It's Not Easy Being Green

First published on Home Educating Family. Republished with permission by the team, and the author (that's me).

Women have something in them that fools them into thinking they are Super Woman. Well, for me it’s Wonder Woman (I even had the Underoos to prove it. And the aluminum foil bracelets. And the crown). So, when I get sick, I live in total denial for several days.

“I’m fine,” I croak, crankily.

I gargle garlic juice and take hot showers. I drink huge amounts of tea and put my hair up so it doesn’t stick to the back of my clammy neck. I google my symptoms and realize I’m dying of a flesh eating disease. Eventually, the sore throat begins to get worse. Where a scratchiness was a moment ago, a full on forest fire the likes of which California has never seen, is breaking out now. My voice begins to go, which small totally children take advantage of.

“What’d you say, Mommy?” I hear as they run off to wreak havoc and take over the free world, “We didn’t hear you! Did you say DO put the baby on a leash and DO dress up the neighbor’s cat? OKAY!”

My insides turn to sandbags. Is it my kidneys and liver and spleen shutting down, or am I just exhausted? Do I even need my spleen? What’s with the sudden bouts of narcolepsy?

Then the coughing begins, and I sound like a bull frog with a smoking problem. I hack up my spleen and learn having it on the inside of me was optional after all. Like my tonsils, wisdom teeth, and appendix. Which all seem to be dripping out my nasal cavity.

Still, I do not admit to being sick! By golly, I may be a little under the weather. But I can beat this. For crying out loud, I fly an invisible plane and karate chop Nazis for a living, I think I can beat a wee little head cold and still teach phonics! Pshaw!

Speaking of air planes and Nazis, I start to see strange things. Am I hallucinating due to a fever, or are there really purple life size Gummy bears in my office? Do I embrace them or eat them? Why is it so hot in here?

Still, I do not admit to any illness. On the sly, I may be sipping Nyquil like it’s a juice box, but that’s a total coincidence.

I.

Am.

Not.

Sick!

As if to punish me for ignoring them, the Porcelain Throne Gods demand a sacrifice and a thorough worshipping at their alter. Knees knocking together, I answer their call. They are angry with me and I have to prove my loyalty to them by sticking around for oh, about three days.

I haven’t combed my hair or put on make-up in a week. I keep my bangs slicked back with homemade, organic hair gel (boogers and spit). My nose looks like I was stung by a mass of killer hornets with pink Kool-Aid in their stingers. I’ve gone through so many rolls of toilet paper for blowing my sore snozz that I’ve had to ration the remainder in the kid’s bathroom: three squares for #1, five for #2. We can’t have company over because they might have to use the bathroom. Also, since I have The Plague (or is it The Black Lung?) they wouldn’t want to come in anyway.

Now comes the point where I admit I might be sick. After a full week of hearing people in my life tell me to go to the doctor, I am finally at that space. That space where I can admit I need help. Help of the narcotic variety, that is. A little Codeine? Don’t mind if I do. A Tylenol cocktail? Why, yes, please. Bubble gum flavored antibiotics? Come to mama.

Of course, deciding to see a doctor and actually seeing a doctor are too entirely different scenarios. In the scenario in my mind, I call, they answer, I go in, they are glad to see me, I get medicine, they say goodbye, I come home. What really happens:

I call.

They don’t answer.

I have some lovely flute music to occupy myself while I am on hold for thirteen years.

Christmas comes and goes. My baby graduates from college.

Eventually, they come back on the line and what do you know? I’m still sick.

They can squeeze me in in three days.

Three days?

I’ll be dead in three days, I say.

Okay, come in now, they agree.

I go in.

They are busy. Small children sneeze on me, and one licks me.

I read Redbooks from 1989. Crickets chirp. Tumbleweeds tumble by. I’ve heard every song Michael Bolton ever sang on the soft rock station. Twice.

They call me back.

I explain my symptoms. Well, not really. My voice is gone at this point, so I charade my symptoms.

Flailing wildy, I make gestures and do a little improv interpretive dancing.

You don’t feel well? The doctor asks, as I back flip over the table and mime Scarlet Fever. I land to a 9.5 from the Romanian judge.

I nod, in relief.

Would you like something for that? The doctor asks.

I embrace him fondly and get snot on his coat.

He writes me prescriptions. I mime a marriage proposal but he declines.

The thought of driving to the pharmacy to pick them up makes me cry, but I am strong! I am Wonder Woman! I am invincible!

Before I brave the horrors of the pharmacy, I need a nap. And some tea. Maybe a sandwich.

Afterwards, I feel a little better. I skip the prescriptions, toss what’s left of the Nyquil, undress the neighbor’s cat, and comb my hair.

I hear my husband sniffle gently.

Horror crosses his face. “I’m so totally sick! No one’s ever been so sick! I’m calling in sick! Honey, I’m sick, would you make me some soup while I go immediately to the doctor? I’m sick!”

Ah, my hero. My manly man. He of the bulging biceps and raging testosterone. My G.I. Joe.

“Don’t get too close,” he gasps, as I rub his chest with Vapor Rub. “I wouldn’t want you to catch this…don’t want you getting sick…I can take it though…is my soup ready? My soup, cuz I’m sick? Man, I’m so sick,” snarf. Blurp. Snoffle. “I’m so glad you didn’t catch this, honey. Aren’t you glad you didn’t get sick?”

“Don’t worry,” says I. “I never get sick.”

Notes to Weird Mothers

Mothers are weird. Not just I-have-barf-on-my-shirt-and-I-don't-care weird, but weird in other ways.

Ways like:

Sacrifice. I don't mean I'm giving up my glamorous day job as a model to stay home and check the newly potty trained toddler's briefs for racing stripes, if you know what I mean, but sacrifice as in, everything I do revolves/involves/is for my kids. Everything I do. That's right. And there's no Bryan Addams or Kevin Costner in tights either. Just me. Even the coffee I drink is for them. For their safety and well being. We sacrifice and dedicate and breathe for them.

And we like it.

Don't you find that weird?

I LIKE working an extra shift so I can buy snow cones at the corner snow cone hut once a week. (Yes, this kind of crazy spending involves strategic planning. Maybe you have jiggle room in your budget for snow cones, Nikes, or paying the utility bill. I do not).

I LIKE not buying myself a gym membership to whip my sorry patooty into shape so that I can afford swim lessons for the little tyke. I'm just going to name my muffin top, Gloria, and learn to love her, for she is squishy and quite dependable, even if she doesn't look good in mid-rise jeans anymore.

I LIKE using Suave shampoo instead of salon brands so that I can afford the organic milk, with which they will use on their organic cereal, leave on the table, and end up washing it down the sink anyway. That milk.

I LIKE spending my only day off sitting in the scorching heat while my pre-teen swims at a meet/middler has a dance recital/toddler takes over the playground.

I LIKE driving the minivan I said I'd never drive back in 2005 because it has room for my kids, plus their rowdy friends, instead of the Jeep Wrangler I only lust after slightly.

I LIKE learning new ways to hide the squash/zucchini/sweet potatoes in the nightly goulash.

I LIKE eating everybody else's leftover crusts of bread and calling it my breakfast.

I LIKE playing Star Wars Go-Fish twenty times a day and letting him win only sometimes.

I LIKE the sound of Spongebob Square Pants in the background while I cook dinner. For Sponge Bob is light hearted and makes me smile in spite of myself.

I LIKE pickles and cheese for lunch because there's only enough lunch meat left for one sandwich and someone will probably graciously save me the crusts anyway.

I LIKE knowing that someday my house will be clean and white and spotless, but also quiet and boring, and at the same time, hopefully not too miles away, my grandkids will be pooping and shouting and barfing and throwing fits in the craft aisle. I LIKE knowing that at those moments, my kids will be thinking, "I love my mom - how did she DO this? I'm going nuts!" and I will send them silent prayers of support and understanding, while I eat croissants and chocolate.

I LIKE that while my days are long and sometimes the same over and over, like Groundhog Day, but without the humor sometimes, the years are long and these child raising times are like childhood: gone all too quickly, never to come back.

So while I can, I sacrifice a little, Gloria and I. All too soon, we'll be alone and have plenty of time to go to the gym, eat a whole sandwich, and plate the zucchini lovingly on a crystal platter instead of hiding it in the creamy chicken casserole.

Until then, I'll just be weird.

Cry

Things that made me cry before having children (i.e. before "the hormonies" took over my life):

extreme pain


death


chopping onions




Things that make me cry after having children:


songs on the radio. Especially anything that brings to mind a memory, or anything by Martina McBride


the thought of running out of coffee


not sleeping


sleeping


movies - any and all, but especially heartwarming scenes. Or the not heartwarming scenes but the ones instead that creep up on you, like when the dad in We Bought A Zoo kicks over the planter because he's mad and he's had it, but then he rights it again, and you're like, yes! he's still in with this zoo thing! because for a moment there, you were worried. Or the scene in Dan In Real Life where they're all doing the talent show, which isn't really a crying scene but I think I just want a family lake house to do a family talent show in. And I'd like Dianne Wiest and the dad from Frazier (I forget his name) to be there. They don't have to replace my parents, of course, they could just be an extra set or something. It'd be handy to have an extra set of parents, wouldn't it? Also, the entire hour and a half of Up, but that's a given.


books - mostly picture books. Mostly picture books that aren't remotely sad at all. Or Knuffle Bunny Free, which totally gets me so choked up I have to point out the words at the end for Gianni, and pretend I'm teaching him to read. Also, Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs; the end where the fields of snow with Grandpa smell like mashed potatoes with a sun that looks like a pat of butter. Why does that make me tear up? Who knows. Maybe I have an underdeveloped desire to go sledding on mashed potatoes. Well, really, who doesn't? 


Dumbo. Can't do it. Baby, Mine? Good grief, why don't you just slice open all my skin and give me a lemon juice bath? it'd be less painful.


Antiques Roadshow. Is it because I have nothing of value in my attic, or is because I love watching strangers get rich?


Series finales. Even series finales of shows I never watched. Heck, I watched the Dawson's Creek series finale and got teary and I never even saw another episode and didn't know who the heck those people were. 


When Gianni says he'll marry me in ONE THOUSAND DAYS. Now to him, one thousand days is pretty much never, the same as a million years, in fact he probably meant to say one thousand years, but I'll take it. Also, when he says "You're the best mom ever!" even when it's followed promptly by, "Daddy made me say that!"


Sweet kids with good parents in grocery stores.


Naughty kids with worse parents in grocery stores.


The last line of a good book. Or the acknowledgments at the end. Or the back flap with the author bio. Or pretty much any part of a good book.


Alright, the list is getting ridiculous now. What silly things make you cry?

Obedience through bribery and other advice

Mama guilt is a peculiar thing.  It follows us Mamas around and yells at us when we're trying to sleep.  I have discovered that it can be stifled by - at least occasionally - resorting to Things We Said We'd Never Do.


Things We Said We'd Never Do Before We Had Kids Back When We Were The Perfect Parents With No Kids To Ruin Our Perfect Parenting Streak:


1.  Bribe them.  The experts say you cannot do this or chaos will ensue: the world will be consumed in fire, followed by death, maiming, soiling of quilts, and the stepping on of chickens.  But here's the truth (shh!):


If a purse full of candy means your toddler will let you roam the aisles of Ross twice per year, then get a bigger purse.


2.  Count to three.   Back before we had our own little nose pickers we said we'd never do this because "it only gives them three more seconds to be naughty."  Well, I'm here to tell you this:


We have already been programmed to count to three when we're upset.  You can't help it.  You're already doing it in your head, so it may as well come out your mouth.  Plus, it will buy you three seconds to get yourself under control so that you don't do something you will regret later, like snarf a carton of Oreos in despair.  Go ahead and count to ten if it helps.  I won't tell.


3.  Potty train later rather than earlier.  Who ever said potty training = freedom was smoking something, and I'm not talking about salmon.  


Potty training means two years of your life you will never get back, plus an intimate knowledge of every public restroom from here to Topeka.  Every errand you run will take fourteen times the amount of time it would take had your little muffin been wearing a diaper.


4.  Give in when nagged.  I always said/thought/read/heard that if you NEVER give in on a battle with a toddler, then YOU WILL WIN FOREVER.  That is a big, fat lie and whoever told you that is laughing it up.  Saying "no" only makes stubborn little gremlins more stubborn and more gremlin-y.  They really, REALLY like a challenge.  


So, do yourself a favor and just give in next time.


5.  Never let them become a picky eater.  I don't like picky eaters.  I don't like your picky eater and I don't like that picky eater across the street and I don't like my picky eater.  But they didn't become that way because you "let" them.  They just are.  Like spiders and high bridges and wedgie-prone underpants.  So, accept them.  Let them be.  Give them cereal for lunch (instead of steamed quineoa) and Nutella for breakfast (instead of vegetable stir fry).


I won't tell.


6.  If you don't read to them, they won't become readers.  Yeah, well, sometimes you read to them and they still don't become readers.  Set that example all you want and it still might not work.  I read all the time.  I read so much I forget to change my socks or mop the floor or parent my children!  And all I have to show for my stellar example are a bunch of kids who tell me they'll wait for the Xbox version.  


So go ahead and sink into that bubble bath with the latest romantic mystery...but don't expect your sacrifice to rub off into literate children.


7.  Have a strict bedtime.


Yeah.  Good luck with that one.


8.  Don't allow them to have a "sleep crutch."  You know, those things like binkies and babas and blankies and other things that begin with B.  Well, I'm here to tell you, surround that little angel with every sleep crutch you can possibly find.


We used to surround a snoring infant Cora with upteen pacifiers in the hope that when the one in her sweet angel mouth would fall out (which it would the second we hauled our tired bodies into our own bed), she would magically have enough power over her own limbs to grab the nearest one and pop it in herself.  This doesn't work.  But I still recommend the Circle of Binkies.


9.  Purify their water, boil their pacifiers, use non BPA bottles, give them organic food, use cloth diapers, etc.


At least when someone is looking.  This is key.  When you're home alone with Baby, do whatever the heck you want.


10.  Your turn. 


What rule do you break when it comes to parenting?

Family Bonding is Distressing

They're so cute...

...like baby piranhas...

They're so dang lovable.

How can I possibly want to hide from them in the bathroom and eat pasta until I melt into a puddle of Melyssa and Gorgonzola?

That one at the top?  He is a puppy in striped pajamas.  He is wearing a leash.  He is eating cereal out of a bowl on the floor.  He just told me he's "Mindy from the network."  (Bolt).  He has all fifty states memorized.  This is not due to my spectacular parenting as I had to stop and think if there were indeed, fifty states.

The one in the middle photo keeps getting disqualified from her heats at swim meets.  She is rebellious and won't follow the rules.  I blame her dad.  She wouldn't sit still and listen to our family reading of The Hobbit.  She made dinner so we forgive her lack of family spirit.

The last one up there gives me anxiety attacks for the teenage years to come.  Her future husband must enjoy  being the steak to her mushrooms, for he will be smothered until he surrenders.  She insisted on unbuttered popcorn...yet will not learn to pop it...so she sits, dejected...like a wounded small elf...on the corner of the couch while we read The Hobbit...until she melts down the side of the couch like so much unwanted butter...and she pouts some more on the floor.

Excerpts of The Hobbit were peppered with the neurotic dog pacing...back and forth...back and forth...doggy toenails on a hardwood floor under vaulted ceilings...Mommy interrupting to say things like

Move that glass, it's going to get spilled.


Don't sit on the couch like that, it's not good for it.


Get your face out of the popcorn bowl.  Yes, I know you're a puppy but you can't put your face in the popcorn bowl.


I know he put his face in, I'm sitting right here!


Be careful of Daddy's stomach, he just had surgery.


Let go.


Be nice.


Shh.


Starving kids in China would LOVE to have Daddy read to them!!


The dishes are piling up...the laundry is too...we lost the car keys for Mike's car...I will have to drive him to work at zero-dark-thirty...bedtime can't come soon enough...

I am blessed.

Why Mommies Would Be Good Spies

Mommies the world over would be excellent in espionage.  I have given this a lot of thought and I think the C.I.A. should hire us.  Of course we'd have to have Spy Names, like Scully, or Agent 99, or something like that.  Give it some thought.  I'll be Tutu.  I'll have a pointe shoe phone.

Reasons any secret government agency should hire moms immediately:

1.  We have amazingly high pain tolerance.  Pretty sure Pierce Bronson couldn't foster a human child inside his body and then expel it - either by hacking it out with a carving knife in an operating room or by pushing it out through his nether regions.  I am also fairy certain he would not make it through the first two weeks of breastfeeding without a lot of sobbing.

2.  We have perfected stealth.  Mommies are sneaky little women.  Take nap time:  whether it's a brand new babe or one of the toddling variety, we can hold our breath for most of eternity and then maneuver that little bumpkin to his crib or bed without waking him.  By the way, all cribs and toddler beds were made by The Enemy and were designed to creak if you so much as look at them.  This involves a highly intricate dance that is similar to Ethan Hawke (right Ethan?  Wrong Ethan?  Thinking of Mission Impossible Ethan, not Uma Thuman's ex Ethan)  suspended from the ceiling.

3.  We can go days without eating.  By the time the food is prepared and on the table, little Emily wants a drink, little George has pooped his pants, little Trixie has spit up, and when you've dealt with all that, there isn't any food left.

4.  We can go a long time without sleep.  Approximately 18 years.

5.  We are adept at cleaning up bodily fluids.

6.  Nothing scares us.  We have seen it all.

7.  We can't be broken through torture.  If we can handle upteen viewings of Barney, we can handle water-boarding.

8.  We are masters of disguise.  Why, you'd hardly recognize me from the 19 year old hottie I used to be now that I've got my pair of Mom Jeans.

Join me!  Today the blogging world...tomorrow the world.

  

To Do List

1.  Finish laundry.

2.  That was meant to be funny.  Is the laundry EVER finished?

3.  School children.  They've got to be around here someplace.

4.  Buy groceries.  Stretch a buck and I do mean streeeeeeeeeeetch.

5.  Pack for weekend get-away.

6.  Leave no forwarding address.

7.  Accidentally lose cell phone.

8.  Clean out van.

9.  Google search how many pounds a small child must be before you can move up to using the lap/shoulder belt and get rid of the five point harness.  It's coat season, people, trying to buckle Gianni in is like stuffing a turkey.

10.  Mmmmm, turkey.

11.  Wash sheets in cottage.

12.  Stock cottage with Cheezits and books.

13.  Make lunch.

14.  Go to mom's group.

15.  Dust.

16.  Clean bathroom.

17.  Write change-over notes for our splendid relief house parents who are taking over tomorrow. 

18.  Buy dog food.

19.  Refrain from beating about the neck and shoulders of the teenage trolls who can't seem to remember to quite PUT THEIR BREAKFAST DISHES IN THE DISHWASHER BUT LEAVE THEM ON THE COUNTER FOR ME TO SCRAPE THE NASTY BURNT ON EGG AND CRUNCHY OATMEAL OFF WHEN I GET A CHANCE TO GET TO IT AFTER ALL MY SOAP OPERA WATCHING AND BON BON EATING.

20.  Fill their stockings with coal.

21.  Rob Piggly-Wiggly for cash with which to buy my lover boy a Happy Anniversary gift.

22.  Explain to Moose that nice boys wear underpants at all times.

23.  Take Cora swimming.

24.  Take Teen Queen and Provolone to basketball.

25.  Pry remaining teen eyeballs away from too much Facebook.

26.  Make dinner.

27.  Help with homework.  Hope desperately that I am smarter than a fifth grader.

28.  Put out fires.

29.  Avoid catastrophes and chaos.

30.  Pick up athletes.

31.  Supervise chores.

32.  Stuff whoever forgot their laundry THIS time in the washer/dryer's laundry under their sheets and cackle with mirth.

33.  Get disappointed when they don't notice and just sleep with it.

34.  Bathe a Moose.

35.  Explain once again as I do nightly, that 11 year old boys are very, very close to Stinky Mandom, and therefore must shower every single night from here until eternity.  At eternity, he may take the matter up with the Lord.

36.  Pack small cooler with coconut milk and coffee creamer.  In case we get stranded on a desert island.

37.  DVR Castle.

38.  Pull down winter bedspread from tippy top of closet.

39.  Pack car.

40.  Write logs for each child.

41.  Go to bed.

42.  Put pillows over my head every time the motion detectors go off.  Unless my boss is reading this, and then I meant to say, pay strict attention to every time the motion detectors go off.

43.  Wake up.

44.  Start four days OFF.

Spooky Mommy Guilt

III hII have this constant companion.


It lurks.


It stalks.


It hides in shadows...


waiting for me to mess up.


It doesn't wait long.


Then - 
it jumps.
Right onto my back, like a little evil troll.  It grabs my hair and wraps it's legs around my waist and no matter how I jump around and spin, the little troll will not get off.


It's my Mommy Guilt.


I'd like to smash it with a hammer, roll it up in a burlap bag, and then go bury it in my garden were it can compost and do some good.


I think I may have mentioned before that I am just a little, just a tad, a bit, a smidgen, idealistic.


In the world in my delusional head, it's a constant running episode of The Waltons mixed with a little Little House on the Prairie, with a pinch of the Swiss Family Robinson thrown in for adventure (and for the tree houses).  Sometimes we achieve near Swiss Walton Prairie nirvana.


Mostly it's Malcolm in the Middle 'round these parts.


But anyway.  When things don't go my way (mine, mine, MINE!) I become plagued by Mommy Guilt.  It transpires in the days when nothing goes right (mine = right, after all) and manifests itself in yelled at children, snapped at husbands (well, only one), a lack of punctuality, a grouchy demeanor, and a general sense that I'm about to collapse on the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears the size of Alice in Wonderland's when she flooded the area she was sitting in.  


You might think that this guilt monster only appeared when I become the sudden mother of nine, but it used to show itself quite frequently in the days of being mom to three, two and even one little bundle of joy.


Did our mothers never quite know what they were doing either?


Were they making this up as they went along?


Did they yell?
Curse?
Throw things?
Lock themselves in the bathroom and vow to never, ever come out?
Dream of the days when they could own nice things?
White furniture?
Collectibles?
A candlelit dinner?
One without food in the shape of nuggets and no one bravely martyring their very lives for one small taste of string beans?


Did they?


Did they fear that they were ruining our lives?
Did they sweat the small stuff?
Did they want to commit heinous murders over our socks and shoes left in the hallway?
Were they horribly embarrassed when we did horribly embarrassing things in front of their friends or their own parents?
Did they fear they were ruining our lives?
Did I already say that?


And will our children do/say/feel this way too?


Is it the Vicious Mother Cycle that plagued even Eve in the garden?


Working moms feel guilty about working.  Stay at home moms feel judged for not working.  Nursing moms feel guilty about not letting anyone else feed their child.  Bottle feeding moms feel guilty over not nursing.  Public schooling moms feel less for not homeschooling.  Homeschooling moms feel isolated for their choice.  Guilt, guilt, guilt.  We want our children to have it all, and yet we're smart enough to know that isn't good for them.  We want to give our undivided attention, but we are divided.  Divided by dinners, chores, papers, bills, phones, friends, laundry, bosses, husbands, holidays, all those things we forgot and all those things we still haven't done yet but wish we were because it's bothering us in the backs of our minds.


I feel guilty for homeschooling even though I believe in it.
I feel guilty for not getting up early enough in the mornings to make a good breakfast for nine kids, instead letting them fend for themselves.
I feel guilty for not voting yet today.
I feel guilty that my kids have never been to Disneyland.
I feel guilty that I've done irreparable damage to their little minds by something I've said or done, even unintentionally, but even worse, intentionally.
I feel guilty that they watch too much tv.
Or that they don't get to watch enough tv.
Or that they watch the wrong things on tv.
I feel guilty for whining.
I feel guilty when my kids want something and it's only a few dollars but I say no anyway.
I feel guilty for re-gifting but I do it anyway.
I feel guilty that I've never seen Schindler's List.  Ok, not on a daily basis, but I was at this military museum yesterday, and - oh, nevermind.  But we should probably all reflect a bit more on World War II.
I feel guilty for not being able to do high school algebra and always making Mike help the punk's with their homework.
I feel guilty when I DO help with the punk's homework because I might have given them the wrong answer. 
I feel guilty for my flabby tummy.
I feel guilty for writing this when my husband walks in from picking up the kids and I worry that he's wondering why I have found time to be on the computer when I should be doing something constructive.  The guilt almost makes me shut the computer down real quick like and jump up and grab the nearest pile of laundry in guilt.  


I feel guilty for feeling guilty.


Maybe I just need chocolate.


There is no guilt in Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt.




















this post is linked up with Emily at ave t

This phis constant companion.


It lurks.


It stalks.


It hides in shadows...


waiting for me to mess up.


It doesn't wait long.


Then -
it jumps.
Right onto my back, like a little evil troll.  It grabs my hair and wraps it's legs around my waist and no matter how I jump around and spin, the little troll will not get off.


It's my Mommy Guilt.


I'd like to smash it with a hammer, roll it up in a burlap bag, and then go bury it in my garden were it can compost and do some good.


I think I may have mentioned before that I am just a little, just a tad, a bit, a smidgen, idealistic.


In the world in my delusional head, it's a constant running episode of The Waltons mixed with a little Little House on the Prairie, with a pinch of the Swiss Family Robinson thrown in for adventure (and for the tree houses).  Sometimes we achieve near Swiss Walton Prairie nirvana.


Mostly it's Malcolm in the Middle 'round these parts.


But anyway.  When things don't go my way (mine, mine, MINE!) I become plagued by Mommy Guilt.  It transpires in the days when nothing goes right (mine = right, after all) and manifests itself in yelled at children, snapped at husbands (well, only one), a lack of punctuality, a grouchy demeanor, and a general sense that I'm about to collapse on the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears the size of Alice in Wonderland's when she flooded the area she was sitting in. 


You might think that this guilt monster only appeared when I become the sudden mother of nine, but it used to show itself quite frequently in the days of being mom to three, two and even one little bundle of joy.


Did our mothers never quite know what they were doing either?


Were they making this up as they went along?


Did they yell?
Curse?
Throw things?
Lock themselves in the bathroom and vow to never, ever come out?
Dream of the days when they could own nice things?
White furniture?
Collectibles?
A candlelit dinner?
One without food in the shape of nuggets and no one bravely martyring their very lives for one small taste of string beans?


Did they?


Did they fear that they were ruining our lives?
Did they sweat the small stuff?
Did they want to commit heinous murders over our socks and shoes left in the hallway?
Were they horribly embarrassed when we did horribly embarrassing things in front of their friends or their own parents?
Did they fear they were ruining our lives?
Did I already say that?


And will our children do/say/feel this way too?


Is it the Vicious Mother Cycle that plagued even Eve in the garden?


Working moms feel guilty about working.  Stay at home moms feel judged for not working.  Nursing moms feel guilty about not letting anyone else feed their child.  Bottle feeding moms feel guilty over not nursing.  Public schooling moms feel less for not homeschooling.  Homeschooling moms feel isolated for their choice.  Guilt, guilt, guilt.  We want our children to have it all, and yet we're smart enough to know that isn't good for them.  We want to give our undivided attention, but we are divided.  Divided by dinners, chores, papers, bills, phones, friends, laundry, bosses, husbands, holidays, all those things we forgot and all those things we still haven't done yet but wish we were because it's bothering us in the backs of our minds.


I feel guilty for homeschooling even though I believe in it.
I feel guilty for not getting up early enough in the mornings to make a good breakfast for nine kids, instead letting them fend for themselves.
I feel guilty for not voting yet today.
I feel guilty that my kids have never been to Disneyland.
I feel guilty that I've done irreparable damage to their little minds by something I've said or done, even unintentionally, but even worse, intentionally.
I feel guilty that they watch too much tv.
Or that they don't get to watch enough tv.
Or that they watch the wrong things on tv.
I feel guilty for whining.
I feel guilty when my kids want something and it's only a few dollars but I say no anyway.
I feel guilty for re-gifting but I do it anyway.
I feel guilty that I've never seen Schindler's List.  Ok, not on a daily basis, but I was at this military museum yesterday, and - oh, nevermind.  But we should probably all reflect a bit more on World War II.
I feel guilty for not being able to do high school algebra and always making Mike help the punk's with their homework.
I feel guilty when I DO help with the punk's homework because I might have given them the wrong answer. 
I feel guilty for my flabby tummy.
I feel guilty for writing this when my husband walks in from picking up the kids and I worry that he's wondering why I have found time to be on the computer when I should be doing something constructive.  The guilt almost makes me shut the computer down real quick like and jump up and grab the nearest pile of laundry in guilt. 


I feel guilty for feeling guilty.


Maybe I just need chocolate.


There is no guilt in Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt.

autumn daze

But, Mom, I don't need a nap!  See?  I'm wide awake!  I'm not tired! I'm - zzzzzzz...

The last of the summer garden cucumbers.

Well, the first couple weeks of school (juggling 5 public schoolers, two homeschoolers, and one Tasmanian devil who has discovered scissors) is under our belt.  We've already had our first back-to-school colds making the rounds, with Provolone down with it today.  I haven't been sick in a long while so I'm getting nervous...I might be due.  Anyone want to fill in for me if I come down with the Plague? Hello?  The days are going by incredibly fast.  Gone are the times with my hubs when we can sit down after a long day and watch something on the telly at night.  Too much homework.  I don't much care for most of this homework.  Shouldn't they be doing this in school?  I already spent several hours homeschooling, it confuses me as to why I have to spend two more each night.  It's becoming a soapbox with me.  And I'm not bashing teachers, I just didn't go to public school so all this is new to me.  If the students do all their actual "work" at home with their parents, or respective guardians, then what do they spend 8 hours a day doing in school?  But anyway.  It's a good thing I married one of those people who never forget things (except to bring home milk) because I am not good at this:

But if they need help with this, I'm their girl:

Although it's been a while and I would probably get stuck and have to be air lifted to the nearest hospital for back surgery/hip replacement.

Gianni is quite thrilled that his birthday is coming up.  I am not so thrilled.  What happened to that little pudgy ewok I gave birth to, like 10 minutes ago?  Where did he go?  Did this curly haired, dimpled toddler eat him?  There is no proof he ever existed.  I may need to curl up on the bathroom floor and weep for a while.

Carry on.

Ok (strangled sob) I'm better now.

He told me this morning that it was also MY birthday and that I could have a party and then he proceeded to sing the happy birthday song to me.  He also said I would be forty-forty.

Don't judge.  He's homeschooled.  Plus, he eats a lot of playdough.

He would like a tractor cake (surprise, surprise) and told his allergist all about it.  The doctor turned to me and said, 'He reminds me of my middle son.  The one I am always surprised is still living.'  I can only assume he said that because as he walked in the door, Gianni was airborne in the middle of a belly flop off the examining table.  He landed well and we gave him a 8.5.

The weather here is officially fall and I only have to go outside and breathe the lovely chilly air and take a walk to see all the trees turning to make my day seem calm and serene and perfect.  Ok, ok, some days it takes more than orange leaves to make everything serene, but for about a nano second there, the world stands still.  Then someone yells for me and someone else yells 'I found her' and then they drag me out from under the tree and force me to be a mother and responsible adult again.  I consider whining and stomping my feet and throwing myself prostrate on the grass, but they'll only demand more dinner and help with the iron and signatures on school papers and threats to drink all my coffee, so I finally give in and stomp back inside.  Must get better hiding places.  And bring dark chocolate.  And Cabernet Savignon.  

Ode to kitchen items

I'm still moving in.  Really.  I'm turning into Elasta Girl in The Incredibles who calls Mr Incredible at work to say they've officially moved in after three years because she just opened the last box.  It may take me that long, not because we have much - we sold practically everything before moving here - but because we don't own any bookshelves at the moment.  Which is a sin, I'm pretty sure.  Like, the 11th commandment or something, right?  Thou shalt not not own bookshelves.  Shalt not not?  Is that a triple negative?

In my unpacking frenzy, I of course have the kitchen just about the way I want it.  So here you go, an ode to kitchen items:


Cuisinart electric can opener...how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways:

1.  You don't open half the can, skip a centimeter, then start cutting again, only to stop at the end with another uncut centimeter, leaving the contents completely unaccessible.  Leaving me to shake, pound, mangle and smack the can in a hopeless attempt to salvage that part of dinner that is now, at that moment, desperately important and desired.  It could be garbanzo beans that expired in 1997, but now you really gotta have them.
2. You don't take up too much counter space.  How humble and unassuming of you!
3.  I bought you at a thrift store for a mere 2.99.
4.  You look shiny and expensive and purr like a kitten.
5.  I never have to fumble in a drawer for you only to be stabbed by knives and those little bamboo skewers that I've never bought but mysteriously find their way into every kitchen I've ever owned.


The microwave.
How else would I nuke my coffee 14 times in one morning?  Without you I'd be forced to bake potatoes in the oven.  Unthinkable.  They roll around in there and drop through the racks and when I go to rescue them, the ungrateful little spuds burn me everytime.  There's a reason why they're called hot potatoes.

My kitchenaid mixer.  It'd be darn difficult to make weekly homemade pizza crust without you.  Not impossible, but darn difficult.  Someday I promise to learn how to use the pasta attachment.

The dishwasher.  Not the one that's broken right now and for the past week.  I don't like you at all and I'm not talking to you.  Breaking within two weeks of me moving in.  Rude.  I'm speaking to the new one should it ever arrive.  I haven't even met you yet, but I love you more  as much as I love friends and family.

Programmable coffee maker.  But we've talked about that before.

Bounty paper towels.  Or Viva.  Or Brawny.  But mostly Bounty.  Absorbant, rinse out-able, and they perforate easily enough that if you're juggling a jelly stained toddler, a hot saucepan, a ringing phone, and smacking a hungry teenager who is reaching for the fridge all with one hand, you can still rip one off with the other.

Revenge of the Mommies

I've been thinking. When my kids are grown and move out I'm going to visit them. A lot. Probably for 2-3 weeks at a time. You know, so they have time to miss me. Here are my plans for when I come a'callin':

1. I will demand a certain spread for dinner, practically faint from the hunger I feel when they take too long to prepare it, and then refuse to partake when it is on the table.

2. I will promise to be good when they need to run errands. But I will lie.

3. I will want to eat lots of bananas, but when my kids peel it wrong or it breaks in half, I will cry and flop onto the kitchen floor in despair. Same goes for tacos.

4. I will eat so much yogurt at their friend's house that they will rush out and buy a case of the same brand and flavor of yogurt for me at home. But I won't eat it.

5. I will never, never, ever flush the toilet.

6. I will use each and every public restroom in town, even if I went right before leaving the house. And when they wait outside the door, I will fling it open and shout victoriously, "I pooped!" to everyone within a square mile.

7. I will take all the pieces out of their board games and playing cards and spread them all over the house. Oh, they'll find them eventually and sort them out. But they will never find one piece from each game.

8. In my efforts to hang up my coat I will knock down every other one in the closet.

9. I will keep them up at night and then cheerfully enjoy my nap that afternoon while they wash my laundry.

10. I will eat a lot of graham crackers and then hug and kiss them. They'll be wearing a white cashmere sweater at the time.

11. I will use up every drop of their salon conditioner in one bath time.

12. I will crush up a bag of cheerios and distribute evenly in the couch cushions.

13. I will ride my bike in their house. Preferably right after they mop.

14. I will climb a tree and get stuck. I will wail and scream for help until they climb up and carry me down.

15. I will say embarrassing and questionable things when they invite the family minister over for tea.

16. I will forget everything they say so that they have to repeat it over and over again.

17. I will shout for them from across the house all day. Even if they're right beside me, I will go downstairs or upstairs purposefully so that I can shout something.

18. Every time they need to talk on the phone I will suddenly need something RIGHT NOW, even if I have completely ignored them prior to the phone call.

19. I will hide their jewelry and their car keys often.

20. I will dress myself in orange stripes and purple paisley and moon boots and I will cut my own bangs without a mirror right before we go for family pictures.

21. When they take me grocery shopping I will want to ride in the car shaped cart. But whenever they are in a tight squeeze in an aisle or trying to pay and can't get to the front of the car to get me out, I will suddenly sustain an earsplitting and horrible injury.

22. When they are loading up their groceries, I will always disappear around the wrong side of the car.

23. I will wake them up extra early on weekends.

24. I will be on my worst behavior on the Lord's Day so that they feel the need to curse all the way to church and then pretend to be super happy and holy when they get there.

25. I will eat their deodorant.

26. They will be so proud of my accomplishments for my age that they will want to show me off to their friends whose parents aren't as smart as me. But I will just pick my nose.

27. I will scribble in their books. Probably just the library books though.

28. When they try to take a picture of me I will screw up my face and stick out my tongue and put bunny ears on the person next to me. Every. Single. Time.

29. I will eat lots of pickles and ranch dressing and fish sticks and garlic sauce, and then want to cuddle.

30. It will be sweet.

Parenting by The Clash: the Results Show

Wowee, everyone, thanks for the responses! Some can be read below, and others were emailed and I will selfishly keep those to myself. It seems that staying has won by a nose, albeit with conditions and a good headache. Just so y'all know, the G man has not become a monster, at least not quite yet, but he did throw a mini fit the other day at King Soopers due to not wanting to ride in the cart and not wanting to be carried either, leaving me befuddled and wracking my brain trying to recall how I dealt with the girls during toddlerdom. Cora threw one fit in her whole life and I, like Tawni, simply walked away, figuring no one was going to kidnap a thrashing, wailing, kicking miniature lunatic at that particular moment in time. And if they did have the guts, I was pretty confident they'd return her speedily. That worked well enough for her; as baby Anna and I stood in line a few aisles down, Cora raised her red face, saw no one was paying attention to her - and the ones that were looked appalled - dusted off her pants and calmly walked back to my side. Anna, as far as I can remember, never threw fits at all. It simply wasn't her style; she much preferred whining you to death and walking as slow as possible, dragging her little mary janes along at the pace of a bedridden snail. There was one year while Christmas tree hunting, we all opted to leave her behind for the mountain lions as she drug her moon boots a half mile back, lamenting at the top of her voice about the weather, the lack of food, the wind, the bad trees, her mittens, her hat, religion, politics, etc. Unfortunately, the mountain lions saw that crazed look in her eyes and wanted nothing to do with her either, and now we just don't invite the little sprite with us. So, now we have the little man...and thanks be to you, I feel much more confident for the next shopping experience...I think. He is not quite yet at the age where he can be reasoned with as far as promising treats later ("later" is not a word in his vocabulary right now) and unfortunately the free cookie would send him into anaphylactic shock (which I suppose would end a fit, but eternally wasn't really what I was going for), but a few easily found treats in the purse should fit the bill nicely, and coupled with the correct timing in his day, well, I believe we at least won't have our faces put up on Soopers front door with a big red line drawn through them.

Parenting by The Clash

Anna learned how to use the sewing machine yesterday, and made, all by her lonesome, two pillowcases and one skirt (modeled in the center picture). She struggles in her academics, especially with reading still, so we took a break and did a whole afternoon of Home Ec. just me and her. It was a nice bonding time with Roosky and she is still talking about it and dreaming of fashion design...

This post is going to be interactive, folks. I want opinions about a pressing matter. Here it is:

To leave the cart behind, or stick it out?

If you're parents you already know what I'm speaking of. When a toddler has a freak out in the middle of Walmart, what do you do? There are two schools of thought here. Leave or stay. Now most books/experts/mommies will tell you that you leave the cart right there and hightail it home pronto. This tells the child that his behavior is not acceptable and will not be tolerated, and it has the added perk of rescuing fellow shopper's ears from ringing and their mouths from saying under their breath, 'Why won't she just take that little spawn home?' Now this is a good method, tried and true, but it comes with problems of it's own, not the least among them the fact that your cart is filled with perishables that took you the better part of an hour to pick out lovingly and who wants to just destroy all that hard work and just leave it with the strawberry ice cream melting slowly all over the chicken breasts (the ones that are on sale and won't be when you return). Some underpaid bag boy is going to have to put all that stuff away, you know. And really, when are you going to find the time and energy to come back and shop anew, much less desire to show your face there again anyway? Here's my other issue with this method: that little angel didn't want to be there in the first place (it's hardly Lego StarWars Skittles Palace that you're shopping at) and if you leave aren't you in fact, giving in to what he/she wants? Yes, of course, when you go home you aren't going to cheerfully dole out a months supplies of Chips Ahoy and give them a pony ride and that could disappoint them a bit, but all in all, most of them are just going to be glad to be out of that god foresaken market and home, even if it does mean a severe tongue lashing from Mom. And now that you're home and little Jr. is all settled down for the nap that was overdue, you have no groceries, or possibly toilet paper, and no foreseeable future date to go get those again. Dinner consists of bean casserole surprise with a M&M reduction and a hamburger helper risotto, with a lovely souffle of canned peaches sliced 5 ways with a cheerio crunch topping. So, readers mine, do you stay or do you go (now...if you go there could be trouble...if you stay it could be double...sorry, couldn't resist and now you know what those lyrics mean).

Scenario number two: Staying to fight it out. This is not for the faint of heart. Although you may be tempted to swat a backside, this is not advisable for lots of reasons we won't go into, but mostly because I don't want to turn on the evening news and see you on it. And as much as I would like to become a foster parent, receiving your kids would be awkward and uncomfortable. So, you give the monster a firm talking to usually while gripping his shoulder in a vulcan hold, and threaten terrible things in a hiss that you will never follow through on. Also not the best, we all know you have to follow through. It's also not advisable to tease your children as my husband used to that he 'drop the hammer!' That's just asking for little Susie to shout at the top of her lungs in a public place, 'No, Daddy! Don't hit us with the hammer!' Also a great way to get yourself on the evening news. If the child has superhuman strength like the Williams' children, attempting to fold their little 30 pound bodies in half so as to place them in that dratted cart, is a little like nailing jello to the wall. Pointless, insane, and impossible. It's like trying to fold a two-by-four in half. You can reason with Susie. You can bribe Susie. But reasoning with a two year old is laughable, at least at this point, and bribing brings consequences all it's own (like being forced to buy your 16 old a car just because he didn't steal Gramma's silver that week). If you can finish your shopping in peace, kudos to you, oh parenting God or Goddess, because usually mine is finished by dangling a wriggling, snot faced, toddler under my armpit, while fishing out the debit card and shouting, 'No, it's ok, don't bag that one, just toss it the cart, and I am so sorry, and he's never really like this, and -'

Incidentally, the first time I knew I was really and truly a parent was not when they laid my little bundle of joy in my arms or the first diaper I changed or the first time they said, 'mama,' it was when I called Mike in tears and sobbed over the phone,

'You know THAT mom in Walmart? Today...I WAS THAT MOM.'

Seriously, everyone of you, this is for posterity so be honest. Do you stay or do you go? And if you have no offspring, would you rather see a mom leave or struggle through? Leave a comment, an email if you can't figure out the comment thing, a phone call, a carrier pigeon, etc. I really want to know.

When good Waltons go bad

Look up the word idealistic in the dictionary and you'll find my beaming face. Well, not beaming exactly, most snapshots of moi look like I'm a deer in the headlights (you should get a load of my new driver's license but unless you work at the liquor store, you won't be). This new one on my profile of me and Moose was taken this weekend and it's the best shot I've me I've seen in ages. Maybe since babyhood or so, when it was ok to have a double chin and funny looking hair. But anyway, I was saying that I am idealistic. Are you? Do you have a running movie in your head that looks like a love child between Little House on the Prairie and The Waltons? I know I do. Only my movie family/life has a bit more money and better hair, at least on the men. Now that my dear hubby has a little something you've all been experiencing for years that we like to call weekends, I have pressed my idealistic images to the max. There will be picnics. There will be camping. There will be movie nights and pizza and sleeping in and bike rides. Oh yes. Even if it kills me these things will happen. It may in fact, kill me. Here's a recap of the last two weekends:

Me, talking to Mike: Let's pack a picnic and spend the day at the park! The kids can splash in the water and play in the playground and we can stroll romantically on rose petaled paths!

Mike, looking well, a bit deer in the headlights himself actually, says something unintelligible which I take to mean he's totally down with the plan.

So I lovingly make a cooler full of sandwiches. Individualized sandwiches. Honey mustard and lettuce for Cora. Pickles for Anna. Cheese and yellow mustard for me. Spicy mustard for Mike. Plain for Moose. There are apples and ice water. Sunscreen. A camera to capture our outing of family bliss. I can tell Mike is forfeiting his own personal weekend dreams of endless world domination playing Civilization, but the man is not dumb and a decade of marriage has not been wasted on him.

Enter the girls. You know the ones. They're supposed to look like Mary and Laura? These ones look more like Itchy and Scratchy, or maybe Pinky and The Brain. I don't really remember Mary and Laura fighting this much and we can't seem to get out the door without yelling, whining, pushing, shoving, and other very un-Walton like shennanigans. I'm getting a little annoyed that the movie in my head is becoming more and more like an episode of Supernanny (the beginning half hour, not the last). So I decide calmly to do something I've been threatening to do for over 8 years now: I walk over to them and take their round little noggins in my hands and then I smack their heads together. It sounded like banging two watermelons together, which is ironic and fitting, because lately they've had the IQs of fruit salad. The eldest stands in shock with her mouth hanging open like a codfish, and the middler runs away sobbing. But not surprisingly, they are angels all the way to the park. Point 1 for child abuse.

The park is cold. The water is cold. There was no need really for sunscreen as that particular orb in the sky has not appeared. There was need for a change of clothes for Gianni, who fell in the lake almost before the van had come to a complete stop, but I didn't pack one. There is a pack of preteens who curse like drunken sailors or worse, ballerinas, and it's tiring trying to talk over them so that your own children don't pick up on the words they're saying. Or worse, say, 'Mommy, isn't that what you said right before you smacked our heads together?'

The romantic stroll along the lake pathway doesn't happen because I am no longer talking to my husband because he made fun of me for making six different kinds of sandwiches and said his own mom used to do that and it drove everyone crazy than, too. I told him his mother should have drowned her ungrateful offspring at birth, and then I stalked off righteously.

Gianni falls in lake again and also eats what I think may have been a cigarette butt.

Weekend II:

This time it's Mike's idea to get in the car and have some family time. This is because we are seriously as broke as a joke due to supporting two houses and paying for Moose's little hospital adventure and the fact that, oh yeah, I am not a brain surgeon. But driving is free. So we go to a different park, this one a few miles outside of town, and the girls fight the whole way. I am short and thusly (thusly?) cannot quite reach them in the backseat otherwise Ma Ingalls would have konked them out cold with some nun chucks. We get to the park. It's beautiful. It's freakin' cold. The wind chill is close to -45. No, not really, but it's cold. However, Ma and Pa refuse to admit it this to their whiney offspring and are determined to have a good time no matter what. Cora won't get out of the car. Gianni almost blows away. His sandwich (made with all the same ingredients by the way) does blow away. Ma and Pa force a smile and hide our goosebumps under the cheery checked tablecloth. The one that blows away. After oh, about 4 minutes of this fun, we all load back up in the Adventuremobile. By now the girls have whined and fought so much that a little come to Jesus talk is in order and they end up being grounded for all of eternity.

The rest of the day turned out nice though. We went a little further and in the mountains where some of the wind can be blocked, it's not nearly so frigid. We climbed boulders and frolicked through meadows and it was actually as good as the movie in my head.

Also in the movie in my head, the baby doesn't stuff so much stuff (I say stuff because the actual substance is unknown) down the toilet that it majorly overflows and floods the bathroom. He also doesn't learn to climb into the kitchen sink and turn on the water. Or sit in the bathtub fully clothed, and turn on that water all over himself. Did I say he was going to be an electrican? I meant plumber. Also in my movie, the heroine doesn't get lost every time she gets on the freeway and end up halfway to Timbuktu before she turn around and it takes 40 minutes to get home instead of 10 and the baby fell asleep which is really really bad, because now he won't nap at home, and there goes the last couple hours of hope for Ma. But Ma is strong and invincible! Ma needs a nap. Ma decides instead in her idealistic little brain, or what's left of it, to make a big family dinner. Ma breaks favorite casserole dish. Ma went to bed at 9:00 last night.