A Story in Text Speak

My sister and I text a lot. It's imperative because we have ninety-six children between us, so if you do the math, you'll realize that if we want to actually have a conversation, with our vocal cords, we'll have to wait until summer of 2032. 

If ever we die, and people try to recreate our last days using our text messages, no one would make sense of anything, and it would look like we were chubby, alcoholic, hungry, television addicts. Which, we may in fact, be, but there's more to us, darnit! 

Just nothing worth texting about.

For instance, sometimes we'll get a flashback and be reminded of something in our shared childhood. Last night, it was Newsies.

Remember Newsies?

I was watching it last night with Roo, having serious flashbacks to 1992 and my love affair with Christian Bale's hair, who wasn't anybody at the time (him or his hair). 

I'm not kidding. I loved his hair. That floppy boy look. Did it for me every time. 

Hat boy was a cutie patootie, too. So was the Brooklyn blonde boy, also with floppy hair.

Actually, this whole movie was a dream for a 14 year old homeschooled, nerd girl. The entire cast was dreamy boys, with dance moves, brooding eyes, and floppy hair. 

Our text conversation went something like:

Me: I'm watching Newsies! Squeal!

Her: I'm the king of New York!

Me: Didja know the kid who was also in Doogie, who always plays the Brooklyn Italian kid in every movie of that decade, is actually Russian? The things you learn with imdb. (Note: I can no longer watch any movie without looking up the cast on imdb)

Max Casella. Not Italian.

Her: I know, right??

Me: Also, Christian Bale has been happily married to you for years! It's crazy the trivia you can learn.

Her: It's true! We're just so happy together!

Me: I could tell from the red carpet photos. Did I tell you this is back on Broadway?

Her: I'll pack immediately. 

Me: Wait! Is Broadway a real street? So, I like, what, go to 4th and Broadway, or something?

Her: Yes, it's a street, dummy. I puked on it when I was preggers with Aly. I think it sees a lot of puke though, so I fit in.

Me: Wait again. Why is Bill Pullman's character suddenly better looking than Jack Kelly?

Her: Probably because you're not 14 anymore. You could be Christian Bale's mother's character by now.

Me: That was harsh. Also, I refuse to accept your math, homeschooler. Am so only 14. 

Her: I'm the king of New York!

Me: I love Bill Pullman. I've been happily married to him for years.



The End.



P.S.
I could probably do a whole series based on text messages.

P.P.S.
My sister and I are kind of a fount of knowledge when it comes to movie trivia. We're really our own special kind of imdb. Feel free to text us at any time with your movie and television emergencies. We may answer with things like, I really am ruggedly handsome, aren't I? or Bless your beautiful hide! or Come out to the coast...we'll have a few laughs!  but if you're a true fan of quotes, this won't bother you in the slightest.

Grandpa's Least Favorite Song

In the spirit of Halloween, I bring you the song that made my sweet Grandpa go berserk. Thus, we sang it as much as possible.

Do Ever Wonder?

Do you ever wonder when the hearse goes by

That you may be the next to die?

They wrap you in a big, white sheet

And then they bury you 6 feet deep.

All goes well for the first few weeks

But then the coffin begins to leak.

The worms crawl in

The worms crawl out

The ants play Pinochle on your snout.

They eat the jam between your toes

And that's the way the story goes!

Happy October, ghouls and boys! Teach this old song to your kiddos - they'll totally thank you.

And since my Grandpa is probably scowling at me from above (I just realized this song may be the reason he asked to be cremated) here are a couple more. These ones he actually taught me, and they aren't disgusting.

After The Ball

After the ball was over

(insert name here) took out her glass eye...

Put her false teeth in fresh water...

Stopped up her bottle of dye.

Stood her peg leg in the corner...

Hung her false wig on the wall.

Then all that was left went to dreamland...

After the ball.

******************

Catalinamatalinahoopenstinerwaltintimer

Catalinamatalinahoopenstinerwaltintimer

Hogenbogenlogen 

Was her name!

She had ten hairs on the top of her head

5 were alive, and 5 were dead!

Catalinamatalinahoopenstingerwaltintimer

Hogenbogenlogen

Was her name!

She had two teeth in the front of her mouth

1 pointed north and the other pointed south!

(Chorus. Please don't make me type it all again. See above).

She had two eyes on the front of her head

1 was glass and the other was lead!

(Chorus)

She had two ears on the side of her head

1 was yeller and the other was dead!

(Chorus)

She slept in the kitchen

With her feet in the hall

That's because she's nine feet tall!

(chorus)

What are your favorite kid songs and who taught them to you? Do you know these classics, or have a different version?

The Great Pumpkin

Holy grownin' kids, Batman, I just realized that those photos on my sidebar of those three adorable gremlins ARE A YEAR OLD!

Here lies my children's childhood.
R.I.P.

Why don't you just grow up and run away and leave me to become the crazy cat lady, who pushes baby dolls around in a stroller, why don't you, children of mine?

Holy cow.
They're getting older.

Somebody make it stop!

Also, somebody make Genesis return from Ireland - the land of death and pestilence and horror and lack of Melyssas - so she can carve punkins and take photos, like last year and every last year for the past 12 years.

In the Great Pumpkin's Name,
Amen.

SAHMs - Heavy Weight Champs or Bullies?

I was reading a lovely post by a lovely blogger (mrs. darcy) and since I recently had an article published about Mommy Wars, it got me thinking about ANOTHER Mommy War:

SAHMs (that's Stay At Home Mom for you people living under a rock. Or men)

Vs

Working Mothers.

Yes, yes, I know all mothers are working mothers. That's not what this is about, silly.

The pendulum that swings on this is wide, loud, heavy, and will smack you in the face if you get too close. But let's do it anyway...

(And if you are comfortably in the middle, or even on the far side of one or the other, but not judgmentally in anyone's faces, then you can leave right now and go eat some cookies).

Mmm. Cookies.

The two extremes are these:

1. SAHMs who are smug and self righteous, while secretly hating tiny parts of their lives

and

2. Working mothers who are smug and self righteous, while secretly hating tiny parts of their lives.

Since it's no secret that SAHMs have felt looked down on by the ultra feminist movement, who thinks they (the SAHMs) are setting them back about a century with their love of bread baking, sewing, homeschooling, and apron wearing, we're gonna explore the other side. I know, surprising, huh? You didn't think I'd take the other side, didja?! Ha! The Blogging Ninja struck again...

The other side is this:

The way super conservative SAHMs make Working Mothers feel. Since I've been one, I feel like I can talk. And of course this doesn't apply to everybody - that goes without saying. But I said it anyway. So don't leave me nasty comments. Just pretend I'm talking to my bad self, not you.

For the very conservative, typically religious, SAHMs (of whom I have been one), here are some things you should know about SOME Working Mothers:

1. While you are making it work on your husband's income, not everybody can. Yes, I can hear you saying, give up your car payment, downsize your house, don't take vacations, shop used, put back the organic fruit, etc.  But you know what? Some have done all that, and their husband's income still doesn't pay the bills. Jobs do not grow on trees in this economy, and sometimes we take what we can get. Sometimes this means your college educated man takes a job with less per hour than he made right out of high school. I know you THINK everyone can do it, but that's just not the case. Is it the case in MOST cases? Yes, you're probably right. But it's not the case in my case, and it's not the case in other's cases. We literally could not make the budget if I didn't work. And guess what? We don't have any debt. We don't have car payments, we never vacation, we don't wear new clothes, we get our hair cut at the beauty college, we rent a small house. We are simply under-employed.

2.  Some don't have the fairy tale marriage you have (or claim you have on FB. Haha! Joking). Not every man is the Picture of Respectability. There are things you don't know about women's marriages, and they could be one of the reasons why she isn't staying at home. For instance: if there's threat of divorce, how long will the dream of staying home last? Or maybe he's just not into this SAHM point of view.

3. Some women genuinely feel that they are better moms for working. I know. This is a tough one for moms who spring on fairy wings through their houses, dusting, planting kisses on their well behaved offspring, and never having a bad day. But for some, those bad days aren't very few and far between. Do I think women should think long and hard about having children and dropping them off at daycare? Yep, and yep, and GOOD HEAVENS YEP.  I knew a gal who would take her kids to daycare on the days she DIDN'T work. This was so sad to me. I didn't understand it then, and I don't understand it now. But it doesn't mean the Working Mother loves her kids less than you do. I repeat: it doesn't mean she loves her kids less than you do. I know it feels like it to you, but it's simply not true. What if they love with a fierce, exhausted, passionate, busier kind of love than you feel? It isn't less than your coloring book, read aloud, SAHM kind of love. It's just different. Maybe they're scared of who they are when the walls of home are closing in on them. Maybe they feel like they neglect their kids when they're right in front of them, and do better when they get a chance to miss them a bit (I've felt this. Is it right? Probably not. But I think it's a common struggle. Did you know homeschooling SAHMs can neglect their children? They can).

Am I saying everyone should be a working mother? No. Do I think Moms should want/desire/TRY their best to stay home with their children? Yes. But is it helping to look down our noses at one another? Aren't we wasting our children's childhoods with patronizing judging when we could be meeting each other at the park, coffee in one hand, toddler's hand in the other? Whether it's in between naps, or in between meetings at the office, we all need it.

If every mom stayed home around the clock, where would you take Little Sue when she needed ballet classes? Who would show Annie that women can be fire fighters, too? Who would read aloud to Jake if library story hour went away?

This is the most feminist I've ever sounded...and I haven't been a feminist since third grade. Ironically enough, I don't have time to read over this and decide if it's worth publishing...because I have to go to work! HA! How's that for funny?

Have you ever felt like you perched on one side of the pendulum? Can there be a balance? Have you felt hit in the head by someone on the other side of the debate?

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.

Top Parenting Tips

Once upon a time, I started blogging on a different site. It was free for a limited time, I got a lot of spam comments, and then the whole site went up for sale. I don't think they exist anymore. Anyway, this was back before I could do wayyyyy technologically advanced things like copy and paste, so instead of transferring my old stuff over to blogger, I just deleted everything. Long story short, one of my most popular posts was something like this:


TOP TECHNIQUES TO PARENTING


1. "The Disappointed Look."  This is useful for when you need to pack your kid's bags and take them on a guilt trip. It only works for sensitive souls though. Actually, it doesn't really work at all, but we still use it frequently. You can partner it with a long, drawn out sigh. Maybe squeeze a few tears if you can, but don't try too hard. Kids can smell manipulation, just like they can smell fear. The only child of mine that The Disappointed Look works on, is Anna. Sometimes I shake my head sorrowfully to go along with it. She immediately starts yelling, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't really eat my green beans - look! I'm eating them now! I'm SORRY!"


2. "The Furry Hand of Discipline." This was is a misnomer. I think once Mike gently tried to explain to his little angels the term, the firm hand of discipline. It didn't go over well since they burst out laughing and shouted, "the furry hand! Not the furry hand! aaagh!"  To this day, we still call it the furry hand of discipline, and we picture it like Grover's blue hand coming out of the blue to strike fear and obedience into the hearts of little sinners everywhere.


Unless your kid has a fear of blue muppets though, this probably isn't the most effective threat. Which leads me to my next technique:


3. "The Idle Threat." This technique is as old as time. Eve probably used it on Cain and Abel, and look how - um, never mind. Bad example. But we can't seem to stop ourselves as parents with this one. We know we have to NOT let little Sue slide with whatever naughtiness she is currently involved in, but we really don't feel like full-on parenting at the moment. So we idly say something like, 


Stop these shenanigans immediately or I will cancel Christmas!


Sometimes it's not that scary or over the top. Sometimes it's something like,


Stop these shenanigans immediately or I will come in there, so help me, God!


Either way, we're lying and we're not canceling anything or getting off the couch.


4. "Talking Them Half to Death" or "Preaching." This is especially effective with teenagers. They will do anything, ANYTHING, to get you to stop preaching. Even delete bad songs off their Ipods. Even if Lil' Wayne is the only one who understands them.


I'll leave you with some great parenting quotes. If you know of any others, or have one yourself, leave em in the comments! (and admire my copying and pasting skillz, will ya?!)


A child is a curly dimpled lunatic. 
Ralph Waldo Emerson


No one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed. I have known mothers who remake the bed after their children do it because there is wrinkle in the spread or the blanket is on crooked. This is sick.
Erma Bombeck


My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first one being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.
Erma again


Most children threaten at times to run away from home. This is the only thing that keeps some parents going.
Phyllis Diller


The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found." 
 Calvin Trillin 


To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. 
Oscar Wilde


Even very young children need to be informed about dying. Explain the concept of death very carefully to your child. This will make threatening him with it much more effective. 
P. J. O'Rourke

Why you won't be my friend

Originally published by Home Educating Family magazine/blog http://www.homeschoolconvention.com/blog/ 
Article reprinted with permission by the publishers and the author (that's me).

So my youngest is at that age now where I start getting evil looks from other mommies in the park. I know why they’re annoyed with me and my frightful parenting ways, but let me take a moment to explain why I do what I do:

I am a very over protective mom, but like every parent, I have my pet peeves, soap boxes, personal creed, etc. For instance, I am very over protective about people watching my children. They could be crazed ax murderers, serial killers, homicidal kidnappers, or lawyers.  You just can’t be too careful. I am also very over protective about the things they learn and just who in the blazes they’re learning it from. Thus the sheltering – er, I meant to say homeschooling. I am very over protective about what they put into their bodies and like the cruel mother I am, I follow in my own cruel mother’s footsteps and serve them homemade granola instead of Sugar Frosted Sprinkled Cocoa Puffed Candy Balls for breakfast (an important part of your nutritious breakfast… when served with eggs, orange juice, toast, and a side of vitamins). I am over protective about the little things like wearing seat belts and having a buddy to take to the restrooms and looking both ways twice before crossing the street.

But here is what I am NOT over protective about (and the source of the evil looks coming my way):

Play.

For instance:  climbing. Climbing trees and play equipment is a child’s job. You get strange looks if you leave this part of childhood for when you are fully grown. Trees are made for climbing, folks! And climbing high. We’re not talking one branch up, a mere six inches from the spongey playground floor.  Sure, they could fall out I suppose and then I suppose they would more than likely break a limb, but they could also find a way to fall off your couch while watching other children climb trees on television, land on the coffee table, spill their snack which flings the fork into the air, only to be caught by their eyeball. Life has risks.

Anyway, though, my kids are climbers and this somehow warrants every well-meaning (or perhaps, meddling) parent to approach me and kindly tattle on my own children because they are not swinging properly on the swing at a perfect arc and in a five-point harness; they are instead three stories up in a tree, usually upside down, sneakers untied, ponytails dangling. Instead of swinging, they’re perched atop the swing’s supports. If I’m feeling a bit small from the rebuke I just got, I’ll give a half hearted, “Hey, kids, not too high, ok?”,  but inside I’m wondering if the adult next to me was ever a child. My three gremlins have been climbing since they could walk and yes, something bad could happen. But it wouldn’t be worse than having good old childhood fun taken away from them, or worse: being forced to only go down the slide. Going down the slide is boring, moms and dads. Going up? Going up is fun and requires some know-how, some gumption, a little upper body strength, and toes that grip like a spider monkey’s.

My eldest daughter used to put boys twice her age to shame by the way she’d shimmy up things, no fear, and they’d be staring at her trying to figure it out, and just when they’d get up enough courage, their mommies would yell at them (their names are usually Percival or Egbert or Cyril or something equally manly) and they’d scuttle off with disappointment in their perfectly groomed faces. Now I know we need these boys to grow up to become poets and poodle hair dressers and fashion designers just as much as we need cowboys and truck drivers and alligator wrestlers because together they all make the world go ’round, but I just can’t help being sorry for the boys and girls who are not allowed to play. Really play. With trees and mud and torn jeans and worms and swords and water guns and snakes and snails and puppy dog tails (preferably with the puppy dog still attached however, I do draw the line somewhere). I was at the park just last week and a mother was shouting across the grass at her son a threat to ground him for three days if he even sat in a tree. Another mom at the same time was royally irritated at her toddler because he wouldn’t go over to the proper play equipment but instead wanted to run circles around the tennis courts and splash in the mud puddle. It was as though she was smacking him down for playing incorrectly. Since when are there rules for imagination?

If it’s the end of a long summer day and my kids aren’t grass stained and holey and smell like a gym sock, exhausted and hungry and in need of a Bandaid, then I have failed as a mom. Sometimes I think we as parents need to have a good grounding ourselves, with a day of digging to China and building forts and having snow ball fights and just remembering what it felt like to play. Now, my kids are just as susceptible as anyone else’s at being bored or needing their eyeballs pried off the television with a spatula. Those are the days I unplug everything that has a cord (exception: coffee maker), gently prod them out the back door, and then cheerfully proceed to lock that same door until they get tired of knocking and hollering and yelling that they have to go to the bathroom and wander off in search of fun.

Back in the olden days, by crikey, my friends and sis would take off first thing in the morning, pack a lunch, hop on the bikes or the horses and be gone until dusk, when our bellies were growling for dinner and we could distantly hear Mom calling us home. And yes, it was uphill both ways and in the snow. Now that is a childhood. They only get one you know.

Where's My Mini-Me?

Originally published by Home Educating Family. Reprinted with permission by HEF and the author (that's me).

You know how irritating it is when you gestate a human for ten months and expel it from your nether regions only to have someone comment how much your infant looks like your husband? You can smile all you want, but inside you’re seething a little because come on, you gave up your very life and soul and brain cells and coordination and sleep and those size four jeans – the least that baby could do is look like you, right? Sadly, the burning desire to personally populate the earth with clone troopers of yourself never seems to dwindle from that point on. So, they look like Hubby or maybe Great Aunt Ethel or Heaven forbid, Uncle Krusty, but maybe, just maybe, they’ll share your love for books, for gardening, for expensive footwear, or all things cheese.

But maybe they won’t.

There have been some cute things running around Facebook lately about left brains and right brains. This confuses me because I don’t really seem to fit in in either brain. Great, I’m a No Brain. I knew it! Curses. I’m being picked last for the dodge ball tournament of brainiacs. As usual. And weirdly enough, whenever I am clearly one-or-the-other-brained on something, my daughter will be the very opposite.

Case in point:

Me: “Let’s go on a nature walk! We can take hot cocoa in travel mugs and pick up leaves and sketch pictures of rock formations!”

Daughter: “Nah, I have to finish reading about millipedes.”

Huh? Wha? What language is the young whippersnapper speaking anyhow?  Here’s another conversation I recently had with my very left brained daughter:

Me: “Get off the computer already! I have to pin education things on Pinterest because it makes me feel like I’m a better homeschooling mom!”

Daughter: “I’m not done with my science lesson.”

Me: “Science? Who told you to do some science? I don’t even require science in this here homeschool!”

It’s like we are on a totally different planet sometimes. Then, there’s my other daughter, who is definitely right brained. (See? Everyone has a clear brain except for me. My brain can’t decide whether to organize my junk drawer or paint unicorns on the walls. Make a to-do list or write poetry? Research something or invent a cookie recipe? Do you see my problem?)

Me: “Hey, daughter, could you get out of that tree and try to accomplish something today?”

Other daughter: “I am accomplishing something: I’m learning to speak caterpillar and braiding my hair.”

Me: “I think we need a science lesson.”

Other daughter: “I think we should skip that idea and you should go invent a new cookie recipe.”

Me: “Okay!”

My third child being a boy – one of those strange, unexplained enigmas of the male species – I have yet to figure out which brain he has. It’s been flipped upside down like a pancake so many times from his ninja practice that I’m not sure there is anything left but green jello inside his noggin. But he’s awfully cute, so we’re hoping he’s not college material.

But in all seriousness, it’s hard to have children who are in every way possible, opposite than you yourself are. If you are a night owl, you can bet your bottom dollar you will have one of those types who spring out of bed at five a.m. and bounce through the house singing at the top of his lungs while you stumble to the coffee maker and place your lips under the dispenser. I’m a big reader and someone lied to me when I had my first baby. I know! Can you imagine lying through your teeth to a pregnant lady? They said – get this – if you read to your baby and your children grow up watching you love books then they will become readers themselves.

No.

No, they won’t. They will just turn the volume on the television up louder and learn to get away with all sorts of mischievous shenanigans while Mommy is absorbed in a political thriller. I’ve followed this erroneous advice to the letter. Why, I’ve even gone above and beyond in my fevered pursuit to educate my children and make them into bibliophiles! I’ve read so much I’ve burned dinner, forgotten to bathe babies, not shopped for milk, boiled kettles dry, and nearly starved the dog, but do you think my children are big readers? Not hardly. They take after their dad yet again and tell me they’ll wait for the book to come out in a wii version. It’s like they haven’t seen my sacrifice at all…it’s a pickle.

The rebellion of my children doesn’t stop there. They don’t always like the same foods, the same activities, the same hobbies, or the same life goals. Example: I want to have a quiet bubble bath. They do not want me to have a quiet bubble bath. I want them to sleep a full twelve hours every night. They insist on getting by with nine. I have a fear and loathing of crafts. They seem to enjoy the evil little activities. I love to write. They would rather bang their foreheads against the table in a strange synchronized melody. They like K-Love. I like Bon Jovi.

I suppose there are some things we have in common. We all like Everything Bagels, movies, dogs, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We may argue on the movie choice (I refuse to watch Homeward Bound II one more time. Ever. Everrrrrrrrrrrrrr. They refuse to watch Seven Brides for Seven Brothers one more time. Ever. Spoil sports).  We may argue on the snack food during said movie (I don’t like popcorn. I like sugar snap peas. They object. Spoil sports). But at the end of the day, our socked feet piled up on the couch together where you can hardly tell whose toes belong to whom, and the tantalizing smell of Everything bagels in the air, we are a family. Different. The same. Together, we make our world go round.

Once upon a time the eldest child had a fit over math.  This was the fifth fit in as many days.  She was wearing her mother out.  Her mother was becoming adept at converting mixed numbers to improper factions, finding the LCDs, and converting back to mixed numbers (reduced).  The eldest was not.  There was shouting at the computer and a lot of smacking the mouse around, which the mom - although not condoning the behavior, did in fact understand, because the computer falls asleep after .3847 of inactivity, which is utterly maddening when you are either 1. trying to convert mixed numbers, or 2. write silly blogs.

So the day went south.

Far, far, deep south.

Where it's hot and sticky and everyone's tempers are hot and sticky.  Mom's hair began to frizz in the southern heat.

Mom was angry with the eldest, but the middler and the youngster paid the price because the eldest was too cranky to notice how cranky Mom was.  So the middler kept apologizing for her sister's behavior, her own behavior, her brother's behavior, the alignment of the stars, global warming, famine in Africa, and the price of oil.  This made Evil Mommy feel even more guilty, which in turn made her more Evil.

A trip to the library was in order.  Biographies on Maria Tallchief and Cleopatra had been planned but the gusto was gone.  The get up and go had got up and left.  The wind was knocked out of their sails by a cranky pre-teen who held them hostage with her spirit.

In order to soothe her savage Evil Homeschool Mom Beast she bought her children's love with a trip to McDonald's.

This doesn't happen often.  Not because she is holier than thou and only feed her offspring organic vegan bone marrow nuggets, but mostly because she is cheap.  And junk food, oddly, is not.

The guilt was so off the charts by then that she let the miniature humans order not off the dollar menu.   Her children didn't know there was such a thing.  A menu other than the dollar menu??  They still had to split one large soda though.  Thus, the arguing over rootbeer vs. blue Powerade.

The youngest had fun.  For about an hour.  Then some rotten little thug punched him in the gut in the slide and the fun was over.

It's all fun and games until someone gets punched in the gut by a troll.

He (youngest, not Troll Face Thug Boy) came back with a red face and those horrible tears that are too proud to drip down his face.  You know the ones.  The ones where the chin quivers and there's such a support of bravado but all he really wants to snuggle Mama and cry.

Older sisters and Mom held each other back from not whalloping the tar out of Thug Boy.

Youngest lost his socks.  There were finally tears.  You would have thought those stinky, no longer white, ratty socks had been passed down to him by a beloved ancestor.  Hearts were broken in the McDonald's playland today.  Heaving sobs.

Had to stop at the dollar store for poster board.  In order to balm the youngest's broken heart and soul, a glow stick was purchased.

He hates it.

Because it glows.

He doesn't want it to glow.

Mom put in her resignation.

And they all lived...  happily  ever after.

The end.

Why getting my four year old - going on twenty - dressed is the worst part of my day:

worse than exploding poop

worse than colic

worse than nothing to read.


Note:  I haven't had any exploding poopy diapers in a couple years and none of my kids had colic so my perception may be skewed.  




I love toddlers.  Love their squishy, cookie scented faces.  Love their Cheerio breath.  Love their dirty paws and tear stained, drippy eyeballs.  Love their attention spans of gnats and their tear-free shampoo locks of love.  And when they're little - leave em where you put em kinda little - they're dang fun to dress.  But once they develop motor skills and a sense of independence, my short career as Clinton Kelly in an apron comes to an abrupt halt.

You have two choices:

Let toddler dress himself.  This works only if you never plan on leaving your house and emerging anywhere in public.  "Public" tends to stare when someone comes at them with a Batman halloween mask, football pajama bottoms, rain boots, an inside out and backwards shirt, and a feminine scarf (which oddly enough, kinda does pull the whole emsemb together).  Add a winter hat in summer, or flip flops in winter and you have a small child's wardrobe.

So if you have to go into Public and if you're determined that the fruit of your looms look appropriate, here's what you do:

Pick out adorable outfit.  Try convincing kid to wear it.  Good luck.  The tags are scratchy.  The pants are the wrong color.  They're too long.  Too short.  There's no Elmo on the front.  The shoes aren't good.  The socks aren't soft.  Etc.

Wrestling a little child into clothing when all he wants to do is finish his half completed project of taking over the free world is a little like trying to put an octopus into fishnet tights.  The arms are akimbo, the legs are flailing, and your head will be smacked more times than you can count.  I tend to arrange my hair style according to what my four year old will be wearing that day.  If he has a button down shirt or the shoes that are hard to put on, I go with the messy bun look.  Because my head will be used at any given time as a hand rest, foot rest, arm rest, flotation device, landing pad, and a place to put his crackers.

Putting his Flintstone feet into proper shoes always poses a pickle as well.  Mostly because whether or not he needs to go potty he will be doing the Pee Pee Dance and it's really difficult to get square shaped feet into oblong shaped shoes.  My fingers will be smashed, my hair will be yanked out, my tongue will be bitten from holding back questionable exclamations, and I haven't even gotten to the tying part yet.  This is why I don't fight the flip flops in February thing.

Ironically, as I am writing this pointless post, my son is on the back deck in his pj bottoms, shoes on the wrong feet, his John Deere tractor apron backwards (so it's a cape), sliding in the snow.  Shirtless.  Shirtless is the new shirt.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

bad theology

When my husband was a teen he loved to irritate his Italian mamma by putting up posters of evil rock and roll bands and listening to their wicked music.  It gave him no end of pleasure.  His mamma was convinced he was being led astray, especially if he listened to those songs backwards.

Our kiddos usually listen to music at night, too.  Of course it's a desperate attempt to get them to sleep longer (ideally, like 20 hours) and it started with the whole Baby Mozart craze of a decade ago.  My babies must listen to zee Mozart so that they will be the SMARTEST babies in the world!  Either that, or they'll get seizures.  It's a toss up, but totally worth the chance.  Motherhood is full of impossible choices.

Do I put them to sleep on their bellies or their backs? Wait!  They have sides.  I can put her on her side.  Flip that baby like a cheese omelet every ten minutes; we must be certain.


Cloth diapers or disposal?  Cloth makes me feel uber hippy sensitive, like I'm single handedly saving the planet with every bowel movement.  Disposal make their pants fit better.


Is it illegal to sign your munchkin up at the Fred Meyer playland/babysitter service and then go sit in your car and read?


Tough choices like that.

Anyway, after the Baby Mozart phase phased out we switched to white noise.  Mostly because I am addicted to white noise while sleeping.  It's like crack to me.  I can't live without it, plain and simple.  My kids don't care so I care for them.  Because that's what mothers do.  If mothers are cold they tell their kid to put on a coat.  If mothers are hungry they force feed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to their kid.  It's how we roll.  It's how your mother rolled.  We are rollin' in the deep.  Deep in peanut butter.  Well, not me because my kid is allergic so we mostly roll in Nutella.

What in the world was I talking about?
Right.  Music.

So since they weren't digging the white noise, we just learned to hit the Repeat button on their cd players.  This is how my four year old son knows all the words to Mamma Mia and Bon Jovi's Lost Highway album.  But in the last move our cd player became possessed by a strange and evil spirit that causes the volume to steadily increase all night long until Meryl Streep was really cookin' about money, money, money.  So we were forced to switch to the radio, not that we don't love Meryl because she's like the bestest, but really.  In the efforts to keep up with our Christian persona, we choice the popular KLove station for dem babies to croon themselves to sleep to.  Until one night...

My theology obsessive husband informs me that the precious mold-able minds of our youngsters have been inundated with *drum roll, puhleeze*

bad theology.

Which, in his book, is worse than a little Pink Floyd or Poison.
He was frothing at the mouth (husband, not sleeping child).  The offending song?

"Someone Worth Dying For."

"Are you kidding me?" he asks, incredulously.  "When we're feeling down on ourselves and depressed and hating sin, we just have to remember that we were worth dying for?"

"That doesn't sound soooooo bad," I answer, half heartedly.  Half hearted because I am struggling to hear him over my beloved white noise. Actually, I'm not struggling so much as I'm ignoring.

"Not so bad?" he croaks. "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a fantastically great person like me??"


"Oh.  Oh, yeah.  I see your point.  If we were so wonderful, then it diminishes His wonderfulness, huh?  If we were so fan-freaking-tastic then it makes His sacrifice a nice thing to do instead of a mind blowing thing to do..."

"After listening to this come-as-you-are-and-leave-the-same-way, there's-a-god-shaped-hole-in-your-heart, jesus-lover-of-my-soul mumbo jumbo, our kids are going to grow up lazy, luke warm, Americanized, namby pamby, prosperity driven, pseudo Christians!  I can't take it!  What's next, midnight readings of The Shack? Sneaking out the window to go to Watchtower meetings?  Another year of this and our kids will be out of control." 

And that is why Christian radio has been replaced by heavy metal in our kid's bedrooms.
Also, Alice Cooper is a Christian and he just might possibly have good theology.

sometimes

Sometimes you have to drill your four year old like a potential oil field about the True Meaning of Christmas.  Because when you are a Santa lovin' family, but also Christian, you have to groom your children to not embarrass you in front of church friends by staring blankly when they talk about Jesus' birth.  So you have to plant that holy thought in their playdough moldable brains every opportunity you get by randomly barking out,


'Why do we celebrate Christmas?'  

This way when someone from church asks he can stare mutely at them and whisper,

 'presents?'

but when a total stranger tells him he's cute, he'll respond with a passionate shout of,

'JESUS!!!!'

that sends them scurrying the other direction in a flustered state of mild panic.

Are we the only ones with this particular problem?  It's a pickle.

In The Night Kitchen

I'm a big fan of books.  Yes, you know.  I'm walking on a cloud these days because we unpacked my LAST BOX OF BOOKS in two years, thanks to a home that is ours (so to speak) and not a corporation who would panic and call a meeting if I so much as moved a salt and pepper shaker, much less stack my books the wrong way.  My luvah bought me a huge craigslist bookshelf that was appallingly ugly until we put all the books in it and now, hopefully, the books are all you see.  


I like my books somewhat willy nilly.  I'll never alphabetize them for the following reasons:  1. No one would replace the title correctly  and 2. They look better grouped according to genre  and 3. The ones belonging to itty-bitties go on the bottom where their jam sticky hands can access them better and the grown up ones with questionable love scenes or random acts of violence go up top where my jam sticky hands can access them better.  


About a year or two ago, I made a resolution.  I don't make resolutions so this was nifty for me.  You ready for it?  Here it is: I will never say no to a child who asks me to read to him/her.  Even if I'm doing twenty eleventy things and my  hair is on fire, I will say yes and crack open that book.  I'm hoping this will reverse the rest of the bad mommying I've done over the years...you think?


So...we bring you a favorite around these parts (not as beloved as Socks For Supper, the last book we shared with you here) that was recently rescued from its life of captivity and exile in a brown box:


In The Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak.

Being good ol' Maurice (ha!  Beauty and the Beast! ahem. Sorry.  I digressed into Disney for a minute) it is very similar in style to Where the Wild Things Are.  A boy goes to bed and has a strange adventure, only Mickey's makes Max's look tame and domesticated.

Oh look.  Some of my pictures did a head stand.  How odd.  Well, frankly it'd be much easier for me if you'd just turn your head ever so slightly than it would be to make me actually take these off now and start over.  Believe me.

So, anyway, Mickey falls through some kind of space and time continuum and runs into some fat and happy bakers who end up baking him into cake.

Mostly Moose goes for this book cuz there's a lot of gratuitous nudity.  And anytime there's nekkedness involved, a small manchild is gonna be there.

I love the red nosed bakers.

He escaped a run in with a loaf of bread.
Whew.

Then he falls in some milk.  And naturally his clothes fall off again.  Cuz that's what happens fourteen times per day when you are a small manchild.

Don't think about a boy being in milk that will later be used to bake something.  We all know what little boys do in the bath water that involves the golden arches and making a homemade jacuzzi.

Eventually, Mickey gets out of that strange dream land, shakes off his bread crumbs and hollers COCK*A*DOODLEDOO!  We don't know why.  Again, boys.


It's a classic.  Read to your poppets and muppets and small menchild.  You'll be glad you did.


P.S.  Can we all sing a rousing verse of Reading Rainbow now?  Puhleeze?  You know you want to...


Butterfly in the sky...
...I can go twice as high...
Are butterflies big readers?  Don't know.  But if PBS and the exuberant man with the funny headband on his eyes says yes, then who I am to disagree?

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.

R.I.P. my jolly old elf

Two days ago came the sudden death of a beloved one in our home.

His death was, as I said, sudden.  
Anna was helping me unpack like the good little slave labor she is.
A few minutes later, she disappeared.
Then, she came back.
Handed me a pile of letters.  Eight years or so of Santa letters.   Unopened.  Suspicious indeed.
Since she had left to go get reinforcements (Cora) I was really up a creek without a paddle.  Or a life jacket.  Or a granola bar.
We had to have The Talk.  Not That Talk.  The Other Talk.
I was sad.
I am still sad.


At least I have Gianni.


Is it wrong to keep having babies just to keep the magic of Santa Claus alive and well in my house?


The girls weren't angry.  Cora actually seemed very nonplussed, but now that she has her own room (Roo and Moose are sharing) she has become very teen-like.  Anna cried a little.  But then I started telling her funny stories about Daddy and I being Santa and how much fun we have and how one year, etc, etc.  Now she's excited to keep it up for the little ones in her life.


Then I stuck my foot farther up my mouth. 


They have never really believed in the Easter Bunny.  I always thought that was a dorky one and I just can't figure out a way not only to make it likable and believable but a way to tie it into Jesus' resurrection.  


So, little kids, after Jesus had been dead for three days, the Easter Bunny rolled away the stone from the tomb!  Jesus climbed on his back and together they hopped through the town leaving chocolate eggs to all the good little boys and girls.  


It doesn't have a good ring to it, never mind that it smacks of sacrilege. 


So, anyhoo, as we were talking of Santa, the subject of the Tooth Fairy came up.  I also think the Tooth Fairy is a bit weird and faintly creepy, but whatever, we've always done it.  Of course I am the world's worst tooth fairy stand-in and the fact that these poor offspring of mine haven't figured out the truth sooner is a miracle since I forget at least 3/4 of the time.  But anyway, Anna said something about the Tooth Fairy and I said something about her not being real of course, but I was so shaken up about the whole Santa thing that I wasn't really thinking straight or listening properly and I THOUGHT we were talking about the Easter Bunny.  Which they already know isn't real.  Not the Tooth Fairy.  Which was what we were really conversing about now.  Which they didn't know wasn't real.


Silence fell as I realized what I had done.


Anna squeaks,
'You mean the Tooth Fairy isn't real EITHER?'


I have to stop blogging now so that I can go buy my traumatized daughters a pony.

Kids Say the Oddest Things

Some of these have been blogged about before, but there's nothing wrong with a little rerun!




1.  I can't believe I had to hiss the words last Sunday,  'Gianni, we do NOT shoot people in church!'


2.  A couple weeks ago the absolute funniest thing happened.  I don't know if explaining it can give it justice, but let me tell you, those who were there were wiping tears of mirth for quite a bit afterwards.  Sitting outside I casually mentioned the sun going down.  Gianni starts racing across the field as fast as his short little legs will carry him, hollering, 'NOOOOOOOOOOO!'  Abruptly, he stops, drops his head in the most dejected fashion you can possibly imagine, and begins to trudge back to us.  With tears in his eyes, he reaches my side, and whispers, 'I couldn't stop it, Mom....I just couldn't stop it.'


3.  When Anna was about three she went walking with Daddy.  'Man,' he said, 'Isn't it a beautiful day?  Smell that fresh air!'  She obediently sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and replied,  'Smells like my boogers.'


4.  While waiting at a stoplight when the girls were around the ages of 3 and 4, a group of goth teens in black trenchcoats walked by.  They were all in black and their long coats were whipping in the wind.  'Heros!' shouts Cora,  'Mommy, look at the heros!!'


5.  While grocery shopping one day Cora marched up to a very tatted up individual.  'When I do that,'  she informed him,  'My mommy takes away my markers.'


6.  After watching the kid's classic movie, E.T., Anna at the age of seven said she hated it.  Too sad?  Nope.  But when things die 'they really REALLY need to stay dead.  Who shows movies to kids of things coming back to life? That's just really creepy, Mom.'


7.  Mike used to tell the girls he was going to drop the hammer, in a teasing way of course.  Until one day while being pushed in a shopping cart, Cora yelled at the top of her lungs, 'No Daddy, NO!  Don't hit us with the hammer again!'


8.  One night Cora and Anna really wanted to sleep with Mommy.  They begged, they cajoled, they weaseled.  Finally, Mommy appealed to their sympathys.  'You two have each other,'  Mommy said,  'If you are both in bed with me, then Daddy will be alone and will be so sad!'  'No, he won't' they answered smugly, 'God is with him.'


9.  Cora informed Anna quite rudely one day that it was unlikely she could ever grow up to be a princess.  'Fine,'  Anna shot back,  'Then I'll go with my other choice and grow up to be a monkey!'


10.  Cora won't sit through a romantic movie, no matter how kid friendly.  After watching most, but not all, of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, I tried to tell her she should stay for the ending because maybe it wouldn't be what she expected.  'Yeah, Mom, I'm pretty sure I can figure it out without actually having to sit through it,' she replied.


11.   Watching movies in a group home with nine kids, most of whom are from the inner city, can be an adventure.  While watching LadyHawke, in a particularly quiet moment, one of the teens suddenly shouted, 'Look out, LadyHawke, you're about to get shivved!'


12.  Anna is quite possibly, the world's most stubborn person.  While being forced to try one tiny bite of spinach one night, she sat at that table for hours.  Finally, after the holidays had come and gone and my hair had turned white with age and I had several new grandchildren, she ate one nibble.  'Hey, Mom!'  she yelled across the room,  'Good news!  This isn't NEARLY as disgusting as it looks!'


13.  When Gramma told Anna to say the magic words 'pretty please with sugar on top,' Anna oblidged.  When given what she had asked for, Anna yelled, 'Hey!!!  Where's the sugar?'


14.  An overheard conversation between a six year old Cora and a four year old Anna: 
Cora:  You know God gave everyone different gifts, don't you?
Anna:  Yep.
Cora:  I don't know what mine is though.
Anna:  Mine is biting my toenails.
Cora:  Yeah!  That's such a great gift...(sighs)  I wish that was my gift from God, but it's only yours cuz you're special...


Isn't she though?!

Childhood is spelled P-L-A-Y

So Gianni is at that age now where I start getting evil looks from other mommies in the park. Do you know what I mean? Or are you the one giving me the looks? Let me explain:

I am a very over protective mom, but like every parent, I have my pet peeves, soap boxes, personal creed, etc etc. For instance, I am very over protective about people watching my children. They could be crazed ax murderers, you just can't be too careful. I am very over protective about the things they learn and just who in the blazes they're learning it from. Thus the sheltering, er, I meant to say homeschooling. I am very over protective about what they put into their bodies and like the cruel mother I am I follow in my own cruel mother's footsteps and serve them homemade granola instead of Sugar Frosted Sprinkled Cocoa Puffed Candy Balls for breakfast (an important part of your nutritious breakfast... when served with eggs, oj, toast, and a side of vitamins). I am over protective about the little things like wearing seat belts and having a buddy to take to the restrooms and looking both ways twice before crossing the street. But here is what I am NOT over protective about:

Climbing. Climbing trees and play equipment is a child's job. You get strange looks if you leave this part of childhood for when you are fully grown. Trees are made for climbing, folks! And climbing high. Sure, they could fall out I suppose and then I suppose they would more than likely break a limb, but they could also find a way to fall off your couch while watching other children climb trees on tv, land on the coffee table, spill their snack which flings the fork into the air, only to be caught by their eyeball. Life has risks. Anyway, though, my kids are climbers and this somehow warrants every well meaning (translation, meddling) parent to approach me and kindly tattle on my own children because they not swinging properly on the swing at a perfect arc and in a five-point harness; they are three stories up in a tree, usually upside down. If I'm feeling a bit small from the rebuke I just got, I'll give a half hearted, 'Hey, girls, not too high, ok?' They've been climbing since they could walk and yes, something bad could happen. But it wouldn't be worse than having good old childhood fun taken away from them. Cora used to put boys twice her age to shame by the way she'd monkey up things, no fear, and they'd be staring at her trying to figure it out and just when they'd get up enough courage, their mommies would yell at them (their names are usually Percival or Egbert or Cyril or something equally manly) and they'd scuttle off with disappointment in their perfectly groomed faces. Now I know we need these boys to grow up to become poets and poodle hair dressers and fashion designers just as much as we need cowboys and truck drivers and alligator wrestlers because together they all make the world go 'round, but I just can't help being sorry for the boys and girls who are not allowed to play. Really play. With trees and mud and torn jeans and worms and swords and water guns and snakes and snails and puppy dog tails (preferably with the puppy dog still attached however, I do draw the line somewhere). If it's the end of a long summer day and my kids aren't grass stained and holey and smell like a gym sock and exhausted and hungry, then I have failed as a mom. Sometimes I think we as parents, need to have a good grounding ourselves, with a day of digging to China and building forts and having snow ball fights and just remembering what it felt like to play. Now, my kids are just as susceptible as anybody's at wanting to have someone else do the playing for them (i.e. video games and television and toys that tell you how you have to play them and there's only one right way). Those are the days I unplug everything that has a cord (exception: coffee maker), gently prod them out the back door and then cheerfully proceed to lock that same door until they get bored of knocking and hollering and yelling that they have to go to the bathroom and wander off in search of fun. Back in the olden days, by crikey, my friends and sis would take off first thing in the morning, pack a lunch, hop on the bikes or horses and be gone until dusk, when our bellies were growling for dinner and we could distantly hear Mom calling us home. And yes, it was uphill both ways and in the snow. Now that is a childhood. They only get one you know.