The Gift That Keeps on Giving

Another holiday season has come to a close. The gifts are all unwrapped. The cookies have been eaten. (And eaten. And eaten some more.) But the icing on the gingerbread house? Santa left a stomach bug in somebody's stockings. Or, uh, britches?

Santa spreads the love. Stomach virus anyone?

Okay, so technically it didn't start until the day after Christmas, so maybe the jolly old man in red didn't leave it after all. (But you have to admit, the timing is a little coincidental.) If you've ever had a stomach virus, know that having a child with a stomach virus is about 1,000 times less fun. Basically they turn into little crapping, puking machines with extremely poor aim. For some reason, it seems to affect the littlest ones in my house and sure enough, the almost 2 year old is the one currently afflicted.

The good news is, by kid number four, puke pretty much doesn't even faze me anymore. I'm more upset about the non-stop laundry I've been doing than the hands and knees Clorox scrubbing my floor has been getting. And the smell....why is it that a vomit-y stench can permeate every molecule of air in your house and make it feel like you live in a puke bowl? There's nothing worse than that sick smell in your house. It makes you feel unclean. It makes you feel contaminated.

It sends you running for the Vitamin C and Lysol.

Yes, that mad woman laughing maniacally whilst running from room to room with an aerosol can and a vitamin container...that's me. Clorox wipes. Check. Disinfecting spray. Check. Extra large jug of laundry detergent. Check. Making sure not one single body more than necessary gets infected by the creeping crud that has invaded our abode? Absolutely check, check, and please God if you can hear me, triple check.

The saddest thing is that the poor kid can't seem to shake it. Today was day four and I, completely concerned bordering on I might have to panic, called the doctor's office. Did you know that these damn viruses can hang around for seven to ten days? Let me repeat that. SEVEN TO TEN DAYS. It's possible that he'll have periods of non-puking activity. He might even stop crapping for a few hours. Only to have it return intermittently and without warning. I think this could be used as a form of torture for some evil dictator in a B grade action flick.

"Muah ha ha ha. If you won't talk, I'll give you the Really Horrible Stomach Virus That Never Ends. You'll dream of that upchuck smell for years to come! Muah ha ha ha ha."

Seriously? This thing is like a Christmas fruitcake. No one wants it but it gets passed around every year anyway.

I hear fruitcake makes a lovely doorstop though.

So if you want to visit, you might want to wear a hazmat suit. Or wear a mask. Or bring a Lysol grenade. Otherwise, you might end up with the gift that keeps on giving. And giving. And giving.......

A Heaping Plate of Thanks

In honor of Thanksgiving today, I'm going to take a moment to reflect on the things that I'm thankful for. So put on your "fat" pants, grab another piece of pie, and settle in for:

Modern Mom Mayhem's Stuff I'm Thankful For And Stuff

1. I'm thankful I only have four kids. Sure, that last one was a surprise and I almost only had three kids, but it could have been worse. (I mean, uh, better?) I think my sanity ship is starting to sail away without me. This last kid is trying to kill me. Or in the very least, tire me out so I fall asleep first and he can drag the chair over to the counter, climb up, and get the cookies out of the cookie jar. Just think, if that last pregnancy had been twins, or even triplets, I'd be in the asylum by now. I think of all those parents with multiple kids (Octomom, the Duggars) and just want to ask them , "Why?" Don't get me wrong, I love my kids to death and ain't nobody gonna mess with my cubs. I just wish they came with a calm button. Or possibly a let mom nap for twenty minutes button.

2. I'm thankful for a husband who lets me find the Barry Bonds of turkeys every year and doesn't even pick on me (for more than an hour). I can't pinpoint when my love of Thanksgiving morphed into something a little more sinister and turkey full, but I LOVE finding a big, ol, fat turkey for roasting every year. This year will probably go down in history as the biggest turkey, topping the scale at 26 (and a bit) pounds. Okay, okay, it was closer to 27. Hey, listen, when you stumble upon those big boys and they're only 44 cents a pound, what are you supposed to do? Get a smaller turkey? (Snort) Unlikely! Go big or go home people! I want to have have enough turkey leftover for, oh, a week at least. I want my family to be so sick of turkey that my half-assed throw together meals on hectic week nights look like filet mignon. "Wow Mom, this grilled cheese sandwich is awesome!" Take the win when you can moms.

3. I'm thankful for a job that gives me Thanksgiving off. To all the people who work Thanksgiving, you are awesome and I hope someone in your life is saving you a plate of carbtastic awesomeness. But if I had to work I'd only be able to get a runty little 16 or 17 pound turkey and it would make me very, very sad. Not to mention all the rest of the meal that can be high maintenance. The mashed potatoes and the stuffing and the gravy and the rolls. So thank you employer, for giving me the entire day to be a Thanksgiving zealot.

4. I'm thankful for Thomas St. Turkey for inventing the Best. Holiday. Ever. What do you mean that isn't who invented it? Just look on Wikipedia. But hold on a minute while I log on to Wikipedia......

5. I'm thankful for my DVR who dutifully bites the bullet and starts recording Christmas movies before the beautious Novemeber holiday has gotten to be fully appreciated. DVR knows that I'll need holiday spirit in the form of cheesy holiday movies and specials to keep me occupied during the stupid new trend of "television winter break", which is apparently a thing now. I don't know who thought a two month hiatus of all my kick ass prime time shows was a good idea, but that person needs to be downsized Ay-sap! (Let's not fire someone this close to Christmas, ya know?) So while I'm stuffing stuffing and gobbling the gobbler, my DVR has resigned itself to recording Its A Wonderful Life and Holiday in Handcuffs. Bless you, you gorgeous piece of machinery.

6. Most of all, I'm thankful for readers like you ho continually put up with my smart ass, whiny, piss and moan about everything attitude and still come back for more. You rock. No really, you do. Get yourself some pie. Or a roll. Maybe some stuffing and turkey too. Okay, okay, you might as well make a plate of leftovers. While you're up, could you get me one too?

They can't put anything on the Internet that isn't true, so when I saw this, I knew I had to do what I was told! 

An Apple a Day Feeds the Addiction

It’s hard to deny that there is an abundance of technology available to us these days. Everywhere I look on Facebook, there’s a meme about how smartphones are taking over today’s youth. (Yes, intentional irony inserted there.) The problem is, well, I’m a little bit of a technology-aholic myself. I mean, I love smartphones, tablets make life so convenient, and don’t even get me started on the love affair between me and my DVR.

So, while I do the normal parental monitoring, make my kids get exercise and technology-less life experiences, I kind of feel like a hypocrite. Like my mouth is saying, ‘Put down that tablet/phone/video game and go play outside!” but my mind is saying, “Oooh, I can’t wait to see what my DVR has in store tonight!” Or "Play a board game together!" says the mouth but “Damn you Words With Friends, I need better letters!” chimes in my mind.

Right now, I’m only one or two Apple products away from having half a bushel. Okay, I’m exaggerating. I’d need at least everything other than the phone and tablet to make an entire bushel. Although….I am eyeing the watch, which, let’s face it, is completely stupid for a working mother of four with introvert tendencies who enjoys sitting in pajama pants at home with a book or the aforementioned bestie, DVR, most of the time.

Yet I still want it.

Because what I really need is another gadget hooked up to my iTunes account, right?

Come on, tell me you haven’t seen the commercials and thought, ‘Wow, that’s one cool little gadget. I really want one.” Oh, you haven’t? Hmm, maybe you aren’t as connected to your inner child as I seem to be. My inner child downs marshmallow cereal, chocolate milk, and screams, “I want it” on every toy commercial that comes on between my Saturday morning cartoons. Well, at least if those toys are cool electronic gadgets that I feel that I MUST own. And the cartoons are actually prime time dramadies or sitcoms. And the marshmallow cereal is uh, something more grown up and sophisticated like candy corn or mint cookie ice cream or something.

Sadly, it’s not even limited to just Apple products either.
           
Take the Vivofit wrist thingy. I first saw it used on The Biggest Loser. Then I started to see the commercials. Since I constantly struggle with my weight (Read: I love eating a lot more than I love exercising) I figured that this thing would be an amazing thing for me. Get me moving! Get me motivated…..wait, what? Ninety nine freaking dollars? Ok, maybe I can motivate myself since that costs me zero dollars. Now, of course, as is the way with all things technological, there are plenty of other similar type products on the market. (I don’t have any of them, but I DO have an amazing collection of pins on Pinterest that tell me about awesome workouts designed to get into shape that I never again look at after I pin them, so I feel like it all washes itself out in the end.)

So we have the “grown up” tech that I adore, like the tablets, DVR genie, GPS and satellite radio. But there's also the “kid tech” which not only do my kids want, sometimes I want too. Case in point: The PS4. Now, we have the PS3, so really, this isn’t a big leap for us. The marketing a-holes know that if they only make the cool games for the PS4, it'll it’s kinda forcing our hand to upgrade. Which wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t like a gajillion dollars for a PS4. Alright, alright, it’s only like $400. But still. Damn. That’s a lot of moola. Needless to say,  we’re still in the “Let’s hope the PS4 fairy really exists and one day we will wake up to find one in our living room.” phase of buying right now. Or the “Maybe Santa will give his elves a huge Christmas bonus this year and they will feel extra jolly and start raining down awesome game systems of joy upon the little people" phase. Hey... maybe those marketing, uh, geniuses, will lower the price so that all of us techies who are jonesing for their next upgrade fix can afford their electronics habit.

Until then, visions of sugarplums, Vivofit bands, and Apple watches will dance in my head.

Look, there's someone else out there with a tech obsession!

I Said Reading is Fun Dammit!

Most parents know that their upgraded status comes with many hats. Chauffeur, chef, personal trainer, dictator.....but what they might not have realized, especially if their children haven't reached school age yet, is that they also get to be the reading Nazi.

It starts as soon as they they're in utero. Ok, ok, that's not true. Probably not until kindergarten. And they probably wait until you can read small worlds like cat, dog, and encyclopedia. As soon as those milestones are achieved, however, all bets are off.

Out comes the torturous "mandatory reading". Yes, these teachers must know that parents needed another thing for our kids to piss and moan about and therefore they added the nightly assignment of reading for 15 minutes. (Third grade is now twenty minutes!) Since I have to sign his planner every night and since I'm trying to bring him up with a modicum of ethics and morals, I cannot sign this until he has actually completed his reading. You'd think I just asked him to shove toothpicks under his fingernails judging by his reaction.

When I was his age (just a few short years ago!), we had a program called "Reading Is Fundamental" or R.I.F. for short. (Somehow, the -damental part got left off and we were just told "Reading is FUN!") It was always a great day where we got to go to the library and pick out a FREE book! Being the nerdlet that I was (am), I LOVED when R.I.F. day came around. To this day, I adore escaping into the pages of a book. So this is why I don't understand my children who don't enjoy reading. (So far I have one reader, one non-reader, and one who used to like to read until he found out he could probably find an app for that on his phone instead.)

See what they did there? It's FUN-damental!

My kids don't have R.I.F. Instead they have P.A.R.P. which stands for Parents As Reading Partners or Parents Are Really Punished, I'm not sure which. Every March they force us, I mean encourage us, to read with our children. Now, as I said, I enjoy reading. Except when you make me read with a sullen eight year old who wishes a wormhole would just appear and swallow his mean old mother who wants him to READ A BOOK! (The horror!) And even though they tell you reading to your child will give them an appreciation for books, this is not always the case. I cross my fingers that I am creating lifelong bookworms not only by taping a book to their hands every night (Ok, slight exaggeration, I'm out of duct tape right now.) but also by example when I have my nose shoved into my kindle or a library book.

So, for a few years now, we've had the hemming and hawing over the nightly reading assignment. This year we had his open house and the reading teacher stressed the importance of reading comprehension. Just reading for 20 minutes every night isn't enough, now we have to make sure they are at their reading level and understanding what they're reading. We should ask questions about the plot, the main characters, and whatnot. Wait, not only do I have to be the book warden, but now I have to quiz him? What's next? A book report? A three page term paper? At the risk of sounding old, I have to say, 'Back in my day, we just had to be able to read, they didn't care if we understood or not. Back then they told us reading was fun and we believed them!"

So every night when I see his planner open on the table, awaiting my signature, I know I'll have to ask the dreaded question.

"Did you do your reading?"

When I get the inevitable sigh/eye roll combination I"ll just yell, "Reading is fun dammit, now find a book! And you better be able to answer the five question quiz I've prepared for you!"

No pressure, but if they don't read they'll live in a van down by the river.

The Franken Momster (Franken Mom For Short)

So now that I'm on the down hill slope of my thirties, it's amazing how much more comfortable I am with myself. Uh, actually, I wish I wasn't SO comfortable, maybe I wouldn't be so complacent with my sweat pants and size (mumble) self.

But I digress.

There ARE some things that I miss about my youthful self while others I certainly don't. Wouldn't it be nice if we could piece together all the things about our past and present selves and make the perfect "you"? Here would be my perfect Franken Mom:

The wisdom I have now. I always thought I was a pretty level headed person, but if I look back at my late teens, early twenties....Holy Crap was I vapid and self centered. I guess that's a common problem with young people though, it's all about ME ME ME. I was impatient, brash, and lacked a lot of finesse. Ok, so I'm still brash and I use up my daily quota of patience on my kids so that my husband usually gets the short end of the stick. But I've learned some tact and a whole lot of appreciation. So yeah, that whole thing THEY said about age and wisdom and all that happy crap...totally true. (As usual, I don't know who THEY are, but I'll be darned if their sayings aren't really accurate.)

The body of my 21 year old self. Ok, I WANT to sell some love thyself mumbo jumbo, but dayum, I had a pretty rockin' bod when I was 21. I didn't know how much I was going to mourn that svelte figure 25 years later. If I did, I would have appreciated it so much more while I had the chance. I wouldn't have taken a flat stomach and lack of bird wings for granted. I would have worn a bikini to work just because I could. Alright, so that last one was a lie. Had I known that my four beautiful children came with extra pounds and enough stretch marks to officially qualify for mom jeans, I'd have worn short shorts 24/7. Except in the winter. Then I'd wear, uh, short pants. Yeah, show those shapely ankles baby! Sadly, all my wisdom-y crap came with more appreciation of what it's like to wear jeans without a muffin top and now all my jeans came
with a free muffin top already included. And I can't get the damn thing out. It's like super glued or something.

The hair I had when I was 14. I don't know what the hell happened to my hair, but it's a poor imitation of what it used to be. Maybe it's hormonal changes? Did wisdom come at a price? Did I lose that fabulous hank of hair that I used to rock? Or maybe it's because kids make you pull it out and it doesn't come back the same. Either way, my teen aged hair was a thing of beauty. Shiny, straight, and it looked good no matter what I did with it. I don't know if I truly appreciated my hair either. Just like other, selfish teenagers I probably didn't even give my neglected hair a second thought. I just put it in a messy bun or a pony tail and took those follicles for granted. Those silken strands were ignored. I assumed those tresses would always have my back. Well, until a few years ago when I hacked it all off. After years of badly misbehaved bouffants, I'd had enough. Not to mention that it's short enough to foil any hair yanking plans of even the most determined of babies. So while I'd love to have those shiny locks again, I think I might be too spoiled by my 2 minute style time to have to bother with attempting to care about a hair care routine.

The fashion sense I'm hoping will come to me.......anytime now. I didn't grow up in the most fashion friendly environment. My mom tended to like things like leopard prints and shoulder pads, and probably in the same outfit paired with hair extensions and ankle boots. The best dressed I probably managed was in school, under the influence of cooler, better dressed friends. Now though, I can't seem to stop dressing for comfort. Elastic waistbands are your friend! (Hello, muffin top!) Yeah, I want to be a fashion plate, but those yoga pants and tee shirts are calling my name. If only I could get the office dress code changed to pajama pants, I'd be in heaven. Hmm, perhaps I don't really want to be fashionable. Maybe I just want the rest of the world to come to its senses.

And finally, the financial freedom I had when I was 17. Ahh, your first jobs were the best, weren't they? You felt like a real grown up, plus someone paid you actual money in exchange for the type of crap your parents made you do for free. Unless you were lucky enough to have a car, most of that money was just spending money. (If you are sitting there with a tale of responsible saving at 17, then you are surely a better teen than I was. Now zip it.) No real bills, no responsibilities, you could go to the mall and just blow cash on food, arcade games, and stupid crap at Spencers. It's not so fun nowadays. Real world things like mortgage and car payments and school clothes for your kids.....where's my allowance for bubblegum and comic books? It just ain't fair I tell ya.

Thus concludes this freaky franken-experiment. Feel free to visualize your own frankenself and compare it to how obviously awesome my frankenself would be. The bumper sticker on my frankenmobile would read something like: My imaginary Frankenbody could beat up your imaginary Frankenbody.

P.S.
I pretty much LOL'ed all over myself when I typed "Frankenmom" into Google search and this image popped up:

Um, sorry, my Frankenmom self doesn't do work outs if I can help it.

Summer Schedules (A.K.A. Mom's Summer Migraine)

The almost youngest, the eight year old, decided that he didn't really want to do the camp thingy (that they hold half days at the school) this year. His sister is at that awkward age of 14 (technically employable but only 1 out of every 100 potential employers will hire that age group) so the almost youngest became her summer job.

I don't know if all parents are as evil, I mean frugal, as I am, but she gets paid at the "family rate". For all of you who might not know what this is, it's a discounted rate you pay one kid to watch your other kid. The discount is due to the fact that you gave birth to both of them and money doesn't grow on trees dammit. Plus, it's a nice way to break the teenager into good saving and spending habits. (It also doesn't force me to sell one of the older kids in order to afford the price of two kids in daycare.)

So, in my extreme brilliance, I announce to these two former residents of my womb that there will be schedules and that there won't be eight hours of brain draining in front of the boob tube all day, every day. Yes, this was surely a singular, monumentally amazing bit of parenting on my part, right? I would design fabulous and creative bits of exemplary parenting. Amazingly, they even seemed receptive to this idea.

The first day of official summer vacation came and I was prepared. I had creative writing and free time and even art class. The next day I was even more brilliant. I had them create poems (haiku) and let them do "cooking" by making mug cakes in the microwave. The next week continued to go smoothly. There was homemade bingo games and summer goal lists and dancing. My husband asked if he could skip work and do summer schedule time. The kids were having a blast and everything was going along swimmingly. Until two things happened.

First, I realized that I don't really have time to be creative anymore. Between work and laundry and cooking and cleaning, my brain power level falls to about, oh, negative three. There were a few nights I was up til 11:30 just preparing my scheduling gems. I was excited for the fourth of July holiday because I found some cool printable sheets that tied to the holiday theme. Plus the short week meant one less day of scheduling. Still, I figured that a little less sleep and some strenuous Pintrest trolling for ideas was worth making them learn and play and not be bored and boring blobs this summer.

Then the second thing happened. The pod people left and brought back my real children. The ones who bickered with each other and didn't like certain things included in the schedule. So, in another gleefully genius moment, I decide to make a survey for them. I was ecstatic because, not only did I incorporate it into the schedule (less time searching the web for "fun summer activities") but I would be able to take out the one or two things they didn't like. It's a win-win-win, right?

Yeah, the pod people left my real children though, remember?

Of course the older one LOVES the art and reading and the cooking-but-not-really-cooking-because-it's-in-the-microwave-but-it-still-counts-enough-for-her class. The younger one hates the art and the mug cake snacks in the cooking-but-not-really-cooking class and the reading but loves the math and the dancing. Can you guess who didn't like the math and the dancing? Yep, the older one. So now I know that only one half of them is going to be happy during any given activity. Except free time, they seem to like that one for some reason. (Insert parental eye roll to denote sarcasm here.)

Sigh.

Is it September yet?

So, for now I'm trucking through this scheduling idea. Or as I affectionately call it: What alcohol and/or drugs was I under the influence of when I came up with this dumbass plan? I figure I've made it through half of the summer and I might even have my sanity intact. Well, most of it. Surely the last half can't be that hard....right? (Please tell me I'm right.) For now, I've got to print out math facts to torment, I mean teach, my children. If I'm really creative, maybe I can even lure the pod people back.......

And so does the whining.

Dear Son: My Advice for Leaving the Nest

Tonight I’ll be attending the graduation of The Oldest Child. I’m not sure I’m prepared for this momentous occasion. Yeah, sure, I have three boxes of Kleenex and I’m not wearing mascara, but I don’t think I’m emotionally prepared. There’s still so much he has to learn! With that in mind, I present to you:

Dear Son: My Advice for Leaving the Nest

Dearest Son,

It seems like just yesterday that I was a brand new paranoid mom, terrified of scarring you emotionally because you choked the first time I gave you your liquid vitamins. You cried for a minute. I cried for two hours. Yet now the years have passed swiftly and I find myself trying to find the words to prepare you for braving life in the OUTSIDE WORLD. Yes, it’s so scary that it is worthy of all caps. Luckily for you, I’m organized enough that I have compiled this handy, dandy guide for you. I think I’ll call it “My Advice For Leaving The Nest And Leaving Your Mother Stressed And Worried That You Can Function Outside The Bosom Of Her Loving Embrace” (Or MAFLTNALYMSAWTYCFOTBOHLE for short.)

Remember who you represent. This means me. And your father. (Uhh, actually I’m vividly remembering occasions you and your father high fived over fart noises and ball to the groin videos so, just me.) Your actions will reflect on your upbringing. They will reflect the morals and guidelines we’ve (tried) to instill in your character. So don’t be an idiot and make me look bad! Because I do know that we succeeded in making a halfway decent human being out of you and I’d hate to think a bunch of mischievous frat boys undoing all of that hard work. So before you participate in any questionable behavior, ask yourself one thing first: “Would my mom smack me upside the head over this?” If the answer is yes, quickly head back to your dorm room. Commence studying A.S.A.P.

Don’t get TOO much experience. Yeah, I know that college is the time where you will accumulate those stories that will shock me 20 years from now at some family function where you and your cousins try to outdo each other with who had the craziest antics in college. Please keep in mind that jail doesn’t have to be included in this collection of “This one time” anthology you’re building. Also, consider that if these are the experiences that shape you as a person that being a professional convict probably isn’t as exciting as say, a highly respected, productive and functioning member of society (without a criminal record) would be. Also, no matter how old you are, I reserve the right for the aforementioned maternal head smack of shame.

Humor is subjective. Remember how happy I was to have at least one of my children that got my same twisted, dry, satirical sense of humor? Well, kid, I can tell you from experience that we’re in the minority and that most people don’t understand when you’re joking with them. (I don’t know why people want to be so serious all the time but they do. It’s an epidemic.) So unless you’re trying to offend people, it’s best only to pull out the dirty knock, knock jokes once they realize you’re not a FREAK!!!, just a freak. That also goes for Nicolas Cage impersonations, Weird Al Yankovich song lyrics, and punny jokes. Actually, I take that back. Keep the puns. They’re just bad enough to be good.

Remember to crack a book once in a while. Yes, you’re naturally smart and pretty darn amazing, but then again, I’m biased and this is the real world. You should probably put some effort into your classes (You know, actually, study?) and remember that unlike high school, this education isn’t free. And that I’m not above guilting you into doing well in school by reminding you who’s paying for it.

Call your mother. I know it’s not “cool”. If you need to, you can call at 6:30 in the morning before everyone wakes up from their hangovers. You, my precocious child, will obviously be awake and sober because you know how disappointed your mother would be otherwise. (Plus, the fear of the shameful maternal head smacking that could commence at any moment.) Use that time wisely and call me to tell me all the fascinating aspects of college life so that I may live vicariously through you and feel like I’m not old enough to have a college aged kid. Because I’m pretty sure I’m only 19 and not old enough to have a kid as old as I am.

Remember the birds and the bees talk. I’d prefer you remember the “Abstinence is Best” talk, but I’m not hopeful, not delusional. That being said, consider that condoms protect YOU as much as they protect her. I think Madonna said it best when she said, “Don’t be stupid, don’t be silly, put a rubber on that willy.” I want you to get out and meet new people, just not at the STD Clinic. Oops, that’s not PC anymore. I mean, the STI Clinic.

Wear clean underwear. Shower (daily). Brush your teeth. Pick up your clothes. Do your laundry. (Basically, don’t stink. I was trying for tact but I’d rather you don’t smell. Sorry.) All those things that I nag you about now that I won’t be there for while you’re doing your fancy book learning.

 And while I’m in the Mom Nag Mode: Get at least 6 hours of sleep every night. Eat balanced meals. (Cool Ranch Doritos, orange soda, and a cookie do not constitute a balanced meal.) Exercise. Smile. Be polite and respect your elders. Did I miss anything? Oh, yeah, and don’t make me use the “Disapproving Mom Glare of Death”. Just because I’ve been practicing, doesn’t mean I want to use it. (Okay, so I DO want to use it. Just once. To see if it works. But I’ll practice on your siblings. Don’t feel like you need to earn The Look yourself.)

YouTube is not a valid research tool. No, I don’t care what that modern, hip professor said. Go to the library. Find something called a “BOOK”. It’s archaic, I know. Better yet, find something called an “ENCYCLOPEDIA”. It’s like Wikipedia but less digital. Yet still very cool. It has pictures AND words. Okay, you can still use the internet for some sources. Just promise me you won’t forget about the library. It’s like the Swiss army knife of information. Versatile yet functional. Practical yet cool. No, I’m not making this up. Stop snickering. It’s 100% true.

Take at least one class outside your comfort zone. Maybe something practical, like cooking. When you come home on break I’ll let you practice your fledgling skills. No, I’m not just trying to get an entire blissful week off from cooking. Geez.

Remember to feed your soul.  I know, I sound like a true old timer now, not the hip and ultra-modern mother that I usually am, right? Well, sometimes wisdom comes at a very young and still really cool age.  And that wisdom wants me to remind you that it never hurts to hold the door for someone or smile at a fellow student. Appreciate the small things and always look on the bright side. The glass is always full, whether it’s liquid, air, or NON ALCHOLIC BECAUSE YOU’RE STILL UNDERAGE drinks.

And one last thing…….

Remember that your family is proud of you and we love you. On that extremely sappy note, like all the cool kids say, peace out. (What do you mean they don’t say that?)

Love,

Your Mother

Knuckle Sandwiches Aren't Real Sandwiches

Last week an article caught my eye, something along the lines of "You Know You Have a Toddler If He's a Picky Eater". I laughed. Honestly, my first thought was, "Is eight still considered a toddler?" Because that's how old he is and yes, he's still a picky eater.

Sadly, most people assume we just haven't exposed our child to enough foods. Surely if we had, he'd eat things like arugula salad and tilapia, right? Wrong. We expose him to various foods constantly. Against his will even. You'd think we were flaying him alive just trying to get him to try a bite of a new and different food. Sometimes, they aren't even weird foods like crocodile bites (which my oldest was adventurous enough to try the first year we went to Florida) but tame things like a cheeseburger. Gasp! The horror! Now, he will eat ground beef in the form of a meatball, but change the shape and throw it on a grill....nope. Not so much.

And when we know in advance that we're going to make him eat something that he purports not to like, (Sometimes we're less inclined to believe him, like if he has eaten the same thing before without any problems. Just this second though, that's when he realized he hates it and will totally throw up if we make him eat it a second time.) we have to gird our loins. We strap on that thick skin and gather our cliched sayings: "It's good for you", "It'll put hair on your chest", and all the other inane bull crap that parents have thrown at their picky eaters for generations. Because we know this is coming:

Child: But I don't LIKE it.
Parent: You haven't even tried it. It's pork, it tastes like chicken.
Child: But it's NOT chicken. I don't like pork.
Parent: You're not going to get big and strong if you don't eat all your dinner. You want to get big and strong, don't you?
Child: No.
Parent: Listen, there are starving children in Ethiopia who would love to have your dinner.
Child: They can have mine. I don't like pork.
Parent: You're going to eat it, kiddo, and it tastes a lot better warm than cold.

This conversation is usually followed by the following scenario:

Child glares mutinously at parents, hoping they'll cave and let him throw out offensive pork. All four offending bites. Parents don't cave. Child tries soulful, sad look. Still the pork sits on his plate. Child stabs piece of pork violently with fork, lifts to nose, makes most awful, repulsed face he can muster, hoping to soften parents stance. Nothing. Child licks tentatively, again offering horrified face. Nada. Child places pork in mouth, begins to chew, starts gagging. Parents shoot irritated glance and warn child to knock of theatrics. "Just eat it." Child ups ante by making the "I'm almost going to throw up" gagging noise. Another irritated glance from parents. Child sighs and swallows. Asks for ranch dressing to dip remaining three whole pieces of pork in. Parents see this sign of acceptance and resignation and allow dipping sauce. Parents silently high five when child isn't looking.

What other people fail to understand is that having a picky eater is HELL. Seriously. We dread restaurants and cookouts and family dinners because we know that look we're going to get. The one that says, "How could you let your child get to this state of pickiness?" Truly though, it's as torturous for us to have said picky eater as it is to try and figure out what you can feed them that they'll eat. And each suggestion that we have to turn down increases our embarrassment factor. We feel like failures as a parent since one of the basic components of parenting is feeding the kid and obviously, we aren't doing it right. It makes us want to say, "Hey, you should have seen him two years ago! At least now he eats lasagna and tacos!" (Yes, he will eat tacos AND meatballs, but a hamburger is the scourge of the Earth. I don't get it either.)

Another type of irritating eater is a particular eater. My daughter has never shied away from trying new foods. She'll try anything once. She also eats plenty of foods. Except she has to have things a specific and certain way. Oh, yeah, she'll eat a deli meat sandwich. If she has ranch dressing instead of mayonnaise. And toasted bread. And no lettuce. She'll eat a cheeseburger. If the cheese is sharp or colby jack because she doesn't like warm American cheese. We've worked around these culinary eccentricities for years. Between her and the picky eaters, dinner has become the dreaded daily chore. It's a lifetime sentence with no sign of parole for the next 17 years.

So this is a shout out to all my fellow parents who have a picky eater. Hang in there. It gets better. My oldest son was also a picky eater and now eats almost anything. (Except pickles. He draws the line firmly at pickles.) And as far as I know, no child ever died from only eating grilled cheese, chicken nuggets, and watermelon.

Story of my life kid.

Are We There Yet? How About Now?

Now that we've been home a few weeks, I'm almost over the trauma that comes with taking long car trips with kids. Although mine are pretty well behaved all things considered, here are my top 5 reasons why travelling long distances in a car sucks.

5. The Bickering. You know how your kids fight over stupid shit all the time? (And let's face it, it's usually totally trivial crap that gets them wound up.) When you're at home you can leave the room, the house, the state, whatever helps you cope with those pesky tattling arguements your kids are prone to have.

"Mom, he touched my book!" "Nuh-uh, Mom, she's lying!" "I'm not lying, YOU'RE lying and I'm telling Mom. Mom, he's lying!"

Yes, you might love those kids, but when they start their sibling bickering, you want to knock their heads together, three stooges style. In a car, there's no escaping this. For 18 hours. In a row. (Okay, well technically it was 9 and 9 since we split the driving into 2 days. But still.)

4. Lack of Space. Not only have you crammed your family into a sardine can, but all of your luggage too. Plus the dvd players for the kids. And the snacks. And the cooler with the drinks. And the travel pillows, travel blankets, tissues, iPhones, portable game systems, and the navigation system. By the time you fit all the stuff in, you barely have room for the people. Which isn't great considering you're about to spend 20 hours in this space. It basically turns into Twister: Travel edition.

"Left hand, passenger window!"
"Right foot, back of Dad's head. Oops, sorry Mom."

3. Crumbs, Crumbs, Everywhere. When you're taking a long car trip, eating in the car is inevitable. And because I haven't gotten off my ass and invented the travel bubble that will vacuum suck each crumb out of thin air and away from my precious car floors and seats, there's going to be a mess. Probably a smushed teddy graham or a mashed cheez-it or two. (Oh come on, like I pack healthy snacks for travelling? Not likely. And if you want to know why, see reason 1.)

But the irony in this situation? We clean the car before we leave. Yup, I figure if I'm going to spend a day in my car, it's going to be a clean day dammit. By the time we get to our destination, the poor car has more crumbs and juice in it than the kids do and needs another cleaning. Eh, C'est La Vie, right?

2. Everyone Knows Everyone's Business. Yes, it's kind of hard to have sexy talk with the hubster with all those ears in the backseat. Not that we do anything like that, mind you. Nope, boring old spinster spouses, that's what we are. Move along, nothing to see here.

Lack of sexy talk aside, you can't have any private conversations in a car. You might as well just play The Lorax 12 times, because there's not going to be any juicy gossip for another 16 hours, 27 minutes, and 14 seconds.

"Oh, my, God. I forgot to tell you about Janet and the fact that she's cheat......cheering for her kids to do well on exams next month. Yup, that Janet, she's a pip alright."

"Hey, that mole you found on my ti....ticklish tummy, yeah, turns out it was a piece of dark chocolate. I've got to stop scarfing chocolate over my v-neck tee shirts."

And DRUM ROLL please..........

1. Oh The Wonderful Smells You'll Smell. Or not. Because farts don't smell like roses. Yeah, I'm talking to you my 7 year old son. Do you know how we figured out it was you who "dealt it"? Because you started laughing, completely out of the blue. And when asked if it was you, in between those bursts of laughter, you managed to maintain that it wasn't you because your farts smell like roses. Uh, nope, they don't. Today they smell like roadkill and moldy cheese. Or at least what I imagine these things would smell like if they were combined and fell out of your butt in a noxious smell cloud.

But it's not just farts. Nuh uh. Bad breath, body odor, sweat....all these little smells locked into an airtight canister of family funkiness. Ok, so it's not airtight, but still. Roll a window (or 4) down already. Geez kid, what did you eat last? The ass end of a rhino? GOOD LORD, the smell! My eyes are watering. Don't breathe it in! For the love of all that's holy....oh, that's NASTY. It has a TASTE. I think I'm going to be sick.

Ha ha ha,,,get it?

Navigating the Nap Time Minefield

So you're little bundle of joy is exhausted/sick/cranky/all of the above and you are desperate to get him or her to just TAKE A NAP ALREADY!!! Yet there seems to be some sort of direct correlation between how badly you want them to sleep and how hard they fight against the process. Is it some sort of infant radar? Here's the modern mom mayhem Guide To Dealing With The Nap Time Minefield:

Step one: Gather all the child's favorite nap time paraphernalia. This might include such things as a blankie, a binky, a sippy, a stuffy, a wubby, a nubby, or a bubby. Alright, I don't know what some of those are, I just made them up. After gathering all assorted items, track down the baby (I'm hoping you don't have to search that hard as this would be a little worrisome to me) and gather the cute (STINKY) bundle of joy as well.

Step two: De-stinkify the child. Nobody wants to take a nap with a load in their pants. Ok, well actually, from all my research, babies and toddlers don't really seem to mind this that much. Their parents seem more concerned than the kids sitting with the turd in their britches. You'd think this would be the opposite but maybe after you spend months sitting in your own poopie pants it starts to become a non-issue. Even if said bouncing bundle of joy doesn't have a foul stench emanating from the diaper area, you might still want to change the baby's diaper. I can't imagine it's pleasant to have wet areas on my person whilst trying to nap either, but again, this might just be me as I've seen many a saggy bottomed baby playing with gleeful abandon and complete disregard to their droopy diaper.

Step three: Find a place to lay the baby down. (Or lie the baby down, I forget which is socially and English class accepted.) Hand blankie, stuffy, wubby, nubby, or whatever to your beautious offspring. Pop a cork, ah, I mean binky, into that cute little scream maker of theirs. Tip toe quickly, yet quietly, away from baby with the insane belief that they will immediately settle down and take an excellent 90 minute nap where you will be super productive. Have that belief shattered in thirteen seconds when  your precocious baby is sitting/standing/jumping/screaming. Soothe baby with cooing sounds, laying (lying?) them down again, this time making an even hastier retreat from the room.

Step four: Realize that your sweet cuddle bug needs some mommy-baby bonding time. In mommy's big, cozy bed. Transport baby, binkie, blankie, stuffy and all the other crap along with baby. Settle into a cozy, snuggling embrace with the wriggle worm that has become your child. Subject yourself to eye poking, fingers in your mouth, and nasal cavity exploration. Try to re-direct baby to quiet, sleeping time pose. Cover with blanket. Encourage finding thumb, binky, or blankie even though you just told your husband how you were totally weaning the baby off said object.

Step five: After 45 minutes of trying to get the kid to nap, he's fallen asleep on your arm. Carefully dislodge yourself out from under the baby using minute movements spaced in 20 second intervals so as not to wake the sleeping angel. Hold breath the entire time. Noisily expel breath as soon as you manage to successfully disentangle yourself. Hold your breath again as the kid stirs. Turn on baby monitor. Build fort of pillows, blankets, and bricks to keep sweetheart angel face from rolling off the bed. Tiptoe away from bed like it will explode if your footstep lands too heavily on the floor.

Step six: Hover close enough to the bedroom to hear if baby wakes up. Alternate between that and telling people in your house to "Shut UP!" in an angry whisper. Consider tackling neighbor kids who are making too much noise in the yard right outside your bedroom window. How dare they whoop it up? Can't they see they might wake the precious sleeping bundle? Don't they know how badly that precious bundle needed this nap?

Step seven: Waste entire 90 minute nap time worrying that something is going to wake your baby from their well deserved and much needed nap. End up waking baby when the weight of your worry crushes them and they wake up anyway. Realize that the last two hours were not productive in any way, shape, or form. Sigh and realize you're exhausted and could use a nap yourself. Right about the time that bouncing bundle is recharged and ready to wear you out again.

What's The Deal With Those Baby Clothes Anyway?

After four kids, I feel like I’m an expert on baby clothes. That’s completely justified, right? I’ve dressed 3 of them and I’m right in the middle of number 4. After all these kids and their clothes, I have a few observations to support why we should just scrap the whole idea and put them all in sleep sacks and onesies for the first five years.

POCKETS. Why? Is this necessary? Does Junior need a place to keep his wallet? Does Juniorette need a place to carry her lipstick? Nope, it’s all just to make them look like miniature grownups. Which is why we still buy them because come on, how freaking adorable are they in their little denim jeans with real working pockets and everything? But all cuteness aside, those pockets are the epitome of completely unnecessary. And if they’re unnecessary on toddler jeans (I guess conceivably they COULD use pockets), how useless are they on teeny, tiny baby’s jeans. Actually, now that I think if it, why do we even have jeans for 3 month olds? We’re going to torture them enough with vaccinations, bulb syringes (A.K.A. The Booger Sucker!) and cutesy headbands, why can’t we let them have comfortable pants. Or better yet, those one piece jobbies. And speaking of…..

THOSE ONE PIECE JOBBIES. I love these. No, you don’t understand. I loooooooove these. No socks to keep on, no worrying about matching tops and bottoms, just one piece of clothing that covers the naked squirming child. I don’t know why, but there’s just something about the one piece outfits that make me think of words like “cozy” and “comfy” and (in winter) “warm”.  Perhaps it’s just me reflecting my own loathing of pinchy, squinchy pants onto my babies, but I seriously think that we should make one piece outfits acceptable for adults to wear as office attire. Even after they graduate to the footless one piece jobbies, which aren't as good but still bring words like "lazy weekend" to mind, I think these are the penultimate in baby clothing.

LEG SNAPS. Ugh, I have a love/hate relationship with these. I remember, in my naïve youth with baby #1, when I thought these were the best thing since sliced bread. I mean, you can change the kid’s diaper without even taking his pants off. Genius. And it IS great. Until one day when they realize, ‘Hey, what are these cool things? I can move them. A lot. Especially when Mom’s changing a diaper.” And if you get a baby or toddler who is 1000% pure energy and hates diaper changes? It’s already like wrestling with a greased up octopus, let alone trying to add pants that have to snap up. I can’t be sure I wouldn’t say screw it and just let the kid walk around in his unsnapped pants-skirt. Yeah, we’re Scottish. As of when? Five minutes ago. Deal with it.

FEETY JAMMIES (THE ZIP UP KIND). I love these almost as much as one piece outfits. Probably more considering the easy zipper versus leg snap thing. Also, and it seems like I might be forcing my own weird hang ups on my kid, it’s the whole comfort thing. Who hasn’t seen a baby or toddler in those cute, feety pajamas and thought, ‘Aww, I just want to snuggle with that delicious bit of babyness?” Maybe it’s a parent thing (Bedtime = Parental Brain Reload Time) but those kids in their sleepwear are just Too. Damn. Cute. 

ONESIES. These are either awesome or completely sucktastic. Personally, I'm a bit of a onesie-aholic. I love them layered under clothes in the winter and I love them AS clothes in the summer. It keeps that constantly moving bundle of energy contained in one cloth. Until they have a "poop-splosion". Then a onesie is just a kiss of death. "Awww crap, he pooped right up his back! How am I going to get this off without smearing poop all over the kid?" The answer, which I only found out on baby number four, is that onesies have those weird shoulder things in order to roll it down around the kid in instances of poop-toberfest. (Yep, I'm thinking that four kids and 26 poopmanias later, THAT would have been handy information to have from the start.) Honestly though, up or down, that kid's going to need to be plopped in a bath A.S.A.P. anyway. Well, unless you've used 17 wipes and feel they're clean enough for now. I'd probably use 17 wipes and still give him a bath due a little bit of Macbeth Syndrome. (Out, out damn spot!)

SO, basically, all this supports my love of one piece, comfortable clothing. Kind of like the kind they will one day prove socially acceptable for adults. Hey, it could happen. Maybe I'll get a petition going or something....

I've got a case of cuteness overload with this one!

Don't Make A Breastacle of Yourself

Now that the baby has decided to ignore my strict admonishments and grow up anyway, we've come to the first crossroads in parenthood. The one year mark. Even though I'm still not sure where that time went, we now find ourselves stuck in the weaning process. If you've never experienced this, it's when you gradually start the transfer from Mom milk to Moo milk. And it seems to be causing me some mixed emotions. So that brings me to:

Five Reasons I'm Torn About Ending Breastfeeding

1.) I'll finally get my body back. For almost two years now my body has belonged to this alien being. First as a studio apartment for my little embryonic darling, and then as a 24 hour wet bar. So really, it'll be nice to be able to have ME back. It's been so long that I might have to take myself out on a date to rediscover who we are. See if we still have that connection.

2.) On the other hand..... This is the final time that the ladies will have a job other than decorative flesh orbs for my husband to ogle. No matter how many times I've gone through it, I'm still amazed that a woman's body can grow and sustain an actual living person. So to have this be the last time I can perform a miracle and go back to just boring old non-miraculous me, well, it's disheartening to say the least. Now if I want to perform miracles I'm going to have to walk on water or cure cancer with my hands while I chant and let live poisonous snakes slither around my neck. Blech.

3.) And what about the convenience? Yes, I'll be honest, breastfeeding was so much easier for me than bottle feeding. Now I have to wash the bottles, buy the milk,  then heat it to his royal highness' perfect temperature, then repeat the process again in a few hours. Before I just whipped a boob out and popped it in his mouth. Okay, okay, crude yes, but you get the idea. It was always there, always ready and always the perfect temperature. I'll admit, I've been really spoiled.

4.) But let's not forget that this also means NO MORE PUMPING. Oh yeah, I'm pumped. About not pumping. What most people fail to realize is that breastfeeding takes a lot of work. Well, maintenance anyway. If I'm not feeding the baby, I have to express the milk to keep the supply up and to make bottles for the sitter to be able to feed the bambino while mama's working hard to bring home the bacon. If you don't do either of those things, those milk glands start filling up and pretty soon you'll be able to sympathize with your husband the next time he starts complaining about "blue balls".

"I don't want to hear no complainin'! You think that's bad, try having blue boobs! Ten times the size and just as uncomfortable!"

5.) Lastly, this also means that he's already starting the process of leaving. Because face it Mom, that's what growing up is. A bunch of small steps leaving you behind, until they're ready to leave the nest for good. Ultimately, that's what we're preparing them for, right? (If we do a good job, they leave and don't try to move back in after college!) But when it's the last child, and you know that the baby making factory has gone out of business, closed its doors, fired all its employees, and handed out severance packages, it's bittersweet. I'm always wondering if this feeding might be the final one and I won't have appreciated it enough. So to be proactive, I'm overly sensitive and weepy about every feeding now. Just to make sure that I'm not taking any of these last moments for granted. I'll probably end up making a spectacle (breastacle!) of myself, but I can always blame it on global warming. Or terrorists. Or the lack of a Sonic restaurant in our area.

If you read any of this and could relate, well, you've probably been through the nursing and weaning process yourself. If you read it and thought I'm crazy, well, you're probably not too far off the mark. But don't tell my kids, they still think I'm normal. Well, some of them anyway. Ok, ok, the youngest two. ALIGHT....at least the baby.

Resolutions Shmesolutions

We are now solidly through half of January and you know what that means right? 80 percent of resolutions have already been blown to bits. And do you know why? Because people make them too grandiose. You need to start small, build your confidence. Only then can you move onto bigger and better resolutions. It’s for that reason I present you with my “2015 List of New Year’s Resolutions That Are Completely Doable Because I Didn’t Get Too Big For My Britches And Kept Them Small” list:

1. Breathe. Ta-da! Accomplished. See that? I’ve just boosted not only my confidence in myself and my goal attainment abilities, but I’m also alive. So maybe next year I can add something special and fancy to this one. Like: Breathe underwater while scuba diving in the Caribbean after winning a ridiculously large pot of money in the lottery.

2. Wake up every day. Ok, so I’ve already accomplished this a bunch of times (Thank you God) but it’s still ongoing because I made it open ended. And even though every day is pretty much forever (Please God), I can still consider this one fait accompli so long as I wake up every day. So, one small step for momkind, one giant leap for, uh, me? Yeah, that sounds good.

3. Eat better. See how I avoided that evil four letter D word? I deleted it from my vocabulary so that no longer will I utter the word diet. Oh crap. Ok, NOW it’s deleted. The beauty of this phrasing is that as long as I add one healthy piece of something every day, I can technically be adhering to the letter of the law. Well, resolution. So maybe I ate 4 pieces of pizza and half of a chocolate cake…..I ate a piece of broccoli and a celery stick so I’m even. Actually, since celery is a negative calorie food and I had to burn calories just to nosh on it, I’m pretty sure it completely cancelled out that half of a cake. Maybe I should eat the other half to make up for it.

4. Learn all the latest politically correct terms. I know I can’t say retarded anymore, even if I truly believe that someone’s brain must be lacking any sign of intelligent life, but there are countless other things that I’m not allowed to say now. Things like dumbass, moron, or bimbo brain. I have to replace them with such phrases like: assically handicapped (dumbass), brain cell challenged (moron) and peroxide induced cranial trauma (bimbo brain). These are the types of phraseology I need to learn lest the language police show up at my door. (Ok, they’ll probably still show up at my door even if I do learn the correct terminology, but at least this way it will look like I’m attempting to reform my wicked mouthy ways.)

5. Learn to be more tolerant of the assically handicapped. Some people just need to be treated like a slow two year old with a learning disability. I say this because there’s no way I’d be mad at a 2 year old learning disabled child, but give me some moron (ahem, I mean brain cell challenged) asshat (Oops, I don’t know the PC term for that one!) who can’t seem to figure out what the pointy stick on the side of their steering wheel is for (Spoiler alert! It’s to indicate your vehicle is turning!) and it’s angerpalooza. So my theory is if I picture all these ridiculously intellectually stunted apes as innocent children, I might be less inclined to want to swear at them. Maybe.

6. I won’t strangle my teenagers. I won't strangle my teenagers. I won't strangle my teenagers. I won't strangle my teenagers. I might strangle my teenagers. I mean, I won't strangle my teenagers.

7. Don't leave the house naked. Listen, I'm really doing everyone a favor with this one. Until they learn how to airbrush what the public sees on a three dimensional person, well, layer, layer, layer.

There you have it folks, my totally doable....aw, crap. I already screwed up number 5. Well, there's always next year, right?

Calvin and Hobbes totally get me.