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

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

Until this year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No cap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uh, where was I? Oh right.

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

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Un-spirited Week

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

 All. The. Schools.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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I'm Just Here for the Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image credit: Google search

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

<Microwave Ding>

Then again, who am I to stop you?

 

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

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

That statement is, of course, laughable at best.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think they excel at overall?”

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

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

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

“How do you think they could accomplish this?”

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

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

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

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Don't Lose Sleep Over It

 Have you ever gone into your child’s room at night, long after they’ve entered dreamland, watching how sweet they are in slumber? So quiet. So peaceful. So quiet. Sleeping the sleep only children manage to achieve, making you wish that you could achieve that level of REM? No? Just me then?

For the most part, I’ve accepted all of the things that I have gained as I’ve gotten older. Wisdom. Hair that grows too fast, often in places I don’t want it. Gray hairs sneaking up on me. What haven’t I learned to deal with you ask? (Spoiler alert: It’s probably mentioned in the opening paragraph.) That’s right, it’s beautiful, uninterrupted sleep.

Children could sleep on a cot half their size with a lumpy pillow and an orphan Annie threadbare blanket and have the most amazing night’s sleep they’ve EVER had. They can sleep on a floor, in a sleeping bag, with NO pillow, and snag a blissful 8 hours of shut eye. Heck, give them a backpack for a pillow and a sweatshirt for a blanket and they can snag a full night of z’s.

Of course, these are the people who need sleep the least.

Does it anger me that the people who have the most energy, regardless of how many of their forty winks they’ve had, are the ones who can sleep effortlessly, anywhere and anytime, without a single encumbrance? Now why would you think that? What gave it away? Was it the bitterness of my words or my sarcastic tone?

I can sleep in a bed, with 3 pillows, (including my body pillow) a fan for white noise and temperature regulation, and a seasonally appropriate blanket and barely manage 6 hours. If it’s not my bladder waking me up, it’s the never ending thought processes that apparently don’t shut down during my brain’s off hours, that lead to weird stress induced dreams that leaving me wondering what the hell kind of party my brain cells have while I’m unconscious. Sometimes, I can’t fall back to sleep because I’m trying to a.) Figure out what in my life led to the psychedelic mind meld that dream I just had was or b.) What the exact level of crazy is required to check yourself into the asylum because I might just qualify if these nocturnal brain movies are any indication.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, my sad attempts at temperature regulation are an epic failure since I never seem to achieve that perfect balance. It’s too hot (throw off the blanket). But the fan is blowing on me now, so I’m cold (cover up again). But now I’m hot again and want the air from the fan (throw off the blanker). Oops, nope, too much cool air on me (throw the blanket over half my torso). Ok, better but still kinda hot (cover rest of torso but uncover feet).

Probably the worst sleep interrupter are the debilitating leg cramps that like to attack between 2:00-3:00 a.m. You know the ones. You stretch your leg out in your sleep and a muscle takes offense and instantly spasms or cramps so hard that you have to jump out of bed and run around your room whimpering, trying to get it to go away…yeah, those kind. They’re super fun and I seem to get them more now than ever.

Every once in a while I will manage the perfect temperature, quiet brain waves and a steel bladder…only to wake up with a crick in my neck from sleeping wrong. Sleeping WRONG! Sleeping, something so simple even a minutes old baby can do it, but my ancient ass can’t get the hang of it. Never mind the four plus decades we’ve had to practice. I can sleep like a baby for 7 hours but there’s a good chance that I’m going to pay for it in my back, my neck, or both. (Sometimes they like to tag team me and make me feel 30 years older than I am.)

And boy, do non-sleepers love to hear when other people can’t sleep too! Not because we’re mean, but because we want to know that we aren’t alone. Misery loves company for a reason and if the sandman is skipping our house, he damn well better be skipping others as well. We want to know that there are other exhausted schlubs out there suffering along with us.

So the next time that you’re doing a paranoid-is-he-breathing check, and you find yourself being wistful of your child’s inherent ability to ride those snooze waves all the way to slumberville, just remember: They’re not tall enough to reach your chocolate stash. It’s a small consolation prize, but it’s yours.

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The Big, Fat Liars Club

If you really want to push one of my buttons, then don’t be truthful with me. Certain past relationships have given me some emotional baggage in the form of an intense hatred of liars. Which makes sense, since we teach our kids not to lie to us, right? We are always harping on them to tell the truth.

Then we all grow up and become a member of The Big, Fat Liars Club.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a small white lie (“No, that shirt looks amazing on you!”) or a huge lie (“I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”), we are all guilty. It seems like we have swung too far to the dark side when it comes to dishonesty though and if you think I’m exaggerating (Would I do that?!) then let me give you an example.

Have you ever told someone that your kid was being a jerk, only to have them look at you like you just admitted to kicking orphaned puppies? If you aren’t acting like your kid is the greatest gift from the angels above, then clearly you are a heathen who doesn’t deserve a child. The only problem with that is, well, children. Have you met them? Because I have had the pleasure of having 4 of them and I can attest, at one point or another, they were all dinks. Now, don’t get it twisted, YOU are not allowed to call my kid an A-hole. Even if they're clearly acting like one. That right is solely reserved for the two people who donated DNA to his existence. That is what we have earned for putting up with all the jerkiness that you haven’t seen them commit. The un-public displays of tantrums. The headache inducing argumentativeness that we are slightly proud of since it means that they won’t be a pushover, while simultaneously being horrified that they can’t just do what they’re told for once. The thousands and thousands (and million) of times we are told we are mean or unfair. Those are the reasons we get to be honest about our children’s tendencies towards dinkery.

The issue, however, is societal influence. That’s right. The problem with people is, well, other people. Society says that you can’t tell people how evil your child acts on Tuesdays just because they hate music class. Society says that you must be grateful for this child at all times because, well, there are people out there who can’t have children and you don’t want to somehow hurt their feelings if you come upon one in the wild. Except, shouldn’t we be more honest about how hard children are? Would it perhaps discourage these teenagers from thinking that a baby would solve all their problems if they heard the horror stories of assholery? Would moms stop taking on a lion’s share of the guilt for not being perfect if they know other moms had the same issues? Society has so many unrealistic ideals for body, beauty, wifely duties, and working status, can’t we cross off the one that says motherhood is always a blissful and perfect experience? Do you know how many times I’ve felt like a terrible mom during a moment of motherhood that was crushing my spirit? We tell ourselves, and our kids, that it’s ok to not like everyone all the time, but we don’t practice what we preach. Kids are people too, just with a height deficit and a more limited vocabulary. (We don’t hold that against them.)

Honestly, I don’t trust people who think their kid walks on water all the time. Either that kid is the SUPER rare exception to the rule or else you gave birth to a Stepford child. If you’ve never had a moment where you didn’t particularly like your kid, then I don’t trust you. You must be doing something wrong. Or perhaps you’re “Society” and expect us all to be perfect like you. In which case, I still don’t trust you. I don’t have time to be perfect. I barely have time to be myself.

I also don’t trust spouses who say that they are never upset with their significant other. Like NEVER? Never EVER? You’re telling me that you got married and lived happily ever after with nary a cross word spoken between the two of you? Because that’s not reality, that’s a Disney movie. Real life marriages can be hard, and messy, and emotional. They require work on both ends to learn how to communicate and live with another person. Maybe if we were real about how much work marriage is, people would stop getting divorced the first time their spouse left the toothpaste cap off. If you’re telling me there was never a moment where you stared at your spouse thinking, “I swear to GOD, if he chews with his mouth open just ONE more time, I’m going to shove my foot where the sun doesn’t shine!” Or “If she leaves her dirty socks NEXT to the hamper again, I’m going to scream!” then I am calling bullshit. We’re human. We are imperfect and messy and emotional. We are complicated and dramatic and crazy. And you can’t shove complicated and dramatic into a house together without expecting some sort of fireworks. Which is to say that I am more trustful of someone who’s got a  "One time I wanted to smack my spouse because…” story than one who says, “Oh no, we never go to bed angry. In fact, we are never angry with each other.”

If you’ll just take this, here is your membership card to The Big Fat Liars Club.

I guess the moral of the story here is: Don’t lie. And a secondary moral: Stop crushing yourself with guilt, you’re killing this thing called parenthood. (And if you’re not killing it, well, hopefully you’ve got a therapy fund started.)

 

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I Was Absent for the Taco Cult Induction Ceremony

I must have missed the meeting where we decided what the international comfort food would be. I do know that I wouldn’t have voted for tacos. No offense to the taco lovers out there, which apparently are legion, but they don’t even make my top 5 favorite Mexican foods. (I mean, have you tasted enchiladas?) As much as I want to be a card-carrying member of the “I Heart Tacos Club”, I just can’t. I see all the videos and memes that offer sage advice to feed your girl tacos but... I still don’t understand the appeal.

Image credit: Zazzle.com

Plus, when exactly was this meeting held? I don’t even remember seeing a notice for it. My schedule is pretty busy, but I would have made time for this, if only to make sure our mascot wasn’t a fragile shell barely holding everything together. I wonder what the final four choices were? Did we vote on this or was it decided by the one supreme food judgerer? I have to say, this just brings up way too many questions. (I believe it aso shows that my mind is an odd and scary place sometimes.)

If my husband ever tried to appease my hangry side with tacos, I’d think he was crazy. Of course, almost two decades, he knows me better than that so I am confident that his approach would not be the standard taco quo. My t-shirt would more than likely say “Feed me steak and tell me I’m pretty”. Or maybe chicken pot pie. That would also be acceptable. Runners up would include beef stroganoff, chicken marsala, and scalloped potatoes with ham. Hey, comfort food is subjective, right? This is what comforts me. I also have a love of homemade soups and chowders and there are half a dozen different recipes that would come in ahead of tacos.

Oh who am I kidding? The way to my heart isn’t savory, it’s sweet. I’ve always said that my favorite part of dinner is dessert. It still holds true to this day. Cake and cookies, bars and treats, and maybe even a pie, so long as it’s strawberry rhubarb. I don’t understand why the Taco Cult beat out the Cake Cult. I’m convinced it’s solely because they hadn’t had a spectacular dessert yet. You know the kind that makes you want to hurry up and eat it but slow down and savor it all at the same time? Like a decadent piece of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Or a chocolate chip cookie, still gooey from the oven. If I go to a potluck, my eyes are all about checking out those sweet sweets options to know if I have to save a little room or a lot.

We won’t even get int my rant about why there aren’t any cupcake drive through restaurants. Can’t you just imagine having a bad day and being able to grab half a dozen cupcake miracles without ever having to step out of your car? Listen, I’m a problem solver by nature and I truly believe this would solve most of my current issues Ok, that’s probably untrue, but it would be a delicious coping mechanism, am I right?

Unfortunately, I am also the minority in my own house regarding the taco issue. Other than my youngest son, who is much more dessert centric like me, my husband and other offspring go gaga for tacos. In fact, it DOES rate in my 15-year old’s top 3 foods. Probably my husband’s top 3 as well. It’s like they don’t even know that there are masses of much better foods out there to choose from, even though I have cooked a few dozen of these dishes over the years. I guess there's no accounting for taste, right?

Huh, for some reason that I can’t seem to explain, I have a crazy craving for some cake. I must bid you farewell and go on this most righteous cake questing journey. Until we meet again my fair folks.

 

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The Alphabet Wars

There was a generational war that started between the Millennials and Gen Z. It’s not the shoot ‘em up kind of war depicted in our history books, but apparently some type of culture war being waged on social media platforms. I say “apparently” because, as a member of Gen X, I am oblivious to this sort of petty infighting. Or maybe it’s that I am aware, I just don’t give a crap. (Yeah, probably that second one.)

The irony is that there always seems to be some sort of generational unrest. Every generation thinks that the “new kids” are completely different than their own clearly superior group. It probably started when the people born between 1901 and 1924 called themselves “The Greatest Generation”. That pretty much screwed all future generations and set them up for failure, right? I mean, if you’re already the greatest, you can only go downhill from there.

And it does seem to be true since those that followed (1928-1945) were called “The Silent Generation”. Then again, I’d be silent too having to live in the shadow of such greatness. Or maybe they were quiet because life had beaten them down so much they just didn’t see the point of raising their voice. Think about it, the average life expectancy back then was like 60. Not to mention that WWII came along and killed over 400,000 Americans.

After that came the Baby Boomers. (1946-1964) I’m guessing this generation celebrated the war a little too much, if you know what I mean. The name is pretty self-explanatory…yeah, all that post war celebrating (bow chicka wow wow) lead to a crazy amount of babies being born. Marvin Gaye didn’t have to tell this generation to get it on, they did it all by themselves.

And those babies produced during that boom? Generation X. This generation spanned through all the peace, free love and hippies (1964-1979). It’s quite possibly the best generation out there, and not just because it’s the one that I belong to. X’ers were raised on the cusp of the days of old and the technology of new, with one foot planted firmly in each world. We can remember 8 tracks and the AOL dial up sign on. We had the benefit of crazy, supervision free childhoods and new technology with fun names like Alexa and Siri.

Then the X’ers moved out and the Millennials moved in. (1980-1994) Legend has it that Millennials are the most suppressed, repressed, regressed, and depressed group that has ever lived. Well, at least in the last “millennium” that is. They will tell you tales of living through 911 and explain how the generations that lived before them have ruined the world. How they can’t afford houses and they live for work-life balance unlike their work horse predecessors.

Then came Gen Z. (I don’t know who was in charge of this, since they skipped the letter Y, but I can tell you that it definitely wasn’t someone with OCD.) Gen Z is “woke”. Apparently the rest of us sleepy generations don’t have a clue living in our classless, gender labeled, politically incorrect worlds. They were born with a smart phone in their hands and have never had the joy of using encyclopedias for information gathering. In fact, if you asked them what an encyclopedia was, they’d have to google it.

Ask any generation what is wrong with the next generation and they’ll have a dozen reasons to give. They’re lazy, stupid, have no values, lacked discipline, no rules or boundaries…the list goes on and on. One thing that they won’t do, however, is accept the blame in any of it. Yep, that’s right, I said it. Every generation screws their kids up somehow. Either we over correct or under correct, but damnit, we do something that causes them to cry foul. And seek copious amounts of therapy. I’m pretty sure it’s in the “Generational Living for Dummies Handbook”. Page 37.

So back to this culture war. I’m not sure who started it. I’m not even sure why. Or what the point is. All that I know is that it wasn’t enough for Millennials and Gen Z to do battle, no….they had to drag the X’ers in too. Here we are, minding our own business just like we were trained from infancy to do, and then BAM! Suddenly two generations noticed us sitting in the corner, out of the limelight. What they failed to recognize in their zealous attempt to yank us into their twisted game of monkey in the middle, was that we really don’t give a shit about your stupid little war. We have things to do and being forced to defend ourselves is not only unfathomable to us, it would never cross our minds that we would need to. Gen X was, and is, the feral generation that fended for ourselves so long and so early on in our lives, that it’s foreign to try and accept help from anyone for anything. Yeah, we’d probably give ourselves a hernia before asking someone to help us move this couch….but believe me when I say that couch would be moved regardless.

I guess the the moral of this story is this: Yeah, you're probably screwing your kids up. (Although, to be fair, I think we can give some of the blame to whomever named them "Generation Alpha".) Just think of it this way though, you're giving them a reason to feel superior to the next generation. And that ain't nothing.

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A Decade of Witty Repartee

Recently I realized that this I had been writing this blog for a decade now. (This blog is officially older than my youngest child!) When I went back to verify the actual date that I began regaling my loyal fans with my wordplay, I realized that it was actually in January of 2013.

I missed my own decade-iversary!

In my defense, it’s not really my fault. After all, there was zero fanfare made at all. I didn’t get a parade in my honor, there were no stars named after me (or the blog!), no ridiculously ginormous sized cakes with a big number 10 on it, and not one single mayor of any city that I have ever lived in gave me a key. What the heck?

I mean, I understand not all the fanfare, or even most of the fanfare, but couldn’t I at least get a little bit? If not a parade, how about one flautist carrying a banner? Instead of a continent sized cake, how about one or two (dozen) cupcakes? Sure, the star naming may have been reaching too big but surely a cloud could be named Modern Mom Mayhem. (But you can call him by his nickname…Bob.)

I’d still like a giant key to a city though. Not for the import, just because of how cool it would be to have a huge shiny key that’s as tall as I am. To be fair, I don’t really know if that’s how keys to the city work. I am basing this solely on my imagination here which is, admittedly, fueled by Hollywood's version of Mayor-giving-keys ceremonies. (Yeah, my imagination is a fun place.) For all I know, the key to the city is just a boring old key that is easily lost. Though, that doesn’t seem like a real great idea honestly. Can you imagine having to make that call to the locksmith?

“Uh, hi, is this John’s Locksmithery? I need you to come quickly, I’m locked out of the city.”

                Ten years ago, when I started these rants, uh, I mean blog posts, who knew that it would last this long? Who knew that you’d hang in there for ten whole years? Not YOU, but you. Not single you the reader, but like collectively you, as a whole. Unless you single reader has read for all ten years. (And if that is the case, what is wrong with you? And do you want to be friends?)

(Quick left turn: That fun imagination of mine is now having a field day with a picture of a collective you as one giant, lumpy, multi-person. Think Violet in Willy Wonka but with a bunch of people rolled into one. Or like a snowball that's rolled downhill and collected peoples. It's all you can think about now, isn't it? You’re welcome.)

                When my twisted and sarcastic co-worker thought that I should share my own twisted and sarcastic sense self with the world and convinced me to start blogging, I never would have dreamed that I’d still be hacking away at the old computer keys after all this time. And honestly, I’ve only gotten more snarky and sarcastic as I’ve gotten older, so this blog has really been a gift to you, single reader. And to you, lumpy collective reader. And to all the non-single and non-lumpy readers as well. From the bottom of my cynical heart and the top of my warped sense of humor, I thank you. Without you, I’d still just be talking to myself. (Well, more often and less wild gesticulating.)

                Now if you'll excuse me, I have a sudden and inexplicable craving for cake...

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A Tsunami of Stuff

Everyone knows that spring is when you’re supposed to get the mad urge to clean your house like a maid hopped up on 4 Grande Double Shot Espressos, but I’ve never been one to follow trends. I’m sure you’re shocked, right? (You need to work on a more believable disbelief expression.)

For me, there’s something about January that makes me want to purge and organize. Is it because I’m tired of being stuck in the house, staring at the same four walls jammed with accumulated crap? Maybe. Is it because indoor chores are much more fun to accomplish when it’s 20 degrees outside? Perhaps. Is it because spring is when we run screaming out of our houses to get away from our winter fueled cabin fever? Most likely. Whatever the reason, by the end of January, I’m itching to dive into “spring” cleaning.

The problem though, is that there’s a literal tsunami of stuff in my house. If I start to think of all the rooms, closets, drawers, desks, nooks and crannies that need to be cleaned out and organized, I start to hyperventilate a little. And everyone knows that you need to hyperventilate into a paper bag so when I go into the drawer to get one, I’ll see all THAT clutter and hyperventilate twice. (Re-ventilate? Hyper hyperventilate?) If you start to do the mental math on how many spaces there are that need to be tackled, the task becomes too overwhelming. I start to lose motivation. No seriously, motivation just starts seeping out of me. It’s kinda gross if you’re sitting too close to someone actively losing motivation. Try to carry wet wipes on your person at all times just for this very situation.

Wait, where was I again?

Hyperventilating….yadda yada yadda….losing motivation….yadda yadda yadda…

Oh right.

Once I lose the motivation by making mountains out of my completely respectable molehills, it usually results in a few weeks of being too overwhelmed to even pick a place to start on before I pull myself up by my boot straps, stop my whining and get down to business. Sometimes I need bootstraps AND big girl panties to deal with severe motivation loss.

Well, this week is my bootstraps week. My big girl panties wearing, get my act together, and get organized week. That’s right folks. I’m finally pulling my head out of that awful place where the sun doesn’t shine.

So now that I have a plan in place on where to start this monumentally huge task of getting rid of all the crap that I don’t want to keep storing in my home, I need to give myself a mental pep talk. Because the reality is, there are somethings that I cannot part with for any reason. Even though I KNOW that the reasons I have for keeping it may be stupid and illogical, it doesn’t seem to affect the process.

For example: While re-arranging my youngest son’s room this past weekend, I decided to clean out his bookshelf. At nine years old now, I’m pretty sure he can find the ducky. There were a stack of old Nick Jr. books that I have had since my oldest child. These things have to be over 2 decades old now. They aren’t even culturally relevant anymore. He has no idea who “Little Bill” or “Oswald” even are, considering those were popular shows 20 years ago. These things are older than him and two of his siblings.

Yet I can’t seem to make myself get rid of them.

These are books that have been passed down through all 4 of my children. ALL FOUR. I can look at these books and remember those chubby little toddler hands turning three pages at a time, babbling nonsense as they “read” the words. Man, are you getting hit in the feels as hard as I am? Geez. I think I need a moment here. That was a pretty strong emotion. I’m not sure where that cold hearted bitch went that used to reside in my body but she didn’t seem to cry or have all these pesky feelings that I do. I really miss her. But I digress. (AGAIN? Twice in one story? Get your crap together!) Oh wait, never mind, I found her.

In the end, I put the books back on his shelf. Even though they really are kindergarten age appropriate and he’s way too old for them. My husband laughed at my reluctance to part with these orange beacons of childhoods’ past and asked if we were just going to keep them for the grandkids. That’s a good enough excuse as any, right?

Provided I can bear to part with this clutter, (Wait, is this how hoarders are born? Do I need an intervention?) I hope to be much lighter of spirit. And stuff. Mostly stuff.

Okay coach, I’m ready. Put me in the game.

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