Braving the Bath Tub Boo Hoos

Recently the youngest has begun to have an aversion to bath time. I don’t mean just a small aversion either. It’s full-fledged, knock down, leg kicking, screaming bloody murder. Decibel level 10, ear piercing, CPS-is-surely-coming-a-knockin’-because-it-sounds-like-I'm-beating-him type of screaming. I can say, “It’s time for a bath” and the reaction I get is akin to if I said, “It’s time to peel your fingernails off.”

Now because he has previously enjoyed bath time, I have to wonder what’s prompted this drastic change. Of course my first thought turns to some sort of traumatic experience. Immediately I’m suspicious….did the children play bathtub baptismal when I wasn’t looking? Did he almost drown in a freak bath time related accident. (And here on my elbow, I got this scar from the Great Tubby War of ’16.) No, I’m pretty sure I would remember that one since I am the giver of the baths. Did he drink a glass of water too fast and think he was going to drown and the resulting trauma spread to any water that comes in close proximity to his body? Did he watch some PBS documentary that extolled the virtues of not washing your hair every day and now he’s on an “au naturale” kick? I’m flummoxed. Give me a hint here kid. I know you’ve just started speaking in complete sentences and usually they are along the lines of “I want the red bowl”, but tell me some deeply insightful information about your sudden 180 on the bathing process.

My very active and fertile imagination provides me with a variety of unlikely scenarios. What it doesn’t provide, is an explanation or some therapy sessions to calm the irate kid down.

My best guess is that he’s two, he’s decided baths are evil, and he’s sticking to his story. What this means is that he turns into a flailing, angry octopus every other night. (See? I’m not even trying to bathe him every single night, just every other. And he doesn’t even appreciate it.) I have to get everything ready before I even start the water running because if he even has a hint of what’s coming, he’s running around the house like a maniac, crying and blubbering about not wanting a bath. Once that’s done, I have to strong arm him into the bathroom, shut and lock the door, and try to wrestle him out of his clothes. If you ever want to feel like a creeper, this is the way to go about it. “Hey kid, let’s lock ourselves in the bathroom while I try to peel your clothes off your tantruming little body in the hopes that you’ll calm down and realize that taking a bath is FUN again!”

This is the kid I want for bath time. Uh, minus the flooding.

Side note: Do you know how hard it is to do ANYTHING with a mad, 30 pound toddler? It’s like they’re Hercules. They have some mad strength. I’m hoping this phase ends soon because I now lack the physical stamina needed to give my not-even-3 year old a bath. How sad is that. I'm out stamina'ed by a tiny human who's existed on this planet for a mere 2 3/4 years.

So once I wrangle the naked toddler into the tub, I have to play the “No, you can’t climb out and drip all over the bathroom floor” game. It’s REALLY easy, by the way, to keep them in the tub when they’re slippery and soapy and pissed off. On the upside, I have the hair wash/body wash system down to like 3.5 minutes total. After all of that is done, you’d think he’d immediately jump out of the heinous and offensive tub, bitterly complaining about the parental injustice I have forced upon him by making him be clean. Instead, he sniffles a few times and says, “Want my toys.” Seriously kid? 

So until this phase passes, or until he gets in touch with his inner therapist and tells me what the root of the problem is, bath time will continue to be a tortuous struggle. (For both of us.) Until then, it's time for me to get my riot gear on. It's bath night.

Not Even A Little Politically Correct

Well America, we made it. We survived the chaotic campaigning, the mud slinging and the name calling. We found a way to make it through the cringe worthy debates and navigated the landmines of heated political conversations that cropped up everywhere. As soon as election day arrived, Americans breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Until the results came in.

As soon as everyone found out that the President Elect was Donald Trump, the world freaked out. No, that isn't right. They FREAKED. OUT. This of course resulted in riots and protests and flag burning. No, you heard that right. FLAG. BURNING.

This year's election in a nutshell.

It took me a week to calm down enough to be able to write about this and have any sense of humor about it. When your country reacts to bad news (or their perception of bad news at least) by throwing a tantrum like a spoiled 4 year old who was denied their favorite candy bar, it's hard not to feel ashamed and embarrassed. Because that's exactly what their behavior exemplifies. Let's call a spade a spade people.

So, right now, I'd like to address just those extremists who had the bright idea of burning flags and protesting Trump's election.

Dear Dumb Asses,

Let's make one thing very clear, 'kay punkin? It is NEVER okay to burn the American flag in protest. Yes, I understand that you are exercising your "constitutional rights" or whatever bull crap you're hiding behind in order to pretend you're a big person with big ideas. But burning that flag because you're upset that your candidate didn't win the presidential election is pretty damned stupid. You are basically saying, "Yes, I realize that the democratic system is 100% functional and that we really DO have a voice, but I am protesting it by burning the symbol of this country and it's entire democratic system. Also, everyone who didn't vote for Hillary is wrong and that gives me the right to riot in the streets." Does that sound idiotic to you? It should.

What's really ironic is that you're protesting Trump's elected status because of some idea that you have that he's a crass redneck not capable of running this country. Yet your reactions are just as crass and behaving in that manner is stooping to the level you perceive him to be operating on. So, congrats! You've learned the definition of two new words today: irony and hypocrite.

Sincerely,
A Disgusted Mom, Woman, and Registered Voter

What I am trying to understand is what the purpose of the whole thing was. Did people think that if they desecrated enough American flags or looted enough stores that someone was going to say, "Okay, you win, Trump WON'T be President now." Because that's not how this works. It's not how any of this works. So we are back to the tantrum analogy. A bunch of grown ass human beings threw a tantrum, knowing it wasn't going to change anything, just because "they could". The same constitutional rights that allow the democratic system to give a voice to the people protects their right to be utter morons. Fan-freaking-tastic.

To be frank, neither one of the candidates were great. They both have multiple issues and things that would have made us cross our fingers behind our back, close our eyes, and whisper to ourselves, "Please don't screw up this country."  Many of us voted not on who we wanted but on who we perceived to be the lesser of two evils. That's just the way this election went. But regardless of the outcome, in this or any election, we have to accept that this is who will be running our great nation for the next four years. We don't have to like it, but dammit we can sure be civilized people and act like adults about it.

And for any of you who disagree with me, I just want to say one thing:

 

Crappy Parenting

We all know that parenting is a thankless, full time, hard ass job that doesn’t come with instructions, rules, or paid time off. (Ok, well, it DOES come with one rule: Keep them breathing. But I kinda feel if you need that spelled out for you, maybe you should re-think the whole procreation thing.) We also know that it’s one of the most rewarding, satisfying, and awesome jobs in the world. Or so they keep telling us. Maybe that kicks in when they’re grown and starting to procreate themselves, giving us those sweet little grand kids that make up for us not killing them as teenagers.

But I digress. (As I usually do.)

Even as tough as parenting is, we wouldn’t trade it for anything. But……there ARE those moments. The ones where you begin to question if having kids was your brightest decision. (Until you remember that sweet bundle there was a “surprise” and it wasn’t an actual decision so much as too much mattress mambo one night.) Any parent who tells you that they haven’t had at least 1 of these moments is lying. They happen. The frequency multiples with each successive child, so if you’re high strung, panicky, or squeamish, you might want to stop at one, two max.

Mostly, kids are just being kids and they don’t even realize that they’re giving you gray hair. Like the time my 5 year old was teaching his 2 year old sister how to climb onto the end stand to the back of the couch so that they could roll down it onto the floor. Miraculously there were no concussions or broken bones. Maybe it’s the time your third child found the tub of Vaseline that you kept because he tended to get diaper rashes and smeared it along the back of his bedroom door and door knob. Or the shampoo he poured on his rug. (Do you know how hard it is to clean shampoo out of a rug? It just froths and bubbles and froths some more….not cool dude, not cool.)

After four kids, I have a veritable list of these moments, probably as long as my arm. Apparently though, that doesn’t mean that I can’t still be surprised from time to time. That fourth (AND FINAL!!) child wants to make sure that I’m not just going through the parenting motions with him; he wants to make sure I’m still kept on my toes. He wants to make sure he’s DEFINITELY the last child every to spring forth from my loins.

And he’s found a way to do just that.

A few weeks ago I was trying to sit down and call our internet provider who decided to deactivate our email addresses when we transferred service to the new house (Because now I have to change virtual addresses too? WTH?). I was dreading the call, the kids were not in a “let’s let mommy have five uninterrupted minutes” kind of mood, and I had just gotten on the line with THE GUY. From the other room I hear the youngest (who is 2) call to me: “Mommy, tum here!”

I cover the mouth piece of the phone. “YOU come here.”

So he does. He waddles in holding his hands up like a hostage in a stick up, covered in…..is that? Nooo, it can’t be. I grab his hand by the (clean) wrist and gingerly bring it to my nose. “Oh. My. God. What did you do?” I asked the two year old attached to the clearly shit covered hands. I grab him by the waist and sprint upstairs with the phone tucked under my ear, trying not to let the internet guy know the dilemma I’m now facing. Should I explain to him that I need to call back? No, I’ll get the 15 year old to run a bath, we’re almost done fixing the email, I can do this.

Have you heard of Murphy’s Law? Yeah, so of course nothing went simply. The daughter was not interested in a poop covered brother no matter how cute he normally is, the email system wouldn’t respond so I could fix it quickly and get THE GUY of the phone, and I made multiple dashes between the bathroom upstairs and the computer downstairs. I get the boy in the tub and spend the entire time trying to condition him: “When you poop, what do you say? You say, mommy, change my diaper. Your poop is NOT a toy.” Repeat this every 30 seconds for the duration of the bath.

Now, none of my other kids ever made me clean up their poop covered hands….the ones that are only covered in their own excrement because they thought, “Hey, wouldn’t THIS make a good toy? Let’s find out!” No, that was solely the fourth child. He wanted to be different. Mission accomplished.

So, long (and very nasty) story short…..I fixed the email AND washed his royal crappiness. Who says parenthood is boring? (It wasn't me. I would NEVER say that. I would knock on wood if I ever uttered those words. Plus get out the garlic and the crosses and the 4 leaf clovers. You can never be too safe.)

And Poof! I Turned Into An Old Lady

I'm not one of those people who fret about getting older. The way I see it, age is a state of mind, so I'm only 22, 23 tops. I'm not going to be "old" for a long time. (Especially if I continue this state of mind business. I was 19 for 8 years!)

Apparently I'm cashing in my Old Broad chip sooner than I thought.

This week I opened my mouth and an eighty year old woman fell out. It was scary. Especially since I don't know what the hell happened. It literally changed overnight. I don’t know the exact process. Was there some sort of youth exchange program that I wasn’t aware of? Because I don’t even remember filling out the application to be a sponsor for this program  and I don't think I donated my body to science. Maybe I fell into the Twilight Zone?

Maybe you think that I am over exaggerating. (And frankly, I am hurt. Would I EVER exaggerate anything? I’m not that kind of girl…oh, who am I kidding? Of course I am.) This time though, I’m serious. It’s not even an isolated incident that is making me feel like this has come to pass, but rather a series of events. A very unfortunate series of events sadly.

It all started the other day. In an effort to feel health conscious (A.K.A. like I give a crap about exercising), I walk with co-workers during our fifteen minute breaks. It's good for the circulation and the whole "don't strangle your office mates" policy that most companies have in place. But I digress.

So, we are walking and this car comes whipping around the corner on a road that has a 15 mile per hour speed limit. I hold my hand up, and in my best old lady impression, I yell at the driver to "Slow Down!". 

Oh. My. God. I just turned into my grandmother. I'm not even old enough to qualify for this club. I'm only 37. I haven't even hot the big four-oh yet. Well, it's been a chaotic week. Maybe it was just an oversight. A slight tremor in the fabric of the space time continuum. Yeah, that's it.

Except that's not it. It gets worse.

So I'm doing these online college classes in a whole effort to find new things to hold over my kid's heads. ("I went to college online, working 40 hours a week, while raising 4 kids and I did it barefoot, in the snow, uphill both ways!") One of the components of online classes is discussion posts, designed to be the equivalent of verbal interaction between classmates. And I found my inner old lady again. This time she has disguised herself as an English teacher from 1955.

Now, I know that kids have grown up in this technological age and that texting is a huge part of their lives, but the written word still EXISTS, right? I mean, we haven't gone backwards in time to the caveman era where grunting was an acceptable form of communication, I'm fairly sure. (Although occasionally my husband makes me wonder.) Written expression is still relevant kids. Punctuation, spelling, grammar....these are all still integral parts of communicating. Especially spelling. We live in an age where spell check is an actual available tool and still I'm seeing a lot of "Your a good person" and "There shirt is purple". It's down right cringe-worthy. Now if you misspell obsequious, I might cut you some slack, but you should have mastered you're and their by middle school at least.

Now that I think about it, the signs that I was channeling my inner crotchety old lady have been there for longer than just this year. Like the time I thought it was appalling that they had the word hell in a song 25 times and it was played on the regular radio that my kids could be listening to right now! (Gasp!) Or any time that I've started a sentence with "You know what's wrong with kids these days?" (Spoiler alert: It's a sense of entitlement and not being spanked anymore.) 

I guess I'll just have to embrace it. After all, back in my day, women didn't worry so much about things like this. They just strapped their babies on their back and continued making meatloaf while simultaneously vacuuming and ironing their aprons. And this was barefoot and pregnant and in the days when women weren't given the right..........

What? No memes either?

Grouse About That Mouse in My House

We have a mouse in the house. It happens every so often and every time it does, it makes me feel dirty. I have a strong compulsion to scrub the kitchen down with a combination of bleach and holy water. Be gone thy demon rodent from thine house! (Insert holy Latin mumbo jumbo here.)

I know that it shouldn’t bother me. I’ve heard stories from other people who’ve had a mouse, caught it, and moved on with their lives. Can you imagine? Just went about their normal daily lives without any sort of therapy or alcoholic absolution. This is mind boggling. Personally, I think I might need severe chocolate therapy followed by copious amounts of binge watching Netflix. Perhaps I would have the chance to go on with my life after catching this mouse if it wasn’t the animal equivalent of a ninja.

I’m not even kidding.

No matter where I seem to place the trap, it manages to dance around it and escape unscathed. After a week of trying to catch the savviest mouse I’ve ever encountered, the trap broke. So I ask my husband to get some more. I ask for 73. I tell him that I want them strategically placed around the entire kitchen. I want the kitchen to look the Mexican standoff in the movie “The Three Amigos”. He returns from the store with two. TWO!?!? Listen dear, I don’t think you truly understand the gravity of the situation. There’s a mouse in the house. He needs to NOT be in the house. He needs to not be on this planet. When it comes to spiders, bugs, and mice in my house, I turn into Al Pacino in any mafia movie.

“I want him dead. I want his family dead. I want his friends dead. I want his existence erased from the records of history. I want his house burned down, razed, and converted into luxury condos.” (Unless his house is my house, then it’s fine, but the mouse still needs cement shoes.) I say all this while sitting in some little Italian dive restaurant, bib over my girth, twirling spaghetti onto a fork with two goons on either side of me. I’ll call them Sal and Big Tommy. “Find him and bring his head to me on a platter!” (I just had a picture in my head of a huge silver platter and in the middle this tiny little mouse head.)

So my husband reads the directions and tells me that we only need a pea sized dab of peanut butter on the trap. I think he (pointedly) tells me this as he has seen the quarter sized blob I usually slap on there. “Sure, whatever, just catch the ba*tard.” I reply.

We go to bed that night and I am buoyed by the thought of dead mouse, finally! (It’s much easier to be happy about this when your wonderful spouse leaves for work before you do and can do mouse removal without you having to view the evidence. I want him dead but I don’t want to get my hands dirty, just like all good mafia bosses.)

I shower, dress, and go to the kitchen, ready to have a jubilant day now that I have Godfathered the little pest issue. I check the traps and see no mouse (thank goodness) and also, no sign of the peanut butter. Hmmm. Well, maybe the hubs took care of it Big Tommy style.

So I send him a quick message. “The peanut butter was gone from both traps. Either we caught something and you took care of it or it's a wily f**ker!”

He didn’t take care of it.

So needless to say, I’m now convinced that the Tom & Jerry cartoons were not fictional and that the great-great-grandson of the original mouse is now hanging out in our humble abode. If he’s out there, I want him to hear what I have to say:

Listen up, punk, mi casa is definitely not su casa! Drag it. Vamoose. Scoot. Or I’m going to have to call in Big Tommy and the hired guns.

Now all youse others get outta here and fuhgeddaboutit.

I think ours might be less animated but related none the less.

Pooh Pooh To The Potty Party

Well, it’s happened. My baby has grown into a toddler. I think it’s “official” when they hit the 2’s, even though the word toddle describes their first Franken-steps perfectly. The only problem is what follows, that dreaded next phase: Potty Training.

Yeah, I know, most people are thrilled to reach this milestone. The milestone that makes their child into an actual little people-ish person instead of a baby. The milestone that marks the end of buying those expensive poop holders.  An exciting milestone that marks the growth of your precious little darling.

These people are clearly imbeciles and never leave their houses.

If these people ever DID leave their houses, they would understand my extreme reluctance to move into the toilet training stage. They would know that diapering is just so much easier and that at this stage in my life, I love easier. Easier is my best friend. I would marry easier if it didn’t mean an expensive, messy divorce from the love of my life. I will gladly pay the money for those butt covers just to know that I’m not spending extra time and money cleaning clothes that have had messes, car seats that have seen accidents and bedding that didn’t survive nap time unscathed. Heiny hiders mean I don’t have to invest in bleach by the gallon for those Clorox commercial type of moments. (And for those of you who don’t know me, yes, I DO need to have bleach-clean bathrooms. It’s not the slightest, teensiest bit optional.)

Even if I was okay with adding an exorbitant task list of laundry and cleaning, it’s the time investment that also kills you. When you’re potty training, you have to ask your kid every 4 minutes if they have to go to the bathroom. Of course they’re going to say no, those contrary creatures, which means every tenth time you ask you have to plop their uncooperative butt on that plastic, portable potty seat and give them 73 books to try and convince them to go to the bathroom “on the pot”. After 30 minutes, you’ll put them back into their “big boy underwear” (so named to try and get them to muster up the required enthusiasm to potty train because even they know diapers are easier) only to have them have an accident five minutes later.

Sigh.

Yeah, I know, it sounds like I have a little bit of potty training PTSD. The traumatic experiences of the children that have come before have caused a feeling of terror at the thought of ditching the diapies. It’s not even all my children that have traumatized me, just the boys. I barely even remember the process with my daughter. I’m pretty sure she trained in like 5 minutes. Or so it feels in comparison to my sons who were completely ok with not being a big boy if it meant they could keep their diapers. I was so discouraged with the first child that I was convinced I’d have the only kindergartener with training pants in the tri-county area. But then the daughter came next and was so easy-peasy that I was convinced the first kid was just a pain in the ass. (Which frankly, most kids are. It’s in their job descriptions.)

Until number 3 had the same issues and made me have horrible flashbacks of number 1 not going number 2. Shudder. Although there was a lot less panic with him (kid #3 after all), it still left some fresh wounds.

So you can see why the thought of going through it again is less than appealing.

I will say, however, that as a fourth time mom, I’m more relaxed about the process. No, it’s not the Prozac and wine I’m guzzling to get me through these dark times. It’s the knowledge that I’ve never actually heard of a kid who wasn’t completely housebroken by the time they started school. Sure, it’s probably happened. But I haven’t heard about it so that makes everything peachy keen in my rosy little corner of the world. (Don’t try to disabuse me of this notion. Prozac only gets a chick so far.)

So it’s coming. Like a terrible Sy Fy sequel  that you can’t believe anyone actually wants, (Hello Sharknado!) it’ll be here before you know it. Until then, I’m just going to bury my head in the sand, snuggle with my not-a-big-boy-yet, and buy another box of Pampers.

Take This House And Shove It

So we started the process of preparing our house to put on the market. Four years ago. Ok, ok, admittedly, there were some pleasant surprises (Like new babies. Well, one. One baby.) and some not so pleasant surprises as well (Hello leak under the concrete slab!) that made it so much more drawn out than we wanted it to be. I'm sure we might have been able to pare down this length of time to like three years and eleven months, but we slacked for that one month two and a half years ago, so there's that.

So we are going through these steps of making this house so fantastic that we're going to ask ourselves, "Why are we selling again?" and basically it sucks. Not the house, the rehabbing of the house. The painting, the nailing, the cleaning, the painting, the fixing, the moving, the painting...... I swear to God above if I never see another paintbrush again I'll be happy. But we do it. And we manage to not kill each other in the process, double bonus!

Then the moment we've been waiting for: The house goes on the market.

And now another hell begins. It's called "Keep your house clean at all times because someone is going to want to see your house and your dirty socks on the floor might make them tell you to take this house and shove it". Or preparing for showings for short. Now, I'm not a messy, sloppy person. Unfortunately, I have three other people that live with me that kind of, well, are. Granted, some of them short people are two and can't eat a bowl of cereal without a catastrophe, let alone leave a clean floor behind. I'm thinking that this could be some sort of exotic torture. Just lock someone in a house and tell them to keep it clean and then drop in unexpectedly for inspections. Oh, and give them a puppy, a parakeet, and the biggest potted plant you can find.

Within three days, the house was under contract. No, I'm not even kidding. Four years of cleaning, fixing, stressing, bleeding money and then bam! It's all over in a New York minute. (I'm going to admit right here that I don't know exactly how long a New York minute is, but I really wanted to use the saying.) Wait, this means I can stop cleaning every square inch of my home at all times? Ok, I'm sold. (Ha! Pun intended.)

Once you find people who want to inhabit your house, and if you're lucky to have the new house also under contract, there are 83,000 pages of papers to sign and at least 473 checks to write. Nope, I'm not even exaggerating, (by much more than 95%) I promise. You get to pay persons who are way more qualified than you are to come and critique your house. Yeah, yeah, inspect it. Same difference. They're basically judging you and your inferior housing updates. No, I'm kidding, they don't give a crap! And you don't either if it means you can sell your house! But you do care about the inspection on your potential new house. Where you learn every single small project your husband will have for the next year. (Or two years if he tells you he's taking a mandatory one year project free hiatus.)

So you make it through all 89,765 pages of both contracts. You robbed the national bank to finance the septic flow tests and the inspections and the myriad other things involved. Now what?

Breathe. Have one last party. Shed a tear for leaving this wonderful neighborhood that you've lived in and loved for the last decade. But most importantly, step away from those paint samples.

Step away from the swatches and no one will get hurt!

Channeling My Inner FaceBook Stalking Pinterest Addict

Sometimes I think my job is getting in the way of my life. Ok, well, mostly I KNOW this, but there are times when it seems clearer to me. (Like when I wake up first thing in the morning and everything is blurry because I took my contacts out, but then I put my glasses on and I can see again and I’m struck by how clearly I can see things just by wearing this piece of plastic and glass…..yeah, like that but not really.)

One of those crystal clear times is when I Pinterest. Is that a verb now? I’m very Pinteresting. (See what I did there?) And usually I’m there by accident. Not even the slightest bit on purpose. It’s all the damn phone’s fault. Or maybe Pinterest is the reason. Whatever. I see that little red 1 next to the app which tells me that something stupid happened, something like “Aunt Ethel liked your Pin” or cousin “Allison created a board called Puppets”. I don’t care about the pins and the boards, it’s the stupid red number one that needs to go the hell away. So I click on the app.

Boom. It happens.

They’ve tailored that front page based on things you’ve looked at and pins you’ve pinned. How do you not get sucked into that? Before you know it, you’ve wasted an hour. An hour and a half. Half a day. You’re pinning things to boards like “Desserts” and “New Recipes” and “DIY Crafts” but let’s be honest, it’s never going to happen. To my way of seeing it, there are three types of Pinterest people. The first group is full of those overachieving, must-make-every-aspect-of-my-life-perfect kind of people. (You know, where 99% of the pins come from in the first place.) These people actually DO make the foods and craft the crafts. It always comes out perfectly. Oh, and they probably crap roses and bleed rainbows too. The second group is your marginally talented and/or motivated group. They’re the ones who go on specifically for ideas on something and will probably pull it off fairly well. It might not be Martha Stewart quality, but it’s also not Honey Boo Boo-esque either. Your last group is well meaning dreamers. They like the idea of baking the baked goods and crafting the crafts, but the closest they’re probably coming to completion is finalizing the name of the board they pinned it too. They mean well, but let’s face it, they aren’t going to do anything with the information. This isn’t to say that they never will, but it’s probably around 97.8% of the time.

I seem to fall somewhere in between the second and third categories. I have gone hunting for specific ideas (mostly party planning or recipes) but more often than not, I fall into the time vortex that comes along with the Pinterest app. The saddest thing is, I KNOW I’m probably not doing anything with these ideas. Sure, I have a whole section of re-purposed furniture. Sure, theoretically I have the opportunity to make this crap. If I had time and money and spare furniture laying around. But they know I’ve succumbed to the lure of re-purposing. They know they can throw a headboard bench on that first page and it’s going to stop me in my tracks. They are clever like that. Which is often what makes me think, ‘I would have time for this stuff…..if only I didn’t have to work. Stupid job.”

Another place I find this to be true is FaceBook. Ah, the good old capital F capital B. Putting out videos of tasty treats and heartwarming dog videos for unsuspecting moms like me. And I get there the same way, too. That damn red number next to the app. Usually telling me someone commented on my post or liked my picture or any of a thousand asinine reasons they decide I need a notification. (I know, I know, I shouldn’t let them bother me so much and I’d probably gain back a few months of time.) I find that I watch more cute babies, funny pets, and cooking demos now that FaceBook has started the automatic video thing. I’m just scrolling my way down and then BAM! Instant video. So they catch me with some line like “Doctors said Amanda would never walk” and a picture of a sad little girl in a hospital bed and before I know it, I’m crying and snotting all over myself and I’ve lost another seven minutes of my life.

Or worse, I’m sabotaging my diet by watching people make “easy” or “quick” recipes and by the time they get to the finished product, I’m starving. I wasn’t thinking about food before, but now it’s all I can think about. Now I want Copycat Olive Garden Alfredo and chocolate peppermint squares! Ohmygod I’m going to get the stuff at the store tomorrow and totally make them!!! 

No, I’m not. 

I’m going to realize that I don’t have time, energy, or motivation to make new foods and that even if I did, my kids are going to pitch a fit, ask what’s in it 3,000 times and then probably refuse to eat it. I’m going to stick to making the same old meals and desserts that I know they will eat because it makes me happy and that I don’t have to be awake to cook because I’ve done it so many times I can do it on auto pilot. But for a few minutes, I begin to think there is an end to my perpetual food rut.

Which is when I think, “Well, if I didn’t have to work, I’d have plenty of time to try new recipes.”

I think I'll go buy a lottery ticket.

It's A Mom Life For Me

Have you seen the boy mom shirts? I’m not sure why I’ve only seen them say boy mom and not girl mom. Maybe because other boy moms need the solidarity? Or because girl moms don’t need shirts to be recognized? (Hint: They’re the ones with desperation in their eyes and glitter in their hair.) The term is slightly confusing too. Are you a boy mom if you ONLY have sons? Or is it if you have any boy children at all, because let’s face it, all children are vaguely scarring in their own right?

 Do you need to advertise your kids when they aren't with you?

Recently I’ve thought about what it takes to be a boy mom. Again, I’m not sure if I qualify because only ¾ of my offspring have the correct parts. I think, however, that the 3 to 1 ratio makes me an acceptable boy mom. My guns versus glitter quota has been fulfilled. Anyone who only has one gender of children might not understand the differences in being a boy mom or a girl mom, but they ARE quite a few distinct differences. Here are my top 5:

Scents. Unlike girls who enjoy things like scented lotions, perfumes, and using soap, boys come in three flavors: Sweaty, Gym Locker, and I Just Farted. Ok, well, mine do at least. And they only come in one variety (I Just Farted) until puberty hits. (Some boy parents might be unlucky to get a fourth choice: Skunk Foot.) Have you ever noticed that the female sense of smell is so much more developed? It’s because even guys can’t stand the smell of themselves. This is why they need mothers, girlfriends, sisters, wives and other present females in their lives. They are the 12 step program to rehabilitate those stinkers.

Bodily functions. Farts. Toots. Passing Gas. Whatever you call it, all 4 of my guys (husband included) think they are hilarious. Burps are second on that list. Any gaseous ability is chuckle worthy. Girls come from the womb holding in all of these functions. (I’m generalizing. But 99.9% of females I personally know fall into this category.) We would probably explode before passing gas in public. In fact, my 9 year old will tell everyone that his mom doesn’t fart. That’s right son, it never happens. (That you know of.) It's a widely known fact that mothers are immune to the fart virus. Let's keep it that way.

Sensitivity training needed. It’s like letting bulls run loose in a china shop. There’s no gentleness in my boys. The youngest is the worst. He’s like a mini Hercules; he just doesn’t know his own strength. (Does anyone else play the Eddy Murphy Nutty Professor skit in their head when they hear someone say Hercules? No? Okay then.) I’ve resigned myself to not having anything nice while my boys are still living with me. This is true for all kids, but boys seem to amp up that destruction level by about 1,000 percent.

Gross with a capital G. As if the bodily function obsession wasn't enough, there are also bugs, snakes, boogers, dirt/mud, snot (Yes, it's different than boogers.), ear wax, and blood. If it's nasty, boys are in it hip deep. The grosser the better. Now this isn't universal. I know boys who are just as icked out by bugs or blood as I am. Unfortunately , I didn't seem to give birth to them. Mine are more the type to have peeing contests like the boys in the Clorox commercial. (If you don't know which commercial I'm talking about: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_g7s2oBzCw)

NO FEAR. This is my least favorite. I'm not sure if it's all boys, or if I lost the luck lottery, but they don't seem to understand that there are some things they should be afraid of. Like sticks in the eye, long drops, and losing multiple layers of skin when your brother drags you around the lawn on the wagon handle. That last child is either Evil Kneivel reincarnated (Wait, he is dead right?) or trying to be the world's youngest dare devil. He has two speeds: run and sprint. In six days he's managed to run in the hallway and fall into a door jamb (chin scrape), fall and face plant on a heater at daycare (purple mark from eyebrow to his now fat lip), and somehow managed to scrape his forehead between his eyebrows. The kid needs a freaking helmet. If CPS knocks on my door tomorrow he's going to look like an extra from "Mommie Dearest". Of course, if I let them watch him walk for five minutes, they'll see his problem. Toddler top heavy? Clutzy two left feet? Regardless, I'm buying stock in Band-aids.

Being a boy mom pretty much takes fortitude, courage, strength, and air freshener. Lots and lot of air freshener. You also might want to take up knitting. Or maybe whittling. Some hobby that has been scientifically proven to decrease stress due to child rearing.  Like drinking. Or Prozac.

Going Through The (Slow) Motions

Well, we've almost made it parents. We're in the final stretch. The last few weeks of school. (Well, those of you who live on the East coast with me. Some of you are already living the summer dream. You can sit out this first paragraph.) Somehow, these last few weeks manage to feel both long and short at the same time. It's called the "End of the School Year Paradigm Shift". Ok, it's not, I just wanted to make it sound cooler. Mostly we just call it June or for short: The Hellishly Long Month of Field Trips and Movie Days.

When the school year starts, I'm always raring to go. I've had months of time with them driving me nuts, I mean, making memories, and I'm ready for them to get back to the routine. I'm organized, prepared, and focused. This lasts through the fall and even into the winter, though each passing month seems to subtract a little bit of focus and organization.

Then spring break comes and all hell breaks loose.

I don't know if it's because we usually take a vacation during this week, or if it's just the general feeling in the air, but after spring break, I'm just phoning it in. Yeah, the kids lunches are packed, if by packed you mean I wrote a check for their school lunch account. Yeah, I'm still picking out clothes for the younger ones, but now that it's just shorts and tees, I'm lucky if I'm paying attention enough to make the pieces match.

And.....that's about it. Checking their planners? Uh, yeah, I totally do that (when I remember). Making sure number 3 is hitting his 20 minute daily reading quota? Completely on top of that (In fact, we've almost finished January!). Packing a daily snack? Sure, when he reminds me. Ok, listen, that one isn't my fault. The kid went on snack strike for 3 months and then one day asks me why I'm not buying snacks.

Um, because you told me you aren't eating them?

So it's a little bit of joy when you're counting down until the last day of school. Think of all the freedom! No more packing lunches and coordinating clothes! No more scheduling art shows and baseball practices in your jam packed calendar. You don't even have to be home by 8:30 now because they don't need a good night's sleep for the next day. They're only going to ride bikes, rot their brain with television, and eat sugary cereal anyway. How much more damage can one less hour of sleepy time cause?

And this joy will continue for about 38 minutes. That's when you have to referee the first argument between numbers 2 and 3. Plus the baby's schedule is different, which has made him cranky, "no one" locked the Netflix account by putting in the wrong password too many times, and "someone" keeps stealing the milk because you're already on the third gallon of the week and it's only Monday.

Very quickly the tables turn and now you're counting down the days until school again. Which kinda sucks for us parents. Because once upon a time, we got to enjoy summer too. Sure, it was probably outside of those 40 hours a week that we're required to earn a paycheck, but we enjoyed it nonetheless. (Because these were the days we sent the kids to the sitter. If they were fighting, we sure as hell weren't dealing with it. Ah, the good old days.)

But now the kids are at home. Except the baby (who's almost 2 1/2 now but will forever be the baby by luck of birth order.) who is still a good boy and goes to the sitter. Which means we get the referee calls and the "Mom, he/she said/did this completely innocuous thing to/at/near/around my general vicinity. Food disappears quicker, dishes mysteriously dirty themselves, and you can kiss a clean house goodbye until September.

So long as work is there for me to escape to, they might make it back to school. In one piece. With their mother's sanity intact. Until then, I better ask my doctor for a prescription of Prozac. I have a feeling I might need it.

Cutting The Cord (All Of Them)

I like to think that when it comes to technology, I have a little bit more knowledge than just the average Joe. I'd like to think that, but recently it's come to my attention that I'm losing my tech savvy bit by bit. And I blame it all on the damn cords.


If you give me a box, with a single piece of electronic equipment, I can probably put it together. More than likely, unless it's seriously complicated, I can even manage it without directions. One single piece. At a time. Easy peasy.

But when you have husbands with television addictions (It's not an addiction, he can stop any time he wants. Unless they make a bigger tv.) plus teenagers and 'tweens, those single pieces of equipment begin to multiply. Soon you have DVR boxes, smart tv's, smart phones, laptops, tablets, hand held game systems, stationary game consoles, electronic readers, mp3 players, sound bars, surround sound, and the list continues. As long as all of those components stay in their rightful places, we all handle cohabitation just fine.

Excuse me, can I get just ONE more power strip please?

But unplug them to move and mix up just a few things in the same box and, well, crap.

Where the hell did all these cords come from? And why do they have to be almost-but-not-quite the same size for multiple things so that you think it's the right cord but trying to jam it into the plug isn't working and you only notice it after you set it down next to the right cord?

So I've come up with a brilliant solution. Color coordinate all these devices. See, the laptop cord has a pink cord and the plug in the back of the computer is also pink. The tablet has a blue charging cord, smart phones are red, and surround sound is gray. Considering there are dozens of colors, no device would have to have the same cord color. I know, brilliant, right?

Another upside to this system: FINALLY being able to de-clutter junk drawers from those unknown cords. No more jumbles of black chargers, cables that remain anonymous, or cords that have been in there so long they would have just been sold with the house rather than try to find their rightful places.

Plus, think of all the calls you'd eliminate from less tech savvy relatives that ask you (obviously the technology guru since you were born 30 years later than they were.) how to get this hooked up. Just plug colored cord into colored plug on device and voila! Instant  tech savvy-ness. (Is that a thing? I might have made it one if not.)

So what are you supposed to do since my obviously brilliant plan is not an actual thing? There's only one solution, really. You must move each piece of equipment, one at a time. Then you will ensure that everything remains intact, plugged in, without any cord confusion. Sure, some people might ask why you don't just label each cord when you disconnect but I say, "Holy cow, do you know how many extra minutes that would take?" If you decide that moving each piece of electronic equipment separately is too time consuming and tedious, you could always pack each piece in it's own box. Yeah, sure, you might have a couple (dozen) boxes more than you would have had, but surely it's worth it, right?

By the way, anyone want to help me move?

This end up. Or down?

Channeling Your Inner Insensitivity

Unless you've been living under a boulder, you've probably heard that Prince is dead. (Pssst, quick side bar, wasn't he "The Artist Formerly Known As Prince"? And was that the same as when he changed his name to that weird symbol which didn't have a name and that's why he was the artist formerly blah blah blah? I'm confused. When did he become "The Artist Known As Prince Again Because He's Not The Artist Formerly Known As Prince Anymore Possibly Because He Got A Clue And Realized How Stupid It Was Or More Likely That It Was Really Hard To Sign That Symbol On All The Important Paper Stuff"?) Anyway, yeah, so he's no longer among the living anymore.

Cue the sad symphony music. 

And 17 billion artist tributes of Purple Rain.

Okay, so I guess I'm just a cold, heartless farce of a human being because I am completely over hearing about this. Seriously. Enough already. I don't need to know the minutiae of this whole procedure. (I barely need to hear the basics.) I don't need hourly updates.

"Cause of death STILL unknown, but an autopsy will determine the cause."

"The remains have been transported to the morgue, where an autopsy is slated to be performed, so that we can ascertain the cause of death."

"The two pathologists who are vying for the case are now doing rock, paper, scissors to determine who will perform the autopsy that will determine the cause of death."

"They are now performing rock, paper, scissors again since the best two out of three was a draw. This final hand gesture could make one pathologist's career if he is the one who will perform the autopsy on Prince, which will determine the cause of death."

And on and on and on.

We get it. He's dead. We don't know why. But it's sad. So sad that every artist who is on the top 40 charts right now, or ever has been, is doing a cover of (insert a Prince song, probably Purple Rain or Little Red Corvette) as a special tribute to the musician who nobody remembered until he died. Oops, sorry, that was probably a little harsh if not truthful. But since I'm already being honest, let's take it a step further, shall we?

The man was a weirdo. And hey, that's ok. I'm all for your freak flag flying high as long as it doesn't involve hurting people or animals. But now we're just supposed to idolize the man because he made some hits in the 90's that will forever live on and serve as his legacy? Meanwhile, other news is happening in the world, but because it doesn't trump the juicy tidbit of a dead musician, no one hears about it.

If you think I'm overreacting, consider this: When the news broke that he had died, me and the family were driving to vacation. We were in a car, not near a television, just listening to some tunes when our phones started pinging notifications about Prince's death. And they weren't even Prince Fan Apps either. (If they made them, I wouldn't know but there's an app for everything these days, right?) By the time we got to our destination, I was already sick of hearing about it, and that was due solely to satellite radio hosts and social media.

On top of that, now I see this meme 10,000 times on my FaceBook wall:

It's uber creepy that he wrote a lyric so fitting for his own death.

And then there's this one:

Okay, I'll admit, it's a pretty drink....If you like the taste of sadness.

Rest in peace Prince. Or, uh, symbol that represents your name after you decided to change it. May your days now be filled with purple rain, raspberry berets, and lots of partying like it's 1999. Just as long as I don't have to hear about it.

Displaced From Dat Place

Recently we found out that we had to have some work done on our house due to a leak. Since it was an extensive fix, we had to find some place to stay for the duration of the renovation. Basically, we had to uproot everyone and everything and turn our schedule on its ear and all breathe into brown paper bags so that we don't hyperventilate. (Ok, the last one might only have been me.)

Cue sad, theatrical violin music.

Ok, I'm not THAT bad. I mean, sure, one of my neighbors said she felt terrible for me, knowing how hard this must be on me since I like my routine, but other than that, my coping skills are just fine. (I said they're FINE dammit!) And although my ability to "roll with the punches" has been sorely tested during this ordeal, it has allowed me to learn a few things.

1.) I HATE moving. Or more specifically, disorganized, hasty moving. If I had the proper amount of time to coordinate, plan, pack, make lists of lists, then I'm sure things would have gone completely smoothly and birds would have helped me hang the curtains while the bunnies swept the floors. Alas, there were no birds OR bunnies, just a lot of frantic adults (ok, two frantic adults) trying to move as much stuff before kids got home and ratcheted the chaos level up to clinically insane. I got to put things in boxes just to move them to the rental house five minutes away and take the crap back out of the boxes. Boxes that weren't even labeled. Yes, that's right. Unmarked boxes. Dun dun dun. Yes, all of you with obsessive compulsive tendencies can now shudder and feel my pain.

See? THIS is OCD packing at its finest.

2.) We have a lot of shi.....stuff. Yes, stuff galore. My husband told me to bring only necessities and to pack the other stuff away in the garage. Guess who got to make 45 trips back to the house to get "necessities"? I'm pretty sure that we've been there so many times that the neighbors probably don't even realize we're gone yet. Also, let me point out that it's really nice living where all of your shi....stuff is. You don't need that cake pan until you realize you need it for the Easter dessert you want to make. No, don't bring the filing cabinet, that's stupid. Instead why don't you run back and forth looking for paperwork that you wouldn't have needed if you could put your fingers on it easily. Don't take that for granted people. Seriously. I want you to go to your computer desk, find that doo hickey that holds your pens and paperclips all in one nifty place and say, "I appreciate having you close by."

3. You can't go back. After owning my own house for 10 years, I cannot be a renter. It's too stressful. I walk around just barking at kids to stop. It doesn't even matter what. Ninety nine percent of the time at least one of my children is doing something that they shouldn't be, so just stop. This instant. No you may not race cars on the walls, they aren't our walls. No you may not throw bouncy balls at the walls, they aren't our walls. No you may not do anything but stand there, they're not our legs. Oh, sorry, got carried away there. They are your legs but you cannot kick the doors with them!!! And while we're at it, here are a few other rules: Don't touch! Don't even look. Don't even want to look.

4. You can totally screw up your sleep pattern just by putting your bed in  different spot. If you sleep on your right side and face toward the center of the bed, flipping that is going to confuse your body for awhile. Once your body gets suckered into thinking sleeping on the opposite side is fantastic, you can then pull a fast one and move back to your own home and sleep on the opposite side again. A word of warning: You might need to transition slowly as moving too fast could case your brain to need extensive sessions with a therapist, which will be totally awkward because how would you not eavesdrop on that conversation?

I understand why Calgon needs to take so many people away now. It all makes sense. Except for Roth IRA's. And quesalupas. They still don't make any sense at all.

Vodka: The Calgon of 2016

Dining Out With My Little %$@! (I Mean Sweet Angels)

When you have your first kid, things don't change a lot in the beginning. Sure, there's a miniature pooping machine who's going to dictate your actions for the rest of your life (or at least until they go to college), but other than that, their first year lulls you into a false sense of complacency.

You still get to eat out. You still wear makeup and jeans and shirts that don't double as pajamas. You still think you're going to be able to shower every day, uninterrupted. Ah, that first golden year. That sweet baby who will sit still in your lap or a high chair at a restaurant. The one you get compliments on how well they behave. You may even think, "Gosh, this parenting thing is easy."

And then they turn two. I don't know what happens, but eating at a restaurant usually ends with someone crying. (If it's not the two year old, it's probably his parents.) If there aren't any tears, I guarantee that there's either a temper tantrum, thrown food, or pissed off parents. Sometimes all of the above. And all the while the toddler is channeling his inner Linda Blair until he gets back to the safety of home, where everything has been baby proofed and he can be a little jerk safely while his parents cry in a corner and pray for kindergarten to begin. (Also, I'd like to take this moment to put my rusty math skills into play and mention that if you multiply the dinner by the number of kids and divide it by two frazzled parents, shit's going to get real.)

This is the stage we are currently, ah, enjoying. By enjoying, I mean I would rather have all my fingernails pulled out than eat out in public with my children. Yes, CHILDREN, plural. Because as much as they would like to use the baby as a convenient scapegoat for all their troubles, they can be little a-holes themselves. The 8 year old likes to argue about everything. Since he's accumulated tons of experience in his long life, he knows everything though, so it's alright. The teenager wants to do teenager-y things like eye rolling, deep sighing, and getting the 8 year old in (more) trouble by tattling on some minor infraction. Meanwhile, Dad and I are the equivalent of a magician and a three ring circus, trying to entertain the toddler until the waitress comes with food that we can shove in his face hole. This involves the crayons and coloring menus, iPhone video capability, and wrestling him back into the high chair that he's trying to climb out of every forty three seconds.

And this folks, is the story of my life.

Basically, my husband and I walk out frustrated, pissed off, and freaking exhausted. Apparently we aren't that bright though, because we try it again, thinking that this time we'll surely get different results.

Lately, the two year old demon channeling angel of mine (face of an angel, temper of the devil) has made things much more interesting by refusing to eat more than 4 different foods. And none of them are going to be what we order. He has decided that he doesn't like the old standby of chicken fingers.  He turns his nose up at apples, grapes, and mashed potatoes. His palate has grown far too advanced for such childhood favorites as french fries. Basically, we aren't even getting the reprieve the waitress would normally bring because now we're trying to juggle entertainment duties and eating. (By eating, I mean shoveling food in at a rate that will probably ensure Tums are in my future.) Not to mention that we get to have witnesses to what is obviously bad parenting since he won't ingest anything other than chocolate milk and lemon water while throwing crayons and other projectiles and pitching a fit to get down and run rampant through the restaurant.

He's lucky he's cute. And cuddly. And he smells good after a bath. (These are all things I have to remember when I'm trying not to hang him from his toes at the restaurant.)

One day, I'll look fondly back at these days, when my husband and I are dining quietly, enjoying the ability to eat our meal while it's still hot. We'll reminisce how cute they were in their little jeans, their ketchup covered faces smiling with glee. We'll think about the times we stayed home to avoid tantrums and judgy stares. And we'll think, "It's probably not as bad as we made it out to be." Until the three year old at table 12 starts screaming because her Mom gave her ketchup that she didn't want and the six year old knocks over his milk into his father's lap. Then we'll probably smile, clink our glasses together, and be glad we made it through (mostly) intact.

Why are you calling me Mom, strange little boy?

Common Sense Ain't So Common

Have you ever met someone who lacks even one eensy bit of common sense and wondered how they've managed to survive? If the answer to this question is no, you're probably lying, I mean, lucky. There seems to be an epidemic of senseless humans walking the planet and it got me thinking....are we supposed to teach our kids common sense?

Before you answer that question, I give you exhibit A:

Now that Tommy* (Names have been changed to ensure that ceaseless teasing does not force said kid to become a recluse that lives under a bridge like a hobbit. Wait, do hobbits live under bridges? I think that might be a troll. Or a hobo. But I digress) is a mature, college kid getting a taste of the real world by going to school AND working, we don't see him as often. Last weekend we got to visit for a bit and the following conversation took place:

Me: Careful, don't trip over your shoes. You left them by the door. (See how I thread a concerned comment with a veiled admonishment for leaving the shoes where they don't belong? Epic Mom move.)

Tommy: They're two left feet.

Me: (Uncertain Mom laugh because I think he's making a bad pun.)

Tommy: No, really. They're two left feet.

Me: What?

Tommy: Well, I lost my first pair of work shoes. (?!?!) So I bought another pair and apparently I didn't check the box too carefully because there are two left feet. But one is a larger size so it's ok, it's not too bad on the wrong (right) foot.

Me: Why didn't you just take then back?

Tommy: Well, Mom, I was just too lazy and I waited until the eleventh hour, you know, half an hour before I had to be to work, so I really didn't have time to return them.

Okay, okay, that last sentence really only happened in my mind. I know it's probably the right answer, but what 18 year old kid likes to admit to their parents that they're an idiot?

This is immediately followed by this mental conversation:

How do you lose your work shoes? They're either on your feet at work, or they're where you took them off. It's not like you're partying at the beach with your non-skid soles on for cripes sake! Seriously. And is this kid so lazy that he can't even take his shoes back? How long has he been walking around, in public, looking like this? How many people saw him walking around with two left feet, literally, and thought that his parents must not have raised that one right? Doesn't he know that he's a reflection of me when he's in the outside world? What if he saw someone that knows he's my son? Hopefully they don't go to Pizza World.

Luckily, I've gained the ability to keep my inner monologue, well, inner, so none of that was verbalized. Instead we just went to the store and I bought him a new pair (with both a left and right shoe!) and we all had a good laugh about Tommy's two left feet.

And then of course I told my family and co-workers, the mailman, the grocery store cashier, and anyone who would stand still for five minutes "The Story of the Boy With Two Left Feet". He's become a cautionary tale to prevent reckless shoe buying.

And if that's not enough evidence, I give you Exhibit B:

A few days later, I asked the eight year old if he would please take a baby wipe (the heaven sent cleaner of the busy mom) and wipe down my shoes that had gotten a little dirty. A few minutes later I put them on and noticed they were still kind of soiled. I mentioned that he must have done it really fast because the outsides were still dirty. He looked at me and said, (I kid you not):

"Oh, you wanted me to wipe the outside?"

"What did you think I wanted you to wipe?"

"The inside."

O-kay then. So I have one son who will wear two left shoes and another one who would clean the inside of the shoe that non one can even see. Fan-tastic.

It was at this point that I wondered how you teach someone common sense. Can you teach it? And if so, do they have cliff notes versions? Because I just need a quick crash course. After all, I'm starting a little late with a few of them and I really do need to catch up.

OMG! Someone made my blog title into a sign! How'd they know before I did?

Modern Mom Morning Mayhem Madness

Some people dream of vacations, some people dream about untold riches. Lately my dream consists of getting out of the house in the morning with minimal damage done to my kid's psyche. (Or mine!)

If you're a working mom, you are all too familiar with the guilt associated with it. Or maybe you're not. Personally, I am convinced I must be 100% Italian because I can guilt myself into a lather over just about anything and everything. (And if you don't know what I mean, you don't know an Italian mom.)

Now, you may be thinking that I'm feeling bad because I can't stay at home with my precious angels all day, stalking Pinterest and making macrame whatevers, but you'd be wrong! Mostly I feel terrible because I secretly enjoy being able to escape my mom-ness and be an actual adult. I can type on a computer without sticky toddler fingers sneaking onto the keyboard to punch the space bar fourteen times while I'm ineffectually yelling, "Stop that!" I can have conversations without using baby talk or such phrases like, " Do you have to go potty?" or "Did you just fart on my leg?" My sanity pretty much rests on my ability to leave my children for eight hour stretches.

Cue the guilt.

Because Moms are supposed to want to maximize the time spent with the fruit of their looms, er, loins, right? And if not, we can't EVER tell anyone that we enjoy working outside the home. If we do, we open ourselves up to all the judgy comments and mom bashing. And really, who has the time (or mental fortitude) to deal with that? But we do exist. And we are smart enough to know that the time away from our kids makes us appreciate them even more.

But this after school special isn't really what today's blog is about. In fact, I apologize for making you start to think I might have gone soft on you and lost that sarcastic, satirical snark I carry around with me. What this is really about is my madhouse of a morning schedule.

I might as well get this shirt since running late is my new exercise plan.

It starts off innocuously enough. Alarm, shower, dress. But then it starts to go downhill when I have to wake the kids up. When you have a routine designed to wake your two year old up with the sole purpose of avoiding his Jekyll personality, (or is the evil one Hyde?) you should know that there's a 50/50 chance things are going to go epically wrong.  It goes a little like this:

Tiptoe outside bedroom door. Slowly (as in horror movie I-don't-know-what-I-will-find slowly) open door, trying to be as quiet as possible. Once the door is open, tiptoe back into the kitchen and start making oatmeal, prepare coffee, make some noise but not enough to wake the beast unnaturally. After a few minutes, peek back in bedroom to see if your toddler is standing up in his crib with his blankie and a smile. (If not, abort! I repeat, abort mission!) Seriously, I live in a hostage situation where my 2 year old holds all the cards. Oh sure, I'm sure I could do something like just turn the light on and wake him upby plucking him out of his sleepy slumber. Tough love, right? And then I'll drop his crank-tastic, have a 20 minute meltdown over oatmeal, crabby diapered butt off at your house. (Then you'll understand, not only the ritual, but also why I'm so clucking crazy.)

This is followed by 25 minutes of me trying to get my 8 year old to do something: "Please get up and get dressed. Right now. Seriously. Hurry up. Don't forget to make your bed. What are you doing in there? How long does it take to make your bed? What do you mean you aren't even dressed yet? We have to leave in 25 minutes, you haven't even eaten breakfast AND you're not even dressed yet? Yes, you have to eat breakfast. It's the most important meal of the day. Eat NOW please. No, you can't have cookies. Have cereal (with ten times the amount of sugar than cookies) instead. Stop playing with your iPod and eat please. Okay, let's get moving, we're leaving in ten minutes. Eat! Drink your milk. Alright finish your cereal and then drink the milk but please get a move on. Ok, put your bowl into the sink and get your shoes on. Where are you? I thought I told you to get your shoes on. Of course you have to poop three minutes before we need to walk out the door, what was I thinking trying to get out of here on time. Ok, let's hustle. Shoes. Coat. Hello, are you forgetting something? Where's your backpack? Yeah, you'll probably need that. Did you put your lunchbox in there? Ok, we're only 7 minutes late today, I think that might be a record for this month."

And if the eight year old actually has his act together that morning, that is usually the day the two year old has the aforementioned meltdown because the oatmeal wasn't a s'mores pop tart. I mean, low fat yogurt with healthy blueberries and granola. Yeah, that. Because I would never feed my kids pop tarts and rename them breakfast crackers so that I don't get hassled by the nutrition police for feeding them junk for the most important meal of the day. Or have to follow up said lecture with a five minute explanation that when your child has decided to be the pickiest eater in the history of the world, you're just happy to get through a meal with food being ingested, even if it's mostly empty calories covered in frosting. We have plenty of years to force feed vegetables, but let's not start this morning because I'm already running late and mommy needs her grown up time now.

Right?

I Color Outside The Lines

Apparently, adult coloring books are a thing now. No, really, like a major deal. There are special books for adults to color in (for those times when Elmo just doesn't fill that creative void) and special coloring pencils and everything. (Alright, admittedly, I'm not sure the colored pencils are special. They might just be like an artist's grade or something. Definitely not the kind you find in the kids art supply aisle though.) This is a new trend that's designed to be, uh, therapeutic? I think that's probably what they're going for, right?

The thing is, I've seen some of the "adult" coloring pages and they really just look like black and white paisley designs or swirl art without the paint. Do they make actual coloring books with like THINGS in them? Do they cater them to professions perhaps? "The Big Book of Baking Coloring Pages" or "101 Supreme Court Justices to Doodle On"?

I'm seriously asking because I don't know.

The reason I have to ask is that I have kids. So if the wild urge to color a picture comes upon me suddenly, I grab the closest coloring book I can find, which is probably filled with Big Bird or Bubble Guppies, try to hunt down a few unbroken crayons, and go to town. I can create beautiful pictures of fictional fish, life sized muppet friends, and awesome firetrucks. Then I will write my name at the bottom and hang it on the fridge. (Ha! Kidding. I'd write one of the kids names on it since it would probably be half-assed and half finished. I'm not claiming that Picasso.)

Maybe I don't understand this hip new phase because my downtime hobbies are reading or watching tv or maybe playing a brain building game on my phone. (By brain building I mean completely brainless, absolutely addictive farming/jewel/word game.) You know, adult hobbies. Yeah, I know, I'm probably going to get some serious scowls and complaints from the adult coloring world, but I just don't get it. Do these people know about Netflix? iPods? Libraries?

As if this whole thing wasn't disturbing enough, I was casually perusing my Face Book wall the other day and I happened to stumble across this:

Instead of paint swatches, you just need Crayola's box of 96!

(Actually, it wasn't this same exact thing but it's similar enough that you get the idea.)

What's this, you may ask? It's adult coloring wallpaper. Yes, you read that right. It's walls that you can color on. You know, the same thing you just yelled at little Amy for doing the other day? Generations of parents have taught their kids to color on paper and NOT the walls, only to grow a generation that creates wall to draw on.

Call me lazy, but I like my wallpaper already colored on. By professional designer type people. Ok, that's actually a total lie, I don't like wallpaper at all. But if I did get a rare form of amnesia that made me forget prior decorating preferences and I all of a sudden had a hankering for some wallpaper to be put up in my house, it wouldn't be the kind I had to color. I'd probably look through a sample book of swatches with pretty colors, designs, and textures that people (who were paid to do this job) came up with from their super creative, totally not sleep deprived or brain dead from too many episodes of Sponge Bob brains. Then I'd probably have to pay someone to come put it up in my house because how the hell can I get that on straight and not look like a drunken monkey did it?

Hopefully I don't develop that rare form of amnesia.

So if you're looking for an awesome new hobby, take up sky diving. Kidding. That sounds dangerous. Pick up an adult coloring book. I don't know where you'd buy them. But someone should know. And get some new crayons. It's hard to color inside the lines with those broken ones.