What I Learned On My Floridian Summer Vacation

Ahhhh....summer!  Sure school is out for the summer, but that doesn't mean you have to stop learning!  My family recently drove to Orlando for a family vacation. The vacation was fantastic despite the fact that I learned some rather interesting things.

1.  Florida is really far away from Ohio, and you may forget the distance when you see the price of airline tickets. If you live north of Georgia, fly to Florida.

2.  When you ignore the free advice offered in #1, you will drive South and pass several large signs offering fresh peaches, fresh pecans, boiled peanuts, and moonshine pickles. Yes, moonshine pickles.

3.  You will ignore these signs until the curiosity is too much to stand.  Curiosity killed the cat.

4.  Eventually you find yourself at Peach World.  You ask about moonshine pickles, but fascinatingly enough Peach World sold out of moonshine pickles earlier that day. Interestingly, Peach World also sells disarmed fragmentation hand grenades, confederate flags, ninja throwing stars, shark teeth, and coonskin hats. It's a long story that involves children, but you leave Peach World after purchasing peaches, pecans, a truckload of boiled peanuts, and a defunct fragmentation grenade.

5.  Shortly after leaving Peach World, you discover you are the only person in the vehicle who likes boiled peanuts. Good thing you bought 40 pounds of boiled peanuts.

6.  For reasons that are truly inexplicable, you will feel obligated to eat as many boiled peanuts as is humanly possible. Perhaps it's the endless freeway.  Perhaps it's the bickering children.  Whatever the reason, you will devote a solid hour of your travel time in trying to eat all of the boiled peanuts.

7.  After singlehandedly eating an obscene amount of boiled peanuts, you realize you don't actually like boiled peanuts.  You can't figure out why you thought you did and have only one place to lay blame. Interstate 95.

8.  Interstate 95 is a horrible, no good, very bad interstate. The speed limit varies from 70 miles an hour to 60 miles an hour to 45 miles an hour near some construction zones, but this is all irrelevant. Drivers on I-95 either travel at the speed of light OR they drive 25 miles an hour in the fast lane.

9.  Thanks to the salty boiled peanuts, your fingers will begin to swell and your tongue will feel weird.  This will remind you the cost of airline tickets is worth every penny. Please re-read #1 above.

10.  You will arrive at your destination in Florida, and you will discover that Florida is hotter than you ever truly imagined.  You will begin sweating in places that you didn't even realize had pores.

11.  You will spend a grotesque amount of money at any number of amusement parks.

12.  Dolphins, killer whales, penguins, sharks, sting rays, pink flamingos, sea lions, otters, and sea turtles are all ubercool, but they are no match for the common brown squirrel that will have your children riveted in their spot.

13.  Inevitably all the children within a ten foot radius will watch this squirrel as if they have never seen one. You can't swear to it, and maybe it's the Florida heat playing games with you, but you'll be fairly certain the squirrel will give you a look that says, "Think how much time and money you could have saved had you just vacationed in your backyard where about 150 of my relatives live."

When all is said and done, you are building wonderful memories for your kids.

And that fragmentation grenade?  Worth it's weight in gold!  On the way home your kids will believe you just might detonate that sucker if they don't stop annoying the be-geezers out of each other!

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!

Adult Summer Camp

Adult Summer Camp

So lets get this straight...
For the last several months moms and dads have been working feverishly to find summer camps for our kids. We don't have the time and/or stamina to watch these wild creatures during the summer months.  The public school system is exhausted from trying to educate them and needs a break, too.  This means we need to figure out a way to keep our children out of trouble during the endless summer days.

Are we happy to just let our kids zone in front of their electronic devices all summer long?  No.  That's what they want to do so clearly we want to avoid that option.

Instead we search near and far, high and low for the perfect medley of summer camps.  We want them to experience everything within the realm of reason and a few things that aren't. After all, as children, we spent our summers riding bicycles with no helmets and eating dirt. We demand better for our kids!

We pay hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of dollars on summer camps.  The summer camps advertise they will create a wonderful, earth shattering experience for our kids. Our kids will fish, climb rock walls, dance, sail, learn archery, identify every tree in existence, learn which berries they can eat and which will poison them instantly.  They'll swim, draw, make masterpieces out of clay, learn a foreign language, play an instrument, and quite possibly become even more knowledgeable about insects than they were two weeks ago.

Wow!  That's a bucket load of fun for a child who would prefer to sit at home and watch YouTube videos.

This got me thinking which is always scary.

Why don't we take those hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of dollars and send ourselves off to Adult Summer Camp?  That's ASC for short.  As long as we leave some pizza in the refrigerator and chips in the pantry, I'm not sure our kids will even notice our absence.

In my imaginary world, ASC is geared towards parents and has the following arduous schedule:

Welcome to Adult Summer Camp (ASC).  Our mission is to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. Our camp is a relaxed, comfortable environment where you will be able to pee in privacy and have uninterrupted adult conversations.  Although we are a pet-friendly camp, children are strictly prohibited. The following is an example of a daily schedule, but your pleasure is our #1 priority so the schedule can be tailored to fit your needs...

Daily Schedule

Morning:
- Wake up whenever you feel like it
- Eat breakfast if you want, but you have no need to prepare a darn thing for any living creature
- Begin reading whatever trashy novel you want without guilt or judgement
- At no point will you hear any whining, complaining, or noises that need investigated

Afternoon
- Eat lunch with a bottle of wine. No judgement if the content of your glass is larger than that of your plate
- Take a nap which will not be interrupted by tattle-telling or complaints of boredom


Evening
- Eat a delicious dinner which will not be peppered with any noisy, crying, or disgruntled children
- Following the delicious, uninterrupted dinner, campers will have the option of sitting in a hammock, hot tub, poolside, or by a blackjack table
- Go to bed whenever your heart's desire vs. being forced to pass out after a long day of herding cats. 


Ahhhhhh...adult summer camp.  Who's in?

DNA Not Required

The definition of "father" per Webster's Dictionary reads, in part:
"A man who has begotten a child."

That's pretty simple and not untrue. However, it's not altogether accurate either. After all, this same dictionary defines "begotten" as, "to procreate."

Definition of Father per me:
A man willing to work from sunup to sundown sunup.

He must be comfortable cleaning up all sorts of bodily fluids including urine, poop, vomit, and more poop.

He will, at times, know all of the answers but be patently ignored by those who love him most.  He'll handle this in stride.

He must be able to go from being dressed as a princess to playing the role of Spider-Man faster than a speeding bullet.

The man must be smart enough to know when not to speak, and silly enough to know how to make an assortment of inappropriate sounds.

He must be clever enough to read the body language of children, tweens, and his wife.

Although challenging, he has the ability to refrain from having the last word.

He must be man enough to be call dad, daddy, papa, or father.

Contributing his DNA to these wild little creatures adoring kids is NOT required, but being loving, understanding, forgiving, supportive, empathetic and kind is.

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there!

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+

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

My Little Runaway

If you are one of those perfect parents with perfect children, please stop reading.  Stop reading. I hate you. Really.

If you are one of those parents who just hope you're not scarring your children too badly, then this is a feel good story you'll enjoy.

Today was the first day back to school after a lovely week off. There were tears, stomping of feet, and unabashed sorrow. And that was just me! The kids were sluggish and grumpy, too.

Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go!

After a loooooong day at work, I return home to my kiddos.  My son is clearly annoyed with his day, cranky, and basically a total pill to be around.  His attitude, inability to listen, and overall lack of follow-through requires that I do a little something referred to as "parenting."  He hates that. He absolutely hates having me tell him obvious things like:

"You're room is a mess so clean it."
"Your homework isn't done so finish it."
"The toilet isn't flushed so flush it."

After a round of consequences which included him cleaning the toilet (honestly, one more unflushed toilet and I will come completely unglued), he decided he had had enough.

"You won't be talking to me for some time," he said as headed towards the back door while clutching his favorite stuffed animal.

"Where are you going?" I asked this calmly while handing him his jacket.

"Canada," he responded with a twinkle in his eye and a slight smirk surfacing on his young face.

"Canada?"

"Canada or Washington, D.C. I'm not sure which."

"Hmmmm.  Well, you better decide soon because they are in completely different directions."

"Humph."

"Well, be sure to call me when you get there."

"Can I have a cell phone to take with me?"

"Oh, no.  You'll have to borrow a phone when you get there, but you can have a piece of fruit for your trip.  Do you want to take an apple?"

"No thanks."

And just like that, he was gone.  He got on his scooter and scooted down the driveway and out of sight.

I figured if he was going to Canada by scooter, I wouldn't get a phone call for a week.  If he decided to venture to Washington, DC, I figured I'd hear something within the week.

I continued reheating leftovers making dinner.

Imagine my surprise when my sweet son scooted back up the driveway three minutes later. Into the kitchen he walked with his stuffed animal.

"I'm still not happy about cleaning the toilet for free."

I ignore this statement because I am against child abuse and I couldn't think of an appropriate response at that moment.

Later he brought me a piece of paper with a graph on it.  The graph was clearly displaying a negative slope.

"Mom, your polling numbers aren't very good," he said with a twinkle in his eye.  "You should ask dad how to raise your polling numbers."

Funny boy.

Funny boy may just have the pleasure of cleaning another toilet tomorrow.
I'm a mom not a politician. I could give a hoot about my polling numbers!

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!

10 Reasons Parenting Magazine Doesn't Ask for My Parenting Insights

From my perspective, there are 10 reasons why I am not excelling at motherhood. I'm totally psyched about this because I really thought the list would be longer!

There are 10 completely different reasons why my kids may think I'm not excelling at this whole parenting gig. Let's not focus on those 10 items. After all, they are just stupid kids.

Try not to judge me too harshly, but here's why I'm no parenting expert:

10.  I never believe my children are sick unless I see blood or vomit. I am outrageously unimpressed when a child sneezes in my vicinity and says her throat hurts. Yeah, right. Nice try! Off to school you go!

9.  I think God made really smart people who then made really amazing vaccinations. If a doctor says my child needs three shots in his eyeball to keep swine-flu-bug-measle-mumps from infecting him, then I will help the smart doctor hold my son down to administer those shots.  No, I don't have any questions. I never was good about questioning authority.

8.  I hate play dates.

7.  Hate does not begin to describe how I feel about sleepovers.

6.  I have served my kiddos beige dinners. Those carb lovers love me for it, but I know a vegetable should make an appearance on their plate at dinner.

5.  Of course, I eat some of their Halloween and Easter candy. That goes without saying, right?  But I also hide really good chocolate in places where my greedy children won't think to look.  For example, in one of the high cabinets behind mixing bowls. Then when they catch me eating it, I lie and tell them I have broccoli in my mouth.

4.  I buy my daughter black snow boots, black gloves, black jackets, etc so I can make her younger brother wear her hand-me-downs. In fairness, I think that's rather kind of me. Much nicer than making him wear her old, pink, Disney princess boots.

3.  I make fun of my own children behind their backs while talking with other moms. I have got to stop this, but honestly I think I'll wait until they grow up and stop acting ridiculous. They will stop acting ridiculous someday right?

2.  I don't know the answers to their 72 million daily questions. After getting tired of saying "I don't know" 72 million times each day, I just started making shit stuff up.  The sky is blue because God made it that way, shooting stars are magic, and people never have sex unless they want to make a baby.

1.  I love them so much I sometimes don't have adequate words for it, and I worry I don't say it enough.  I'm often too busy asking them to pick up dirty socks, clean rooms, eat vegetables, do homework, be respectful, wash hair, and be quiet.

If nothing else, take a moment and hug your children tightly.   Tell them you love them...even if that is an understatement.

Hoarders - The Next Generation

I'm doing my part to make sure the reality show "Hoarders" is enjoyed for decades to come.  

"How's that?" you ask?

Well, I am raising two hoarder-wanna-be's.
The only thing coming between them and lives as full-fledged hoarders is me.

Although I am a fan of my own crap clutter, I find my children's clutter grossly annoying. It's perfectly acceptable for ME to hoard items, but my children must stop hoarding.

My son's favorite items to hoard appear to be legos and scraps of paper.  Not intact lego inventions or entire sheets of paper, but a megazillion little lego pieces and an equal number of scraps of paper.  These little legos and scraps are everywhere. Everywhere!

I passed by my son's room the other day and thought one of two things had happened. His room was either ransacked by an escaped zoo animal or there had been an explosion. When I didn't see any wildebeests or smell any smoke, I realized the mess was boy-made.

I asked the pint-sized hoarder to clean it immediately.
When that fell on deaf ears, I demanded the hoarder clean it immediately.

Ten minutes later the youngest hoarder in our house announced the miserable deed was done.
Ten minutes?
It seriously looked like a weekend project to me, but I'm not a 9 year old boy with 16 million Lego inventions waiting to be made.

Upon nearing the room, I was hoping to find my son's hoarding behavior had been magically cured.

That dream died when I opened the door and a shower of little papers flew from his closet like bats out of a cave in a Scooby Doo cartoon.  Ruh-roh!

His closet contained enough scraps of paper to make a redwood.

In looking down at the floor, I realized he had an arsenal of Legos littering his floor.

His response to this mess?

"Mom, my middle name is Organized.  Poorly is my first."

Tune in next time when "Hoarders-The Next Generation" explores the tween hoarder...

Waxing and Plucking Your Way to a Historical Moment

'Teen Mom' star, Farrah Abraham, can tell you the best way to remove unwanted hair from your toddler's face.  She learned the hard way, but persevered despite obstacles.  Such courage for a young mother!

Ms. Abraham attempted to wax her three year old daughter's eyebrows.  She then opted to pluck them when her waxing efforts failed due to her daughter's behavior.

The poor mom.  There she is trying to make her hairy three year old more beautifully hairless, and the child doesn't fully cooperate. Kids these days. They are just so ungrateful.

Everyone knows unibrows are ostracizing and no doubt the number one cause of bullying in the preschool - kindergarten age group.   A good mother will do everything in her power to protect her child from being victimized due to unwanted hair growth in the glabella region.  (For you trivia nerds, according to Wikipedia, the term "glabella" is derived from the Latin glabellus, meaning smooth.) Clearly, the child's glabella was not smooth, likely fuzzy at best, and Ms. Abraham was wanting to return the region to its intended texture.

Farrah Abraham didn't just attempt to wax her daughter's glabella eyebrows, fail, then pluck them while her toddler slept.  No.  She then had the courage to blog about the experience.

I'm sure her words resonate with mothers everywhere:

"So here I am faced with a standout historical moment in motherhood when I can confirm to myself that my little, adorable, most cuddle-able cutie, baby girl has a Unibrow :( , I felt bad for her..."

Yes, a "historical moment in motherhood."  My own tween is nurturing unruly eyebrows while I lack the courage to address it face on (pun intended).  As a lesser mother, I am strangely not overly concerned about that inch wide area between her eyebrows.  I am, however, moderately obsessed about the dangers of substance abuse, sexting, bullying, internet safety, and stranger danger.

Clearly my priorities are whacked.  I blame my own mother who allowed me to suffer with my own unibrow until at least middle school.  At that point, I was forced to pluck the unsightly hairs since I'm fairly certain wax wasn't invented for another eight years.

The point is, Farrah Abraham had the courage to stand up to the hair. She didn't wait until her child complained about it or until it looked like a small furry caterpillar had taken shelter between her daughter's eyes.  No, she faced the problem head on and never waxed and waned over the issue (pun intended again).

This is just one example of a hard-working mom making a difference on her daughter's face.
Score one for moms everywhere who think their daughters' eyebrows are the priority.

A Facebook Page is Born

I'm proud to announce the birth of a Facebook page.

It arrived at 11 PM on January 11, 2013.  It entered Facebook world with only one Like, but now it has over eighty. The Facebook page's momma is tired but doing well.  That woman is always tired so this isn't really saying much.

The Facebook page's momma named it "I've Got to Get This Off My Chest."  (Yes, she must have been drunk.)  You can visit the page on Facebook at:
http://www.facebook.com/IveGotToGetThisOffMyChest.

The proud parent is asking you to like and share the page with the masses so her delicate self-esteem isn't bruised and damaged by obvious Facebook de-friending and rejection.

Unfortunately, the Facebook page's momma isn't the sharpest tool in the shed, and she's still trying to figure out all the Facebook bells and whistles.  Are there bells and whistles?

Truth be told, it took her a year just to figure out how to birth a Facebook page!
The lady needs help. In fairness, 364 of those days were spent trying to find a free moment to read the Facebook FAQs related to birthing a Facebook page.  She has two non-virtual children, and they are a complete time-suck joy.  They are so much joy it leaves her very like time to urinate in private, write clever blogs, decipher the many faces of Facebook.  The woman is still not sure she birthed the Facebook page correctly.  She's thinking of asking her non-virtual 11 year old for help. That tween knows everything. Or at least that's what the tween tells her.

All of this to say, Facebook has gained another precious page to their already enormous Facebook family.  Hopefully this page will be nurtured, loved, and will develop into a smart, funny, healthy page.

It's what every parent wants for their child..errr..Facebook page.

Please share this joyful news with others!

Kudos, Music Teacher

Dear Music Teacher,

I was going to call you on the phone, but I assume you are deaf.

I deeply regret we cannot afford to buy you diamonds this holiday season. As you are attempting to teach musical instruments to both of my children, I know you deserve at least diamonds.

Instead, all I can offer you is this very poorly written poem...

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I am so sorry for you.

Hot Cross Buns and Ode to Joy;
You gave a recorder to my boy?

He plays it madly,
Albeit badly.
He loves it, sadly.

The trumpet was not my idea.
For that you can blame my daughter, Lia.

They love duets and are quite a pair.
That sound makes me want to pull my hair!

I want the noise to dampen down.
I'm getting fine lines from my frown.

You, however, handle it well.
Amazing, 'cause it sounds like hell.

Years of doing this, and you look sane.
I think scientists should study your brain.

I can't stand another honk or tweet.
I am just not that sweet.

Happy Holidays,
  A Mom who hopes Santa brings her earplugs

Cheers to all the teachers who manage to teach our children how to read, write, add, subtract, and most amazingly of all...teach our children how to play musical instruments.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Let's cut to the chase.  I have been naughty this past year with flashes of niceness.  Those flashes should count for something, right?

I mean, come on!  You are one to judge. You don't let your elves unionize and you work them to the bone this time of year. I know.  I've read plenty of Christmas books and viewed countless a holiday films.  You're not the only one who can find out who's been naughty or nice!

PETA is no doubt watching you in terms of your treatment of those reindeer. You cannot tell me that lugging your large ass as well as presents for all the good boys and girls all over the world is easy on reindeer. At our house we leave your team of reindeer one lousy carrot which you don't always remember to take.   You NEVER forget to eat the cookies and milk do you? You really are a piece of work.

Yeah, I've not been the nicest this past year, but neither have you.  You can stop all the Santa judgment and cut me some slack!

So I want to be clear with you about what I DO NOT want to find under the Christmas tree this year.  Here's your opportunity to be nice vs naughty:

1.  Toys wrapped in hard plastic.  I do not want to spend my holiday in the emergency room, and I swear nothing short of a chainsaw can get through some types of plastic packaging.  Did NASA invent that plastic?  Is our military aware of its super human, indestructible strength?  Seems like there could be better use for that type of plastic than for securing one tiny Littlest Pet Shop toy.  I mean really, that plastic defies logic.

2.  Toys with batteries.  Yes, this might be hard to pull off, but you should try.  I inevitably will have some batteries in the house on Christmas morning, but they will likely be the wrong size for whatever loud, overpriced toy you decide to leave for my children.  Odds are, even if I have the correct batteries, I may be forced to deny it depending on how obnoxious the toy appears to be. Do all of us a favor and avoid battery operated toys.

3.  Toys that need assembled.  I want to be clear that I cannot follow directions on Christmas morning.  This is because I am often up at 4 AM telling my sleep deprived, overly excited, obnoxious delightful children that it is too early to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior by opening an obscene amount of presents. They need to go back to bed or the Grinch will come and steal the presents from under the tree and give them to neighborhood children who are still sleeping! My Christmas spirit doesn't kick in until after sunrise and 1 cup of strong coffee.

4.  Unlabeled presents.  Please don't forget to label the presents.  It's really annoying to find a present under the tree that is clearly from you because it is wrapped in your special Santa paper, but there is no name tag on it.  Which sleep deprived little monster angel should open the gift?  Nothing good can come from unmarked presents.

5.  I know it's simple and easy for your over-worked elves to stock my children's stocking with socks, underwear, gum, and candy, but can you go easy on the candy this year?  Last year after yelling at encouraging my children to go back to bed, I told them they could open their stockings if they did so in bed and stayed in said bed until at least 6 AM.  It's amazing how much chocolate and gum my children can consume before sunrise.   That candy is like crack cocaine to my children. Maybe you could replace the candy with math facts?  Yeah, I'm a good time!

So from one naughty, over weight adult to another, please grant me my Christmas wishes.

Ho Ho Ho,
A Naughty Mom

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!

The Homework Wars

I remember being in 4th, 5th, and 6th grade.  Yes, my memory can actually go back that far.  My memory is not completely broken.  Yet.

I remember hating homework.  I remember thinking my teachers were mean for giving me homework and my parents were even meaner for making me do it.  I remember tears, yelling, more tears, and the development of my delusional belief that I would eventually outgrow homework.

Ironically, I am a 39-ish year old woman who still HATES 4th -6th grade homework!
My life has come full circle.  Now I am the mean, thoughtless mother who insists that homework be completed each night.  I pull this off nightly with varying amounts of tears, screaming and liquor in my system.

I want to believe we aren't the only family in the midst of the Homework Wars.
I want to believe our neighbors are fighting this war, too.  Certainly, we aren't the only parents drafted.  I want to believe we aren't alone, but I don't see the battle wounds on my fellow parent friends.

Am I the only one who wants to take "new math" and banish it to the bowels of hell?  Am I alone here, people?

This war has gone on for so many years I have forgotten who the enemy is.
Is it my daughter who has been known to weep loudly while doing math?
Is it my son who denies having homework until 4 minutes before leaving for school in the morning?
Is it both of them when they announce at 9 PM on a Thursday that they have a school project due the next day that will require poster board, styrofoam balls, duct tape, cotton balls and large amounts of green and blue paint?
Is it the teacher who assumes my children are competent enough to keep me in the loop on such upcoming projects?
Is it the school curriculum that has changed the way kids learn how to add double and triple digits?  What's the crime in carrying the one?
Is it me, the helicopter mom? Am I the enemy?

My goal this year has been to sell my helicopter. I will not be a helicopter mother.

I don't actually think I sold my helicopter.
By all appearances, my helicopter crash landed in the midst of the Homework Wars.
Man down! Man down!

Sleep Overs

The person who coined the term "sleep over" was either an adult who never had children or they meant the expression as in "sleep is over and will never happen during the course of this evening."  I'm not sure which.

I'm blessed with children of two different genders. I have a daughter and a farting creature son.  Here's the thing I know with absolute certainty:  although both are absolutely capable of being disgusting in their own right, girls are marginally more civilized than boys.

A girl's idea of a sleep over is to eventually cuddle and giggle their way into the night. They whisper and talk in hushed tones fully believing the silly parent will believe they are sleeping.

Boys, on the other hand, are too busy making farting and belching sounds.  They don't have the good sense to even try to fake out the responsible adult.  This eventually leads to the parent having to threaten their own son while dropping veiled threats and innuendoes about the likelihood of ever having another "sleep over."

"Sleep overs" loosely follow this schedule:

6 PM:  Son's friend arrives
6:01 PM:  Boys begin running throughout the house with high pitched squealing that reminds mother that she has wine in the refrigerator.
6:22 PM:  Boys begin loudly playing video games.  Mother takes 2 ibuprofen with water.
8:12 PM:  Mother asks boys to get a snack, brush teeth, put on PJs.
8: 22 pm:  Mother asks boys to get a snack, brush teeth, put on PJs.
8:30 pm:   Mother asks boys to get a snack, brush teeth, put on PJs.
8:37 pm:  Boys loudly eat snack and put on PJs.  Proper dental care is overrated.
8:45 pm:  Mother opens refrigerator and then closes it.  She's just comforted by knowing the wine is in there should she need it.
8:47 pm:  Boys decide to dump every Lego on the bedroom floor so they can "find them better."
8:52 pm: Loud fart sounds and hysterical laughter erupt from the room.
9:15 pm:  Loud fart sounds and hysterical laughter continue to erupt from the room.
9:16 pm:  Mother continues to ignore the loud farts and hysterical laughter.
9:30 pm:  Mother asks boys to clean up Legos to make room for sleeping bags
9:41 pm:  Mother asks boys to clean up Legos to make room for sleeping bags
9:52 pm:  Mother asks boys to clean up Legos to make room for sleeping bags
10:00 pm:  Mother enters room against her better judgement to find sleeping bags on the floor covering 2 million legos and another 2 million legos have been tossed into her son's underwear drawer.
10:01 pm:  Mother tells boys to whisper or read quietly.  "It's time to slow down," she says sweetly.
10:01 pm:  Mother leaves the room, closes the door, and promptly hears fart sounds and hysterical laughing.
10:01 pm:  Mother decides one glass of wine would not hurt anyone.
10:30 pm:  Mother goes back to son's room and tells the boys it's time for lights out.
10:30 pm:  Mother leaves the room, closes the door, and promptly hears fart sounds and hysterical laughing.
11:00 pm:  Mother develops an illogical belief.  If she clenches her teeth and speaks without moving her jaw (creating a very attractive facial expression), She believes only her child can hear her.
11:01 pm:  With clenched teeth she says, "If. You. Don't. Put. Your. Head. Down. Now. You. Will. Never. Have. Another. Sleep. Over. ... EEEVVVEEERRR."  She hisses that last word because she is already sleep deprived and she is morphing into something scary and unpredictable.
11:02 pm: Mother's hissing has absolutely no impact on her son.  The other child asks her son, "Hey, your mom is talking funny. Why she sound like that?"
11:03 pm:  Mother gives her son "the look" (I don't need to describe that, right?).
11:03 pm:  Mother leaves the room, closes the door, and promptly hears fart sounds and hysterical laughing.
11:05 pm:  Mother realizes first glass of wine has had absolutely no impact on anything.
11:15 pm:  Mother sips second glass of wine while listening to fart sounds echo down the hall.
11:37 pm:  Mother passes out falls asleep to the sound of boys farting and belching.
9:59 am:  Mother sweetly tells the other mother that the boys were "delightful" and "we should do this again at your house."

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.

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!

They Are My Real Kids

My children have never been in my birth canal. That is unchartered territory.

Seven years ago my husband and I adopted our children. Our adoption story could fill volumes. It would make you laugh, cry, and cringe. In the end, you would realize adopting my children was one of the longest labors on earth. Yes, labor. I pushed, I screamed, I cried, and, at times, I thought I might not survive. I just never actually carried my children in my body.

Our adoption story is laborious, but I would do it again in a heartbeat. Adoption is a truly amazing experience. However, I'm always amazed by people's reactions. Most people respond positively, but some are confused by it. I think one of the more amazing responses from seemingly kind, intelligent, and rational people is:

"So they aren't your real kids?"

Please rest assured that these two energetic, inquisitive creatures are my very own real children.

If they weren't, I wouldn't nag them so much. I would be less critical of their posture, eating habits, and hygiene. I would not be saddled with chauffeuring them to and from after school activities.

My house as well as my brain would be less cluttered. I would have less laundry to do and more money in my pocket. My toilets would be clean, and the front of my refrigerator would not be covered with photos, drawings, and school calendars. I would have floors that aren't dotted with Legos, an occasional bead, and a dash of glitter.

I would be well rested and therefore more enjoyable company after 8 PM. I would be well read and well informed about matters of political importance.

I would be more likely to find things of importance like car keys, house keys, and my sanity.

I would be able to make eye contact with you at the city pool when you're talking with me instead of watching the deep end of the pool like a hawk. I would show up places with ironed and stain-free shirts. I would be able to talk about things unrelated to child care, school menus, and the price of kid shoes.

The inside of my car would look more like the inside of a car and less like the inside of the world's largest waste receptacle.

I would go to the theatre to watch rated R movies or any movie not animated and in 3D. I would not stock my pantry shelves with a nearly endless supply of canned ravioli and juice boxes.

I would actually cross things off my "to do" list instead of just adding to it.

I would have something referred to as "time."

In short, if these weren't my "real" kids, I would be utterly marooned.

On July 21st we celebrate our Family Day. That's the day they became my children and I became their very real mother.

It's my favorite day of the year!