Writing through my anger

I'm literally, LITERALLY, shaking with rage right now.

One of my children, and it should be known that, according to them, it was Not Me, decided to play with fire in our bathroom. When? I don't know. Why? Because FIRE is AWESOME. I get that. It's fascinating and mesmerizing and we are all drawn to the flickering power that can be held within our hands.

I came across multiple small items that had been obviously burned, snuffed out, and then stuffed behind the upstairs toilet.... Yes. Stuffed together, behind the toilet. God only knows how well they were put out before the culprit, Not Me, decided to "hide them." My hysteria brought on many tears, from all 3 of us, and will hopefully result in Not Me realizing the absolute SERIOUSNESS of this situation.  My entire family could have died from a slow burning fire. Just writing that has me crying, yet again...

Also! I am not only worried about this pyro stage within one of my kids, but about the inability of the same child to hide their wrong doings!! Who leaves ashes all over the floor? Who rubs burnt materials on the bathroom sink, leaving a black trail, and then WALKS AWAY?!?

Deep breaths, in and out.

Trying to regain my composure...

I'd like to thank all of the little people who made this possible...

I got this photo and a few others in my inbox this morning from my sister.

My first thoughts were, "Aww. Cute baby! I wonder whose it is?" 

And then I thought, "Why is she sending ME these pictures? I don't know anyone who just had a baby, do I?"

I wracked my brain, trying to figure out who this kid belonged to but came up empty. I began to get frustrated with my sister that she didn't say "Hey so and so had a baby!" I mean, it's kind of rude, right? I definitely needed to send her a snarky email. I really enjoy sending those. I'm pretty good at it, too.

As I began composing a masterpiece of sarcasm, I opened the second email she sent me and found these pictures:

Now THIS kid, this kid I know! That's my little Evan! He must have been only 2 in that picture. I nearly died from the cute! She must have been cleaning out her camera or something.

 I smiled wistfully and decided to edit some of snark from my pre-composed email as a thank-you gesture. I'm a giving sister like that.

And then I paused.

Ho.Lee. Crap. That baby... That baby was EVAN. My own child, and I didn't recognize him?!?

My email was hugely shortened to just 2 sentences:

"Oh my God. I didn't even know it was Evan at first!"

I waited for her comments to follow with justified taunting at my fantastic mothering abilities.

She replied:

"Do you mean the baby or the toddler? That's Corinne! You can see her little line of her birthmark on her head. I was 6 months pregnant, that's why my face is so fat.*"

Yes. That's right. I not only didn't recognize the baby in the photos as one of my own, I totally didn't know WHICH baby it was.

I win. I win alllll the awards. I win all of the prizes. It's official: I am the World's Worst Mother. Though the credit should not fall solely upon my shoulders. I am happy to thank everyone who made this possible. You know, the little people. Without you, none of this would be possible. You know who you are.

All 3 of you.

*You did not look fat. 

Party Planning, 101

It's time for a little math.

My eldest child is 14, my middle is 11 and my youngest just turned 8.

Every year, they get a family party and have each gotten a yearly friend party since they were about 4 (give or take).

Broken down in easy terms, I have thrown AT LEAST 55 parties for children in the past 14 years.

Is it any wonder I am slightly lacking at "new and inventive" party games? Is it a great mystery why my daughter's birthday party had games like "wrap your friend in toilet paper to make a mummy" and "pin the body part on the zombie"(completely Corinne's idea) and a last minute GENIUS idea of playing Twister and then "musical Twister"*?

Throw in a pizza from Aldi, a poorly constructed "spooky-outer-space-alien" cake with lots of sprinkles, and an impromptu cup stacking game and you would think that our party would have been exciting enough, yes?

Apparently not.

Midway through the party, as I was cleaning frosting from the kitchen table and the girls were gathering for a game in the living room, I heard screams and squeals which I instantly understood. You see, my cat had been staring under the refrigerator that morning with the kind of of concentration that only a bowl of fresh fish or a petrified, live mouse could elicit. Sure enough, little Mickey had tried to evade Claire's hunting skills by hiding underneath the living room couch. He hadn't counted on a roomful of giggling girls and an attack cat that cannot be foiled.

I want you to really picture this scene.

No husband.

No boys. (Not that they're required, but they definitely come in handy for situations like this.)

10 screaming girls.

1 barking dog (cuz WHAT IS GOING ON? OMG! MY LITTLE HEAD CANNOT HANDLE THIS! ARF! ARF! ARF!)

And Me. The "adult" in charge who has a serious aversion to rodents in her house (as in, I'm usually found standing on "the COUNTER if it is suspected that a mouse is in the house).

My newly turned 8 year old daughter dutifully climbed behind the couch to place a bucket over the critter. The hysterical screaming and giggling continued amidst the jumping and hand flapping. I acted like a REAL grown up and delivered instructions on how to slide a piece of cardboard under the bucket without allowing it to escape.

Believe it or not, we saved the nasty beast. And 10 little girls ran in various states of weather-appropriate dress to the field down the road to release him into "the wild" while I waited in the driveway. And waited. And waited. AND WAITED.

About 5 girls came back.

"Its leg is broken!" "They won't leave it there!"

Sigh.

I gimped my way (remember, I still have a broken toe that I keep bashing into walls) down the road to the wind-blown field where the remaining party-goers/animal rescuers huddled around a tiny tail that was poking out of the field grass.

"Can you call the doctor? His leg is broken!" Their faces turned towards mine, eyes wide and expectant.

"Girls, this is a little something called 'The Circle of Life.' If his leg is just sprained, he may survive and be fine. Or, he may become a meal for a very hungry fox or hawk. It's why mice have so many babies, so quickly, and so often. Let's go eat some cake and ice cream, ok?"

Picture a half dozen devastated little faces.

(This party is going down in history, for sure.)

I reassured them that he would be way better off in the field, hidden beneath the grasses, than back at my house with the cats and a woman who is NOT forking over cash for a field mouse's back leg. We finished the party off with the latest songs** playing in the back ground as I spun blindfolded little girls around to pin the body part on the zombie. The doorbell soon began to ring and, one by one and two by two, they headed home with their party favors of fancy pencils and leftover Halloween candy. Moments after the door shut behind the final friend, I flopped on the (mouse-free) couch and heaved a great sigh of relief. Corinne climbed up beside me for a post-party cuddle.

"Did you have a good party, baby?"

"Oh yes, Mommy! Know what the best part was?"

"The presents? Playing Twister?"

"No! When we saved the mouse! That was so exciting!"

Naturally.

*Musical Twister: when you realize you do not have enough chairs or space for musical chairs for 10 girls, so you suggest they march around the Twister mat to the sounds of "Thriller" and **"What Does the Fox Say?" Perhaps I underestimated myself because this sounds like FREAKING GENIUS PARENTING skills, personally.

Would you like some Fries with that?

"What time is it? Holy cow! It's 3:50! Let's go! Let's Go!"

I hate it when we're rushed like that. Now that Corinne has gymnastics at 4:30, twice a week, we are often heading out of our house just as the neighborhood kids are heading home from school. Being that I like to be early and never late, I usually allow extra time for unforseen situations.

"Mommy, are these the only granola bars we have for our snack?" Evan asked as he rummaged through the van while we cruised down the highway. I glanced back and, sure enough, they were the almond bars that he hates, NOT the peanut bars that he likes.

"Damn. I am so sorry, Evan! Ummm... Maybe we can stop at McDonald's really quickly for a dollar menu item, ok?" His face was so bummed. He loves those peanut granola bars and I totally spaced and grabbed Justin's almond box. I cannot be perfect, every moment of every day, folks.

"Welcome to McDonald's. Would you like to try a value meal?"

"No thanks. One sec, please!" stage whisper to the backseat, "Guys, WHAT do you want?!? Come on! We have to hurry and they're waiting!"

They hemmed. They hawed. They drove me up the wall.

"Can I have a McFlurry?"

"Hell no. I am not paying for a McFlurry. You can have a sandwich or a shake. DECIDE."

"Fine, I'll have a vanilla shake, I guess." (Said like I was forcing him to eat dirt.)

"Ok, Corinne. Your turn. Come on, Corinne! Decide!"

"I'd like a Shamrock shake."

"They don't have those anymore."

"Yes they do, Mommy."

"NO, they don't! Pick vanilla or chocolate."

"They DO have Shamrock Shakes!"

"I swear to you, Corinne; the shakes aren't here anymore. They're seasonal. Pick a different flavor!!"

"MomMEEE, they DO have Shamrock shakes!!!! I know because..."

"CORINNE. THEY DO NOT HAVE SHAMROCK SHAKES! PICK VANILLA OR CHOCOLATE OR YOU GET NOTHING!!!"

My vein is pulsing on my forehead. Tears are in her eyes. The tension in the van is high and, just as the crying (mine and hers) was about to begin, the drive-thru speaker crackled to life.

"Excuse me? Ma'am? I'm sorry. I don't mean to interrupt, but, well, we do have Shamrock Shakes."


(Oh. My. God.)

"You're kidding me. Ah,heh, heh. Great...Ah, we'd like a small Shamrock shake, too, please."

The kids are giggling. I am mortified. The cashier doesn't make eye contact with me as I pass her my cash.

It's days like these that I remember how very important it is to carefully pack our snacks.

The tooth that kept me up for 3 weeks...

"All right, parents! It's time to come and watch!"

I looked up from my pile of purple yarn that I had been tediously hooking and looping into a scarf for Corinne. The waiting room at the community center was emptying and it was time to watch our little girls perform what they had learned in the last 2 weeks in Jazz class.

There stood my own mini-dancer; arms raised and toes pointed and face... drawn into a frown? Weird. Corinne is usually thrilled to be dancing. I tried to avoid eye contact with her, lest the drama be validated, but her brown eyes found my blue ones and she began to wail.

She raced across the room into my arms.

"What's wrong?"

"My mouth! It hurts! My mouth hurts sooo bad!!"

I looked inside and, sure enough, there wobbled the second baby tooth she'd ever cut. It wasn't quite at the "hanging on by a thread" stage but it was definitely on its way out the door. I hugged her and reassured her. Somehow, between her favorite dance teacher and I, we managed to get her back in line to finish out the dance. She was miserable, but she did her jumps and taps and spins with the most pathetic face you've ever seen. Before the final note even ended, she was back in my arms, tears pouring down her face.

I peered into her mouth once more.

"Hmmm. It really is loose, honey. Let me feel it a bit and see..." As I said this, I did what all mothers will do at least once in their parenting careers:

I tugged. And I tugged hard.

And?

And the tooth didn't come out!

But the blood sure did.

Oh my LORD, you should have seen the horror on the faces of the little girls in that room as Corinne stood there with blood oozing from her mouth! I rushed her to the bathroom where her bawling echoed off the tiled walls. We staunched the flow of blood but the agony that she felt was more difficult to contain.

"I just want this pain to END! I want it out!!! Why is this happening to ME?!?!"

Now, I am not a mean mom, no matter what my kids will tell you. I don't LIKE it when my children are in pain, but the dramatics of a 6 year old are never-ending. Hearing Corinne scream over her current "pain" isn't anything new. So my sympathy was present, but not over-effusive. I'm sure that at least one mother was appalled at how I was just patting my daughter on the back and leaving her to clean herself up in the bathroom. Giving her attention was only going to feed the beast of Tantrums.

But Corinne had a second dance class that night and, while I'm not a CRAZY penny-pincher, I AM anal about paying for a class and then not attending. Do you know how much dance classes cost?? And that tooth wasn't coming out in the bathroom. At least, not without a blood bath. This hysteria needed to be abated so that she could do her ballet class! So we hurried home, where I gave her some "medicine" (leftover baby Tylenol) and dabbed a bit of Orajel on her gums. While rubbing her gums, I gripped that tooth and YANKED. And this time? I put some meaning into it!

"Aaahhh!!! Ewwwww!!!"

"What?What? Did that hurt?"

"Did what hurt?"

I held up her bloody, itty-bitty tooth.

"Oh! My tooth! Aaahhhh!!!"

She raced to the sink, poured a glass of water and began chugging it down.

"Does it hurt that bad?"

"Noooo!! It's that gel stuff! It's SO NASTY!! I can't STAND IT!!"

Rolling my eyes, I handed her the tooth. She grinned through her tears and around the glass of water.

"How much money do you think I'll get for this one?"

"No idea, but let's get going! Your ballet class isn't over yet and you still have time to dance!"

And dance she did. The little girls were all adequately excited over her new hole in her head and I was thrilled that there wasn't any blood on her leotard.

Supernanny can kiss my crochet hook

This morning, while watching Supernanny (nothing else was on. I SWEAR TO GOD), my kids' mouths were hanging open as the little girl flung herself about in a most impressive and incredibly piercing tantrum.

I paused in my crocheting (My rows are finally even!) and gave them the evil eye.

"Why is this shocking to you guys? That is EXACTLY what you sound like! Last night, even! This is why I sent you to your rooms!!"

Shaking my head and smugly smiling to myself because I, obviously, had a better handle on this parenting gig than those parents, I began to crochet once more. And then Corinne turned from the screen where the mother was literally tearing her hair out while shrieking at her children at the top of her lungs:

"But Mommy! THAT is exactly what YOU sound like!"

Sweeter than Honey...

"Mommy, how do I look?" She peers at me from underneath her mop of wispy blond hair. Only it's not wispy, anymore. It's... wet?

"Oh, you look lovely, Corinne! Did you use water to slick down your hair?"

But she's danced away in a swirl of her flowing hippie skirt; singing a Taylor Swift song with surprising accuracy. I return to my coffee and immerse myself in my emails until a truly pleasing aroma overtakes me. Turning around, I discover the odor is emanating from Corinne who has flitted back into the room to her art desk behind me.

"Wow! You smell really good! Did you use soap on your hair?"

Blank stare.

I sniff her head again. She smells... familiar... but I can't quite place the scent.

"Corinne? What did you put on your hair?"

"I... don't remember. Just water, Mommy."

Knowing my daughter and her inability to refrain from sampling my perfumes, soaps and hair goop, I swept my hand through her locks. It felt.... oily.

"Did you put soap on your hair? You smell like..." I inhaled deeply, "... fruit. You smell really, really fruity!"

"I didn't, Mommy! I promise! I didn't put soap on my hair!!!" Her enormous eyes are indignant.

I grudgingly pull myself away from my beloved computer and we trudge into the kitchen. I am fairly positive that she put the new dish soap which smells like red grapefruit on her hair and just didn't wash it all out. Not that I condone using dish soap on your head, but hey; If my kid is going to voluntarily wash her hair, I am not going to complain. And the dish soap does smell DIVINE. So I understood her desire to use it.

I washed her hair out several times and we talked about being sure to properly rinse soap after we shampoo our heads. She continued to insist that she did NOT put the soap on her head and I continued to roll my eyes. I rubbed her head with a moderately clean kitchen towel and sent her off to play while bombarding the back of her head with reminders to "Tell the Truth!"

Still. That scent. I wonder...

I check the dish soap bottle. I sniff. It's really fruity, for sure, but not exactly what she had on her head. And I SWEAR that I know that smell! The olfactory does NOT forget! Deciding that it may just be one of those parenting queries that never reveals itself, I abandon the mystery to clean the house before our friends come over for dinner.

Later that night, during a conversation with my girlfriend, I notice that Corinne's hair still looks a little... wet. I begin to describe the afternoon to my girlfriend. I laugh as I say,

"...and her hair was oily! I mean, what could she possibly have gotten into?!? Ha Ha Ha!!! Ha...Ha... Oh. Oh dear...."

I thump up the stairs to our room and fling open the door and there, upon our bedroom dresser, is the answer. The bottle. The aroma that smelled so pleasant and was so familiar but was so difficult to place when it arose from my 5 year old's head.

My kindergartener had bathed her head in our scented "personal massage" oil. The oil in the bottle that has a drawing of people in a very, um... amorous position.

I do not have enough money for the therapy that her childhood will require.

Me and My Big Mouth

This is what happens when you pat yourself on the back.

You end up with 3 children who are so outrageously misbehaved that you split in half and lose your ever-loving mind* and strip the entire household of screen privileges. No tv, video games, DS, or computer.

No computer. Entire Household.

Yeah. Slightly idiotic move on one mother's part.
(raises hand) (briskly slaps herself with it)

But we've been... quieter. Slower. CLEANER (yay!). We've been playing more board games and riding our bikes. There've still been oodles of arguments and I have taken to being incredibly stricter and swifter on punishments, but it's working. Shhhh....

So, if I don't get to your email too quickly or read your blog for another week or post a response on Facebook to something wonderful or horrible, this is the reason. I pray the lesson I'm hoping to instill takes root.
*what does 'ever-loving' even mean? I guess I could Google it. Meh. Not inclined. But why do I write it if I don't know what it means? It fit for the situation, though. Even though there wasn't much love in my heart at that moment.

When you live in MY house, you live by MY rules!

I KNOW. Can you believe I stooped that low? I can't.

I mean, it's the ultimate cliche phrase; the one I'd sworn against my entire life.

"If you utter That Phrase, you are just asking for your child to yell back 'Then I'm OUT of here!' as they run off to Vegas."

(That? That is what I used to consider MY phrase.)

And now? I'm the cliche-slinging, ranting mother who stomped her foot at her 12 year old and called out "Bullshit!" when he proclaimed to not need to help clean the house and that HE didn't CARE if it was messy.

BULL. SHIT.

Yep. Mommy has left the building and MOTHER has entered.

In my defense, there really is only so much a person can handle. I can handle daily chores. I can handle a little sigh as they have to pause a show or game or book in order to put clothing away or take the garbage out. I GET IT. It's not fun to do housework. OBVIOUSLY.

But what I don't understand is how I have arrived at this stage in my life where my boys are combative about ANY chore or basic duty that a human being needs to accomplish. I'm astounded.

And I actually threatened* to take ALL clothing but 2 shirts and 2 pants from Justin's room so that he is always doing his own laundry and always knows where his shit is. I am sick and tired of being the only person in this house that can find a clean shirt** or pair of socks***.

I'll bet all of your kids are just JUMPING at the chance to visit my house, right?!?



*(and am still considering following up on!)


**(in the drawer! Shocking!)


***(I looked in the sock basket because I'm all Sherlock Holmes-ish like that)

Scary Dreams

Driving in the van on the way home from watching The Wizard of Oz in Chicago on Sunday, I decided to gently probe Evan's brain about his nightmare issues. Evan's always had a highly active sleeping brain and it's gotten progressively worse for him as far as nighttime fears go. I understand all too well about vivid dreams and night fears. There isn't a night that goes by without an entire novel in my brain. But Evan's fears have gotten to the point that he isn't able to fall asleep in his room without us and is ALWAYS in our room come morning. Our bed, it's getting crowded.

So I began with little questions about what he's afraid will happen if he sleeps alone. What exactly does he dream about? Is there something we can do to avoid such scary pictures? Is it all the video games and scary movies? What is encouraging these nightmares?!?

When I found out what it is that scares him the most, I was a bit taken aback. It's not the monsters or war games that makes him afraid of the dark. It's not man-eating dinosaurs or robots from space that has him crying to sleep in our room. What scares my son the most is the thought that someone will separate him from me and Patrick. His words, not mine.

What do I do with that? Monsters, I can handle. But how do I help him deal with something that actually CAN happen?

He's afraid that something bad will happen and he'll be all alone. He's worried that tornadoes or car accidents or sicknesses will kill us off. His 8 year old brain has reached that stage where he understands that life isn't certain or guaranteed and that ALL people die. Though I thought I had tried my hardest to be up-front and relaxed about death and uncertainties about tomorrow and embracing today's blessings, he is still suffering the same agony that I suffered at his age; That all children MUST suffer in order to truly comprehend mortality.

It still sucks. Especially when your son is now bawling in the back seat on I-55 and you can't pull over. Especially when he's hiding his little head in his hands and begging to just go home instead of getting a milkshake from McDonald's. When he passes on milkshakes, you know it's serious.

I need to remember that each child of mine handles things differently. If I want to have a conversation like that with JUSTIN, I do it in the van to eliminate the extra distractions that a house provides. But Evan NEEDS the distractions to keep his mind from over-focusing on the scariness of what we're discussing. Evan needs physical contact that can't be given while you're driving at 60 mph.

The Misadventures of Halloween 2010

I know, I know. It looks like a perfectly fabulous Halloween, right? Evan's all-smiles while swinging at the pinata during a friend's birthday/Halloween party...

And they spent an hour or so gathering plenty of goodies on a crisp but comfortable October evening. Every child had a BLAST collecting enough sugar to keep our dentist in business till 2015 and hanging out at our friend's house.

"I know!" we said. "Let's go to the local haunted house! It's small and free and lots of fun for little kids!!"
Everyone was on board with this idea. We waited in line and checked out the front yard's spooky decor. Pretty cool. Spooky but not over-the-top. Evan liked walking up to random people with his mask and just staring at them. We laughed. We chatted. We warmed up our hands in our pockets.
We killed time taking silly pictures. What a fun night!
Moments before we walked into the backyard's haunted house, I convinced Evan that the set-up really wasn't that scary. After all, even Corinne went through it several times last year. And he could sleep in our bed if he was a little scared! Come on kid! You can do this!!

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Notice how there are no "after" pictures?

Ever try to carry an 8 year old through a haunted house? Ever try to stop your own screaming in the meat locker with devils and werewolves jumping out at you so that your bawling son won't be even more petrified? It's not an easy feat. But I pushed those bloody bags aside and dragged my kid through, all the while he's whimpering,

"I hate Halloween! It's scary! I don't want to ever trick or treat or dress up again!!"

Great. FABULOUS job, Tracey. I have unintentionally succeeded in assuring Evan's presence in our bed for another 3 or 4 years.

FYI, it's a great and free haunted house in Plainfield, IL. They collect food to feed the homeless instead of admission! It is definitely scary but very short, so if you want to see how your kids may react to an expensive haunted house, this may be a good starter spot.

Souls of the Forsaken - check it out next year!!

Fish Stories...

Patrick and Evan returned home last Saturday. A cooler full of fish, suitcases full of stinky shoes (I gagged upon unzipping!) and mouths full of adventures from the Canadian wilderness. Had I known exactly how wild the adventure with my EIGHT YEAR OLD son was going to be, I would have suggested a less remote cabin...
Yummmmmy... Get in mah belly, fishy!

In this picture, he's all clean and appears to be in a fairly developed spot!

Heh.

My ears were ringing and jaw was on the floor when Patrick retold their story of getting stuck in mud up to Evan's armpits on a trek across the wilderness to another lake just to catch MORE FISH. As Pat described the freaking spear he whittled with his fish filet knife so that he could defend Evan against bears and wolves as he stood knee-deep in the icy lake beside a common drinking spot for animals, I had to sit down. When he got to the parts about spontaneously jumping into the lake to pull the boat to an island because they had run out of gas in the middle of a lake WITHOUT an oar and no one would be looking for them for about 5-7 hours, I was glad I was already sitting down!
(Totally trusting his dad to not let him get eaten by bears)
And he thinks he's taking Corinne when she turns 8?!? Hahahahahahaha!!!! Ohhh... Yeah. That'll happen.
Note: This is about what I pictured when Patrick was spinning his tale about bears and wolves and choppy waters and quicksand-mud that sucked the pants off of my little boy.* Except they weren't smiling and there was more blood involved.

*No picture of that! Dangit. I would have loved to have watched Evan cracking up as he tried to pull his mud-caked pants up from his ankles!

The post where I offend anyone who is of any religion...

I recently realized something about myself. It's not pretty, and I'm not proud.

It's honest and I am trying to come to terms with it so that I can alter my way of thinking.

I proclaim to be open-minded to anything. Should my children be homosexual or hetero, artists or engineers, wealthy or nomadic; I just want them to be happy. I have always stated that this applied to their religious choices, as well.

"As long as they truly believe it and aren't force fed a religion, I don't care what religion they are. I just want them to be happy. I don't care how they reach their spiritual peace, just that they reach it!"

You know what? That was complete bunk. I am just as prejudiced as the people I pity; the ones who can't accept their children for who they have always been. I'm no better than the parents who turn their backs on their homosexual kids and instead hold onto their religious tomes. Because it's obvious to me that the thought of my children becoming Christian or Jewish or any other religion that has strict Rules makes my heart clutch and palms sweat.

Apparently I'm only open-minded if my kids are open-minded in the SAME WAY as I am.

Pretty pathetic.

But how would I react if one of them came to me and professed a wish to study a religion at a place of worship more in depth? Corinne recently asked to go to our neighbor's church and I had to tell her I thought she was too young to fully digest what they would preach without having the adult mind to process and decide for herself. Turns out, she just wanted the damn goldfish they served after Sunday School and was appeased by buying some at WalMart, but there may come a day when it's not so simple to sway them to wait. And then what? Do I attend with them? Do I become the embarrassing mom in the background raising her hand and asking questions? That's what turned me off to organized religion in the FIRST place! They don't generally like 7 year old girls in Catholic CCD classes who badger the teachers with questions like,

"What about kids in the jungles? Are you telling me God really wouldn't let them into heaven because they didn't have a bible nearby? What about the millions of people who believe in God but in a different way? You're telling me they're all WRONG and we're RIGHT and I just have to have faith?!?"

I was a precocious little brat, eh? The teachers were quite happy when my mom told me to just be quiet and get through the classes. I got my first communion with a fake smile on my face. I received my confirmation AND wedding vows in the same Catholic church without a true belief in any of what was told to me. Just nod and smile and be a good girl and no one will look at you weird.

It has taken me my whole life to be able to stand up to ANYONE (including family and friends who believe in the bible verbatim) who tries to convince me that my way isn't ok with God. I won't argue their belief with them. They're allowed to believe whatever they want and I am honestly of the mindset that whatever lightens your spirit and brings you happiness is good for your soul.

So why can't I allow my kids to be ok with God in a different way than mine?

If I keep the doors of communication open and allow without judgment any and all questions about God and the Universe, then I have to have faith in my kids that they will follow no one or group without first questioning and considering all that it may mean...

This is all I have energy to write...

Nothing like having to yell at your kids in the library.

After we left our homeschool group 2 hours EARLY because they were behaving less than desirably (i.e. stomping around like elephants and throwing markers), we stopped by the library to grab a few books that Justin has wanted to read again. Despite their behavior, we dashed in the uber-quiet and extremely overcrowded library because I am a very cool mom who was willing to overlook their discrepancies.

4 minutes into our quick stop and my blood pressure was off the charts,

"Stop running! Don't hide the books from him! Why won't you come here?!?! Stop CRYING! You have to hold the 3rd bag because I only have 2 hands!! Get back here NOOOOWWWW!!! You are EMBARRASSING me!!!"

It's 12:20 and I already need something stiffer than this gas station cappuccino....

~~~~

I'm thrilled that Patrick has normal hours and all, but the realization that I now have no excuse to avoid cooking dinner has hit and I am less than amused. Especially since my fridge and freezer are still echoing after the whole unintentional defrosting incident... I'm thinking of breakfast for dinner tonight!

~~~~

It's 1:15. It took me an hour to write those 2 paragraphs. I'll give you 3 guesses as to why...

Damnit, I don't WANT to change the number on my "about me" age!

I just realized that I am, apparently, still 33. According to my Blogger About Me profile I am, anyways. And I don't see that I will be updating that discrepancy any time soon... So YAY for procrastination! I am 33 again!

And now for something completely different...

Am I the only one who tortures their children for videos to use online?

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Come on. It's not that bad. It wasn't even raining or ANYthing. Just a few mosquitoes and maybe a couple of zombies. And is it torture if they're laughing?

My gift to you

"Why do we even come to these games?" I asked Patrick as we watched Justin's soccer game in the steady but warm drizzle this morning. Justin had played about 10 minutes out of the 45 minutes we had watched. I knew that the coach was offering for him to go in, but we saw our son shaking his head and talking (in depth) to his coach.

"He probably has a million reasons about why playing in the rain isn't good for him," I grimly stated. I know my eldest isn't known for being a huge athlete, but he really loves to play soccer, and it's great exercise! AND, he insists that he likes it! So why does he refuse to work harder? The other boys were huffing and puffing with red faces and sweaty hair, and their team finally won , 3 to 1.

I peeled the sleeping and quickly overheating 4 year old from my lap and we packed up to go home. Patrick carried Corinne and I followed behind with the boys. I kept my mouth shut, knowing that a discussion regarding his performance (or refusal thereof) would just begin an argument in public. And that is never a road I willingly take when there is a perfectly fine and private argument location in the van.

We made it to the van and loaded up. The family got buckled in while I put our chairs into the back. I turned around to find Justin's coach beside me.

"I feel really bad that he didn't play more," he began, "but every time I asked him, he said he didn't feel like playing or didn't have any energy. He's really improving on his skills..." he kindly listed all the ways that Justin has improved this season. I thanked him and climbed into the van where I parroted back the compliments.

"Why don't you push yourself just a little bit?" we asked. "You'll never get any better if you don't work past the hurdles of exercise!"

"My legs are too heavy today!"

???

Yes. His legs. Too heavy. Sigh... Patrick and I shook our heads and did a splendid job of not berating him too much. We only threatened a leeeeetle bit if he didn't apply himself at the games the way he does at practice. And then we let it drop because Corinne was spiking a fever and the house was a disaster and Patrick had some real estate business to take care of.

As I was bustling around the house, alternatively stroking the sweaty forehead of my sleeping 4 year old and scrubbing toilets (I did! I cleaned toilets AND showers. AND vacuumed on my hands and knees because the belt broke in my vacuum! I was a regular little homemaker, I was...) I noticed that the house had gotten quite quiet... Hmmmm...

There was Justin on the rocking chair; red-faced, listless eyes, and drooping over the armrest.

Damn. He was sick. He was beginning a fever and we were ragging on him about energy and attitude.

You may commence with feeling better about your own parenting skills in comparison to ours. This is my gift to you.

De nada.

(Oh pleasepleaseplease let them all be healthy for tomorrow's excursion to Raging Waves in Yorkville! We get to go for a review and I think it might be frowned upon if I were to drag 3 sickly children along, just for the free lunch...)

The ONLY way to camp!

"This is the ONLY way to camp!" I joyfully stated, over and over on our Boy Scout campout this weekend. After being delayed on Friday night due to tornado watches (yikes), our troop left early on Saturday morning to head out to the beautiful Starved Rock State Park in Illinois. The forecast was partly cloudy with a 20% chance of rain and we were all pumped and ready to camp!

We arrived by caravan sometime around 9 and the boys set up their own tents and started making their OWN breakfast while the supervising parental units set up OUR own tents and made OUR own breakfast. And then? Then the adults sat down and, well, SAT. And the kids ran off with their patrol leader boys to do some boy scoutish things that involved ceremonies and sacrifices or something. I don't really know because the parents aren't supposed to be involved! AT ALL. The ENTIRE weekend!!

I know. You're smiling for me and feeling jealous, right? Trust me, you should be! Because it was FREAKING AWESOME. Whenever we camp as a family, I am the organizer and tent assembler. I pack the bags, unload the gear, and try to wrangle my children into helping me without throwing too many tent stakes at their heads (flesh wounds in a campground are just a bitch to keep clean, you know). But when you gather about 30 boys and openly state that the parents are to be Hands Off unless there is a major emergency, you will end up with 10 parents who have nothing to do at a campground! You will then find these parents gleefully playing games of Koobs for hours on end while the boys trek through the woods and return covered in mud and sweat. All the parents needed to make Saturday absolutely perfect was a live band and some wine coolers...

"This is the ONLY way to camp!" was my mantra on Saturday. From breakfast through dinner and s'mores at 9 pm, I was thrilled to watch the boys romping through the tall grasses. Their games morphed from running with sticks and flashlights to flinging leftover spaghetti into a tree (to feed the birds! It's a Spaghetti Tree!) as they ran about like Ralph and Jack (without the unfortunate ending, of course). Even the intermittent drizzle didn't phase these boys; they were living large and loving the freedom.

But.

(Why is there always a "but?")

BUUUUUUTTTT.... Bedtime loomed and, my friends, my son (whom I hadn't seen more of than a blur of hair for hours) was, shall we say, absolutely, completely, exhausted.

He flopped beside my folding chair, "I'm tired. I want to go home. I'm not having any fun!"

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh, yeah. He actually said he wasn't having fun! The boy who spent 2 hours chasing zombies and vampires with sticks in the grass wasn't having fun!! Thankfully, I was able to coerce him into changing into sweats and going to bed in his tent where his buddy was already passed out in. I walked across the field to my own tent (being the only single girl in a group of boys and men has its benefits!) and settled down with my book for the night.

And then the rain began to fall.

And fall.

And FALL.

The steady drumming lulled me to sleep and I was having the most LOVELY dream about being a finalist in a dancing reality show (it could happen) when a conversation outside my tent woke me up. It was with a heavy heart that I admitted (through my clenched eyes) that it was MY child traipsing around in the torrential downpour, flashing his light into the adult tents, loudly "whispering", "Mom? Are you in there?!?"

(All together now: Uuuunnnggggghhh....)

Poking my head through the tent door, "What is going on?!? Why are you guys out of bed?"

"Our tent is totally leaking and we are absolutely soaked! Can I sleep in the van?!?"

"Justin! The van is all the way in the parking lot and it is in the middle of the night! You can't sleep over there without me and you can't leave your buddy alone in the leaking tent! You guys can't sleep in my tent because he's not my son!* GO BACK TO BED!"

I tried. Oh, how I tried! But the tears were flowing and the exhaustion on all of our faces (mine, Justin's, his buddy's and a leader who was woken up before they found me) so I brilliantly said,

"Fine! You and your buddy can sleep in my tent and I will take the van! Get your stuff and get over here!!"

They sleepily but profusely thanked me as they ran off to get their bedding.

I huffily snatched up my spare blankets that were SUPPOSED to be my mattress (Justin's sleeping bag was soaked, so he used mine) from the tent, hoofed my way across the drenched field and pot-holed gravel road and climbed into the van. After assembling myself on the back bench with a pillow and blankets I realized something:

I had a dry bed with a MATTRESS.

.
.
.

This was DEFINITELY the only way to camp!



* Scouting rules include that no adult may be in a tent at any time with a scout.

Recently overheard in the house of JAMB...

"Mommy, why don't I have ruffles on my hands?"

"Eh? Wha?"

"Ruff. FULLS. Why don't I have RUFFLES on my hands? I have them on my arms and legs, but not my hands. Why not?"

Eyebrows at full mast, eyes scanning her arms and legs for supposed ruffles and finding none, I ask,
"Um... Can you show me some of these Ruffles?"

A look of utter exasperation at her incredibly naive and ignorant mother, she sharply points to several dots on her arms and legs.

"THESE, MOM-mmeeee! THESE RUFFLES. Why don't I have them on my hands?!?"

Grateful that I had already swallowed my coffee so that nothing was able to shoot out of my nose, I choked out my response of,

"FRECKLES? You turkey! You meant FRECKLES."

"Oh, yeah." giggles behind her hands like an utterly feminine, stereo-typical girly girl. "That's what I meant!"

~~~

Just moments ago, the playful laughter of my 3 kids allowed me time to peruse about 3% of the internet that I wanted to indulge in. Happy for the little things, I ignored the rise and fall of pleasure to indignation to utter joy to fury, begging the internet to "please search faster!", knowing that it would all come to an end when someone finally began to bleed. Instead, I was intrigued to overhear Evan's high-pitched demands upon his brother. I peeked into the room and saw him sitting on Justin's head. In a voice resembling some super-villain from the movies he roared,

"What's my favorite animal, fool?!? That's wrong! You don't know it, so you must paaaayyy!!" Mock punches to Justin's head resulted in hysterical laughter.

"What color underwear am I wearing, fool?!?"

"WHITE?!?" Justin managed to squeak out from under his brother's butt.

"WRONG AGAIN YOU FOOOOL!!!! I'm in pajamas so I'm not WEARING ANY UNDERWEAR!! MUwaaaHAAAAHaaaaa!!!!" More mock punches to Justin's head, followed by even more hysterical laughter.

I cautiously backed away, hoping that the blood wouldn't be shed after all, (seeing as how there were no weapons involved) and began to furiously type it all out, only to hear Corinne belting out,

"What's my name, FOOOOOL?!?"

Sigh.

They say that girls are easier when it comes to clothing. They LIE.

I never knew that so much of my life would be dedicated to forcing my sons to wear underwear. Honestly? I mean, SERIOUSLY? This is an issue? This is a discussion that had to happen more than once? And often enough that I am frustrated to the point that I feel the need to write a blog post about it?

Apparently, so. Apparently, wearing underwear that isn't soft enough/loose enough/tight enough/blue enough/filled-with-the-ability-to-make-you-fly enough is a fate worse than being stabbed in the eyes with spit-sharpened candy canes. Apparently, going commando in JEANS is more comfortable than undergarments that cannot meet the high standards of my underwear snobs.

But the Battle of the Underwear pales in comparison to the war that is fought every day between a certain 7 year old and I. This particular war is the bloodiest of all and deals not with whether they have boxers or briefs but whether or not his socks have 3 gold stripes on them.

I shit you not. He will NOT wear socks without the right stripes on them. Despite the fact that we have hundreds of white boy socks in his approximate foot size, there are about 5 pairs of socks in our home that Evan finds comfortable enough to wear. Sadly, for all of our eardrums, I am not adept at keeping the whites clean or the socks matched. This ineptness results in the piercing of said eardrums when aforementioned middle child is forced to remove the 3 day old socks from his petri-dish feet and he realizes that the replacement socks being casually offered are NOT. GOLD. STRIPED.

And this is the reason that there are days that my children go commando while wearing socks that could walk on their own....

Oopsy doodle.

Note to self:

When you are engaged in a riveting game of Bejeweled Blitz (my high is 315,000. Oh yes; It IS.) and you hear your husband come around the corner to spy on you and you say "Don't you dare come in here! You know you always f%ck me up!" without looking up to be SURE it's your husband? Might I suggest using your eyes before throwing the F-bomb around?

Because that heavy shuffling that sounds exactly like your husband might just be your ever-growing ten-year-old son, wandering about the house at 11 pm, confused and bewildered into believing that it's 11 am, instead of pm. And then you might just have to wash your mouth out for swearing at your baby boy that way...

Just a thought.
~~~~
Today was a bit better. Despite the fact that I realized I had forgotten about a den meeting that I had planned (I'm the leader. Oops.) and having to punish Evan for brutalizing his sister. Despite all the little shit, today was a still a bit better... Thanks for your thoughts....