Thursday, February 28, 2013


I hate to break it to ya’ll, but I don’t actually know if the child I’m gestating has red hair. I mean, you can keep asking me “is this baby going to have red hair?” and I will most likely stick with my current answer “Well, it depends on who the father is.” Admittedly, this does make the father figure cringe, but what the heck else am I supposed to say.  Maybe it’s some sort of innate bigotry on my part, but I feel strongly that only reasonable questions deserve reasonable answers.  I used to respond—because yes, I have been asked this question way more times than anyone should be comfortable with—“Well I did mark that box on the order form". But I decided I didn’t really like what that might imply for Baby and X-Man and, quite possibly, Gestating Cinco. Red hair is not the be all end all. However, I am still checking the “potty trained” box. Who knows, that might just come through for me one of these times.

I learned during my first pregnancy that babies, and the protrusion they cause, belong to the world. And I’m ok with that. I think there’s something beautiful about that. It’s one thing to rub my belly. It’s another to rub it and say “baby kick me.” Really? Why are you trying to provoke my child into a violent frenzy?  I don’t find that well-adjusted behavior.

You are, of course, absolutely the first person ever to ask me if I know what causes pregnancy. I’m so glad you asked, see I was homeschooled. The blank look that answer produces is pretty darn satisfying. And if you suggest that we start watching more TV, or get cable, I will tell you “If you think watching TV is better, you’re doing it wrong.” The funny thing is you’ll end up way more uncomfortable than I will.

Please do ask me if I am going to circumcise my son. See there’s nothing more I like to discuss with strangers than my son’s genitals. That’s not creepy at all. And it’s not weird that when I say “boy” that’s the first thing that comes to mind.

I absolutely LOVE being pregnant, thanks for your observation. I don’t know which is better, hemorrhoids or heartburn. Although nothing is as awesome as labor. Thank you for suggesting that I get an epidural as soon as I walk in the hospital door, your advice is so helpful since I haven’t done this several times before. Oh and I’m so glad you reminded me to go drug free as to not interfere with my baby bonding. I knew there was a reason why I just don’t seem to like X-Man. Hey you’re the one who brought it up, don’t go be all horrified when I agree with you.
I needed to hear your breastfeeding horror stories. See, after doing this four times, I didn’t have any myself.

I truly appreciate your smug comments that I will need to tuck, lift and rejuvenate certain areas of my body if I want to keep my husband. He’s gotten me pregnant five times, why would I want him to stick around?

Wednesday, February 27, 2013


X-Man is sitting next to me, outraged. He’s playing with one of the set of Tonka trucks Santa brought him. Stupid Santa. There are six in the set and each has three different noises, so yeah, that’s eighteen unique noises in the hands of a nineteen month old. He was in Heaven all Christmas.
But now they are nothing but a source of frustration. He has his preferred cars, and which is the unfixable issue, his favorite noises. But they are on a three noise cycle. So he can only hear his favorite noise every three times. He keeps thrusting the offending car, with the offending noise at me. And I’m supposed to fix it. He doesn’t talk yet, but he does imitate the noise that he wants quite well. So through tears and rage, and assisted with a sniffly version of the siren he’s seeking, we struggle through together. He’s disillusioned as I don’t produce it immediately, followed by sheer joy that comes with finding the right sound. And then he rubs his nose on my shoulder, and we repeat the cycle.

Ah the joys of children playing. It’s a hilarious experience.  I remember the first really, truly, insane fight I had to break up between Baby and Baba. It was over an invisible flower. Yes, an invisible flower. And where it was to be placed on the baby doll’s head. So, being the understanding, good mom that I am, I gave each of them their own invisible flower. And left the room feeling satisfied. Only to again hear the shrieking and crying again. Because, each child had place her invisible flower on the exact same location on the baby doll’s head.  I believe this was the first time I exclaimed to my daughters “Are you guys for real?!!?” Not my finest moment after all.

They’ve gotten older, and their fights have too. Although it wasn’t that long ago that Baba came running out of their room yelling “MOM Baby won’t let my fairy come to her wedding!!!” Baby was hot on her heals explaining “She has a fever!!!!”

Adding Mac into the equation didn’t do much to mess with their groove. They would play house, along with Mac, Mac’s children would be his assorted baseball bats and trains. Not that there weren’t fights. Baby and Baba came out together to file a complaint. Mac was refusing to bring his knights to their ball. I commented that I believed that fell within Mac’s rights as a human being to not attend every ball his sisters threw.  Baby was completely baffled “But everybody loves a BALL!”

They keep each other entertained.. The girls build fairy houses; Mac builds a haunted house, complete with an octopus. I blame the grandfather who brought back a stuffed cuttle fish from some aquarium. Sometimes Mac hunts monsters with his gun, but more than once that has deteriorated into Baby, armed with his gun, running away screaming “He’s trying to bite me!” Mac, always helpful, shouting his own clarifications “No, I am going to pinch you!”

X-Man has started trying to keep up. He knows that he ought to be the center of attention. So he plows into the middle of whatever and sits himself down. X-Man is still cute enough that he will most likely be accommodated. Mac is the least likely to accept X-Man’s intrusions. Mostly because X-Man is primarily interested in Mac’s toys.

They play together well. I just hope the neighbors aren’t alarmed by the chalk outlines on the driveway.

Monday, February 25, 2013


The husband and I are in a challenging place in our marriage.

I had a different plan for this blog, but then the hubs, who was clearly surfing Netflix, looking for something to do because all the laundry was done or just hasn’t started screaming loudly enough, yelled to me that he found a movie for us to watch. Nude Nuns with Big Guns. For realz, that’s a movie.

So I, being the marvelous wife I am, said “OK hon, just let me finish this up.” And then Weird Al started playing. He had clearly moved on from Netflix browsing.  And herein is the problem. We can’t shock each other anymore. We’re too comfortable with each other. 

This was completely obvious the other night. I’m assisting a friend with her divorce. So when the hubs asked what I was planning on doing that evening, I responded, intentionally “Oh, just working on this divorce paperwork.” Now, I’m not sure if it’s just because we’ve been married long enough that he doesn’t listen to me at all, or, and this is my fear, I just can’t shock him anymore.

Now, a mature woman wouldn’t want to shock her husband, or get a reaction from him, at least like this. But I am who I am, and Hubs did know who he was attaching himself to for life.

When we were first married, I got a perverse pleasure of walking in to his office and announcing “We have to talk” and then launching in to a discussion about what to have for dinner. I lived for that panicked look on his face. I know I’m not a nice person.

I discovered how much fun it was completely unintentionally. About a month into our marriage, I casually mentioned to him that I was having a baby shower. His eyes were about to pop out of his head. I was perplexed by his flabbergasted response, until I clarified “It’s not for me! It’s for a friend” 

It struck me that it was particularly easy to throw him for a loop, and, more importantly, it was fun.

There is a time and place however. While it’s funny to announce that you want to change the baby’s name, while in labor. It’s not funny to joke about being pregnant. Telling him that you spent $300 on a car battery funny.  But car crashes not so funny. Telling him you’re going to cut your hair, amusing, but not really worth the reward. However, showing him websites about how to best prepare your placenta for consumption and that you feel strongly that this would best help him bonding with his new born…..awesome.

The problem is, I had fun for about ten years and now I can’t figure out how to get him anymore. And that leaves me sad. 

Thursday, February 21, 2013

I'm sitting in a coffee shop contemplating what kind of tea I want to order. And listening a middle aged couple argue over how dismissive he is of her opinion of Bill O'Reilly. I'm really trying not to listen, but she's annoyed that he doesn't like O'Reilly and he says she puts people in categories. I wish they'd put me in a category, the category of people who should not be able to hear your conversation.

I'm in the coffee shop because I am a failure as a stay at home mom. I'm not looking for validation from anyone, nor am I humblebragging, which is apparently a new term apparently mostly applied to mommy bloggers. So let's just clear that up right now. But, truly as a stay at home mom, not so good. I've been gone most of the afternoon, and I'm still gone. Albeit with different kids. My kids do a significantly better job at the whole stay at home bit than I do.


I blame soccer. Although, actually, this all started with ballet. Or maybe even with my being home schooled. One of my most distinct memories is being lonely. Wanting to do something, anything, with other people. Just basic social interaction. That really wasn't big on the rest of the family's radar, and so I vowed I would do better by my children. And now realize, they might just have been on to something.

It was one thing when it was just Baby and Baba, and Baba took one ballet class and Baby danced in the corner. It was exciting to see Baba with her hair up, in her little black leotard. And so, naturally, I signed her up for soccer, which she was so excited for. And if Baba did it, well Baby most certainly had to. So there were two ballet classes and two soccer practices. And three children.

But they kept getting better. So Baba had to take a different class than Baby. And soccer was at different times, at different fields. But it was still manageable. So naturally I decided that what I needed was another kid in soccer and three kids taking swimming lessons and three kids in ballet/creative movement. And a toddler. Because life should not be easy.

Again, it sort of made sense, except for the schedule. And X-Man was singularly unimpressed with the car. The other kids were confused. Were we people who lived in a car and had a house? Was that how it worked? X-Man made it clear that car seats are simply 21st century racks, and every one took their shoes off. Seriously. Baby took it to the furthest extreme, but not only removing her shoes, each and every time we got in the car, but also her tights, or socks, or pants. Because she got hot. Baba stuck with undoing her hair. Baby took sharpie to her pants, and NO I don't know where she got a sharpie from. And in the chaos of it all, I forgot to make sure Mac was wearing shoes....more than once.

But we soldiered on. I was clever and signed the kids up for swimming lessons in a block. Baba went first, Baby and Mac went together. For one week. And then the child who wouldn't put her face in the water for her swim test decided that not only could she put her face in the water, she could blow bubbles and float. She got moved to a different class. On a different day. Mac decided that was a good idea and followed suit. However, it took him an extra week to figure that out, he spent his first lesson bobbing up and down in the pool yelling "teacher, teacher! Did you know I love swimming!?!" So by the time he tested into Baby's class, she'd already decided she'd had enough of the level two scene and had advanced again. So in the course of three week, I went from having three children having swimming lessons on one day, in one hour, to three children having lessons on three different days.

Soccer's it's own monster, we have reached the point where there is no off season for Baba. Baby only has it two nights a week and Mac's in the clear. For now. But he should start brushing up on his wrestling skills now. I thought I knew what soccer involved, but it wasn't until Mac started playing that I discovered that boys' soccer has wrestling involved in it. Don't worry, the kid with the ball usually can jump the writhing mass, so the game goes on.

I have more or less found my balance in all this chaos. But every now and then I hear "Mom, mom, remember how it's going to be Baby's first communion and that mother daughter event that you want to take Baba to, because it talks her through what she's going to experience in the next few years, and there will be three soccer games a weekend, and there will be Baby's birthday and soccer try outs and Mother's Day and it will be the end of the school year so you'll be really busy with work, 'member? Yeah, I want to be born then!"

Wednesday, February 20, 2013


I was supposed to be working. I work from home, in addition to homeschooling and mothering. Which might explain why I’m so in over my head. Of course, the whole way this story is going will also explain why nothing I do is done well. It’s the ADD, or just the desire to avoid anything and everything. So, instead of grading papers, or ending the humanitarian crisis taking place in the other room, I believe it had to do with X-Man needing ALL the dinosaurs,  I was surfing the internet. Which led me to newest front in the Cold War…..the Mommy Wars.

For those of you who somehow missed this internet phenomenon, basically it goes like this “anything you can do I can do better.” For realz.

I don’t understand it. It’s probably because most people would look at me and choose the exact opposite of whatever path I’ve taken. Now I admit, I’m flying blind as a parent, and I’ve been doing this for ten years. Not to mention I have children sprouting out my ears. I should really have this whole process down. If anyone should be pontificating about how to raise children, at least on paper, that someone should be me. And yet I can’t convince X-Man that if he removes his shoes, bite his toes it will hurt. And he will yell at me. Just like today.

It’s just that no matter how much planning and thinking and research you might do to prepare for children, nothing prepares you for children. I’m not a criminal profiler, although that might be a wise career field for anyone considering parenthood, so I don’t know how to get into other people’s heads. You can’t prepare for the chaos that is coming.

That’s why I have little to no advice to give. I don’t know what moods my kids will be in tomorrow. Heck, I don’t even know what mood I’ll be in. I still don’t know why all the fairies Baby has to play with are defective and only Baba’s will do. I don’t know why X-Man will fill laundry baskets with stuffed animals, but must empty them completely of clothing before doing so. Who am I to tell anyone else “you’re doing it wrong”?

If you wade too deeply in the mommy wars online, you’ll discover that you’ve stumbled into the bar scene of Star Wars. What people fight about becomes more and more bizarre. I don’t know if the need for an echo chamber comes from insecurity or the delight of finding something that works for you. Of course, that disappears with more children. Then things that worked for the first born son makes no impact on Spare Heir.

And ten years, four children in I’m still making rookie mistakes. The other day, it was just X-Man and me out running errands. And his shoes were off again. As I glanced back at the cute little stinker, I gave his little fat foot a squeeze. D’oh. The rest of the car trip was X-Man yelling at me and shaking his foot. And the next day, as I got into the driver’s seat, X-Man started yelling and shaking his foot at me. We’re a week in now, me driving and holding X-Man’s foot. How did I not see this coming?

 I have plenty of opinions, and I do share them. But my only real opinion about child rearing is love them fierce. And if you love them fierce, you don’t have to worry what anyone else thinks. 

I was supposed to be working. I work from home, in addition to homeschooling and mothering. Which might explain why I’m so in over my head. Of course, the whole way this story is going will also explain why nothing I do is done well. It’s the ADD, or just the desire to avoid anything and everything. So, instead of grading papers, or ending the humanitarian crisis taking place in the other room, I believe it had to do with X-Man needing ALL the dinosaurs,  I was surfing the internet. Which led me to newest front in the Cold War…..the Mommy Wars.

For those of you who somehow missed this internet phenomenon, basically it goes like this “anything you can do I can do better.” For realz.

I don’t understand it. It’s probably because most people would look at me and choose the exact opposite of whatever path I’ve taken. Now I admit, I’m flying blind as a parent, and I’ve been doing this for ten years. Not to mention I have children sprouting out my ears. I should really have this whole process down. If anyone should be pontificating about how to raise children, at least on paper, that someone should be me. And yet I can’t convince X-Man that if he removes his shoes, bite his toes it will hurt. And he will yell at me. Just like today.

It’s just that no matter how much planning and thinking and research you might do to prepare for children, nothing prepares you for children. I’m not a criminal profiler, although that might be a wise career field for anyone considering parenthood, so I don’t know how to get into other people’s heads. You can’t prepare for the chaos that is coming.

That’s why I have little to no advice to give. I don’t know what moods my kids will be in tomorrow. Heck, I don’t even know what mood I’ll be in. I still don’t know why all the fairies Baby has to play with are defective and only Baba’s will do. I don’t know why X-Man will fill laundry baskets with stuffed animals, but must empty them completely of clothing before doing so. Who am I to tell anyone else “you’re doing it wrong”?

If you wade too deeply in the mommy wars online, you’ll discover that you’ve stumbled into the bar scene of Star Wars. What people fight about becomes more and more bizarre. I don’t know if the need for an echo chamber comes from insecurity or the delight of finding something that works for you. Of course, that disappears with more children. Then things that worked for the first born son makes no impact on Spare Heir.

And ten years, four children in I’m still making rookie mistakes. The other day, it was just X-Man and me out running errands. And his shoes were off again. As I glanced back at the cute little stinker, I gave his little fat foot a squeeze. D’oh. The rest of the car trip was X-Man yelling at me and shaking his foot. And the next day, as I got into the driver’s seat, X-Man started yelling and shaking his foot at me. We’re a week in now, me driving and holding X-Man’s foot. How did I not see this coming?

 I have plenty of opinions, and I do share them. But my only real opinion about child rearing is love them fierce. And if you love them fierce, you don’t have to worry what anyone else thinks. 

Tuesday, February 19, 2013


It’s been one of THOSE days. One of those days where I remember that I really, really hate homeschooling. Like pick it up and drop kick it hate.  I’m not one to extoll the virtues and write beautiful illustrated blog posts about the lovely craft the children and I did while studying fractals in a puddle. Homeschooling makes me cry.

But at least I’m not the only one. I learned to day that conifers are mean. And they make little girls cry. Or at least reading about them makes them cry.

And don’t even get me started on writing in complete sentences. Or putting a header on your paper. When I’m feeling particularly sadistic, and as I am not consuming coffee that’s more often than not, I will actually make children show me their work in math. Lining up the various place values! That’s its own level of hell.

I feel strongly about education. It’s the one thing you can lose. No one can take it from you. So of course it’s what a mother wants to give to all her children. Especially since their soccer commitments are burning through any spare cash that might trickle its way through the generations.

As it is, my gift is being thrown back in my face. Not only that, I am being actively sabotaged.  I overheard Baby tell one of my students, who was there for a math lesson “Just tell my mom you lost your book and let’s have a tea party.”

I’ve tried coaxing and cajoling. I’ve tried guilt, but mentioning girls who get shot because they try to attend school leads to the simple conclusion that school is detrimental to your health. And don’t mention schools that get blown up. That just leads to alleged fears that your school will be the next target. And as a result you should be left alone to play GI Joes.

Ai yi yi. At least tomorrow’s Wednesday. Half way there.

Maybe I’ll even let them do their assignments in Sharpie, since that is always the only writing utensil they can find. 

Monday, February 18, 2013


I’ve spent the last couple of years playing a weird, stressful game with myself. It’s called “Is he a boy? Or is he weird?”

It’s not all that hard. I’ve had family tell me often that Mac is “weird”. That he has “problems” and “autistic tendencies.” It’s not that these thoughts haven’t crossed my mind as well, but it is particularly bothersome to hear from family members. I see the oddities, the quirks and the mannerisms.  On a side note, never, ever take an online “does my child have autism” test. You will end up recognizing that all your children, your husband and your cat all have autism. Not helpful.

My family of origin doesn’t have a whole lot of “boy” experience. Sure there was a son, but he as surrounded by sisters, five of them. He is a laid back personality to begin with. And he didn’t have much of the way of testosterone laidened peers until he was about eight. So he’s not the best measuring stick.

So I’m left wondering “Is he a boy? Or is he weird?” And there’s a case to be made for either one.

Like when Mac explained "I don't like it when I get in trouble." Me "Neither do I, what should we do about that?" Mac "Let me do whatever I want." Not really that weird. Nor all that boyish. Just human.

However, licking sap off his feet and yelling “yummy.” I’m going to have to go with weird.

Campaigning to name preborn X-Man “Peter Parker.” Pretty boyish. Although I’m pretty sure there was a hope that this brought his new brother some superpowers along with it.

"Mac are you doing what I told you to?" "Yep, but don't come check!" Not weird, not boyish. Very kid-like.

Informing me that he’s scared that I’m haunted….gonna have to go with weird.

Mac's creative. When he wanted to leap from counter to table, or from the treadmill, he brought me a book to read. His very insistent "Read this mommy. NO! Look at your book. Don't look at me.” Didn't set off any alarm bells, none so whatsoever. Conniving. Not weird.

Being awakened by my son jumping on the bed, singing, "I'm naked, I'm naked."  Which he indeed was. Weird. The whole, it being 4:26 am, that was just icing on the cake.

Hearing “get dressed” and taking that to mean “sit in the middle of your room and sing....naked." Weird.

Explaining that it's ok that he peed on my bedroom floor "Because I didn't go stinkies" That’s almost lawyer-esque.

Walking out of his bedroom, sitting forlornly on the couch, at 11:15 pm no less "I wish there were bugs in my room. There aren't any. Not yet." Kinda weird.

”Mac don't pick your nose, it's yucky.”  “But it's yummy to me!” yikes.

Mommy tells Mac "no", Mac shoots mommy. It's a work in progress. But understandable in a way.

Is it typical for your young man to commence peeing with a gunshot noise? That’s weird in my book.

After dinner the other night, Mac and I were going through letters of the alphabet and he was telling me what words began with them. For “q” he told me “quest.” I admit, I was impressed. For “b” he began with bomb, and then moved on to a “very important word. Blood.” As he was listing words, he climbed across every chair in the kitchen, until he reached my chair. He ended up in my lap, arms around my neck, listing “r” words. Mac’s legal name starts with “r” so I looked into his brown eyes and asked “Mac do you know what mommy’s absolute favorite ‘r’ word is?” He tightened his grip around my neck, and earnestly replied “Rooster.”

He might just be weird. But he’s my little boy.







                                                                                                                                                                                                

Sunday, February 17, 2013


It’s Sunday. The Lord’s Day. And lordy, what a day.

Church has always been a bit of a battle for this family. First of all, it requires getting up. Out of bed. And getting dressed. And that’s quite unreasonable, according to some, well all, other members of this family. Just today, Baba informed me that she would like to take showers on Sunday mornings instead of Saturday nights. I told her that was a perfectly acceptable option, but it did mean that she would have to get up early enough to do it. Her response was “yeah, you’ll just have to get me up earlier.”

It’s getting easier, as the father figure doesn’t work on Sundays anymore. At some point in time I put my foot down and refused to go it alone. And by alone, I mean alone with the kids. I think it was the day that left me wondering  what my favorite part of church was. Was it Baby and Mac working on letter sounds, Baby loudly correcting all errors? Was it Mac shoving Baba out of the pew to communion yelling "come on. Let's go!" Was it Baby weeping the whole time because I wouldn't let her use my skirt as a blanket? Or was it Mac wailing "I can't do this. I'm too little!"

Mac did explain his objection to church “it’s weird.” What’s weird about it? “The being quiet part.” Rest assured, the doughnuts are not weird, he likes his doughnuts. Mac’s also the only kid I know who ends up with a bloody nose during Vacation Bible School. Somehow that doesn’t strike him as weird.

I’m not certain as to how the kids can attend the same service,  52 times a year, and still not know what’s going on. I’m mean, why else would they start asking “how much longer?” “When’s church going to be over?” the minute we walk in the door. Followed by the most important question “Are there doughnuts? Where are the doughnuts? When do I get some?”

Not that it’s a wasted effort or anything. Mac likes to talk about all the “God stuff” he sees. I’m not certain that he realizes that doughnuts don’t qualify as “God stuff.” He’s stopped plugging his ears during the singing. Today he was singing, quite nicely I might add, along with the rest of the conregation. His lyrics were “blah blah blah blah.” The tempo and tuning was on point, so I rolled with it.

It’s fairly mild behavior from the child who walked in, sat down, stood up, stared down his pants for a good minute and then announced “yep, I did put my underwear on.”




Friday, February 15, 2013

It's been the kind of day where you get an email at 7pm letting you know "oops, we read the soccer schedule wrong. Tomorrow's a double header and the first game's at 7am." Yeah. So this is short and sweet.

It occurred to me that I might need to introduce my children. The internet is forever, and I'm not exactly the kind of person you want to admit you know. And I figure that my children will feel the same way. One day they will google their names, and I'd prefer them to not remember large segments of their childhood. Or that their mother was so completely in over her head. I'm sure they have their suspicions, but I don't want to confirm them. And then there is the issue of their future employers. I certainly don't want to open up the whole can of worms that comes with background checks. I can see it now "well you are fully qualified for this position, but man, that's a whole can of crazy you came from. Have you overcome your childhood?"

My oldest child is a girl, nearly ten. I call her Baba. Why? Because there was a point in time where Baby, my second child, also a girl, didn't speak English. Oh, she spoke. But it wasn't English. However, she did have names for both her sister and herself. Baba and Baby. So I kept them. Baba has red hair. Baby has brown curly hair. Baba has blue eyes, Baby brown. Baby looks Italian, you can see through Baba's skin. Genetics don't make sense to me.

About ten minutes into my pregnancy with my oldest son, I started getting sick. Repeatedly. Sooner than I would have liked, I told my four year old Baba and two year old Baby, that there was a baby in my tummy. And then I vomited. Baba brought me a cup of water and Baby brushed my hair, with the wrong side of a toothbrush. And as Baba watched me drink my lukewarm water in a sippy cup, with no lid, she said "I am glad I am having a baby brother Mama, and I'm going to call him Mac." She also told me that Mac would have brown hair. Not so much.

Then there's X-Man. That's a play on his name, and the fact that he's my parents' tenth grandchild. While he was still in utero, I referred to him as "Spare Heir." I was highly amused by that. I figured my son might not be. And since he's about the size of a truck, I'm thinking there's nothing spare about him.   I give it a good two weeks before he's able pin Mac. Mac's five, X-Man is eighteen months. Mac has Baby's brown eyes and Baba's translucent skin and red hair. X-Man looks like Baby, if she were a linebacker.

And those are the lives I am damaging as we speak. Did I mention I met their father in a McDonalds?

Thursday, February 14, 2013


The  State of the Union address took place this week. I didn’t watch it; I was too busy running to the grocery store during soccer practice. In general, I like to watch it, civic duty and all that. I also think it’s a good way to teach your children about being involved in their community. And it leads to good questions such as Baby’s “Why is SHE called the First Lady? She’s not the First Lady of the World, I know LOTS of ladies way older than she is.”
I was disappointed, when looking at the reviews of the speech, to see there are some important issues that were most certainly not addressed. I’ve heard that closing GITMO is still the plan, and harsh interrogation tactics are supposedly discontinued. But there are real crises here in this country.

Dear Mr. President,


Did you know that every day, children in this country are forced to brush their teeth? With their own toothbrushes? Not only are their mouths forces open, scrubbing occurs, whether they want it or not, and they don’t even get to choose which toothbrush is used! I challenge you to stand outside a closed bathroom door and determine whether tooth brushing or waterboarding is occurring on the other side. I bet you can’t.

Every day, American children are forced to take showers. With soap and shampoo. Even if they took a shower two days ago. Every day, faces are washed. Numerous times a day. What’s with that? And noses are wiped. And that’s really annoying. Snot is natural. And it’s made by our children, why, why do we reject it so?

Every child here in the United States has had to undergo diaper changes. It’s their waste, and yet we don’t allow them to decorate the home as they see fit. Rather we wipe it away, while holding their legs and arms. Restraining them and forcing them to lie still for 30 seconds…..aren’t we better than that?

Children are forced to eat their food. Their artistic expressions and use of gravity of during meals are rejected by their parents. And to add insult to injury, their own elbows are rejected from the dinner table. Not only are these children—our future—forced to use plates and silverware,  they are forced to place the instruments of torture on the table and remove them. How degrading.

We force our children out into the sun and deny them fresh air due to phony concerns such as rain. Absurd. And what’s with the whole “stay out of the mud” rule? Existing simple to crush their spirits.
Homework. Written legibly. Completed on time. With real answers, not made up ones. Well what about their imaginations?

These abuses occur to children across our country every day. And don’t think your children are immune. I’ve seen them. Their shoes match, their hair is brushed. Yep, even your children suffer.

Tragic. It’s all I can say.

PS Do you know how hard it is to floss someone you have in a sleeper hold? Any tips from your spooks? 


Wednesday, February 13, 2013


A group of my friends were talking about “the birds and the bees.” Where did that come from? Maybe if it was the “bunny rabbits” that would make sense, but birds are so discrete and the bees pawn it off on the queen. Anyway. Many of us have daughters reaching the age where they are going to have to recognize that life indeed will suck when they grow up.

I remember learning about what was coming down the pipe. And thinking “really, really?” I completely believe in intelligent design, but is this really the best method out there? And if this is the best, then what the heck was rejected??? I’m not really sold on the process so of course, I don’t know how to sell it to my daughters. But it’s a conversation that has to happen. Sooner rather than later. I remember being nine years old and thinking that I was going to die of breast cancer, since I felt a lump there. Sigh.

Of course, any talk of birds and the bees does involve talking about babies, and how they get here. This is an area that doesn’t bother me. I call it like I see it. The father figure is the one who gets frazzled in this department.

It all started when I discovered that I could get about 20 minutes all to myself in the morning if little toddler Baba would take a shower with her father in the morning. She was just over a year, so he was willing. I got breakfast cleaned up, could start dinner and was all ready to face life with a toddler, while gestating. And so it work out until Baba pointed and yelled “nose” at something that wasn’t a nose. And expelled from the shower she was.

And so things rolled, and then Mac joined the family. The girls were admiring their new found servant and offering all sorts of helpful advice to the nurse who was tending to him. Suddenly Baba loudly asked “what’s that? Is it a finger?” I was only half listening at the time, but caught the nurse’s stricken look and so the biology lessons began.  Which were apparently very necessary because….well Mac is a boy and therefore has a pathological resistance to clothes.

The phone was Mac's Pavlov's Dog. One ring and off came the clothes.....

One of the biggest shocks that came with having boy was adjusting to the whole naked aspect. Why do little boys love to be naked? Is it because it makes the poop more accessible? That’s a whole other can of worms, but the need to strip off his clothes was absurd. I get that the family jewels are something that never get old.  I know a little boy who was so disturbed by his mother’s lack of a penis that he offered to pray to Jesus that she get one. Not sure how that turned out. My nephew, at around 18 months, loved to take off during diaper changes, run to a corner and observe himself jiggle while he danced. Meanwhile my girls lay docilely during their diaper changes, pooping once a day, after their afternoon naps.  And nudity was never their preferred method of existence.

“Mac, why are you taking off your clothes? “
“Because it’s a good idea!”
Oh, of course. Never mind that we are in the middle of Target.From what I’ve heard, boys and their mothers never agree on what constitutes a good idea. Ever.  And rumor has it; it gets worse when they are teenagers.

When I envisioned parenthood, I didn't imagine myself having to yell “Don't take your shirt off” in the halls of Sunday school.

Nor did I imagine the challenges that procuring superhero underpants would present. Like the overwhelming desire to show them to everyone along with the inability to pull down your pants without pulling down your awesome underpants as well.

“Mommy, does this shirt make me strong?” “Not really honey, clothes don’t make you strong.” Along struts a naked Mac, “I don’t like things that don’t make me strong.”
Mac’s had an affinity to things that made him strong. It’s excellent motivation to eat whatever is served him. 
But after nearly four years together, I should have seen this result.

So, courtesy of Mac, the girls learned the differences between girls and boys. Girls wear clothes. I’m thinking this lesson will pay dividends in the future.

Back when Mac was in utero, Baba asked me how he got there. Her father got up and walked out of the room. He said it was so that he could double check how that convent he’s having built in the backyard was coming along. I went with the whole keep it simple, and told her that mommy and daddy put him in there. To which she replied “oh yeah, and I helped!” Sigh. I still thank God that she didn’t bother repeating THAT to anyone else.
T
hen Mac came along, with all his Mac-ness and nudity. He was three when X-Man announced his presence. Mac was super excited and had all sorts of pressing questions.

“When are you going to open up your tummy and take out the baby and will it be a robot?” He might need some more work on the whole birds and bees concept.
After my ultrasound, which we took everyone to, his questions became much more personal. “Can I open up your tummy and touch the baby? Because I think he's crying.”

Things continued, and then one night, Mac asked the question  "Mom, how'd the baby get in your tummy?" But unlike previous times, he had sisters to answer him.

Baba "mom and dad put him there."
Baby "NO. FIRST, God put the house in mommy's tummy, THEN mom and dad put him there.”
And I sat back and considered my job done. They’re figuring out the whole circle of life. Until Mac announced……..“Mommy, you're a girl, just like Daddy."

 I don't know which one of us was more insulted.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013


I don’t know if it’s political correctness, or just a lacking of a funny bone, but I have learned that people don’t think it’s funny when you tell them your mother’s helper is named “Jose Cuervo.” Odd. They also don’t seem to take you seriously.

What makes motherhood so serious? I get that we’re raising the future generation, impressionable youth and all that. But what’s so wrong about admitting you’re raising human beings. Human beings with their own opinions and personalities. Human beings who, no matter how organic the food, will prefer to eat day old crusted cheerios. Sure, go ahead, withhold sugar from them. They’ll find it. And love it. And it doesn’t make them hyper.  Oxygen makes them hyper.

There’s just no winning with some folks. I remember Baba wanting to go off with the pater familias in Costco once. I had a list of instructions for her to do, consisting of “don’t get lost” and “don’t break things.” She earnestly nodded and replied “I’ll try”. To which I responded “No you’ll DO.” Enter, lady with no life of her own, who sniffed loudly and radiated disapproval. Why, all the “how to do motherhood right” posters say you’re supposed to clearly explain expectations.

Apparently, there are women who live to eavesdrop on younger mothers. And then radiate “You’re DOING IT WRONG!” And there’s no pleasing them. Or knowing when they are going to go all Sanctimommy on you. While at Whole Foods (where you can buy Sanctimommy by the bushel) I had Mac and Baby contained within the cart. This is, in and of itself impressive, as anyone who has ever shopped at Whole Foods will know. Mac’s foot brushed Baba’s knee which cause of volcanic eruption of shrieking. Without removing my eyes from the task on hand, finding an appropriate birthday cake for the father figure, I announced “That kind of noise is only appropriate when your head is on fire.”  Mrs. Whole Foods Child Rearing Expert decided to decree “Sarcasm is not child friendly.” This time it took effort for me to not look up, but man if there was ever a time to keep it cool, and I replied “Well it beats beating them.” Apparently not abusing your children isn’t funny either.

I guess to all those Sanctimommies out there, I wish I could say “No, YOU’RE doing it wrong!”  I probably would, but Mac is wrestling Baba and X-Man over the selection of Phineas and Ferb, and this can’t end well for me. Or them. Mostly me though. I’ll have to sit through four or five versions of who wronged whom. And I don’t really care.

And for the record, there is a library full of books in the same room as the garish cartoon characters. As well as crayons, and pencils and all sorts of artistic outlets. But then I would have to clean up that mess, and I don’t want to right now. So yes, my children could be expanding their minds and expressing themselves through the medium of color. Or they could continue to punch each other and yell about who picked with episode last time. Conflict resolution is a skill, it’s not innate. Clearly. Now go feel better about your life, and maybe understand just why women feel the need to share their parenting opinions with me. 

Monday, February 11, 2013


“Remember; never, ever refer to Dads babysitting. It’s not babysitting if he’s watching his own kids.”  Wise enough words from my Mother in Law. The thought of parenting advice from your mother in law might make most people cringe, but, in general, I get beneficial comments. I agree with the premise, he can’t actually baby sit that which is referred to as “the fruit of his loins.” It’s his darn fruit. He needs to take care of it.

A couple of years after my MIL’s words, I noticed it was becoming a trend on some of the mommy blogs I would occasionally stumble upon. I’m not one for reading, especially from people who seem to be more than just surviving their lives. And goes double for those whose children are thriving under their care. In any case, the refrain “dads don’t babysit” was gaining popularity. And it got me thinking.

I strongly agree that dads watching kids is no big deal. It’s what they sign up for. They bought a ticket for the ride didn’t they? So with that comes the duty to care and tend for the little seedlings that have sprouted. Moms don’t expect high fives and nights off for gaming because they spent two hours caring for their kids. I did actually demand a car with a red bow in my driveway for Christmas after an afternoon in the mall the weekend before Christmas, with four children.  I got a red pullover. Close enough.

But it got me thinking. Dads don’t babysit, that’s true. But isn’t it at least partly because no one would pay for the care that dads provide. Seriously, think about it. Would you pay someone if you walked in the front door to the sight of two naked toddlers,sitting on the kitchen counter, eating cereal out of the box? Probably not. Would you pass along the name of the person—adult—who taught your two year old son to play baseball…..in the house? I suppose if you owned a window company or something.

Dads think it’s ok, even acceptable, to take kids up on the roof of the house. Show them around. Dads teach kids to use the monkey bars by standing on the opposite side and yelling “Come on!” Dads think asking “what do you want for dinner?” is a perfectly acceptable question, and that basing a menu on the preferences of toddlers who find cereal “too crunchy” is reasonable. Dads take kids on bike rides, across interstate bridges, and try to clean up the blood before mom sees.  Dads say yes to second doughnuts, and believe that giving a toddler a gaming remote, while they’re gaming, counts as interaction. Dads say “if someone hits you, hit them back.” Dads tell two year olds to not be afraid of the dark. Dads make kindergartners go down waterslides.

And no matter what, Dads say “clean your room” but the follow through…..not so much.         

In all honesty, the quality of care that dads provide isn’t something that moms are willing to pay for. And it’s just the kind of care that children find priceless.

Friday, February 8, 2013


I’m not one for those car stickers depicting your family. For one, it’s just too much personal information. Then there’s the fact that none of them properly depict my reality. See I’m looking for the one that has the dad blissfully standing there, two daughters chasing soccer balls, two boys wrestling and a baby girl being perfect. Because I can dream. Then, on the opposite side, me, rocking back and forth beating my head against a corner. See, reality isn’t really attractive to others. And I’m not in the mood to paint a brighter picture. That’s what my boards on Pintrest are for.

There’s a car, well make that pimped out truck—complete with monster truck tires—about town. He’s awfully proud of his baby trick, er truck, which screams “compensating” to me, but that’s another story. He too has decals on the back of his truck, a “no kids” decal. Followed by several money bags stickers. Classy. Hey to each their own. There is a certain financial appeal to a life with no one else’s life depending on you. I get that, but I also am pretty certain that there are a few things this fellow doesn’t know.

Dear Megabucks with the Overdone Truck,

Did you know that if two toddlers sit on an open dryer door, they will break it?
Did you know that if you leave your front loader washer’s door open, an  18 month old can, and most likely will, take a bite out of the gasket? Did you know that then causes leaks?
Did you know that it is acceptable to a discerning palate, that cannot consume icky rice, to suck frappacinos off the floor?
Did you know that you might actually have to yell “Don’t lick the turkey!” while shopping in Costco?
Did you know that a child can poop and pee on you at the same time?
Hair brushes and combs were banned by the Geneva convention.
Getting a toddler into a car seat is simply pig wrestling with an urban flair.
Bathtubs are terrifying, rivers are irresistible.
Fingerfood is a living word.
You can teach your son to hold the door for you, but all bets are off when a dragonfly enters the picture.
Did you know that a five year old can fit on the bottom of a shopping cart?
Did you know that a teething toddler’s drool can short out  a smart phone in less than two seconds?
Did you know that three pieces of pineapple can fit up a three year old’s nose?
Washing of the face is unimaginable cruelty. Doggy kisses are da bomb.
A toddler and a poopy diaper can sow seeds of destruction that your local SWAT team can only dream of.
Give a child any pair of sunglasses and they will sing the praises of 3-D.
It will take a child five minutes to master any electronic device. Give yourself three years to teach shoe tying.

This isn’t the place, but I can tell you where every public restroom is in the metropolitan area, along with the drinking fountains. If you have time, I can even describe which ones’ water tastes “yucky.”

Just some helpful life lessons you might have missed. These lessons stick with you  better if you experience them first hand. There are some things money can’t buy. Mostly, really expensive lessons. But, I have found these lessons invaluable.


Thursday, February 7, 2013


Family bed? HA! Sounds sweet and lovely and appealing...because "Jungle of legs and errant arms and head butts with a side of broken noses and pillows marked as territory" just doesn't have the same ring.
It’s deceptive advertising. But seriously, the virtues of the family bed are far exaggerated. That is unless you don’t intend your bed to be used for such outlandish things as sleeping. If you are looking for an easy to use jungle gym, the family bed is your thing.

As I have said, I was very clueless when I had my first child. So I stumbled upon the family bed after falling asleep while nursing. And I liked it.  As shown by my rejection of bottle feeding, I am always about the easy way out. What is that they say, pennywise pound foolish?
Some of my favorite memories are coming home from church, after coffee and doughnuts of course, and having a family nap in our family bed. Glorious. I could even abide the fact that my daughter could only fall asleep by playing with my cuticles. Seriously. Traced each one with her little fingernail, and heaven help me if she found a hang nail. About this time I realized that tactile children were….challenging. And that self-soothing still, somehow, required mom. Again with the deceptive advertising. Baby did give up on pulling my hair to fall asleep when she could finally find some wisps on her own head. Mac went for the jugular, literally. Loved to play with my neck. X-Man is all about the ear. But, in a rare break for me, if he has a choice of an ear; he goes with his dad’s. I’ll wake up to see the boy lying on top of his father, ears in both hands.

The girls didn’t spend a whole lot of time in our bed. We learned with our first that lying down with her to take a nap was a totally great idea, until you discover that nap time is the closest thing you have to freedom for the next eighteen years. And you just decided to spend it as a visitor in prison. Partially because I was working so much when Baby was born, she slept well and on her own. Good child.

But then came friends who read baby books and new things about fads like “gentle parenting” and “attachment parenting.” They started extolling the virtues baby wearing and cosleeping and extended nursing and basically things that I was doing…..sort of. But if I wanted healthy, well-adjusted children, and who wouldn’t, I would have to embrace theses philosophies more fully. And so I did.

Whoops.

Who doesn’t want to be awaken from a semi-restful slumber to the announcement “Mommy I peed in your bed, so I’m going to go sleep in mine now.” It’s really actually a polite way to ease yourself into Monday. And it’s not like you could blow off laundry anyway.

It’s not like I tried to keep them with us. Just the opposite. In what I thought was a stroke of genius, I took them shopping with Christmas money from Grandma and Grandpa, to buy their own bedding. What better way to convey that “This is YOUR bed” than sleeping in your own Tow Mater sheets. That victory lasted about three hours. Just long enough for me to assume that I was indeed in the clear.  "There are monsters in my room, or, I mean, a robot. There's a big robot in room, and I'm scared. I mean, Spiderman. Spiderman is in my room, can I sleep with you?"
"I thought Spiderman was your friend, why are you scared?"
"Spiderman is in my bed, so I need to sleep with you”

Of course Spiderman is in your bed, YOU put him there. Along with every matchbox car in existence.  As we discovered when it was bedtime. Mac jumped into bed yelled "ouch" and jumped back out. He pulled the covers back, announced "oh yeah, cars sleeping" and proceeded to remove 20 or so cars and trucks from his bed. At least they were sleeping in his bed. Mac believes that the term “family bed” should be stretched to include any and all toys that catch his fancy. It wasn’t until I woke up with a matchbox car tangled in my hair, and that’s every bit as much fun as it sounds, that I realized he wasn’t limiting himself to the cars he could carry in his hand. Oh no. FYI footed pajamas make great toy carriers. Simply unzip a bit and start filling. If it sounds uncomfortable to sleep like that, that’s because it is. So of course all the cars must come out, in mommy and daddy’s bed. And sometimes the diaper comes off with them.

It’s not that I didn’t try to keep it clear that THIS was mommy and daddy’s bed. In OUR bedroom. But our world is really my kids’ oyster. I distinctly remember instructing Mac one night that if he was disgruntled about a perceived misappropriation of blankets between parents and child, he was welcome to move back to his room where there were blankets aplenty and ripe for the taking. He actually listened and trundled off to his bedroom. I did not intend for him to return with every blanket

Other things I was never prepared for. Being awakened at 2am, being smacked in the face. Mac smiled and said “go sleep mommy. I pet you." So I said, “Ok”.  In all fairness, this had nothing to do with cosleeping or having a family bed. He was in his own room at the time….or he was supposed to be. I’m not sure how you teach “you shouldn’t really pet mama when she is supposed to be sleeping.” I should have gotten the boy a dog. And then dealt with a two year old boy and a puppy.  At that point in time, I’d would have rather be awoken while the boy is going through his petting phase.   But by the third night, when he woke me up and asked if he could pet me, I said “no” and that phase ended.

Only to be follow a couple weeks later by Mac waking me up to talk to his hair. And I did. I don't know who has more issues. It was early in the morning, so I don’t really remember what I said. Something about getting enough sleep helps hair grow like wildfire. And boy has it.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

I am reverting to old stories, cutting and pasting, because X-Man is asleep on my rotund belly. Now while some might think that having a child fall asleep on you while you are blogging is, in fact, not something you should admit in public, I maintain it is proof that I has all the multitaskingz.


 I had one of the most enjoyable parenting moment ever yesterday. In order maintain some sort of guise of anonymity I will refer to my offspring as the youngest in the family does. The elder daughter is named "Baba" and the younger refers to herself as "Baby."


So Baba and Baby were particularly naughty yesterday. Baba drew on the walls with a pencil, a pencil I sharpened for her no less, and Baby added red marker to the mix. Where was I? Scrubbing the crayon off the walls in their room.


Baba tried to pin the blame on Baby alone, but since she was holding the pencil, and I sharpened it for her, I jumped on that like ocean view property in Arizona. Baby kept pointing to the wall and yelling "Baba." So they both got wall scrubbing duties. And then were sent to bed.


Baby, not yet being two, thought this was unbelievably cruel. And voiced her opinions, for about an hour. I kept putting her in bed, she kept getting out. It got quiet, and then the phone rang. I was puzzled for a moment, since it was me calling me. Or my cell phone calling my home phone. (I use my cell phone as an alarm clock) So, Baby, not satisfied with being contained in her bed, decided to mess with stuff in my room. Well, this could be fun. And it was.


I answered the phone, which was promptly dropped on the other side. So I said "Baby, what are you doing?" There was no answer. "Baby, why are you playing with Mama's phone?" No answer. "Baby, you get into bed right now!" That produced screams and tears and yelling. And other odd sounds. More yelling and crying. "Baby, you get into bed and you stay there." More outrage. I thought I should hand up my cell phone so I walk into my bedroom.


Baby was sitting on my bed, pointing to the phone and going off on me. (the only discernible word in her yelling was Mama) I hung up both. My cell phone was laying upside down on the nightstand, and Baby was clearly upset that she had been busted.

Knowing that Mama had eyes everywhere, Baby stayed in bed and took a nap.

Monday, February 4, 2013


Someone once described Baby as “the most un-self-conscious child ever”. That’s pretty darn accurate.  Which means that I tend to be a most self-conscious mother. See Baby requested a microphone for Christmas so that “all the neighbors can hear my beautiful singing.” She’s the kid who dances and twirls in store aisle. And yes, I’ve told her to stop. But the ratio of listening ability to bellowing ability is indeed inverse, so if she’s singing, there is no listening occurring. You could continue to correct the behavior, but then you are just talking to yourself, and then everyone thinks you’re crazy, not just the judgmental old ladies who swear you’re in over your head. Which I, for one, am. But I don’t need everyone telling me so. My children, in general, lack the social awareness that keeps some kids from spinning and dancing in the store aisles. Truly, it’s a ritual,
“What are you supposed to be doing?”
“Holding onto the cart”
“What are you not supposed to be doing?”
“Spinning and dancing.”
 So just what is it about sparkly brown eyes and curly brown hair that makes it physically impossible to be quiet? She’s a little thing. Always been on the smaller side of life. But hello world, hear her roar…..and that’s just her saying good morning.  What is harder to communicate over paper are the ginormous hand gestures that accompany her rising timber. It’s amazing what genetics will convey. Not one of my kids was born with an innate ability to cook incredible foods, but they sure have all those Italian mannerisms.  So hurry on, maybe the crazy singing child will follow you, probably not because she does march to the beat of her own drum, one that makes it harder to follow her. And certainly it’s harder for her to follow you. Probably shrieking "Poke her, poke her, poke her in the face." I don't think I'll correct her.
It’s well known that children will find the worst things to say and repeat those at the most inopportune moments. Without fail. Be prepared. You could teach them only to sign….in Latin, and they’ll still belt out PitBull lyrics, about being too drunk no less, while walking up the stairs into church. I try hard not to actually listen to my daughter singing her odd mix of a song about Princesses, Airplanes and Dreams. Judging from the artists she's drawing from, I'm thinking that this belongs in the parenting hall of FAIL. My personal parenting hall of fail is bursting.
 Of course if I did stop to actually listen I would hear something along the lines of “We were both young when I first saw you, you're hot and you're cold I love spinning with bubbles."  Lyrical whiplash at its finest, although that might be an abuse of the word “lyrical.” It’s hard not being the mother who shouts “Would you please sing as if the world is actually listening????” Even when your new lyrics are actually an improvement on the original. That’s what’s so magical about kiddos, their ability to improve on any situation. Which is why they have so much useful advice for those of us who are trying to raise them. Advice that is freely shared, frequently. I’d pass along their wisdom, but Baby just walked into the room bellowing “I like big pants.”
I guess that's the homeschooler's version of Sir Mix-A-Lot. And they say homeschoolers are sheltered.