all the praying than the medicine, but that's just me.  I hate it when my kids are sick, although to be honest, the not speaking part was kind of nice. (cringe)

The sewing I managed to accomplish I attribute entirely to stress.  I was trying my hardest not to freak out and just keep him calm so he could breathe.  I sewed two hundred and seventeen half-square triangles in two batches...one in Christmas fabrics, the other in wild, funky colors and patterns.  Sorry the pictures didn't turn out so hot, but here they are...

I just threw stuff together and tried not to overthink the whole process.

Wild and funky

Christmas fabrics

Hope your weekend is going a tad more smoothly.  Happy quilting!

Mr. Postman, Stop My Nightmare

I am beginning to dread the daily trek to the mailbox.  Granted, the postman will occasionally grace its dark confines with a quilt magazine or Connecting Threads catalog (pitty-pat goes my heart).  Even the bills, junk mail or random critter have nothing on the one piece of post guaranteed to pee on my parade. 

It's an American Girl catalog.

For a girl who eschews all things pink, frilly or feminine, you'd think Co-Def 2's lip would curl in derision at the very thought of anything doll related.  We are, after all, talking about the kid who gave that silicone infused beeotch who has everything, Barbie, green striped zebra hair 'to make her pretty'.

But these aren't your average dolls.  No, no, no.  We're talking 'spensive' dolls here now with outfits ranging from vintage to couture with accessories and price tags to match.  Plus, these little beauties must have a stand to keep them upright 'cause two feet aren't enough, a carrying case because only commoners are carried in a child's arms and bedding because who the heck wants to share a twin-sized bed with a living, breathing child.  Let the kid sleep on the floor...and let them eat cake!  Oh, wait, that was Marie Antoinette.  Sorry.

For what one of them would wind up costing me, I could just pop out Co-Def #3 and call it a day.  Oh, hell-to-the-no y'all!

So, you can kinda understand my snatching the offensive catalog from her hand and lobbing it into the nearest trash receptacle while muttering hysterically 'Who put this crappy Fisher-Price junk in here-don't they know that's for babies?!  Nothing to see here!  Move along!!'  She eyed me rather suspiciously kinda like she did the day I told her the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy owned a time-share property in Florida with Santa Claus that they shared during the off-season.  Hey, she wanted to know if they all lived together.  I can't remember names, much less who lives where, okay??

Now every afternoon, it's a race to see who gets to the mailbox first.  One of these days she's gonna win.  It still takes her a while to get outta the car considering I'm the one with the keyless remote, but she's getting faster at extricating herself.

Yep, I'm a Bad Mommy.

What a Concept

It's official:  motherhood bites.

Sure, there're those rare instances when the diaper's full and it's Dad's turn for KP duty, but eventually Lady Luck packs her bags and hightails it south where breezes carry the scent of tropical blooms, not Lysol spray.  Such is life.  I choose to put on my big girl panties and deal with it.

So, here's the deal: Co-Def 1, in an unfortunate moment of unfiltered tween one-upsmanship, informed a group of classmates that he'd had sex.  Yep, you read that right.  Thankfully, it's not true, therefore he's still alive and I'm not sporting a jumpsuit of some ghastly shade of neon orange. 

Notified by phone, betwixt the curb-side convo with Co-Def 2's teacher regarding sorely lacking self-control and canine, indoor (on the carpet, of course) Montezuma's revenge, I barely restrained my Oh, shit! and opted instead for my quasi-Japanese AIYAA!

I love going to the Principal's office.  It feels so cozy, familiar...you know, like home.  And nothing, absolutely noth-ING, beats running into one of those kids' moms on the way inside.  After offering the sincerest of apologies to her, she asked What. Has. He. Been. Watching?

Back up the Blame Bandwagon, DramaMama.  What's he been watching?!?  Well, hmm, let's see, uh National Geographic because we had to cancel the Playboy Channel on account of the bad economy and all.  WHAT'S! HE! BEEN! WATCHING?!?

I've always been honest with my kids about all things body and sex related.  They ask and I'll give an age-appropriate answer.  At age 5, Babies come from God was sufficient.  Yesterday, I wasn't too certain where the little shits came from, but I bet dollars to donuts it's probably got a fairly hot climate. 

I'm also a stickler for proper names or terms.

• It's penis, not tallywacker.
• They're testicles, not tenders or nuggets.  Ten bucks says you snicker the next time you're in the Golden Arches drive-thru...and no, anabolic steroids don't shrink them until they disappear--this isn't vanishing deductible from Geico.
• Hasta la vista, hooha and coochie.  Hola, vagina.

As sex-crazed as American society is, you'd think parents would pull that stick out of their collective posterior and get down to brass tacks.  You think I'm joking about 13 year-olds giving birth or 15 year-olds with chlamydia?  Go ahead, call my bluff.

I firmly believe God created sex specifically for a married couple, couple in this instance meaning one man and one woman, to enjoy together until they drop dead of unbridled exhiliration or old age.  Fine, great.  But, you're not off the hook by simply saying It's sacred and special and we'll talk about it when you're older.  Wake the hell up, already!  You want to believe Sex, what's THAT? go ahead and knock yourself out.  I hope the view up your behind is divine.  But, fair warning here:  Christians get STDs and they can, oopsies, get pregnant, too.

Part of my parenting job is the privilege (no, I'm not joking) of making myself available to answer those questions that make me long for the day when the only thing coming from that kid's mouth was slobber.  At age 12, there's no glossing it over and if it's as special and sacred as God intends it to be, then my answers had better be just as thoughtful and thorough.  I just wonder why Dear Hubby's never around for these teachable moments.

My only regret, is that another parent's privilege to introduce their child to such a sensitive topic was preempted by my child's thoughtless comment.  Not okay.

So, what's he been watching?

RIO, that movie about a blue macaw on the loose in Brazil who, I'd like to point out, was sent there by his owner for the express purpose of procreating.  If you let your kids watch this movie, congratulations, you're a bad parent just like me.  Welcome to the dark side.

Where'd my son learn about sex?

At home.

From his PARENTS.

Mama Cuts Fabric (and cuts and cuts)

Gramma and Papa took the Co-Defendants camping at the lake overnight, so I spent all day Saturday cutting out fabric for Seth's repro-airplane quilt.  It took longer than I thought, mostly because it's hard as heck to cut correctly (and not decapitate a fingertip) while watching a Nora Roberts movie marathon on Lifetime.  But I'm a girl, which means I've got a superpower ability known as multi-tasking. 

I started with this stack, and no, I didn't cut it all up but I came pretty close to it...

By early Sunday morning, it looked like this...

Yes, the fabric's in nice tidy stacks in individually labelled baggies.  That's not anal, it's orderly.  Don't be jealous 'cause that just makes you ugly.

I tried with all my might to get him to consent to a larger block size which would've made this project go so much faster, but oh no, he insisted on everything being the same as when Gramma made the original.  Drat that woman (love you Mom)!  I will be sewing from now until retirement...go on, admit it, you think I'm joking.

That's one block down...55 to go.

(Bangs head on desk) Lennie the Featherweight is now threatening a boycott and I just got flipped off by both my hands.  Wish me luck.

It's Been Nice Knowin' Ya!

I love the start of a new school year.  As a kid, it meant new boxes of wonderfully fragranced crayons.  The adult Me anxiously awaits the arrival of the Fall season when the leaves drop from the trees and the grass gets a bit brittle.  Kind of what we're experiencing right now in Texas, only with cooler temperatures.  Ah, Fall, I shall miss you for I am going away for a long, long time.  Let me start at the beginning.

This afternoon as I was pulling out of the school parking lot, my cell phone rang, displaying the mom's name of one of my daughter's classmates.  She cheerfully informed me that our two girls had decided over lunch that a playdate was in order and 'Is today good for you?'  Not having a reason to say no and with my daughter practically turning cartwheels in the backseat, I pulled over, hurriedly muttered something about minding her manners and sent them on their way.  As I watched their SUV disappear around the corner, it hit me:

WHAT THE HELL HAD I JUST DONE?

Granted, we'd all been acquainted since last school year, but how well do any of us really know one another?  Although, Play-Date Mom and I seem alot alike...you know, normal.  Not at all like that picture perfect, not a hair out of place type Mommy who bakes from scratch and doesn't spank.  Now that I think about it, though, Ted Bundy seemed normal, too.  Hmmm....

Did I pop a Xanax?  I think not!  Two hours later (yay, me!), there I was, standing in her living room, two girls running hither and yon when her daughter stops dead in her tracks and says:

IS IT TRUE A BAD MAN BROKE IN YOUR HOUSE AND YOU STABBED HIM IN THE HEART WITH A KNIFE?

I can picture all this in my head and it's almost as funny as the Baby Ruth candybar/turd in the pool scene from Caddyshack.  Almost.

Co-Defendant #2 smiled cherubically, eyelashes fluttering, cheeks tinged a becoming shade of pink as I hurriedly assured our host family that I was not, in fact, a knife-wielding wacko and got the hell outta Dodge.  I'd like to pause at this point to remind everyone that it was about this same time last year that #2 told her teachers her bad behavior could be blamed on the fact that her Daddy and I were getting ourselves a good old- fashioned dee-vorce. 

"I was just using my 'imagining', Mom".

Most kids make their parents something cool like an astronaut or spy.  Mine makes me a killer?!?!  Hey, Sugarbuns, if you're gonna make Mama bad, at least make her a HOT bad girl...think Pussy Galore of James Bond fame.

Sigh.

Tastes Like Chicken

Extensive scientific observation, which is to say, mothering, has taught me that children are a lot like politicians.  Most are charming, persuasive and, typically, as is the case with my kids, pretty darn good lookin', too.  The flip side is that they can be (and usually are) sneaky, underhanded and conniving.  Bill Clinton's got nothing on my kids 'cause they can shade the crummy truth 'til the finished product resembles a Rembrandt painting, ya'll.  If either of the Co-Defendants ever ran for public office, they'd win for sure.  Although unspoken, they're philosophy is 'What's mine is mine and what's yours is mine.'  See, what'd I tell you?  Politicians, for sure.

Things routinely go missing in our home, only to pop up in the oddest locations.  Scotch tape in the underwear drawer.  A mini-set of screwdrivers gettin' down with the Legos.  Glue?  Scissors?  Nail clippers?  Check the kids' rooms first...and get back to me when you find out where they've hidden my sanity.

So, yesterday afternoon, it should've come as no surprise that, when I needed one most, I couldn't find a band-aid to save my life.  For the record, I don't keep them in the bathroom where they belong.  No, no.  I hide them because the Co-Defendants consider them fashion accessories, not medical devices. 

I ranted, I raved; no one confessed.  Are you surprised? 

Two hours later, despite both kids' rooms being ransacked, no band-aids,  but, you could see carpet...at least, I think it's carpet, it's been so long.  AND they learned something new...trashcans are for....TRASH!  Who knew all that crap wasn't supposed to go UNDER THE BED?!

Exhausted and peeved, I sat while Dear Hubby made dinner.  If that's part of what it's like to be a man, sign me up 'cause I could sooo get used to someone else slingin' the hash...that and the being able to pee standing up thing they do.  Fifteen minutes into my Post-Rant rant, I got one of those feelings that can be summed up thusly: Oh, sh*t!  Trudging to the nearest cabinet, I found, cleverly ensconced in a dry-goods canister, my stash of band-aids.

Sorry, Hubby, I'm not gonna be hungry 'cause I'm havin' crow tonight....YUMMO!

Want A (12 year old) Guy Wants...

Mom: 'What theme would you like for your birthday party this year?'  I rattled off several options, each one greeted by an ever increasing amount of bodily twitching and what sounded suspiciously like retching...

Seth: 'Geez, MOOOM!  NONONONONONONONO!  I. Do. Not. Want. A. Cake.  I want a cookie cake and all I want on it is Happy Birthday, Seth with a big yellow smiley face in the middle.  Green plates and cups, that's it, nothing on them!'

Mom: 'What about balloons, some decorations?'  I was beginning to think it'd wind up looking like I was holding a wake instead of party.  Who parties without balloons, for Pete's sake?

Seth: 'Mother, listen to meee...nothing except what I've already told you.'

By now, the conversation was beginning to sound suspiciously like previous ones we'd had before, only in reverse, with him talking to me like I was the kid.  I could already picture the look on my MIL's face and hear her mental critique 'Geez, ya cheapskate...couldn't even spring for some balloons, could ya?'

But, I suppose it turned out rather well...lowkey, but that's what he wanted, so that's okay.

He got two sets of Legos...they make such sweet music when you suck 'em up into your vacuum...a very satisfying sound  and quickly set to work putting the set above together.

I thought I was going to have to sedate the dog..not a happy camper, that one.

Yeh, this didn't last long, either, but they certainly looked like they were enjoying each other's company at the moment.

He's twelve with leg hair longer than mine in wintertime (and pit hair, he gleefully informed me, although I'm so not checking).  His voice changes occasionally which is rather entertaining, but as a Good Mother, I don't chuckle (in his presence).  I still get my hugs, although not in public and not actually of the full contact variety.  I'm waiting for the day when all I get is a fist-bump....(sigh)

When the Shitake Hits the Fan It's Mom's Day Off

The dictionary defines the word oxymoron as a combination of contradictory words.  Parenting-related examples include, but are not limited to, compliant child, family vacation and Mom's day off.

If ever the shitake hits the fan and, be honest, with children it surely will, it will happen the evening prior to or the day of Mom's day off.  Diarrhea?  Fever?  Projectile vomiting?  Avian flu?  That depends, is tomorrow Mom's day off?  No?  Then never mind.  Yes?  Then yes to all four conditions and maybe just a touch of Ebola for good measure.  It.  Never.  Fails.

Yesterday was my day off.  I had plans.  The fact that my plans involved doing as little as possible is irrelevant- I had plans!  With that in mind, I'd stayed up 'til the ass-crack of dawn Friday only to be summoned to Paige's room within thirty minutes of my head hitting the pillow because she didn't feel good.  Mind you, I don't feel good is my kids' code for 'Daycare is a snore/I didn't finish that homework assignment I've known about for six weeks and I'm toast.'  It all depends on the time of year and is a statement with which I typically take a grain of salt. 

So, I bedded down on the floor (she sleeps in a twin bed and though I have lost 15 pounds, I refuse to sleep with any part of me hanging over the edge of the bed.  Yes, I still believe the Boogyman lurks under there-sue me!).  By 0430, she was up, her face a lovely shade of fuschia, left eye swollen shut, right eye and nose ballooning nicely and mouth resembling Goldie Hawn post-Botox.  Shee-it!!

By 0515, we were in the ER (at my workplace..on my day off..YIPPEE!) getting mega-doses of industrial strength Benadryl and steroids thanks to her brush with poison ivy.  I spent the remainder of the day plugging her with fluids, Trix cereal and drugs while laundering everything she touched and barking commands to stopstopstop scratching and daubing her lovely bumpy rash with calamine lotion.  Which reminds me: calamine lotion SUCKS!  Someone, somewhere is making a nice chunk of change hawking that crap-shame on you!  And lest you think all that Benadryl kept her in Lalaland and I'm just making up all that other crapola, the ER nurse (I hope her day was filled with green globs of snot, oozing pustules and syphilitic lesions) gleefully informed me that the steroids would make her hyper thereby cancelling out any sedative side benefits of the Benadryl.  Awesome!  I had to remind myself that homicide is illegal even if it meant silencing her chirpy get-well-soon sendoff as we departed for home.

Mom's day off , indeed!

It's All Part Of The Plan

I never fully appreciated how sneaky clever women could truly be until I became a mother.  It's amazing what a little reverse psychology or well-placed visual cue can do toward getting Them (man and children) to do what you want.  Is that a bad thing?  Hmmm, I'd say, in the absence of feeling any twinge of guilt, no.  And I am rather good at it.

Paige already knows how to pin blocks together...


Crikey, Mother!  Put down the camera already!!

...so I was somewhat hopeful she'd embrace the whole quilting thing and we could bond whilst fondling fabric.  Alas, this was not in her plan and that was that.  My mother once tried to teach me sewing when I was younger..I wonder if she's getting a chuckle at my expense now.

Anyway, Paige has been begging for a desk like her brother's, only her room is roughly the size of a shoebox and trolling local stores has yielded nada in the way of suitable prospects.  And then, it hit me...an unfamiliar feeling I hadn't felt since I gave birth..(gasp)...it was an intelligent thought!  O.  M.  G.

The perfect-sized desk for Paige, complete with it's own little stool was just waiting for me in the dining room.  Needless to say, she was thrilled...her very own desk!  Hers, all hers!   Why, yes, you clever things, there is a sewing machine ensconced inside and now it's in her room and with luck, will whisper sweet nothings about bobbins and needles and fabric and how cool would it be to hang with Mom!

 

Apparently, the whole Sewing Machine Whisperer thing is starting to work because the other day she asked when she'd be old enough to go to retreat with me.  Mmmm, hmmm...told ya, it's all part of the plan.