Showing posts with label tween. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tween. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Best Mom in the Universe Award


Sit down, other moms in the universe.  I got this one. This award is all mine.  Mine, mine, mine.

Whoohoo!! My tween is happy with me! I rock!
(I'm doing that cheesy, happy dance that moms sometimes do when no one is looking.  On the plus side, I am not wearing my mom jeans so it looks classy a little less cheesy.)

Why is my tween happy with me and thinks I am the "best mom in the whole universe," you ask?

After years of pleading, begging, groveling, demanding, and more pleading, I finally gave my daughter her first cell phone.

Yes, it cost me an entire penny, but remember it is the thought that counts.

Mostly, it's my thought that counts and here is what I think:
My 9 year old did not need a phone even though she wanted one.  My 10 year old didn't need a phone even though classmates had phones.  My 11 year old didn't need a phone even though she insisted she was the only person on the planet who didn't have one.  But my 12 year old needs a phone because I need her to have a phone.

Pretty simple logic, right?  She is starting middle school and is already off and about an awful lot.  I want to be able to contact her if needed, and I want to know she can contact me.

This phone is perfect, too.  Just ask her.  She'll tell you it's fabulous because it is red and she can text her friends and family.  I'll tell you it's perfect because we didn't pay for the data plan so she cannot access the Internet and she cannot text photos.  Also, the phone made my tween the happiest I have seen her in two years.  We are both quite pleased with this red phone.

It took her all of 3 seconds to figure out all of the the phone features and lack of features.  In the course of a few hours she had texted one friend over 53 times.  I sure hope we invested in unlimited texting.

So today I get the Best Mom in the Universe Award.  I've been told it won't last long enough to collect dust, but wow...what a moment!

Saturday, June 1, 2013

My Husband's Foray into Shoe Shopping

My husband is hilarious.  And by "hilarious" I actually mean "clueless" but that just sounds mean and I am not a mean girl.

My husband discovered an awesome website that offers fabulously discounted items for those who bike, run, camp, and love being active outdoors.  In other words, it's perfect for people unlike myself.

If you want to learn more about this awesome site click here:  http://www.theclymb.com/invite-from/JenniferSchwirian

My daughter has complained for weeks that her shoes don't fit.
As it turns out her shoes don't fit.

This is at least the third time her feet have sprouted out of her shoes in the last six months. I'm not sure what we are feeding her?

I had the brilliant idea of buying her clown shoes and allowing her feet to grow into them.  My husband had the compassionate idea of buying her new shoes that actually fit her.

He showed me a picture of a pair of shoes from the fantastic website and asked, "Do you think she would like these?"

Isn't that just the sweetest, most naive thing you've ever heard?  Really, my hubby is just the nicest guy.  And by "nicest guy" I actually mean "nicest guy."

I gave hubby my, "Are you kidding me?" look.

He gave me his, "Why are you looking at me like that?" look.

I gave him my, "Seriously?  You don't get it?" look.

He then responded non verbally with his, "What is so strange about the question I just asked you?" look.

Yes, my husband and I communicate much more frequently nonverbally than we do verbally.  After all, we are married. We stopped effectively communicating verbally back in the late 1990s.

The point, seemingly lost on my hubby, is my our inability to predict what shoes our tween may or may not like.  Give me a zillion guesses and I would still guess wrong.  In part, I think my tween daughter prides herself on being unpredictable.  If I think she may like something it only provides her with more motivation to not like that thing.  I just love this developmental stage. I'll let you guess what I mean by "love."

On top of being a tween, she is a future women.  Other than Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, and Steve Madden, when in the history of mankind did a man predict what shoes a woman would buy?

I explained all of this to my dear hubby.

I added that our tween would love, love, love to shop online with him for shoes, but any attempt to guess what shoes she may or may not like would be best left to those who own a magic ball.

As her parents, our magic ball is broken.  From what I understand, it'll be fixed in about eight years.


Thursday, May 23, 2013

The ABC's of Elementary School


Just yesterday my daughter entered kindergarten. I blinked a few times and now she's wrapping up sixth grade.

This means next Fall she'll go to a new school, meet new friends, and be in middle school. I keep telling myself this is awesome.

Seven years at one school is a long time. I have nooooooooo idea how it passed by so quickly. Seriously. How did it go by so quickly?

As a mom who has now officially experienced the K - 6th grade years, I've learned a few things. Let's call them the ABC's of elementary school.

A - Always bring tissues with you to the 6th grade graduation. Once upon a time you mocked parents who cried at meaningless events like 6th grade graduation. Now that your precious 6th grader is graduating, your ugly cry will require an obscene amount of tissues. What's wrong with me you?  Know that if your tween even sees a single tear in your eye, she'll disown you on the spot.  No questions asked. For this reason, once you can speak without choking out tears say to no one in particular, "Darn allergies!"

B - Be open-minded. Yes, your child is nearly perfect and you are the only person on the planet who is allowed to find fault with your angel. However, it just so happens that the teacher who is helping your precious child will see him in situations you're not privy to like recess, math class, and the lunch line.  It goes to reason that the trained professional may have helpful insights about your child. Sometimes that includes the good, the bad, the ugly.  If our children truly were perfect then we wouldn't need to parent them, right? It's sort of like job security for us parents. Be open-minded to the teachers' observations. They work with these little hellions children every day. They may actually know more about our child than we think.

C - Calm the heckaroo down!  This parenting gig is a marathon event not a sprint. If Susie Q doesn't win student government in 3rd grade, she'll cry, you'll cry, but her life isn't ruined. If Johnny gets a lousy grade in 5th grade science, this doesn't mean he's not college material.  Not every battle is worth fighting. Sometimes it's healthy for children to learn that life isn't fair. Breathing deeply and staying calm in the face of adversity is sometimes the best lesson we can teach our children.

To all the teachers who helped shape my daughter's elementary school years into a positive experience,  THANK YOU.

To those teachers she has yet to encounter,  I hope you're as awesome as the ones she's had so far.  I'll try to remain open-minded and calm, but that's hard work! I'd give myself a C+

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Thank You, Teachers!



Dear Teachers,

Happy Teachers’ Appreciation Week!  Boy oh boy, do I appreciate you!!

There are countless reasons for my appreciation, and I couldn’t possibly list them all.  Having said that, here are just a few of the reasons why I appreciate you:

I appreciate the fact that when you see me in the local grocery store buying a case of wine on a Tuesday, you don’t mention it.  You don’t even blink an eye.  

I know my little chatterbox has unloaded volumes of family secrets.  There is nothing that child won’t share.  You’ve no doubt heard about her father’s flatulence and my inability to subtract double digits.  I appreciate you not mentioning this during school conferences.  

I appreciate that, although my son’s shockingly cluttered backpack is a direct reflection on the state of his bedroom and the entire house, you have yet to report our family to the Health Department.

I know I have high energy kids who could benefit from a military-style boarding school.  I appreciate you not yet recommending they be sent away.

You have kept me from a host of crimes and you are blissfully unaware of it.  If it weren’t for you and your fearless teacher friends, people like me would be forced to homeschool.  Can you even imagine me homeschooling?  My children would still be learning to spell their names, and I would be in rehab.

You’re underpaid, underappreciated, and often overworked.

This week and all weeks…I appreciate you!

Sincerely,
A well-meaning but nearly incompetent mother

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Just Another Example of Why I Stink at Parenting 

Leave it to our children to remind us of how awful we are at parenting. 

I have countless examples to prove this statement, but I'm only going to share one. I think you'll agree I totally stink!

My daughter has been complaining for days weeks months months and months that she cannot see well.

"Schedule eye appointment for daughter" has been on my to-do list for days weeks months months and months. In fairness, my to-do lists are as long as a Steinbeck novel.  

Eventually the appointment was made. Even longer thereafter, the appointment occurred. The results were conclusive. My daughter needs glasses.

She is thrilled about this because blindness sucks nearly as much as I do she has friends with glasses and she thinks glasses are cool.

Finally the glasses arrive. I am estimating the glasses arrived a good 8-9 months following her first complaints about her blurry vision. Yes, I am a horrible less than perfect mother!

She wears the glasses home from the appointment.  During the entire car ride she gleefully announces obvious things while inadvertently making me feel like a total failure!

"Look at the leaves on that tree!"
"I had no idea those houses had so many details!"
"I love being able to see!"

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Everyone knows vision is a plus.  Who wouldn't want to be able to see clearly...?
(Insert the sound of a record scratching)
My daughter?  What??

She's had her glasses for less than a week and guess what.
Go ahead. Guess.

She doesn't think they are "cool" anymore.
These beautiful, expensive, took-forever-to-pick-out-just-the-right-pair glasses are not cool anymore.

She's a little embarrassed to wear them at school which incidentally is the number one place I think she should wear them. She's choosing blurry vision instead of clear eyesight.  Apparently months and months of blurry vision as led her to believe she can, if absolutely necessary, make due without seeing.

I'm going to stop beating myself up about this, and go back to my unending "to do" list.

Next up..."Make orthodontia appointment for children."

This ought to be fun!

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Adventures in Abercrombie & F#@%! 

'Tis the season to grab your holiday shopping list and venture into huge, enormous shopping centers luring you with large, red signs promising "Sales, Sales, Sales!"

My tween wants a hoodie for Christmas.  A very specific hoodie.  I could describe this hoodie for you but why bother?  Just trust me when I say this particular hoodie is seemingly extinct.  Exactly one exists in this entire world, and it happens to belong to my tween.  Since she wears it day and night it is starting to look...well...like an ugly, filthy hoodie.  Now she wants another.

Hours of shopping, and I cannot find a hoodie matching my tween's specific requirements.  Where could such a hoodie exist?

I venture into Abercrombie & Fitch despite the little voice in my head telling me to run away.  Have you been in Abercrombie & Fitch recently?

Even before crossing the threshold of the store, Abercrombie & Fitch immediately assaults my nostrils with the potent smell of cologne. I don't actually have words to describe this smell.  It's as if Abercrombie & Fitch took a nice smell, multiplied it so many times it then miraculously turns toxic. Although I think the intent is for the smell to travel from nostril to groin, instead I feel it go from my nostril to my head immediately.  I am morphed from professional, organized shopper to dizzy, snotty, out-of-place fool.

As I try to clear my head, I realize this is a futile endeavor given the "music."  The music is blaring.  BLARING.  I don't know who is "singing," but it isn't my beloved Rick Springfield or U2. No, this is a very angry singer who is yelling at me.  He is screaming at me while the drum beat goes like this, "BAM, BAM, BAM, BA, BA, BAM, BAM BAM."  I have no idea why he is so angry nor do I actually know what he is saying, but he is not a happy guy.

Although the smell and sounds are distracting, I try to focus. After all, I am a mother.  I've perfected blocking out loud, obnoxious sounds. Any mom knows it's the quiet that is scary.

I try to continue shopping, but Abercrombie & Fitch thinks I should shop in the dark. I cannot see a gosh darn thing.  It's so dark that when I run into a table, suck in a large amount of poisoned air, and cry out in pain, no one in the store takes notice.  How can they?  It's pitch black and too loud to hear anything above the sound of that angry, screaming "singer."

By now I am too far into the store to easily escape.  I've completely forgotten why I have ventured into this funhouse, and I start to think I'll never find my way out.  I look around frantically for an exit sign.  All around me I see young, skinny people.  Although my pupils are undoubtably dilated to the size of golf balls, these young people look calm and unaffected by the sensory overload. I'm reminded of Children of the Corn.

Why is Abercrombie & Fitch torturing me?

Perhaps I'm drunk on the smell of overpowering cologne or perhaps my brain is bleeding.  I don't really know.  However, once I finally escape the store, I realize Abercrombie & Fitch's master plan...

Abercrombie & Fitch wants me dizzy, deaf, and blind so I won't care or notice that they sell ugly t-shirts for $40.  If only they had hoodies!


Tony Hawk Painted Plaid Hoodie (Google Affiliate Ad)

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Smoke Signals:  My Tween Better Master the Art of Reading Them

According to my "well-informed" tween, "everyone" in 6th grade has a phone. 

(Note to "reader":  This "well written" monologue will be heavily "punctuated" with words in "quotes." I do this so you can better "appreciate" the way my "delightful" tween "communicates."  She is a big fan of using "quotes" when she talks in an effort to "prove" her "sophistication.")

Perhaps it's because my daughter is dogged in her advocacy for a phone or perhaps it's because my husband knows I've already started Christmas shopping (started about 9 months ago, but my husband only became aware of it last week). Whatever the reason, my husband has sent me two articles in the last two days about the absolute horrors of cell phones.

I believe he is worried I will lapse into a manic shopping frenzy and accidentally purchase a cell phone for my daughter. I assure you this won't happen unless I find a really good deal at Walmart.

The point is, my hubby and I are totally freaked out about sexting.
I think we both know what horrible decisions my hubby would have made had he had a phone as a tween. Me, on the other hand, I was totally "angelic."

My hubby e-mailed me (Yes, emailed.  We have been married for 16 "glorious" years and we are great "communicators.") the results of a study showing that over 20% of high school students have "sexted" and over 31% had been asked to "sext."  That's an enormous amount of peer sexting pressure!

That e-mail tidbit was followed by one with a link to this article in Scientific American. If I understand it correctly (and I'm not sure I do because I was reading it from my phone), we are happier when we are not near a phone.

This is ironic because my phone is in another room right now and that makes me feel anxious.
Am I missing your call at this very moment?
Or did you just text me something with a "mega funny" autocorrect error?
Now I'm itching. I gotta go get my phone.  Hold on...........................
Ok.  I'm back. Miss me?

The point is, our relationship with our tween is already precarious unpredictable at times complicated developmentally appropriate. Why would we want to do anything to make it worse?

However, a phone doesn't just mean my tween will be able to text until her fingers bleed while sending naked pictures off herself into the stratosphere.  A phone would also give us, her neurotic parents, some amount of peace of mind. If she needs us, she could call.  If we need to talk with her, we could text her.  There are benefits. I get that.  I just remain concerned the benefits don't yet outweigh the risks.

For this reason, she needs to learn the ancient art of reading smoke signals.
That would solve everything!

Lol. Ttyl!

Monday, August 20, 2012

A New School Year Begins



"So long, suckers!" I thought after dropping the kids off on the first day of school.

Yes, I'm grossly immature and expressions like "So long, suckers" just naturally pop into my brain.  Not proud, just honest.

My baby girl is now officially in 6th grade.   This means animal prints are totally cool and go with everything including other animal prints regardless of the animal.  This also seems to be the year when one day showering is thought of as a poisonous activity and the next day getting ready requires hours of primping and an assortment of lotions and gels.  This child seems precariously balanced between childhood and adolescence. The wind could blow her any direction.  I am literally holding my breath.

My sweet son is a 4th grader. By "sweet" I mean highly energetic with a dose of narcism and a dash of uncontrollable ornery-ness.  He has exactly 15,000 questions in the course of one day (that's 105,000 questions in a week, but who's counting?).  Recess is his favorite subject at school followed by Physical Education.  I may need to give his teacher diamonds for Christmas.

As for me, I'm a professional now. I've been dropping kids off at this same elementary school since my daughter was in kindergarten.  That's 7 first day of school experiences.  Yes, I am a pro.

Once upon a time, I cried dropping the kids off at school.  This is, of course, laughable now.  No more tears from me on the first day of school.

There was a brief, almost tearful, nanosecond today when I realized this was the last first day of elementary school for my daughter (assuming she buckles down and doesn't need to repeat this year).  The nanosecond passed quickly and I gleefully dropped my "angels" off at school.  I now reserve tears for the last day of school before summer vacation.

I was once a helicopter mom. I counted the hours waiting to hear a minute by minute account of their days.  My kiddos ALWAYS disappointed me in their remarkable inability to recount much of anything from their day.

At dinner I would prompt them with never-ending unanswered questions.
Eventually, I would resort to, "Did you learn anything new today?"
They would look at each other, shrug, and respond in unison with, "Nah."

Sigh.

So this year I am turning over a new leaf.  I am selling my helicopter.
I.Will. Not. Be. A. Helicopter. Mom.
I.Will. Not. Be. A. Helicopter. Mom.
I.Will. Not. Be. A. Helicopter. Mom.
I.Will. Not. Be. A. Helicopter. Mom.

Yes, I have my homework cut out for me.


Sunday, August 12, 2012

Exercise with Children


My husband is a health nut.  Well, to be fair, he's really more of an exercise advocate. He has, and I am not kidding you, only missed 2 days of exercise in over 2 years.  2 years!

He frequently sends me links to articles in hopes of encouraging me to get off my fat ass and exercise more.   The latest article "Lack of Exercise asDeadly as Smoking, Study Finds" seems to suggest that instead of just feeling guilty about not exercising, I could have been chain smoking instead.  Is there no justice?

So recently, in an effort to get him off my back show him I value his every word, I started exercising with my children.  This was a hair brain idea and you should not attempt this at home.  Seriously.  Don't do this.

First, I convinced my 11 year old to go for a run with me.  I was hoping for a slow 2 mile jog where we would watch butterflies fly by us while talking about boys, puberty, and my love for her.

Yeah, I'm a numbskull. 

Instead my daughter viewed this leisurely trot as a sprint event.  From a distance I realized my daughter resembled a gazelle.  At least, that was my impression as sweat (or was it tears?) poured into my eyes creating a blurry vision of my little girl smoothly gliding away from me.  She was graceful, fast, and focused.  It was beautiful to watch until she was so far ahead, I could no longer see her.   

She was sweet enough to circle back around to me.  
At that point, she looked puzzled as she asked, "Mom, when did you get so slow?"
I would have responded but I couldn't breathe. 

Two days later my ego was nearly healed when I decided to take my 9 year old son to the bike path.  I thought he could ride his bike while I ran behind him.  Well, that's a total joke.  No way could I keep visuals on him.  I certainly tried but my legs were no match for my son's biking speed.  I did draw stares from other runners as they passed me.  I can only assume they were overcome by the smell of blood, sweat, and tears emitting from every pore of my body. 

My son waited patiently for me and then asked, "Geeez, mom, did you take a break or something?" 

Again, I couldn't form an adequate response since I was unable to breathe.

I can only assume exercise is contraindicated for my physical well-being.

To celebrate my renewed, albeit limited, interest in exercise, I took the kids out for ice cream.   

Shhhhhh.  Don't tell my exercise advocate!


Sunday, July 29, 2012

The Institute of Mothers



The other day I needed ten minutes of that elusive thing called "peace and quiet."
I told both children they could have ten more minutes of electronics which in our house means playing Wii or some other mind numbing handheld electronic device.

My son looked at me and proclaimed, "The Institute of Mothers would not approve of this, Mom, but I am very happy!"

The Institute of Mothers?

Crap, where did I put that membership card? Certainly, I am not worthy enough to be part of any sort of elite motherhood society.

I honestly don't know where he comes up with this stuff, but my son clearly believes there is a panel of mothers who are out to squelch all fun for all children. A group of mothers who force their children to eat green vegetables at every meal while denying their children any dessert or fun.

The IOM (Institute of Mothers) would not approve of a number of my parenting indiscretions. In fact, there are a host of things my kids could rat me out for so instead I'm going to out myself.

Here are just a few of my unapproved IOM practices:

- My son occasionally has the longest fingernails in the history of little boys. My daughter would, too, but she is a nail biter.

- My children's closet is the "go to" spot when I ask them to clean up their messy bedrooms, and I am OK with this! I hate messy floors, but closets have doors that I can shut. Out of sight, out of mind.

- My children get dessert nearly every day of their life. You try to deny them dessert and see how it goes.

- My son thinks "making your bed" means making sure all pillows and blankets are on the bed but not necessarily in any sort of organized, tidy way. His bed is made, if there are no pillows or blankets on the floor.

- My children do not bathe every day. On days they do bathe, they don't always use soap. I don't always make them re-shower. If they don't smell, I'm cool with it.

- I have served dinners that do not contain a vegetable or fruit product.

- I use mind-numbing electronic toys to bribe my son into doing an array of necessary tasks. If he can remember to put on clothes, for example, he may get electronics time later in the day. In our house, we discourage nudity.

- I use the brain cell sucking electronic toys to allow me time to do necessary things that I cannot always do if my children are around. You know, things like breathing and peeing. That's correct. I use electronic toys as a babysitter. This is something I vowed to never do. Of course, that was pre-kids. I didn't know any better.

- I sent invitations to my kids' birthday parties this year via text message. No cutesy invitations are ever generated in my home!

The Institute of Mothers will no doubt be contacting me.
I'm sure my membership will be revoked!

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Sociology Experiment Gone Bad

The lack of electricity coupled with the heat makes me think we may be part of some secret sociology experiment. What happens when you take a typical middle class family and deprive them of electricity?

Here's what happens:

Days 1 & 2:
Family plays games together. They show each other love and respect. They give thanks for the things they do have... like family.

Day 3:

Family cleans out refrigerator and freezer. Large amounts of food are thrown away. Children remain cheerful as their mother forces them to eat 48 mini cream puffs that are thawing in the freezer. Cracks begin to show in the parents' cheerful attitudes. To compensate, they attempt to drink a bucket of frozen margarita that is thawing in the freezer. Everyone goes to bed sweaty, but drunk full.

Day 4:

Husband arrives at hardware store before 7 AM because store is getting a new shipment of generators. He spends all eternity waiting for the shipment to be unloaded from the truck and then spends the kids' college savings on a generator that will run the refrigerator, one lamp, and a fan.

Wife washes dishes by hand after heating water on the gas stove top. Because she is mentally a blond, she forgets boiling water is hot and nearly burns all ten fingers in an attempt to clean a pile of dirty dishes.

Tween unearths every battery operated toy she has ever been given. The battery operated microphone is the worst gift to ever give a child. She is so enchanted by new found toy that she loudly sings an unapproved version of our national anthem. It goes a little like this: "Oh say can you see...by the Don sir's delight..."

Son is scared of the dark so after dusk, he acts like a tick and attaches himself to the family member closest to him. He uses every glow stick and flashlight as a sword.

Husband attempts to hook-up the generator while excited children run around him singing and poking each other with glow sticks. He yells obscenities at the generator which the children will no doubt repeat in Sunday school.

In an effort to allow hubby to focus on hooking-up the generator, his supportive wife threatens the children with, "If you ever want to drink cold milk again, you'll leave your father alone!"

After threatening the children, she realizes she cannot find her glass of red wine. It's dark and she is thirsty damn it. Upon finally locating the glass, she drops it and listens (because it is too dark to actually see any of this happening) as it shatters into 65,000 tiny pieces. This is when she realizes how good a cold beer would taste.

Children race through the house in an effort to annoy each other. Their mother tells them to stop running because they might hurt themselves. At that moment the once sane woman steps on a shard of glass. Her son continues running, but her devoted tween assists in locating additional flashlights, tweezers, band aids, and, of course, the microphone.

Finally, the glass is swept up, a shard of glass is removed from the frenzied woman's heel, and more wine is poured. Husband enters and requests help moving the refrigerator so it can be hooked-up to the generator. Although it is pitch black, the couple cannot help but notice the yeti who has been living behind the refrigerator. Its large enough that they both think he may have assisted in pushing the refrigerator out. The couple is so grateful, they release him into the wild.

At last, the children fall asleep in the cool basement, the generator hums in the driveway, and the yeti runs free. Family survives another day without creature
comforts.

Day 5

The family huddles around the one oscillating fan as they plan their day. It may involve breaking and entering, but no one voices any moral objections. After all, prisons are typically air conditioned so that would be a step in the right direction. Friends are out of town and their house sits empty. The house has electricity. The house is air conditioned. The increasingly irritable family of four have a key to said house.

Operation Goldilocks is planned. The family will ask their sweaty, dirty clothes to walk themselves into the hamper. Family will take between 2 and 20 loads of laundry to friends' home. They will clean their clothes, shower, watch a movie and try to repair their damaged relationships in the coolness of the abandoned house.

This works wonders! For several glorious hours the family feels love and affection towards one another again. This feeling of love lasts right up until the blast of hot air hits them upon returning home. Easy come; easy go.

Day 6

Happy Fourth of July!
Family nearly forgets it's a holiday. Independence Day only reminds them of their total dependence on things like....ELECTRICITY!

They celebrate our Nation's birthday by sweating, taking cold showers, and sweating some more. No way is the family going to light any fireworks. Between the heat and their streak of bad luck, both parents are convinced fireworks could potentially burn down the entire neighborhood.

In an effort to lift everyone's spirits, they drive around in their air conditioned van. Suddenly living out of the van doesn't sound so bad. They talk about whether or not an air mattress could fit in the back with a mini fridge.

On the way back to their hot house, they convince their sweaty children that the lightening in the distance is actually fireworks. They would worry about going to hell for that, but alas, they are already there.

When will this little experiment end?
It is going to end, right?

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

The Fairy I Fear Most


I'm certainly not afraid of the Tooth Fairy.
I know she is an unorganized twit that I could totally overtake, but I'm absolutely terrified of her evil cousin.

In our house we call her the Knot Fairy. Trust me, you don't want to tick her off.

She torments my daughter about 4 times a week.

She sneaks into my daughter's room at night and uses her fairy powers to create massive knots throughout my daughter's hair. Honestly, Medusa has nicer hair in the morning than my daughter.

The other day, the Knot Fairy actually left red yarn and a Littlest Pet Shop Toy in my daughter's hair. It looked as though the tiny chipmunk was imprisoned in a web of tangled hair and yarn.

The only thing scarier than the Knot Fairy is my daughter when she tries to undo the Fairy's knots.

My apologies to our neighbors who live within a ten mile radius of our home. That screeching, high pitched, going-to-break-glass sound on Tuesday morning was not an injured wild animal. It was my daughter extracting the Littlest Pet Shop toy from her mane of hair. Please send your hate mail to the Knot Fairy.

The fact that the Knot Fairy doesn't visit her brother only reinforces and strengthens my daughter's resolve to hunt down and destroy the fairy. I don't blame her.

She has recently resorted to braiding her wet hair each night. The Knot Fairy can't penetrate the braids, but you should see the Punk Rock hairdo those braids create in the light of day.

Just give the girl some leg warmers and a friendship pin and she's a flashback to 1981.

Poor child.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Thank You, Mr. President!

What are the odds?

My tween decided to join me this evening as I watched The Nightly News with Brian Williams, who (by the the way) looks less orange to me than he once did.

Anyway, Brian (I'm on a first name basis with all of my favorite news reporters) showed a clip from The View in which the President of the United States shared that his oldest daughter did not get a cell phone until she was 13, AND she is only allowed to use it on weekends.

Upon hearing the news, my tween's eyes bulged out of their sockets and may have even produced actual tears.  This was clearly breaking news in her world.    J.P. Morgan who?

As my daughter's eyes grew to 4x their actual size, my spirit soared.
Woohoo! Score one to moms everywhere who have tweens desperate for cell phones!

Low and behold, turns out not every tween has a cell phone. My tween was actually misinformed about this.

She recently asked me (for the 60th billionth time) for a phone, I asked her why she needed one.

"So I can text my friends (duh)!"
The "duh" was unspoken, but I know it was there. I just know it.

I looked at my little girl who is growing up too fast and said, "Until you answer that correctly, you are not getting a phone."

Just to be clear, I feel the correct answer is something along the lines of, "So I can call you when I need help and tell you how much I love and appreciate you." I can dream, right?

I just think it's lovely the President is such a stick in the mud, too. I'm happy to be in such good company.

Thank you, Mr. President.
Now do you mind talking to my son publicly about the importance of flushing toilets?

Sunday, May 13, 2012

A Mother's Wish List

Years ago my sweet son created a beautiful Mother's Day card for me.

On the front of the card he created a picture of me made from various scraps of fabric and paper. My card self had shockingly yellow hair and a skirt that suggests I have absolutely no sense of style.

On the inside of the card my son had written the following message:

"Mom, happy mother's day. When can I play more Wii?"

Imagine if we could, for one day, request things WE want. My wish list is rather simple.

I want:

  • To sleep past 6:36 a.m.
  • Children to stop tormenting each other which forces me to use that voice my mother used when I tormented my sister. It's the same voice I swore I would never use with my children.
  • Children to be able to use the bathroom without being reminded to wipe, flush, and wash hands (in that exact order).
  • The opportunity to use the bathroom privately.
  • Children's eyes to be physically incapable of rolling around in their sockets while I am staring into them.
  • People in my house to learn how to use those two mysterious machines that wash and dry clothes. They can stop thinking we have a Laundry Fairy
  • To be left alone long enough so I can read Fifty Shades of Grey
  • To be left alone long enough to find a good hiding place for Fifty Shades of Grey
  • To raise children who will be able to recognize a good nursing home from a bad one and then decide NOT to send me to the bad one.
  • My children to realize that every time I make a suggestion, its because I love them more than air versus merely wanting to make their life miserable.
  • My children to truly understand how glorious motherhood is, and despite all the things I want from them, my day is already complete because of them.

On this Mother's Day, I am painfully aware that some only wish they had one more day with their child or one more day with their mom. I know Mother's Day is a happy day for some, bittersweet for others, and agonizing for those grieving.

Whether we are mothers to 1 or 12, whether we are single mothers, widowed mothers, young mothers, older mothers, we are mothers.

Happy Mother's Day to all of us overwhelmed mothers who screw up parenting regularly, but remain well intentioned throughout.

For those mothers who can only hold their children in their hearts and not in their arms, you are the most courageous mothers of all.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

I Throw My Hands Up in the Air Sometimes

My children are of the opinion that their parents are on a mission to ruin their lives. When they are older they can show this to their insurance company in order to validate their need for intensive psychotherapy.

Clearly, my husband and I are dreadful, incompetent parents who derive sick pleasure from ruining the childhoods of our 2 kiddos. Let me prove it...

On some occasions while alone in the car with my children I will sing aloud.
"I came to dance, dance, dance, dance. I hit the floor cause that's my plans, plans, plans, plans. I'm wearing all my favorite brands, brands, brands, brands."
The shrieking and hissing from the backseat stops me mid song.

But sometimes it's hard to get a song out of your head.

"And it goes on and on and on... and it goes on and on and on."

While in public, I've been known to talk to my daughter and refer to her by name.
This. Is. Unacceptable. It embarrasses her and she knows I do this on purpose. Shame on me!

Incidentally, she's also not happy when we are in public and I try to lighten the mood by referring to her as someone else like Sally or Susie. She does not think I am funny. This is really too bad because I think I am HILARIOUS, and it's a shame my humor is lost on my tween.

"And it goes on and on and on... and it goes on and on and on."

My husband likes it when our children listen to us. The audacity!
My children prefer to only listen when we use words like dessert, ice cream, and Disney World. Expecting them to listen at other times is just outrageously cruel.
My husband hates repeating himself, and he says, "'Cause I told you once,
Now I told you twice..."

We actually have bedtimes for our children. If we did not, they would never go to sleep. Ever.

Of course, our kids say, "We wanna celebrate and live our life." They continue saying, "Ay-oh, let's go. 'Cause we are going to rock this house, We are going to go all night. We are going to light it up like it's dynamite."

Their father has already told them once and then he told them twice, they've got to go to bed 'cause its late at night!

So sometimes... I throw my hands up in the air saying, "Aye-O, I've got to let it go!"

I hate it when a song gets stuck in my head!

Monday, April 9, 2012

Momma's Gonna Blow!

I have a laundry list of motherly incidents of which I am not particularly proud.
I'm sharing one so you can have a better day knowing you are a better person than I am. I am doing this as a favor to you. I want to increase your sense of self-righteousness. Happy?

Not so long ago I had to wear a Holter monitor for 24 hours because I believed I had a caged bird in my chest that occasionally attempted to take flight.

What's a mom with two kids and a Holter monitor suppose to do?
Here's a clue: Try to totally freak her kids out.

As bedtime neared, I realized I would not be able to keep all of the wires hidden from my inquisitive children. Ok, maybe I could have, but where is the fun in that?

As my children began their nighttime ritual of getting more and more wound up and energized, I called them over to me. I calmly showed them some of the wires and one of the leads connected to my chest near my collarbone.

As I revealed this strange contraption I said, "Kids, if you don't calm down, I will blow up."

Well, now I know how to get their attention.

They were actually silent for a solid 3 seconds.
Then they burst out laughing and asked when I was going to blow.

Where is the love? And who is responsible for raising these insensitive Neanderthals?

I need to make a programming note here. My otherwise sweet 11 year old has recently started to use and grasp the concept of sarcasm. I've complimented her on her increased and broadened sense of humor. She's becoming witty and sarcastic all at the same time. A day ago I thought this was charming. Now I'm not so sure.

As the night progressed and their energy level increased (why oh why do they rev up as the bedtime approaches?), I made a simple suggestion to my tween-ager. I believe I suggested she wash her hands or some other outrageous request.

My sweet daughter stopped, looked and me and in a deadpan manner, mouthed the words, "Blow up."

There is a moral to this story.
You can never joke with your children about explosives. It will blow up in your face.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Bowling Alley Bliss

The idea was nice. Celebrate my son's 9th birthday at a bowling alley.

Here was the vision:
Have son invite 4-5 of his closest friends to the bowling alley so they can have fun bowling.

Here was the reality:
Have son invite 4-5 of his closest friends to the bowling alley even though not a single one of them knows the first thing about bowling. Feed these wild creatures pizza, cake, icing, more sugar and fill them with caffeinated beverages. Give them each a seven to ten pound ball and see what happens.

Yes, we live dangerously. No one was actually struck on the head with a bowling ball, but we came close a few times. No one actually lost a finger in the ball return, but we came close a few times. There was no blood loss during the party so I am calling it the longest two hours of my life a HUGE success!

Both of my children have birthdays in March. I am a lazy clever mother so my daughter had her birthday party at the bowling alley at the exact same time as her brother.

Here was the vision:
Have daughter invite 4-5 of her closest friends to the bowling alley so they can have fun bowling.

Here was the reality:
Have daughter invite 4-5 of her closest friends to the bowling alley so they can be greatly perturbed by the ridiculous 8 and 9 year old boys one alley away from them. They pick the brightest of bowling balls with total disregard for weight. They remain utterly annoyed if a silly boy even attempts to use one of their balls, and they fret incessantly that the boys may score more points during the game.

Their fear, of course, was totally irrational because the boys' balls managed to go any number of places other than down the alley. As a general rule, it is a bad idea to toss bowling balls into the air.

Two hours of bowling with two different sets of children taught me a few things:

Children's frontal lobes are not fully developed so never underestimate how stupidly they can behave.

8 and 9 year old boys love to talk about farts and wedgies while 10 and 11 year old girls like to bowl.

Caffeinated beverages are to 8 and 9 year old boys what crack cocaine is to the rest of us.

10 and 11 year old girls can get excited about bowling shoes. They also think its fun to spin, curtsey, and bow after each turn.

8 and 9 year old boys like to jump up and down while making farting sounds after each turn.

Birthdays come once a year.
(You can't see me, but I'm so happy about that fact that I'm jumping up and down while making fart sounds!)

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

The Most Magical Place in the World!

No, Silly, I'm not talking about Disney World. I'm talking about your local beauty salon!

Where else can an unfortunate woman with a mustache and a uni-brow enter with a mane of grey hair and leave with golden locks and a face as smooth as a baby's bottom? Mickey Mouse can't perform that kind of magic!

However, there is a dark side to beauty salons. A beauty salon can also be a house of horror, as I well know. I have countless salon stories. Every woman does. Let me share one of my earlier experiences...

I have thick, straight, fine hair. In my youth, hygiene was not a priority so my mother never knew what to do about my greasy, tangled hair. I managed to lose gum, pens, and small toys in my hair on a somewhat regular basis. Since brushing hair took so much physical effort on my part, I often chose to just focus on other things like picking scabs, chewing my toenails, and being "charming" to my parents.

For reasons that are not clear to me, except that it was the early 1980s (and we know that was a time of amazing styles and trends), my mother decided my hair was best kept in a short permed state. Think little orphan Annie. Every three months or so I was forced to sit in the salon and get a perm. I will maintain (as I did then) that this is a disguised form of child abuse.

Since I have no idea how to post pictures to this blog (remember, I am not as smart as a 5th grader), you'll have to rely on the mental picture I am about to create. Picture this:

A young, prepubescent girl of about 11 years old sits frowning. The girl is 5'9" when she stands up straight, but she is typically slouched in an effort to be 5'4" (yes, she was a freakishly tall 6th grader who was taunted endlessly by cruel creatures known as "boys."). Every tooth in her mouth is wrapped with costly silver braces. Blessedly, no head gear is involved. There is not a single ounce of fat anywhere on her body including any breast tissue (much to her chagrin).

Her mousy colored hair is wrapped tightly around perm rollers, and she is pouting in hopes of making her mother sense how truly miserable she is. (To this day she believes the pouting had absolutely no impact whatsoever on her mother. However, she is convinced it led to fine lines on her 39-ish year old face.
 Kids - Pouting never pays!)

She sits begrudgingly in one of a dozen salon chairs. The other chairs are occupied by women in their late 80s. Blue and white hair represent the majority in this salon, a sure sign that other 11 year olds were not out getting perms. After seemingly days of sitting, the rollers are taken out to reveal the tightest of curls. They are pubic-like and not a single strand falls below her earlobes.

She stands and looks in the mirror. She doesn't think of movie stars or beauty queens. No, she knows with absolute certainty that she most closely resembles a toilet bowl brush. The mousy color of her hair sadly suggests that it is a rather filthy toilet bowl brush at that.

She leaves the salon with the same attitude as when she arrived (miserable and generally annoyed with her mother). Upon entering the car she reaches under the seat for the one item she hopes will finally signal her utter hate of permanents and beauty salons.

She pulls out the brown paper grocery bag and places it over her head in a sign of quiet protest. She's been planning this moment and had the forethought to cut out eye holes and a mouth so that basic comforts like seeing and breathing are not compromised.

With the brown bag securely on her head, she turns to look at her mother who exclaims,
"Oh, for Pete's sake! You're being ridiculous! Those curls will soften over the next few days."

This, of course, is not true. I have school pictures to prove it!

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

You Call it a Water Park; I Call It A Bio-Hazard Experiment


My family recently returned from an overnight trip to a water park.

I am waiting to see what types of fungi sprout on our feet.

We arrived at the hotel on a Saturday afternoon and immediately made a beeline for the water park. It was a cold, drizzly February day outside, but inside the water park it was a humid 87 degrees. Ripe for growing all sorts of fungal goodness.

The smell of chlorine and the sound of screaming children filled the air.
We spent hours, and hours, and hours frolicking in the lazy river and climbing 10 flights of stairs so we could hurl ourselves down wet and wild slides. Oh what fun we had!

My fun started to wane as an algebra problem formed in my mind. Leave it to math to ruin my day.

Remember the following equation: if a = b; b = c; then c = a ?

Well, then follow this logic:

Daughter takes strand of her own wet hair and places it in her mouth.
Mom looks out across crowded water park full of children.
Mom reflects on how utterly void of children the restrooms seem to be.
Mom realizes (duh!) the water park's lazy river is actually the world's largest urinal.
Mom looks at daughter and knows with absolute certainty that daughter is sucking other children's urine out of her hair.

I suppress the urge to shriek, "Out! Out! Everyone out of here NOW!"
Instead, I look at my tween and calmly say, "Oh, Honey, don't suck your hair. Other kids may be peeing in the water which means your hair is dirty."

My tween looks at me like I am clueless.
She continues to suck on her urine-rich hair.

I throw up in my mouth, but I swallow it (vs. throwing up in the water so my daughter can later suck it up via her hair straws). That's love, people.

How much urine and other bodily fluids can one water park contain before no amount of chlorine can keep the water clear blue and mask the smell? I honestly think they are performing some sort of science experiment!

Meanwhile, hubby approaches coughing and claims the chlorine in the air is burning his eyes and scratching his throat. He continues coughing. My son approaches from another direction. He has slipped and his elbow is bleeding. I am certain this will result in an infection from the mixture of urine and bacteria that must exist on every surface. He will likely lose his arm as a result of the impending infection. On the plus side, it's his left elbow that's injured and he is right handed. I take comfort in this.

Of course, I say none of this to anyone because I don't want to induce panic.
I am, however, happy to be out of the water park petri dish experiment.

My kids cannot wait to go back!

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?

No, I am not.

I knew this when the game show by this title first aired. Those 10 year olds are smart kids! Now I have the pleasure of having a 5th grader for a daughter, and I am reminded nightly of my ignorance.

"There is a farm in Alabama that has 475 acres. Another farm 7 miles down the road has 40% more acreage than that farm. Both farms together have 16 acres more than the biggest Alabamian farm. How many farms are in Alabama and what is the average farm size?"    Huh?

I have flashbacks to standardized tests. "Two trains are traveling a total distance of 1022 miles. One train leaves the station at 8 AM and is traveling East at 80 miles an hour. Another train leaves the station at 9 AM and is traveling West at 60 miles an hour. At what mile marker will they pass?"

Yes, the test was multiple-choice, but my answer was not one of the options from which to choose. This led to a long-winded, internal dialogue about why anyone even cares? As long as the trains aren't on the same track, does it really matter? Now that I've actually traveled by train, I can tell you that given the number of stops and delays, it's possible those two trains will NEVER actually pass each other.

My daughter and I decided a week into the school year that if she needed any math homework help, she would need to ask her father. I am not only dumber than a 5th grader, but I also have the lowest frustration tolerance in the history of humankind.

I am cursed with a shockingly low knowledge of what I refer to as "math words" and limited math reading comprehension. I understand addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division (excluding long division), but what kind of sick masochist came up with concepts like tesselation, vector, and cyclic quadrilaterals?

I took one look at her math workbook and realized how miraculous my high school diploma actually is. I should get that sucker framed before someone asks for it back. Amazing what you can learn about yourself while skimming a 5th grade math workbook.

In a vain attempt to increase my ability to serve as a math role model, I bought the book The Usborne Illustrated Dictionary of Math. It's a math picture book for stupid parents. I love that book, but it's a little over my head. She still has to go to her dad with math questions.

I could worry about my own intellectual capacity, but frankly that ship has sailed. I have other more pressing concerns.

One concern is whether or not my daughter is as smart as a 5th grader. I see flashes of brilliance (she can follow complicated instructions, she reads and enjoys Greek mythology, she can pick up an electronic device and master it's operation in mere seconds). Then, in the next moment, she can look at me and ask, "What's our zip code again?"

I would tell her except I'm not good with numbers.