The Most Important Job Interview Ever

You know how, when you go on a job interview, you bring your polished up resume and try to sound more important than you are? You don't lie, you just use fancier words to describe your job duties. Like "Office Purchasing Agent" instead of "Guy Who Orders The Copier Paper". And if there's any way you can add the word consultant in there, it makes you sound ten times more knowledgeable. After all, people consult YOU for something, right?

The problem is, I can't help but feel like daycare providers do the same thing.  You're searching for a person to care for you child. Five days a week, your precious bundle of joy will spend most of their waking hours with someone other than you. Are they plumping their resume too?

This is, in essence, the most important interview of your life. Because I don't know if you've watched the news or read a newspaper lately, but the world is a fricken scary place! I read a story just today about a man who broke his infant's ribs squeezing him to try to stop the crying. This is the kid's dad. He's half that baby's DNA. Not even a stranger. How the hell am I supposed to pick a random person now? (Moral of the story: Stop watching the news. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.) That story just made me hold my own little guy tighter in commiseration. (Not like "I'm breaking body parts" squeezing, but normal "I love you so much how can someone hurt a beautiful little thing like you?" squeeze.)

Ok, I'm getting off topic. Although one last note on that topic: I hope he drops the soap.

So you do your research, find licensed providers, prepare your questions, meet with them, and grill the hell out of them. You are only a small step away from hooking them up to a lie detector machine and you probably wish that was a viable option. You ask about naps and feeding schedules and tour play areas. You make a decision, bite the bullet, and pray to the good Lord that you found someone who will treat your progeny like the sacred future president that you know they'll be.

Or that's how you hope it'll go.

In the meantime, you bite your nails and remind yourself its only 5 short years until kindergarten. Because i's either that or start drinking heavily. And the first one is at least easier on your liver.

Holy Crap, What Happened To April?

Hoppy Easter! Do you see what I did there? I made a bunny punny! Har-de-har-har! (I can't believe April is bouncing away from me!) For me, Easter is just another Sunday. I guess if you're not overtly spiritual and you don't get a basket full of jelly beans and chocolate anymore, it's just not the same.

Of course, it might have something to do with the fact that I'm a mom of four kids now. One who can't say no. Like when that tired hippity hop bunny calls saying, "Would you like to fill 3 dozen plastic eggs and hide them in your house for your kids? I'm really swamped here. That's a peach, thanks!" and I find myself doing the work of a freakishly large rabbit AND a mom. I'm pulling double duty! I don't remember this being in the handbook. Aren't I just supposed to love, nurture, and scold? Where's the page about filling in for holiday mascots?

Of course, I can't just be the egg filler either. I have to be the quality control person as well. I need to make sure that those jelly beans he gave me to put in those eggs are made with only the finest ingredients, the jelliest of jellies, the beaniest of beans. So I taste one. Ok, that color is good, but what about the others? I might have to check those ones too. Oh, you have two kinds of jelly beans? Well, I can't check the quality of one and completely disregard the other. Ok, I'll check all 6 flavors of those too. At the end of it, I'm five pounds more jiggly with a mega sugar high and the plastic eggs are just a smidge lighter than they would have been if that damn bunny did his own dirty work.

But that's not enough for that lazy hare. "Hey, since you did such a fabulous job with the eggs, would you mind putting their baskets together too? I'll leave everything you need and it's just a quick filling of the baskets." Uh, well, that doesn't sound too time intensive, I guess. This one time would be alright.

That damn rabbit conveniently forgets to tell me he's sending the evil Easter grass that static clings to everything but the basket, or in this case, the Easter bucket. Or that I have to balance half of the crap like it's Jenga since the bucket is narrow and half filled with the damn grass. Oh, and a bucket? Really? Where's the quality work of a hand crafted basket? Kids these days just don't know a good piece of woven craftsmanship when they see it. Tsk tsk.

I thought my Easter plans were pretty simple: Throw a ham in the oven, mash some potatoes, and eat. Heck, I'm great at eating. I can even do it with my eyes closed. But that damn bunny had other plans for me. Next year he's on his own. Or I just might make some wild rabbit soup. It'd be great for Easter dinner.

Now these are Easter baskets!

The Catalog Conundrum

Why is it when you order from a catalog you suddenly hit the catalog jackpot? I ordered from one catalog and within a year I was receiving order booklets from companies that I never knew existed. No, really, one was literally called "Things You Never Knew Existed". Acknowledging one company lets others know you are "that type" of person. You know, someone who orders things through the mail. It's almost like placing a single order puts you in their directory. Like one large telemarketing world of publications.

The problem is, I like looking at catalogs. Especially ones titled "Things I Never Knew Existed". Because now I want to know that they exist. It's a clever marketing tactic, that I can tell you. (FYI, some of those things I did know existed. I was a little disappointed.) Since my favorite form of shopping is online, this is almost as good. I don't have to get dressed so I can shop in my pajamas. I don't have to shower so I can shop at 6:30 in the morning if I wanted to. I can shop while I eat lunch, drink coffee, or brush my hair. Now that I think of it, it might actually be better than online shopping.

A Veritable smorgasbord of precious products!

There's just something about those glossy pages full of awesome, sometimes innovative, products. They're infomercials put to paper. Which is why they're also dangerous. We know about my infomercial susceptibility. (The one that prompted hubby to ban me from watching them anymore.) He didn't place the same restrictions on the magazines that come straight to our mailbox peddling wonderful wares. Like what, you may ask? How about the vegetti? It creates spaghetti like strands from all your favorite vegetables like zucchini, carrots, potatoes, and more! Or ruggies? They keep carpet corners flat to prevent slips and trips! (I'm literally quoting the catalog right now. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.)

If you do a Google search for catalog shopping, it will bring up the most popular offenders. Fingerhut, Lakeside Collection, Harriet Carter. Harriet Carter has a ton of non-useful gadgets that no one probably needs but it's entertainment value surpasses those of functional catalogs. Yeah, sure, Lakeside Collection sells a lot of cool things at decent prices, but Harriet Carter has products that will make you laugh and scratch your head. Those are the funnest catalogs to peruse.

Now, I don't often order these gadget-y gizmos that they try to hawk. I mean, I have some sense of restraint. It would have to be awfully fricken awesome, not to mention a really good deal, for me to break my no-buy streak. I mostly just want to ooh and ahh over them and think of how useful it could be. Usually common sense kicks back in before I buy it and I remember that I don't have the closet storage to keep all this junk. Nor do I have the money to waste on frivolous bric-a-brac.

But my, how those pretty pages shine under the luminescent light of that 60 watt bulb. Sigh.

Add this to a catalog and it amplifies my infomercial radar!

Whoever Came Up With Staycation Is Stupid

Someone out there termed the phrase "staycation". I'm sure they thought they were being clever, manipulating the word vacation and amking a word that means taking time off but not going anywhere. And whoever it is, I think they're stupid. Because staycation is just a nice way of saying "We're not going on vacation this year for one reason or another but we're making it sound like it was a planned thing by calling a staycation".

Believe me, I'd rather be on vacation rather than oh, almost everything else in my life. It goes: Kids first, husband second and family third. The next 300 slots are vacation. Would I rather be home? No, I'd rather be on vacation. Would I rather be at work? No, I'd rather be on vacation. Would I like to eat in a box with a fox or a house with a mouse? No, I'd rather be on vacation. Would I rather be taking care of a sweet little baby? No....oh, wait. Okay, but just for this year. Next year, I'd rather be on vacation.

The hard part is that even though my brain rationalizes why we aren't in warm, beautiful Florida this year, my heart is longing for sandy beaches and sunny skies. Since the two don't live in the same neighborhood and don't run in the same social circles, the brain is over ruled by those emotional ties to vacation.

Awww, ain't she purty?

And I'll tell you what else, vacation is like crack. One taste and you're hooked for life. I'm a junkie. Long weekends don't cut it anymore. They're still good. I'm still a fan. I love long weekends, just in a brother/sister kind of way. I'm passionately, madly in love with vacations though. The sense of relaxation that permeates your very soul...ahhh, I miss that. The smell of the ocean first thing in the morning? Yup, miss that too. Eating badly and being able to use the vacation crutch? Yeah, really missing that!

Yeah yeah, I'm putting my big girl panties on and dealing with it. Reluctantly. I'm going to enjoy the "stay" part of the staycation and spend some time with the kids and maybe pull out my inner arts and crafts Mom and dust her off. It's been awhile since she's come over and I think the kids would get a kick out of her. She's much "funner" than do your homework and make your bed Mom. She's over  a lot and the kids really are starting to feel like she's worn out her welcome.

So if you feel bad for me, feel free to send me a week in your time share on the ocean. Kidding! (Well, mostly.) Until then, I'll be in the kitchen with a two gallon jug of margaritas, dancing to um, whatever music would make someone think of Florida. (An orange juice commercial?)

Ok, ok, so this is what I'll miss the most about a real vacation.

Things I Never Thought I'd Have To Say

When you become a parent, you always vow never to sound like your own parents. (Which is usually futile because your parents also wished that you'd have a child just like you so of course you have to say the exact same things.) But even if you don't channel your Mom or Dad's voice, there are some things you end up saying to your kids that you never thought you'd say. Here are some of my favorites. And in case my sarcasm font is broken, add heavy sarcasm to the word favorites.

Please don't pee on me! If you've said this, it's more than likely to your son and probably during a diaper change. I'm also willing to bet that it's already happened, which is why you're praying it doesn't happen again. For me, it was the very first diaper change after coming home from the hospital. With my first child. I was inducted into the "Been Peed On" club early. (If you're a member of this club before having children either I'm really disturbed or you're a nurse.) Two more sons later (because I never had this problem with my daughter) and I've been peed on by all of my sons, even with all of my precautions. During a bath or a diaper change, those stealthy little streams of urine have found my person somehow.

Don't lick the dog. Yes, I've really said this. Usually you worry about the dog licking your children, not the other way around. My middle boy loved his doggie. A lot. He loved riding him like a pony, jumping on him, and, well, licking him a time or two. Luckily the dog sheds a lot which made this a short lived phase. I guess even my boy couldn't overlook the mouth full of dog hair. Well, that and he was only a year and a half old.

Can you just give Mama a burp? Is there anything worse than being awake at 3 in the morning? Yes, being awake at three in the morning with an infant who refuses to burp. You've changed him, you've fed him, and now a gaseous belch is all that's standing between you and a precious two and a half hours of blissful shut eye. Except he apparently hates burping and is that much more reluctant the more desperate Mom is to get back to sleep. The youngest son is so polite, refusing to offend with burping until he can speak his "excuse me's",  that I have to beg for most of the burps that has given me. Not to mention that it's weird to ask for gassy emissions, isn't it?

If you poop, you'll get a sticker. Yes, the potty training perils. You can lead a toddler to the toilet, but you can't make him poop. I've heard many theories as to why they'll pee in the potty without a fuss but won't have a bowel movement. (The fancy term for crap!) What it boils down to is that you're left with a frustrated parent and a stubborn toddler. So you try a reward. If you just poop, you'll get a sticker/lollipop/cookie. Whatever will work. In essence, you are begging your child for their feces. So I've now asked for gas AND poop from my children. Ah, the joys of parenting.

Can you just puke in the garbage can? My daughter is a magnet for every single germ on the planet. When she was younger she had ear infections, pneumonia, strep throat, impetigo, fifths disease, stomach viruses and anything else that you could think of. But anytime she had a cough, she'd cough so hard that she would end up throwing up. In the middle of the night. In her bed. My lovely little girl would just sit up and vomit all over herself and her bedding, no matter if I had placed a waste basket with a fresh plastic bag by her bedside or not. I think I spent more time changing bedding and bathing her between the hours of 1 and 4 in the morning than during normal daylight hours. And every time I would plead, "Can't you just throw up in the garbage? It's right next to your bed?"

Huh, now that I look at this list, I see that they're all related to some sort of bodily fluid. You either want them or you don't want them, but in the end you still get them all. Which just goes to show you that parenting truly is a messy business and not for the faint of heart! (Or stomach!)

My Top Five Do-Overs

Everyone tells you that you shouldn't have regrets, which is completely stupid since I haven't met one single person who doesn't have at least one small regret. And anyone who does say they don't have a regret is probably lying. I mean, aren't you even remorseful for not having a french toast bagel this morning instead of a boring old yogurt?

Anyway, as I was saying, everyone has regrets. Here are the top five things I would change if I ever got a do over:

Number 5: Not being a yes Mom.
In most households, Moms get the sucky job of being the disciplinarian parent. Dad's the fun one who makes armpit farts and blanket forts. Mom's the one who nixes lego flinging fights and chocolate pudding finger painting with white shirts on. A Mom's most commonly used phrase probably contains some form of NO. (No, not right now, not this year, not tonight but maybe tomorrow....and on and on.) What would it hurt to say yes a little more and let them be kids? Why can't Mom be the fun every once in awhile? So next time my kid wants to play with play dough on the carpet, I'm going to live on the wild side and say.... "Maybe."

Number 4: Not enjoying my awesome, kick ass metabolism when I had the chance.
Getting older comes with wisdom, a 401K, and a slower metabolism. Had anyone told me that in my 30's I would look at a piece of cake and gain 5 pounds, I would have had twice as much cake in my teens. The "good old days" when my metabolism was like, "Bring it. I can sweat out those cheeseburger, fries, and milkshake calories in my sleep. Give me a challenge already."

Number 3: Not using my pregnancy perks more.
I never wanted to be one of those prima donna pregnant women who batted their eyelashes and asked their husband to lift that heavy can of soda for them. In my mind I was pregnant, not dead. The truth of the matter is, everyone likes the idea of a new baby and pregnant mamas are the way those new babies come to be. So why not take advantage of all that solicitousness and enjoy it? It wasn't an idea I embraced until my last pregnancy, and this was mostly because I felt old and bloated and too damn tired to argue. If I was smarter, I would have has the same instinct in my first three pregnancies. "Oh dear, I do declare, I must have one of those delicious bon bons. Be a dear and bring me a case, would you?"

Number 2: Not finding an awesome personal trainer when my budget wasn't blown by diapers, daycare and braces. You know, pre-kids.
I hate exercising. I know,I know, a lot of people do. I think if I had trained myself at a younger age to like exercise, maybe me, myself, and my metabolism wouldn't have a hate-hate relationship today. Or at least, that's what I keep telling myself. If I had been smart, I would have found a female personal trainer to torture me into running a marathon or some crap like that. Someone that would have looked amazing and made me hate her when I obsessively compared my own body to her super fit one. Someone to make me love exercise (shudder) thus making my struggle to lose this pesky pregnancy weight a non-issue. (Hey, it's my delusion, let me have it.)

And the biggest regret I have? Not marrying Channing Tatum. Ha! Kidding.

Number 1: Not being born to rich parents. (Seriously, what was I thinking?)
People who say that money can't buy happiness aren't trying hard enough. Because you know what sucks? Not having money. You know what also sucks? Not having money AND being in debt because you were stupid and wished you had money and fell into a credit card trap. It happens to the best of us. Or maybe the dumbest of us, either way. Those people who preach about money and happiness are probably the ones who have all the money and have everything they need, not to mention want, and ran out of things that amaze and astound them and are miserable because they sucked the joy right out of their own lives. I wouldn't make that mistake. I'd make sure there there were still some wonders to behold. I'm serious! All I'm asking is that someone give me the chance to prove I could do it. (Where's a winning lottery ticket when you need one?)

It's Stank Versus Stink

If you ask most mothers of teen-aged sons how his room smells, you'll probably hear gagging noises, see faces contorted in horror, and hear plenty of colorful descriptive verbs. (Which honestly might not even do it justice.) I say most because I'm sure there's been at least one teenager over the years who doesn't want to smell like gym socks wrapped in Limburger cheese, which is what I imagine that funk emanating from his room is likened to. That or roadkill with a side of ass sweat.

And it seems like every mother of a teen-aged son has at least one horror story about that smell or how they've gone about eliminating it. Whether you've bought prescription strength deodorant and odor eaters or if you just burned down their room after they left for college and started anew, something went on. It's even been lamented by friends and colleagues who either commiserate if they have sons or comment on how they're grateful to only have daughters.

Insert maniacal laughter here. Wipe tears from eyes after laughing so hard. Try to stop laughing before you wet yourself.

You're not exempt from the scents of teenagerdom just because you have a girl. It's just different. Where boys have stank, girls have stink. Usually in the form of perfumes, lotions, body sprays, deodorants, and bath salts, gels, beads, or bubbles. While this doesn't sound terrible, keep in mind that there is an unwritten rule that a teenage girl must have every single one of these scents on her person at one time. It's as if her body is a yankee candle store, a bath and body works, and a fabric softener aisle all rolled into one. That is how strong the smell is.

If you think it's bad with just one teenage girl, multiplying them could quite literally kill you. Every year when the daughter has her birthday party sleepover, the entire back portion of the house smells like 4 different combinations of body lotions, sprays, perfumes, and hair products. It's so strong that your eyes start watering 5 feet before you enter the hallway, which is already 20 feet from her bedroom door.

You know what the perfect fix would be for this situation? Stick your teen aged kids in a room together so they'd cancel each other out. Oh, but you can't because they're different genders dammit. So one room smells like something died in there after wiping it's feet in a sulfur swamp, and the other smells like a French whorehouse. (I don't know why it has to be French. I'd imagine all whorehouses would smell the same, don't you think?) It's like watching wrestling. "In this corner, we have heavyweight stench weighing in at "Good Lord, what IS that smell?" and in the other corner, the rookie smell weighing in at "Oh My God, someone open up a window STAT!"

So the moral of the story is this: If you have teenagers, move to a climate where you can have the windows open all the time. And if you can't, invest in nose plugs.

She could be the poster child (poster Mom?) of parents with teenagers.