Just Take the Dang Picture Already

                 I’m one of those moms who takes hundreds of pictures. Vacations, outings, holidays, special moments, soccer matches or Saturday morning…..I have almost 2 dozen photo albums and a bulging Shutterfly account. If you’re wondering, yes, they are all notated on the back and in chronological order in albums. (C’mon, it’s like you don’t even know me after 10 years.)

                Because if there is one thing that I’ve learned in my 26 years of parenting…if you blink, you’ll find yourself the parent of a 26 year old, wondering what the hell happened and where your size 6 jeans went. (They were last seen many, many maternity pants ago.)

                I think pictures are my way of coping with children who refuse to stay little forever. (Even though I ask them pretty much weekly to stop growing up.) In six months I will have a senior in high school for the third time. My youngest will be starting middle school. I find myself in this weird flux where I am starting to look forward to a time when we are empty nesters and able to travel and trying to hold onto every single moment from their childhood before they fly the coop for good. If you had told me 20 years ago that I would one day become a maudlin old lady, I would call you a bald-faced liar. And yet, here I am. A maudlin old mom trying to hold on to her babies through digital imagery.

                I think back to the early years of my two oldest children, before digital cameras and pictures you could order straight to your mailbox, and I feel like they got gypped. Not only do I have limited photos of them, but I have hardly any pictures of me with them. (This was pre-selfie. I know, I’m ancient. I prefer the term “antique” though.) And as I got older, I started to get very self-conscious about being memorialized as I was in that moment. I felt awkward, messy, fat or unkempt. I didn’t want my kids to remember mom as I was at that specific point in time. Which was stupid since that’s exactly how they remember me. But instead of judging me for having messy hair or a squishy tummy, they remember hugs and snuggle and laughs. If there is one thing I could go back and tell myself, it would be to take the picture. You are going to want those memories one day. Messy hair, exhausted from sleepless newborn nights, or in a bathing suit at the beach, just take the picture. I can’t believe how many more memories I could have saved in pictures that I didn’t want to take. (Just think, I could be well over two dozen albums by now!)

                By the time that I got over myself, I was always the one behind the camera, not in front of it. There are many vacations and Christmases past where there might be one, possibly two, pictures of me. I enlisted my husband to take photos of me just to have proof that I was actually there. Now I just have to get him to send them to me. I got a glimpse of his camera roll the other day and there were so many adorable pics of the boys on there that I had never seen, let alone saved and printed for the albums. (Yeah, I would definitely be over 24 with those.)

                In our kitchen we have a digital screen that we view pictures on. It cycles through them and it’s a nice variety of images from the last few years. Probably my favorite picture on there is one that was taken by a stranger. When you’re trying to incorporate your whole family in a picture it’s usually a selfie type of snap with someone’s head half out of the picture or squished in at the bottom. You are grateful to have the whole family together but it’s not the same as a picture taken by someone else, with entire bodies of all family members! (Look at that, we had legs the whole time!) So when this lovely women saw us struggling to squish ourselves together for this picture she offered to take it for us. I try to pay that small favor forward whenever I can. If I see someone doing the selfie squish, I will offer to take their picture. Or if I see the photographer combo swap with them taking turns to get everyone in the pics, I will offer to take the picture. Because one day, it might be their favorite picture too.

                While I’m not telling you to meet my fanatical level of picture taking, (it’s probably best if you start slow and work up to obsessive), I do encourage you to take more pictures. Friends, family, pets, sunsets, flowers…. whatever makes you happy. And if your eye spies the selfie squish or photographer swap, offer to take the picture. Maybe we can all pay it forward enough to make it a thing.

 

 

 

Need constant mayhem in your life? Find me on FaceBook (modernmommayhem)

More mayhem than that? Occasionally find me on Instagram (@modernmommayhem)

Want to send me some parental anecdotes or divine inspiration for a future blog? You can email me at modernmommayhem@gmail.com.

America Needs to Swipe Left

Well, it’s another election year, and while I am the last person who usually knows anything about politics, I find myself unable to stay quiet on the debacle that our Presidential process has turned into.

                I feel like this is a lifetime movie where the young, jaded divorcee is trying dating apps. But not the good dating apps, the really terrible ones.  Where the potential suitors (candidates) have too much spray tan and are actually 20 years older than their profile pic. They chat you up, saying all the right buzz words, and then after months of thinking you’ve found the one, agree to meet in person, and then you find out that you’ve been catfished.

                Swipe left America.

                It’s mind boggling to me, that in a country with 341 million people, that our best candidates are great grandpa, napping in his recliner at the family potluck, and his younger con-man brother who’s on the back porch trying to scam your second cousin into a sketchy timeshare. Both have one foot in the grave and the other foot in dementia. Which brings me to my next question. Why aren’t there age limitations on the president? We won’t allow anyone younger than 35 but you can be 5 minutes away from death and still qualify for a good ole campaign run? I agree that we are in desperate need of term limits, but we also need to give serious consideration to the age at election. If you are eligible for social security, maybe you should stay home and watch reruns of Mash. That’s all I’m saying.

                Please, don’t get it twisted. I’m not an ageist. Until it comes to the person we are giving access to the big, red war button. Then yeah, I really want someone who doesn’t have age related hand shakes. Call me crazy, but I’d feel a lot better about a president with a cool head and calm hands. It’s not even asking that much. I am not asking for a rocket scientist to run the country. (Although, maybe we should have some educational requirements. This is, after all, like the biggest job that one person could ever have. Managing an entire country. Responsible for its entire military system. I mean, uh yeah, kind of a super huge deal.)

Wait, I’m getting off topic again.

                But even if we discount the age factor, we definitely should not discount criminal activity. If you ever have, or are currently, facing federal indictment, that should disqualify you. Hell, if you’ve faced any indictment at all, have criminal charges on your record of any sort, or if you stole gum in the fifth grade…maybe we shouldn’t consider you trustworthy enough for this position. I don’t care if you’re the Pope or God himself. If we can tie nefarious, treasonous, or downright illegal acts to your person, you’re out of here. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. We are in serious debt and cannot afford it anyway. Why this isn’t second nature anyway, I cannot fathom. I guess I can chalk this up to yet another sentence that I never thought I’d say. (Uh, or type.)  

                I guess America is the jaded divorcee. We have suffered through two bad marriages and we don’t really want to date anymore, but everyone keeps telling us that there are plenty of fish in the sea. (Which, quick side note, is a weird metaphor for relationships. Wouldn’t that be better advice if you were starving and someone stole the fish you caught? Anyhoo.) We keep trying to break up with these poor candidates but this dating app, I mean democratic process, doesn’t seem to want to work with us.

                Plus the app is buggy as hell and keeps crashing. Someone needs to put in a ticket with the developers.

 

For those who practice the Pagan Rabbit Holiday:

 Happy Easter to my Peeps. (See what I did there?)

 

 

 

Finding yourself lacking mayhem in your life? Find me on FaceBook (modernmommayhem)

I can also be found occasionally on Instagram (@modernmommayhem)

Want to send me a personal note, a comment, or share one of your funny parenting stories? You can email me at modernmommayhem@gmail.com.

People Need to Reset Their Privacy Settings

           In this digital day and age of internet creepers and prevalent social media bullying, parents have to teach their children safety rules and online etiquette. You know, in addition to manners, respect, walking, talking, bathing, feeding, and the basic human functions that we already have to cram into 18 short years. We have to hammer home the importance of not talking to strangers both in real life and online. Most significantly, we have to ensure that they know to NEVER reveal personal information online.

Sadly, there are a lot of adults who did not get taught this lesson.

Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about all the people who overshare extremely personal information that no one needs to know other than god and themselves. (To be honest, God has also asked that you stopped sharing info with him. It’s causing him anxiety.) The people who are so in love with themselves that they post countless selfies, lest we forget what they look like when the last pic was posted 4 and a half minutes ago.

I’m not sure why people feel like they need to blast all the intimate details of their lives on social media. Is it that they need the attention? Is it a generational thing? Gen X came with automatic privacy settings set to the highest level and we will happily mind our own damn business, thank you very much. I’m just saying, it’s real cringe to read these overzealous posts.

(It’s ok for me to say “cringe”. I got permission from one of their generation to use it in this extremely applicable setting. It might have sounded a little like “Don’t say that ever again” , but I'm sure that was granting me permission.)

But if you DO decide that you can’t stop posting things like #divorced or #breakup or #single or #thesedamnkids, then I demand a full account. I don’t just want one side either. I’m going to need a complete, detailed account of both sides of the story if I am truly going to pick which side I’m on. If you want to air your dirty laundry, stop half assing it and just put it all out there. It’s our right as the friends and/or family being subjected to these overly dramatic ramblings. When I’m making my popcorn to sit down and devour the latest session of “Your Big Fat, Melodramatic Life”, I need to know if you’re the antagonist or the protagonist. Am I rooting for you or against you? Are you the perpetrator of the crime of the victim? If you’re going to drag us into your saga, then make sure we are invested. How are we supposed to care from one series of questionable hashtags on a photo? (Which has to be a selfie of course. It’s in the handbook of rules handed out at the over sharer’s anonymous meetings. Which is never anonymous because they all want you to know who they are.)

I don’t want to know. Honestly, I don’t. I don’t use social media to be (shudder) social. I use it to be stalk my favorite celebrities and post funny memes. I use it to post pictures of my kids for family members that we don’t see often. I use it to watch standup comedy and funny animal videos. If you want to involve those pesky feelings that Gen X was trained to ignore, then you’re going to have to do better than a few cryptic words and number signs. (Yes younglings, the hashtag was a boring old number sign when I was your age. That’s your historical fact for the day. You’re welcome.)

Now, unless you’ve gotten both sides of your story ready to be presented, complete with colorful graphs and damning evidence, I’ll just go back over here to minding my own business. It’s not as exciting as everything y’all got going on, but it’s definitely a lot more peaceful.

Well, until the kids find my hiding spot again.

 

 

Need more verbal mayhem? Find me on FaceBook at Modern Mom Mayhem.

I can sometimes be found on Instagram @modernmommayhem.

Want to share both sides of your story? Send an email to modernmommayhem@gmail.com.

At Least There's Still Mayhem

When I started this blog eleven years ago (eleven years?!?!?), the moniker modern mom mayhem was extremely fitting. Not only was there chaos and mayhem in my house, I was young (ish) and very hip. Okay, that’s a lie. I have never been hip, unless you count Huey Lewis telling us that it was “hip to be square” in which case, I have been hip ALL MY LIFE.

But as usual, I digress.

Sometime during this last decade, I went to bed modern and woke up an old lady. Now you might be thinking there’s some exaggeration going on, which is quite blasphemous as I am always serious, but I can assure you that I could only wish I was joking. Instead, my youthful vitality has been slowly stolen by that evil bitch Aging. If you have the opportunity, avoid her at all costs. Here are some of the sneaky pranks that Aging plays with me constantly.

My knees sound like Rice Krispies every time I bend down. Apparently, they are not only for breakfast as that wicked woman filled my kneecaps with them and then has the audacity to snicker every time they snap, crackle and pop.

I have graduated to being able to “sleep wrong” which is always fun when you end up with an uncomfortable crick somewhere, most likely your neck. For some reason, it takes 3 days for this uncomfortable muscle knot to untie, so you just have to settle for not moving your head to the right for three days until it works itself out. Or until you sleep wrong again but end up with the crick in your back now, thus helping you forget about the previous one.

I find myself having conversations with people my age about “the work ethic of kids these days”. If you’ve ever opened your mouth and grandma tumbled out, that’s another classic Aging prank. She delights in substituting all your cool conversations with turns of phrase heard only in nursing homes and your grandparents’ parlor. (Dang it! There’s another one. Who even says parlor anymore?)

All the music that I used to think was so old is cool to me now because it has memories. Sure, I might not have had a hair band music addiction in the 80’s. but now hearing Twisted Sister lament about how they’re not going to take it or Whitesnake tell us here I go again, and somehow I’m getting all the feels from my childhood. (Wait a minute…I wasn't old enough to listen to hairbands in the 80’s!) As if that wasn’t bad enough, I’m old enough to know what Muzak is and remember jamming out in elevators. I mean, not me. Nope, definitely not me. <whistles a blithe tune with hands in my pockets>

(If you don’t know what Muzak is, google it! Sigh.)

Aging also likes to play a super fun game where you get a new superpower for your birthday. Only it isn’t a power and it’s probably not super either. It’s a game she calls “What new pain do I have this year?” Last year she gave me the gift of calf muscle cramps every time I stretch. And to think that I didn’t get her anything!

If anytime you get around other people your age, you start reminiscing about “the good old days”, that is a sure sign that Aging has been tampering with your memories. Sure, growing up in the 70’s and 80’s was awesome. But there were also scary things like a plethora of kidnapper vans, “stop drop, and roll” and the swamp of sadness. The fact that we are now looking back with rose colored glasses at lawn jarts means that it’s time for our cholesterol medicine.

I’m stuck in between being old enough to know better and not old enough for a senior discount. My brain thinks we’re 30, my body thinks we are 70 and my sense of humor is 22. I can’t remember where I left my phone but can remember all the lyrics to Warren G’s “Regulate”, circa 1994. Some days I feel like I need to find an adultier adult and other days I can’t believe how young these idiots are today. Aging’s most cruel joke is to leave us in this paradoxical age crisis.

Yeah, I told you. She’s good.

If the closest I ever get to being hip is having a hip replacement, then so be it. Fortunately for me, I have plenty of youthful strength in my children. They’ll need it to push their doddering old mom around in her wheel chair.

“I don’t care if I’m only 45, I used to push you around in a stroller for the first 3 years of your life.”

 

 

 

Need more mayhem? 

Sometimes I remember to post on Facebook  (Modern Mom Mayhem)

I’m even on Instagram on occasion (@modernmommayhem)

           Want to share your old mom lady stories? Send an email to modernmommayhem@gmail.com. 

Ban ALL the Elves. (And Possibly the Shelves Too)

             Four years ago, when my son was going through his “I want an elf on the shelf” kick, I wrote a blog post titled “Just Say No! (To Elves). After a few guilt ridden Christmases of having to be the big ol' meanie and put my foot down over the “No Elves Allowed” in our clubhouse, I thought that we had passed that hurdle. All was quiet…

Until this year.

Apparently, my youngest son’s best friend (an only child mind you) has an elf. I’m sure it’s got some stupid cutesy name like Twinkle or Cookie or Tinsel since it’s Elf Law to name it something nauseatingly sweet. As if just owning the damn thing wasn’t bad enough, Cocoa or Snowflake or whatever its name is, brings the kid PRESENTS. Yeah, so guess whose campaign to get a freaking elf has been renewed? Yup, you guessed it. My smallest con artist, upon seeing that this inanimate creep brings gifts is now all “PLEASE can we get an elf?”.

Wasn’t the whole idea of the elf to just watch your kid? Which, to be quite honest, is really creepy. It’s freaky thinking some middle-aged man can watch you all the time to know if you’re bad or good but at least he’s not watching you from inside your house. But I digress. Anyway, when this whole shebang started, that was the extent of it. Then people got the brilliant idea to make this spooky doll do tricks and shenanigans, which I find to be very conflicting with the whole ‘Keeping tabs for Santa” gig that the elf has going on. What kind of babysitter is pulling pranks and making messes? One that’s immediately fired from my house, that’s who. Yet people seem perfectly fine making up these elaborate scenarios of elf hijinks. They now even have kits that you can buy with props and what not. Whomever came up with the idea of this sinister bastard and his accessories has to be laughing all the way to the bank.

Once this trend started, it 100% reaffirmed my decision to ban all shelf sitting elves from my house.

And then, one day, some brilliant parent got the idea that the elf can brings gifts! (Probably the same one who came up with participation trophies.) Speaking from a Gen X parenting perspective, I can promise you that my children are receiving the spoils of my own latchkey kid, left-to my own-devices-for-hours, sent-outside-to-play-all-day childhood. I am 1,000 percent positive that they do not need extra gifts. Hell, I already go overboard for every birthday and holiday.

Our children, however, don’t see it this way. They are growing up in this over abundant world that we live in. Where everyone, and everything, is “extra” and thus has become the norm. Besides, what child has thought, “No, I don’t believe I need random gifts, thank you.” Probably not a single one. At least, not one that’s not a pod people or an alien hiding amongst us. (Now that someone let THAT secret out. But that’s a story for another time.) Which means that I get yet another reason to be the dink parent. So thanks for that, all you overachieving parents. 

Probably the part that annoys me the most though, is that your kid is going to school bragging about the spoils their elf is bringing them to kids whose parents may be struggling to even put food on the table. It’s hard to believe in Christmas magic when some households are just managing to scrape by. This stupid bleeding heart of mine thinks about those children all the time. And I worry about them. (Ugh, it was so much easier when I had a black, shriveled lump where my heart should be. When did I turn into such a chump? Feelings. Ick.)

Currently I’m standing firm. He’s turning 10 next month so I am fully aware that we are on borrowed time with Christmas magic. You’d think that would just tip me into the “get it” category, but I don’t think people understand how the thought of adding just “one more” chore during this Christmas season might just send me over the edge. I’m already over extended, making Christmas magical and shit. I don’t have time for creepy dolls. 

And I don’t care what cutesy name you give it. It’s still a stalker.

 

 

 

Need more mayhem? Find me on FaceBook at Modern Mom Mayhem.

I’m even on Instagram @modernmommayhem.

Want to share your funny fails or tales of parenting wins? Send an email to modernmommayhem@gmail.com.

I'm Sorry, I Just Don't Speak the Language

 If you have a teenager, you know that it can be akin to living with an alien being. If, by chance, you have a *normal* teenager, then this article might not be for you. If, however, you are like the rest of us teenager parents, scratching your heads at the thoughts, actions, and overall general behavior, then feel free to settle in for a while. I can promise you that if you don’t find something in common with my story, you might at least feel better about your own teenager.

While I’m sure that your child has their own special way of driving you insane, (Finding that hot button is, after all, one of their specialties.) we can probably agree that we have to chant a mantra to get us through some trying moments in their teenagedom. If you don’t have a mantra to get you through these trying times, I highly suggest one. (Mine is “IlovemykidsIlovemykidsIlovemykidsIlovemykidsIlovemykids rapidly and repeatedly. I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince myself or other people, but hey, it gets the job done.)

Sure, I know that teenagers can’t be pigeonholed into a one-size-fits-all box. It’s just that, yeah, most of them can. Even if they don’t have ALL the attributes ALL of the time, they probably have moments. I’m curious though. Which one is the most maddening and why is it their communication? (Or lack thereof.) Now, you’re probably thinking I’m talking about the colloquial slang that every generation adopts but you’d be juiced, bruh. (No, I did not look up slang terms on urban dictionary just to make a relevant point. I mean, who would do that? Other than smart and savvy mom bloggers that is.) Sure, this slang can be a language barrier but it’s more the lack of the use of words that’s frustrating. Like, hello, use your big boy words! Sometimes, I fondly remember the days when he would tell me a story that would take half an hour. Usually after receiving a three word essay (believe me, that’s an essay now) in response to a question like “How was your day?”

It’s almost as if there’s an avoidance with using verbal communication once they hit a certain age. Is this in the Teenage Handbook? I don’t remember that part. Not because it’s been so long since I had my own copy of that handbook, just that they’ve probably updated it a *few* times since my edition was in print. Sometimes, if I ask two consecutive questions, he acts like it’s the Spanish Inquisition. Dude, maybe I wouldn’t have to ask so many questions if you could give me more than monosyllabic answers. And why do they get annoyed at US when we are trying to get this information? Did I miss the part where I was psychic and am just supposed to get the information directly out of his brain? Which also wouldn’t work because I’m pretty sure the answers aren’t there. Unfortunately, “I don’t know” gets used when he does in fact know as much as when there is literally not a single know in his cranium, so we can’t really tell if it’s the truth.

As parents, we’ve been encouraging our children to talk since before their first word, so I’m not sure where the break down occurs. I believe he was speaking entire sentences last year. Or was that two years ago? Now those were the ”good ole days”.

I guess my consolation is that at least he's not a teenage girl. (Been there, done that!) Add hormones into that pubescent storm that is teenagerhood and it's like a powder keg. One wrong move and you've incited tears. Or insulted their very being. Plus, the Handbook for teenage girls gives in depth instructions on how to level the scariest dead ass stares at you. The kind that make your soul shiver and your nervous system clench. So, yeah, upside. But, uh, yeah. Sorry about you girl moms out there. If they aren't to the teenage stage yet, I was just kidding! They stay sunshine and puppies always. For those of you in the trenches though, stay strong. You got this. 

No cap.

Need more mayhem? Find me on FaceBook at Modern Mom Mayhem.

I’m also over there on Instagram @modernmommayhem.

Want to share your funny parenting fails, parenting wins or your own teenager woe story? Send an email to modernmommayhem@gmail.com.

My Ducks Can’t be in a Row Because They’re Being Chased by Squirrels

           Despite my best intentions, it seems as if I don’t have it as together as I would like. This is frustrating since it directly disobeys a direct tenant of my OCD personality. The one that says “Thou Shalt Have All Thine Shit Together Always”. Or something to that effect.

I know you’re probably saying, “Surely you must be exaggerating, right? I mean, you do seem to have a flair for the dramatic at times.” To which I say, “Hey! Not always! But touché.”

I’ll even give you an example of how I found out that my ducks are decoys because they’ve been running from squirrels for the last few years.

We always carve pumpkins on October 30. Is this a tradition you ask? And I would tell you that it is not. Usually it stems from me realizing that “Dammit! Halloween is tomorrow and we didn’t carve the freaking pumpkins!” followed by the frenetic process known as our house’s annual carving of the pumpkins.

I vowed that this year would be different. We would carve the Saturday before Halloween and be ahead of the game for once. This would be perfect as it would be a few days before Halloween but not so long that they’d be rotting and melting off the steps by the 31^st. The timing was made even more prefect since it was unseasonably warm over the last week which would have sped up the liquefaction process considerably.

What’s that saying? The road to hell is pave with good intentions and rabid ducks? Something like that at least. All I know is that I didn’t account for a stubborn printer that hasn’t been re-connected to the new Wi-Fi. Was this a misstep on my part? Yes. Should I have taken care of this previously? Also yes. Are you scratching your head trying to figure out the leap from no pumpkin carving to unconnected printers? Patience my friend. I’m weaving this web of story with delightfully detailed threads.

Uh, where was I? Oh right.

Now, at the risk of sounding like the old lady that I am very rapidly turning into, I’ll say that “back in my day” we used to freehand carve those fat orange gourds. We would mangle the hell out of them and then proudly place them on the porch to be lit and viewed by the entire neighborhood. Nowadays though, people use templates to carve intricate designs.

I will sheepishly admit that those intricately carved masterpieces were a large part of our Halloweens past, but the boys have decided that they want easier designs. Thus, we search the interweb for free printable templates. Now you see the connection? That’s right. The entire plan was thwarted by a printer that refused to connect to the wifi and had to be connected to the computer, with a cord that I know that I still have somewhere in my house but was unable to find. My husband eventually took pity on me and bought a new cord but the printer still resisted my attempts and by the time it was finally up and running, carving pumpkins was the last thing on my list.

And many of you may be saying, “But this was Saturday, so wouldn’t you have been able to carve them on Sunday?” Well, in a normal house, this would be true. But in our house, football is a religion that must be worshipped fastidiously every week. Not to mention that Sundays are only like 2 hours and 43 minutes long before Monday takes over. I’m not exaggerating. A slow blink could cause you to miss Sunday altogether. It’s a tragedy that we working shlubs have yet to be able to figure out. One minute you’re enjoying a day off and the next your alarm is screaming at you to get up and start the whole week over again.

So there you have it. That is my sad sack story as to why my ducks have run off screaming as they’re being chased by Mike Myers. I really wish there was a cooler story. Maybe an alien abduction. Winning the lottery and having to drive to the acceptance headquarters. Or even entering a cupcake eating contest. (Mmmm, cupcakes.) Anything would be better than accepting that I can’t seem to get out of my own way to keep my schedule intact.

 

 

 

Need more mayhem? Find me on FaceBook at Modern Mom Mayhem.

Or find me on Instagram @modernmommayhem.

Want to share your funny parenting fails? Send an email to modernmommayhem@gmail.com.

Un-spirited Week

             At the risk of sounding like an 86 year old woman reminiscing about the good ol’ days…. Back in my day, spirit week was reserved for only high school. It was a single week in the fall, usually culminating with the homecoming football game. Apparently, someone with a total of 12 brain cells, made a decision to extend the spirit week to all the schools.

 All. The. Schools.

This is mind boggling to me. Are you telling me that the young kids don’t have any school spirit and need to foster that camaraderie now? I’m thinking that you must never have met a child. Like ever. I don’t know anybody or anything that has more energy, attitude, and character than a kid. Let’s not try to foster any more of that spirit, mmkay? In fact, why don’t we have an opposite spirit week for elementary schools? Give those poor teachers a week of calm and quiet. I know that my 9-year-old exhausts me exactly 4.6 minutes into our day. I can’t even imagine having to multiply that by 22 kids. (Not that I think they’d actually accomplish it, given their subjects, but it was worth a shot, right?)

Now middle schools are another animal altogether. This is the age where the hormones and chemicals start brewing in their bodies. Moody is a sub-culture there. They most definitely need some spirt in their week. It’s probably the HOLY spirit that they need, but spirit is spirit, right? They channel and hone that spiritedness until it matures into enough teenage angst to get them through high school, so grades 9-12 definitely require spirit. Probably the alcoholic spirits that they’re too young for, but they need spirit nonetheless. (Not that any of us parents *ever* had alcohol before it was lawful. Nope we dutifully waited until legal age before partaking in those types of beverages. Promise.)

And before you accuse me of being the grinch of spirit week, I want you to know that I have no problem with the concept. None at all. I think it’s a fun exercise to build morale and involve the kids. No, my problem is that the people who decide the themes. I don’t know if they are using it as some form of parental punishment or if they are just partaking in some intensely strong  edibles that made these seem like good ideas.

Here are some good, easy examples of themes for spirit week: School colors. Pajamas. Sports shirts/jerseys. Tie dye. Silly hat. Crazy hair. Mismatch. Dress like your favorite teacher.  Inside out/backward clothing. These are all excellent examples and notice that they are simple enough that almost every kid could participate. Now let me tell you some of the days that my son’s high school has had: Country western. Barbie and Ken (think pink). Dress like a twin day. Adam Sandler. Flannel or plaid. Do you know how many moms out there who are, like me, thinking, “Crap, I don’t have any of that!” What happened to throwing on pj’s and calling it good? Give me school colors day and I got that one in the bag. Inside out clothing? Check. Even tie dye. Done. But Country Western day? No thanks. Barbie and Ken? Maybe if I had a cardigan he could tie around his shoulders, sure. (Eyeroll)

Perhaps, if you gave us like 6 weeks’ notice, we might be able to buy (read: place an Amazon order) in time to make sure the kid had an appropriate amount of spirit that week. But no, you spring it on us a week before and we (I) probably forget about it until Sunday night anyway, so it’s not realistic to expect us (me) to have any of our (my) shit together enough to pull this off.

While I’m on my spirit week soapbox, let me ask why we now have to have THREE of them every year? Was it not enough torture to do it 5 days so you figured you’d add another 10? What did I do in a previous life to have this torment inflicted upon me? Now I’m looking for ugly holiday sweaters and cowboy hats thrice annually? Just shoot me now. I don’t know if I can make it though another 27 spirit weeks in my life. Even you must admit that 135 days of “positive personality” is a lot. (I felt like I’d been typing the word spirit too much and it was starting to give me a complex. Hello thesaurus!)

So if you’ll excuse me, I have to go celebrate disgruntled parent week. It’s like spirit week except it involves parents pulling their hair out, spiking their coffees, and muttering unintelligibly under their breath.

 

 

Need even more mayhem in your life? Find me on FaceBook (modernmommayhem)

Or check me out over there on Instagram (@modernmommayhem)

Want to send me a personal note, a comment, or share one of your funny parenting stories? You can email me at modernmommayhem@gmail.com.

I'm Just Here for the Comments

           Have you ever noticed that the internet is just really freaking mean nowadays? Like it's Gretchen from “Mean Girls”. (Oh boy, I’m showing my age with a 2004 movie reference, huh? Not fetch.)

Not only is the internet mean, but it's also totally judgmental. It’s as if everyone has to be uber cruel if they have any sort of differing opinion. There doesn’t seem to be any tact anymore. Back in my day, (Yikes, I AM old!) we could disagree on a public forum with someone politely, without feeling offended that they didn’t think the same way. Consider the following example:

Adult #1: “I think that women should stay at home and take care of their children because it affords more quality bonding time between mother and child.”

Adult #2: “While I can see your point, I politely disagree. Having time apart helps both mother and child appreciate the quality of the time they do get to spend together. Also, not all households can sustain themselves on one income.”

Adult # 3: “Yes, you do make a valid point, I hadn’t thought of that.”

See? Civil and refined. Dignified and cultured. It’s called conversation people. Both parties are entitled to their opinions without getting into verbal fisticuffs and resorting to insults.

Here is how that conversation would read in today’s internet culture:

Adult # 1: “Women should stay home and take care of their kids. I mean, they wanted them in the first place. And they only get 18 summers before that child is an adult, so they should savor as much time as they can. If not, they clearly don’t love the kid and should not be a parent. Motherhood equals sacrifice.”

Adult # 2: “You are a misogynistic idiot. You probably don’t even have kids so you have no idea what you are talking about. Maybe you should shut your stupid sexist mouth before spouting off this crap on the internet.”

Adult # 3: “Women and men should have equal parenting duties. Maybe Dad should stay home with the kid if he feels so strongly about it. And just because people don’t have children, doesn’t mean they don’t have a brain. I am a proud dog mom and it’s basically the same thing as having a child.”

Adult # 4: “I agree. I stayed home with all 6 of my children and it was a fantastic experience that I think every mother should have.

Adult # 5: @Adult#3 “You sound like a moron trying to say that having a dog is the same thing as having a kid. Stupid people like you shouldn’t procreate and spread the dumbness around.

I know, right? MEAN! Everyone seems to think that their opinion is the only opinion and that if they just cram it down your throat enough, they can change your mind. I’m not sure why this seems to be the prevailing public consensus because I have never seen that actually work. Does that actually work? I mean, other than the person just getting tired of arguing and conceding to get the conversation over quicker. THAT I could totally see happening. This is why we need to limit our kid’s social media access. Kids are already little terrors, we don’t need to give them any more ideas. (Geez, isn’t that a terrifying thought?) Do we tell our children all of the things that we got away with as children? NO! We don’t need them getting any bright ideas on their own let alone letting them borrow all the imbecilic hijinks that we got up to in our misguided youth.

Yet… while I am supportive of all this peace, love, and happiness crap…. I do have a small confession. These internet arguments make for mindless entertainment sometimes. Have you ever gone to the comments section of an article that you know, just from the title, is making people’s heads explode? There’s usually some comedic gold there. Not only for the sheer number of ignorant comments, but there are always that demographic who link everything to a conspiracy theory and make it a pastime to scroll internet comment sections to scatter their wacko thoughts. If you can find one of those threads, that’s a mind trip right there. (I try to make their jump from the logical point to the Twilight Zone but I’m always missing a few dozen steps.)

While it’s not common to find the Religious Rapture supporters, you usually do find three main groups of commenters. The first ones agree with the article, the second disagree with the article, and the third just want to make disparaging remarks about another person’s comment. My advice is to skim quickly until you find a really inflammatory comment (“Target selling rainbow t-shirts is causing my child to be gay.”) or just downright stupid (“The Earth is flat. There’s no evidence to support a circular Earth.) Actually, I guess both are examples of stupid and inflammatory comments. Anyway, as I was saying, those are the ones that are popcorn worthy. Sometimes I'm not sure I want to laugh with incredulity that these people are so earnest in their beliefs or cringe that these people accept these things as the truth.

Image credit: Google search

And for all those who want to come for me in MY comment section, maybe saying I’m the mean one to use this as entertainment, please think a long minute before typing your rant. (Oh, wait, the bag says 2 ½ minutes.) It’s probably best to give pause and reflect for 2 and a half minutes before posting something that you might regret.

<Microwave Ding>

Then again, who am I to stop you?

 

Need more mayhem? Look for me on my socials on Instagram (@modernmommayhem) or FaceBook (Modern Mom Mayhem).

Want to give me something to rant about next month? Shoot me an email at modernmommayhem@gmail.com.

I Know What I'm Doing (Said No Parent)

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned after a quarter of a century of parenting my 4 children, it’s that I still don’t know what I am doing. Sure, I have a ton of practical experience….which is only applicable if I deal with the same incidents that I had with the previous children.

That statement is, of course, laughable at best.

God forbid your child not be an original, with new ways to cause their parents trauma, stress and sleepless nights. I joke about creating a therapy fund for my children, but in reality, they should be creating one for me. The amount of anxiety that they have , and continue to, cause should qualify me for a lengthy stay in one of those fancy resorts with the padded walls and cute jackets that allow you to give yourself a hug.

On the upside, it's REAL quiet here.
Image credit: The Interweb

The old adage that with age comes wisdom is true. Unfortunately, that doesn’t usually translate to a helpful skill in the midst of parenting battles. No, that only comes as hindsight, when I’m able to add yet another thing to my arsenal of “probably shouldn’t have said/done that”.

Perhaps it’s a good thing that our kids aren’t allowed to give us performance reviews. I’m not sure that I would be earning any bonuses or accolades based on their feedback. In fact, I’m pretty sure the youngest would get me fired immediately. Keep in mind that he is the most dramatic, and most traumatized, from his dad and I, even though we parent him the same as his siblings. He clearly feels that he is above all these pesky rules and will let us know, in no uncertain terms, how awful we are doing. I picture his answers going a little something like this:

“What was the last thing your mom and/or dad had to parent about?”

They made me go to bed at 9:00. In the summer! I am nine years old. That bedtime is for kindergarteners, not big boy almost 4^th graders.

“Rate your mom/dad’s last parenting attempt on a scale from 1-10.”

                Can I give a zero? 1 isn’t small enough.

“What do you think they excel at overall?”

Being bad parents. I can’t ever do anything fun. Not even on our many family vacations and trips we take. And on family game night I am expected to play games that other people choose, not just what I want to play. It’s so unfair!

“What do you think they could do to improve next time?”

Everything. They are terrible at all of it. I can’t stay up as late as I want. I have to eat healthy food. I can’t hit my brother or call him names. I am 9 years old, I have rights you know!

“How do you think they could accomplish this?”

They should buy me a lot of gift cards. I accept iTunes and Roblox. If gift cards are unavailable, I will also agree to take sports trading cards, but only the most current year is acceptable. Also, I should only have to eat foods I like, even if that’s only a total of 6 foods in the entire universe. I should never have to go to bed or do bad things like go to the dentist. And I should never have to wait a long time, like more than 60 seconds, for anything ever.

                The youngest child couldn’t be more opposite of his older brother if he tried. These differences also contribute to the whole not-really-learning-anything-even-though-I’ve-had-4-children thing. My third child is very laid back and easy going who would hate to bother anyone. The fourth is a feral, demanding creature who excels at making everything difficult. I had to go back to the drawing board just to learn how to co-exist with this wild child. His father and I still fall on landmines while navigating parenting with this one. If we survive this last kid with any sense of our sanity intact, I will be damn impressed.

                I guess what I’m getting at is that no one is teaching a master class on parenting. Well, maybe SOMEONE is. Probably not anyone you know. They’re just as clueless as the rest of us. And if someone you know does say they know what they’re doing, they’ve either reached the delusional stage of parenthood or they are flying high on the false confidence of prior knowledge and experience. Take it easy on them. They’re most likely 5 minutes away from their kid throwing a new experience at them.

Need even more mayhem in your life? 

Find me on FaceBook (modernmommayhem)

Or check me out on Instagram (@modernmommayhem)

Want to send me a personal note, a comment, or share one of your funny parenting stories?  Email me at modernmommayhem@gmail.com