Do This Parenting Thing. Trust Me.

I know that not all of my parenting choices are perfect, but there are a few decisions I've made that I can confirm are Fantastic. One of the best ideas I've ever had was to take each child on a special Mother-Child trip when they turned 10.

Why ten? 10 year olds are still "kids" and enjoy much of the innocence and wonder in the world of childhood. Not quite pre-teens with all of the hormones and angst that arises from the struggles of growing up, 10 year olds are kind of a perfect mix of little kid and big kid.

It's a sweet spot.

And so, I take them on trips. Nothing over the top like flying across the world, but somewhere relatively close, affordable, and unique to their interests. The other qualifying marker is that the trip must be somewhere where neither of us has ever gone before. :)

I took Justin to Mammoth Cave.

Evan and I went to St. Louis.

And tomorrow, Corinne and I will travel to West Virginia to zip line through the mountains, kayak in the morning quiet, raft in white water for a full day, hike and climb and spend quality time together where we can listen to our music, be silly and giggle, and simply enjoy our bond as Mother and Daughter.

If you know me even a little bit, you probably know that I am quite nostalgic and wistful concerning my kids and the speed at which they are moving through their childhoods. Whenever my youngest completes a milestone, it is all the more poignant knowing that this particular moment is the last of its kind for our family. This week will be the final Mother-Child-10-year-old-spectacular-vacation. Knowing just how distant the boys' special vacations already feel in my heart only cements my need to sigh wistfully and feel poetic about her dirty feet and swiftly growing limbs. 

To put it succinctly, I feel as though this is the final "sandcastle" on this particular beach...

Ready or not; Here comes the tide.

(2015 LTYM Chicago - "Sandcastles")

Stream of thought on raising teenagers...

I need good teenager stories. Not stories about good teenagers; in fact, keep those to yourself, please. I only want the stories from parents whose kids have grown up and past this phase I find myself drowning within.

I am not one to accept abusive relationships. If you treat me badly, we will part ways. This is the only time in my life that someone I LOVE is anything other than respectful towards me... And I can't leave.

Granted, I don't WANT to leave. I want to be here, in this house, with these people. I want to be living and laughing and struggling through life's crap with all of them. But I never expected that parenting through the teenage years would be more difficult than they were as an actual teen.

I don't know... this shit is rough. Rougher than anything I've really had to deal with before. The absolute astonishment I feel over some of the arguments we've had (over COMPLETE BULLSHIT) have floored me. If I had spoken to MY parents the way that E has spoken to me this past year? HAHAHAHAHA!!! He doesn't know how lucky he IS. And maybe THAT is the key? Do I take everything and everyone away from him? Seclude him from life and hope that his particular personality doesn't react in the opposite of our desired outcome? Some kids, when you punish them THAT way, turn to hatred, drugs, running away... I honestly DO NOT SEE THAT as a possibility for this particular kid, but it's there, in the back of my head. A little voice saying "Does ANY parent REALLY know what goes on inside their child's head?"

Nope. They never do. There would be a lot less tragedies in the world if parents could actually see into their teen's heads...

He's so deceptively difficult. He is the dream teen for everyone else; Helpful, kind, hilarious, etc. This indicates to me that he understands what is expected of him in society and life. It also means that he feels that I am worthy of less respect than the average person on the street.

That's some effed up shit right there.

If my friend or significant other treated me as less than an average person on the street, guess who wouldn't be in my life any longer? JUST GUESS.

My God, I wish he was 7 again. Not that he was a perfect angel, because he was NOT, but at 7, he hugged me voluntarily. At 7, he understood that I was in charge, even though I was willing to talk through situations. At 7, there are clear definitions to the mother/son relationship.

At 14, not so much.

People tend to mock the teen years. They laugh over how stressful they are, how crazy teen hormones are, yadda yadda. This honestly is no laughing matter. It's not fun. It's not rewarding to be on the receiving end of unwarranted anger, resentment, and disrespect on a regular basis. My own life has value that exists outside of being Mom, and DAMNIT I want it to be recognized!

Whatever. I have too much laundry and too many dishes and too many errands and too much school work to help with to spend on here, trying to figure out life. I am hoping and praying that this stream of thought is one of the last about this particular teenager. Maybe he's nearing the end of his hormone issues? Maybe he is ready to really accept responsibility for his actions and tone of voice? I just wish there was a real and true crystal ball that I could look into that will prove to me that he WILL TURN OUT OK and that we WILL have a good relationship as he becomes and adult. I just want my kids to be happy, to be loved, to feel their value. And I just want the same for myself.

Hold 'em or Fold 'em?

My God, it's hard to parent teenagers. For the obvious reasons, it's an emotional journey, but as a nearly former blogger (crickets over here), I am missing the tie that got me through a lot of their younger years: community and camaraderie. The "Been There, Done That" aspect of young motherhood is nearly absent in the teen years of motherhood. Out of respect for my kids and their own need to tell their own stories (or not), I keep quiet. At least 96% of the time, anyway. I find that parenting in this kind of cocoon of silence is the quiet straw that broke this camel's back.

Why was I crying in my car at 9:00 pm all alone? Can't tell you. It's not my story. Except that I'm IN this damn story and the other side of it will most likely become fodder for "Remember when Mom..." lead-in's. 20 years from now, I won't be able to pull this up and say "THIS IS WHY I DID THAT. You were no angel, kid. Just you wait till your own precious babies become teens. Then we'll talk."

Ugh. I hated hearing that when my kids were little. I wanted advice! Show me how to ford through these murky waters! Don't send me out into the seas of teenagers with only one paddle and a slow leak! Teach me how to sail!!

Even now, I struggle to find the words to write that can adequately express how thin and tender my skin is right now; to do so might crush one of my kids' hearts or trust. I CAN'T DO THAT.

But this sucks.

It sucks worse than potty training.

It sucks worse than a high-needs child throwing the 14th tantrum that day in a public setting.

It sucks monkey balls.

AND I CAN'T WRITE ABOUT IT.

This stage scares the shit out of me, and even though I think we're making good choices with a particular teen, there isn't any guarantee that he'll "make it out ok." A lot of teens DON'T make it out ok. A lot of kids who are well-loved and come from "good" families end up...elsewhere.

This is like going to Vegas (I assume; I don't like gambling.) and putting all of your money on one reasonably strong hand of cards. You are fairly certain that this will work...you think... Well, maybe? I mean, what if I have misread the cards already thrown? What if I haven't judged the other players in this game adequately? IS SOMEONE BLUFFING?

Holy hell, I don't want to gamble with my kid's life.

A rant about teenagers. It doesn't make any sense. Neither do Teenagers.

"It's normal," they say.

"You can get through this," they say.

"Don't take it personally," they say.

I know. I will. But I am. I am taking it personally. Because in no other time of my life have I ever deliberately sought attention from people who are consciously, and sometimes, vehemently pushing me away. If a person doesn't like me, I move on.

Living with two teenagers is like living with two of your closest friends who no longer adore you as much as you adore them. I mean, it's happened before where I have followed a friend around and asked to hang out and get together repeatedly, only to be met with "Sure,sure! Let's do that," and then...nothing. I don't ALWAYS get the hint quickly enough, and have occasionally dangled at the end of a string..wondering. Eventually, the hint takes hold and that friend fades into a memory.

I can't and won't do that with my kids. OBVIOUSLY. But man...

I don't care that it's normal. I don't care that I did this to my own parents. I don't care that they will grow out of it. I don't care that this is their first time being teenagers and first step into adulthood.

Right here, right now, TODAY, is what we have. The future? Who knows what it holds? Who knows if it exists? At this moment in time, my feelings are hurting and it sucks. All I wanted was something as simple as the happy presence of our family of five to carry out a tradition of cutting down our Christmas tree. Instead of sucking it up and tolerating it for 45 minutes, one teen stomped through the mud and shot daggers at my head and the other teen carried his winter coat instead of wearing it, occasionally muttering about how "all of the trees are FINE. Why do we have to do this??"

Thank God Patrick is so kind. I didn't engage any of their retorts and Pat made sure to tell me how much it means to him that I insist on traditions. Corinne, at 10, still loves the tree farm, and enjoyed all of the stories I was sharing about tree farm trips of years gone by. She distracted me from melancholy and deserved a happy mom, so I tried to shake off the feelings of inadequacy for her sake. But there were moments when I was sitting alone on the bench, waiting for our tree to be shaken and wrapped up, that I couldn't choke back the tears. Moments where I watched a toddler boy skipping along with his parents, dropping more cookie crumbs than he was eating, and the memories were so poignant and fresh...I was grateful for my sunglasses. I am grateful for the memories I have of my own toddlers and children skipping happily alongside me, but so envious of that connection and assurance that my children love me.

Xmas tree farm 2015. Alternate title: "Smile, guys. PRETEND you're having fun."

I consider myself to be a fairly kind and generous parent. Generous with my time, our resources, and patience. I don't ask for an overabundance from these kids, but I do expect a few things, without fail.

Respect. For me. For Patrick. For our family values and traditions.

Kindness. Tone of voice is a big one, especially with teenage boys. Just because I'm a mom doesn't mean I don't get my feelings hurt. I will NOT be spoken to with hatred or disgust. The words "I hate you" have not been uttered in my house. Lord help the child of mine who ever considers it. Their fate will not be pretty.

Accountability. Be where you say and do what you promised. I am grateful that this isn't a huge issue with my kids. They generally do what is required and have yet to truly be anywhere that they weren't supposed to be. (that I know of. The trust is not yet broken.)

My God, I have GOOD KIDS. I really do. I know that there are kids out in the world who push dangerous limits and make unquestionably BAD choices. In the grand scheme of things, I have little to complain about. I should grow a thicker skin, I guess? It's just...

I only have 14 months left with my oldest before he is officially an adult. Have I mentioned he's thinking about joining the military? So this means that I have one more Christmas with him as my child. One more birthday. One more Summer. One more first day of school. And then it's over...

16 years ago, it seemed like 18 years was a long time...

No Pressure

My husband, on a spree of "We need to start shopping healthier! We need to eat consciously!" kick, recently purchased several items that are lower carb or lower cal or lower something, just to see if we liked them. My kids saw the chocolate milk-protein-shake things and were freaking ecstatic because CHOCOLATE!!! I let them each drink one on the way to their karate and gymnastics classes the other night. In a concerned voice from the backseat, after reading the side of the nearly empty bottle, my 8 year old daughter queried, "Will this make me lose weight? It says 'weight-loss shake' on it... I don't want to lose weight! I don't need to!" I reassured her that the only way it would make you lose weight is if one was to substitute it instead of a meal; not if one is drinking it as a snack. She was relieved. It was only several hours later that I realized how monumental that sentence was from my daughter. She knows that she doesn't need to lose weight. She knows that she is a healthy and appropriate size for her age. She is HAPPY with how she looks!

I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that she has a good self-image, something not all little girls are able to claim. I patted myself on the back and put a little invisible check mark next to the "has a good self image" line on my invisible list of Things Good Parents Do.

She's at such an important age for this topic. But really, aren't we all? Aren't we all at an "important age" for some hot issue or another? 

At 15, my eldest is on the precipice of adulthood. He is zig-zagging over that line that between needing parental involvement for the tiniest of details and being able to exist for days on end with very little supervision at all. At 15, he has to make choices that will determine his future for, if not the "rest" of his life, then at least the very beginning of his adult life. School and Girls and Drugs and Driving and College and...and...This age is so important and vital to his growth that I often whisper in my head "Don't f*ck this up."  But no pressure, right?

My middle son is 12. As I stated, he is also the "middle" which is a unique birth order location to be at, especially at his delicate age of 12. My "not-child/not-teen" teeters between boy and man on a daily basis. I can physically SEE him growing on a daily, if not hourly, basis. I remember being 12. Do you remember 12? 12 sucked. 12 sucked ASS. My own baby is presently living through an age that you seriously could not PAY ME to relive, and that is almost as painful as living through 12 the first time. I watch him and I wonder, "Am I screwing this up? Am I screwing HIM up? Am I parenting him the way that he needs to be parented, instead of just the way I am ABLE to do it? God, what if I'm screwing this up??? Don't f*ck this up." Again, No pressure.

And my youngest... aside from the body image being obviously on-the-mark (Woo-hoo!), how about everything else? Am I ruining her by exposing her to too much, too soon? I know there are advantages and disadvantages to every age and every spot in a birth order, but will the good outweigh the bad for her? Will she someday look at her past and say, "I want to do that for my kids, but change these few little things"?? Or will she want to alter everything for her children? Will she be desperate to be COMPLETELY DIFFERENT from the one major female influence in her life? She's at an age where she will actually remember some of the daily conversations we have. She's finally at an age of Remembering: Will she remember the times I helped her with science and math with patience and laughter, or will she only retain the times I angrily snapped and yelled, "Because I SAID SO" ?? I need to be more patient. I need to be more conscious. I need to be better. I need to not f*ck this up. 

But no pressure, right?

Boy Mom

Listen To Your Mother Chicago was 10 days ago! I cannot believe it... Here is the written version of the piece I read on that amazing day. The video version will be on the LTYM You Tube channel sometime this summer and you can rest assured that I WILL LET YOU KNOW. Oh yes, I will.

Photo credit Sabrina Persico

"Boy Mom"

For me, the shock of giving birth for the first time involved more than just the all-encompassing pain and embarrassment of being on display for a room full of acne-ridden medical students.

Because I? 

Gave birth to a boy.

ME? A son?

Me? A mother of a…. boy?

The idea was absolutely foreign to me. Weren’t babies supposed to be…well… girls? Wasn’t I destined to bear only precious little female babies?

Wasn’t I supposed to have a houseful of pink and ruffles? Isn’t that what I’d always dreamed of? 

What I’d grown up with as the middle daughter out of 3 girls?

A… BOY?

Not surprisingly, this was the overall response of most of my family and friends that were in the waiting room on that frigid February day.

The reactions were something along the line of “Congratulations!!! Is Tracey ok? And the baby! How big? And… wait. Did you say a… a … BOY?”

Needless to say, I fell madly in love with that little guy; Immediately and overwhelmingly in love.

It was exactly like I’d read about, and exactly as I’d dreamed. The delivery room was overflowing with tears of joy and laughter and love and… well. You’ve probably seen “A Baby Story” at least once or twice, right? You get the idea.

But while I was totally in love with my baby son, I was ABSOLUTELY, Completely thrown for a loop by all of the blue hats and blue socks and blue overalls….

And more importantly, what does it mean to BE a mother to  a boy???

Somewhere around his 3^rd or 4^th week of life, I broke down on a phone call to my mother. Through snot and tears and that gaspy-chokey cry, I apologized to her for all of the times I’d been aloof as a teenager; for all of the indignant sighs and eye rolling I threw at her, when all she wanted was to spend more time with her baby.

I couldn’t imagine my precious infant turning away from me. I couldn’t imagine being treated the same way I’d treated her. She cried with me, and consoled me and reassured me that she understood then and understood now that I have always loved her.

She also threatened me with bodily harm if I ever made her cry while she was at work again.

The hormones abated and crisis averted, I hung up the phone and shakily stared at Justin’s sleeping face. I tried  to picture him at 13, at 18, at 25…

I envisioned him pulling away as a teen, graduating high school, moving away, getting married and having a family of his own.

I wondered; would he ever call me to talk about parenthood and life, the way I’d just called my own mother?

Would he treasure time with me, the way I treasure time with my own mom?

Do grown men do that with their mothers?

My own father’s mother passed away when he was very young. I never grew up in the witness of an adult mother/son relationship. I realized that I had a very real, very deep fear that I would become the classic “Mother In Law” and the butt of all jokes. I feared that one day, Justin’s future spouse would resent my very existence with degrading remarks about how intrusive I was to their relationship and their family and how I just couldn’t get a life of my own…

Once I ran out of tears over THAT scenario,  my mind turned to my own mother in law. I thought of how she treated her son, my husband, with love and respect. I pictured how he continues to share his life with her.

I thought  about how the two of them have always been so open with each other.

I thought back to one time, when Patrick and I were still newly dating; I found a package of condoms lying on his bed. I snatched them up and hissed that he shouldn’t leave them out like that! His MOM might see them!!

“I didn’t buy them,” he replied. 

He said that his mother must have left them on his bed, just in case.

I was MORTIFIED.

But for my husband? It was totally normal. That’s just the type of relationship they had.

That’s the type of relationship they continue to have.

Open. Loving. Trusting.

And able to talk to each other about anything…

Just like me and my mom…

And then I realized that she cared for me as not just a daughter-in-law, but as a daughter, and as an adult woman who is capable and intelligent. My choices aren’t always the same as hers, and our relationship didn’t have decades of history to build upon like mine with my own mom did, but my mother in law has never made me feel  anything but the same love and respect that my own mother has always showered upon me…

Looking down at my tiny son’s  face, through my tears and fears, I realized that I already HAD 2 fabulous examples of how I wanted to mother my son.

Suddenly, a life full of trucks and trains and dirt and camouflage and sticky little boy kisses was a dream come true…

It takes thick skin to be a parent to a pre-teen...

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Well, you were happy a few minutes ago; what changed? We haven't even been talking or anything!"

"Noth. Ing."

I can only imagine how frustrated my mother must have been. I was 11 years old and pissed off at myself for not having enough courage to ask for the one thing that would alter my life at school. The one thing that would supposedly stop the teasing and poking and laughter. My own, personal life jacket for pre-teendom....

A Bra.

Not that I physically needed a bra. Not me. Not at 11. And there was the clincher. I didn't need it, but every other girl in class had one. As is common for Middle Schoolers, kids that have something different about them must be singled out and forced to conform.

I hated walking into my class everyday, knowing that my "friends" would surround me and feel my back to see if I was wearing a bra yet. Yep. They felt my back. No matter how I tried to angle my body in my chair, or stand at the end of lines. Somehow, throughout the day, I wouldn't be able to protect my back any longer and one of them would feel me up. The teasing and laughing and joking would then begin.

Let me tell you, I was a pretty crafty girl. I wore layers. I carried my backpack whenever possible. I even went so far as to wear a pair of my mother's pantyhose, pulled waaaaaay up and rolled into a bump so that there would appear to be a bra strap across my back. It actually worked for a little while, too! For a brief period of time in one blessed day, the teasing stopped! Until it was discovered that the "bra strap" was pantyhose and then? Then the teasing was a thousand times worse.

Why didn't I just ASK for a bra? I don't know. I had a conversation built up in my head that I would hold with my mom. I prepped myself and we were on our way to the mall and when we were there? I froze. I couldn't ask. I don't understand the reason as I know my mother would have bought me one! But I was 11 and I was scared. I tried, and tried, but the day wore on and, before I knew it, we had left the mall and were back in the car, on our way home. No bra. No end to the taunts. And a very pissed off 11 year old girl sitting beside her obviously confused mother.*

Basically, being 11 sucked. 12 was pretty horrific, too. It was confusing and messy and incredibly focused on living in The Present. Things that made me happy made me Extremely! Happy! while things that were less than great were the End of the World. Hormones careened out of control like a roller coaster in the night, and I was just along for the ride.

So, when my 12 year old wakes up, fully rested, in a house where he has a family that loves him, food to eat, and countless privileges all around him, but is still angry or disgusted with his life? I try to take a deep breath and remember that damn first bra. Yeah, this age pretty much sucks for most kids.**

And most parents.



*My poor mom. I put her through a lot of shit. I love you, Mom. Sorry.

**Don't get me wrong: there are some awesome highs to having a pre-teen. He has conversations that are actually interesting. I can count on him to be somewhat responsible and help out around the house. There is a lot of good in having a 12 year old. I have to remind myself of those good things when I am met with a harrumphing sigh and groan because I am on MY computer in the morning when he wants to play some game.

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!"

A Moment...

"Night, Evan! Love you!"

"Night, Mama. Love you more!"

"That's impossible."

"Nothing's impossible, if you put your MIND to it! Except for touching your eyeball to your elbow. That's pretty gross."


Ahhh, sweet boy. You are mistaken. It IS impossible. For I love you more than you can ever imagine.

Not that it's a competition.But I still win.

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.

They, They, They...

There are a lot of things that "they" never tell you before you have children.

They never tell you that you'll forget what it's like to have an abundance of free, silent, Alone Time.

They never tell you that you will eventually look in the mirror and say "Meh. Good enough." as you head out to WalMart with 3 kids in tow, wearing 2 day-old jeans and a ratty pony tail. And that you'll actually Be OKAY with this situation!

And They never tell you that raising your own child will mean that you will also have to participate in raising the children of your friends and neighbors. That, for your child to have friends, you have to navigate the murky waters of Other People's Children. OPC are an entity to themselves. They have the ability to keep you awake into the wee hours of the morning, fretting over the politics of "Who was right, who was wrong? How do we encourage them to work things out without overstepping our bounds? Why am I worrying about 9 year old friendships to begin with and when can I go back to sleep*?"

They never tell you that you will feel every slight, every cut, every disappointment more keenly as a bystander than when you were young yourself. All the wisdom in the world can't give my kids the knowledge that only comes from first-hand experience.

It's been a period of lesson-learning in the JAMB household. I am hoping with every fiber in my being that this particular lesson of cooperation, empathy, and kindness is absorbed by my middle child. It'll be a long and lonely summer, otherwise...


*Answer: In about 18-20 years. Give or take. Then again, college and marriage and grandkids will surely keep me up at night...

Does this make me a "bad mom"?

Am I a bad mom for not curbing my initial reaction to my middle child's first criminal action?

"What was my initial reaction?" You ask? (You really are becoming nosy lately. We need to discuss this further)

My initial reaction to my 8 year old thwarting the system at the Pinewood Derby was to laugh. In front of him. And then shake my finger with my husband (who was also guffawing in his own right) at him.

It wasn't until Evan began to slyly grin over his brilliantly evil scheme that the visions of his future life in organized crime flashed too brightly for me to ignore.

So I did what any GOOD mom would do: I sent Patrick* to the snack counter with him to apologize for washing off the permanent marker mark that was supposed to signify which scout had already received a piece of free pizza and pop.

I observed them from my hiding spot behind Justin's curly mop atop the gymnasium's bleachers. When Evan glumly scuffed his foot by the cash counter and Patrick paid for the food that had now been TOUCHED and could therefore not be given back, I felt a wee bit sorry for him.

When he strolled back to our seats, pizza and pop in hand I will admit this right now: I was struggling. Struggling to not grin at the audacity of such a child and at the likeness to his own Mom and Dad at that age.** I persevered and crossed my arms and frowned with all 37 muscles.

He straddled the bench in front of me and commenced with popping that soda's top.

I finally found my "Good Mom" hat.

"No way, kiddo. We HAD to buy it but you are not being rewarded for STEALING and then LYING about it. That pop and pizza? It's now Justin's."

His face fell as we handed the coveted food over to his big brother (who then leaned over and whispered, "I'm totally not hungry!" to which I hissed, "PreTEND!"). Tears gathered in Evan's big chocolate eyes and he moped away to a corner of the bleachers.

All alone.

All defeated.

And Pat and I?

We finally let the giggles of astonishment burst free.

I leaned into him and whispered "If he's going to break the rules, you'd think he'd be smart enough to HIDE the evidence! Amateur!"

Because we're strong parents like that.


* Hey, I KNOW those ladies. Pat doesn't.

**From the combined stories of our childhoods and our own trickery and pranks, I am amazed that we made it into adulthood without a criminal mark between us.

It really WAS as much fun as it looks like!

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Ear Wax

This just in:

According to Evan, I no longer play with them anymore.

"What?!? What are you talking about? I'm with you 24/7, Evan! I see you ALL THE TIME!"

"Yeah, but you're always on the computer and you don't play games with us anymore. Don't you want to play with us?"

Good Lord, that boy knows how to work a room! Thankfully, I personally know that I DO play games with them and AM spending 'enough' time with them. However, after the knock-down, drag-out, argument regarding his ear wax and my intolerance for it which resulted in me swearing loudly when his hand flew up in protection of said ear and connected with my EYE, I feel I need to appease his little ego.

And that is the reason why I am not writing anything of substance today.

It's all Evan's fault. Evan and his waxy ears.

I now have TWO giveaways on my review blog!! Things for Christmas for kids!! Check them out...

Item# 4,371 on list of "Things I Never Thought I'd Do Until I Became A Parent..."

Why the long face, cutie pie? And why is your mom taking a picture of you beside a penny??
A COOKIE?!? Isn't that supposed to be for the jewelry party Mommy is hosting tomorrow night? How'd you manage to attain one of those? And at 8 pm to top it off?


Wanna know? Wanna know what I spent 20 minutes doing? Wanna know why I had my face a mere 3 inches from her behind (a dangerous spot to be!) while she pitifully cried and writhed in pain? Wanna know why I had to recruit Evan to sing her songs and stroke her hair as a distraction?

Wanna see the results of a daredevil daughter who slides down WOODEN railings of playsets when wearing a SKIRT?!?


That is only HALF of the HUGE ass* splinter that was literally STUCK into her bottom. The other half is still embedded in her booty cheek because after many tears (on both our parts) I determined that the remainder is just too far into her flesh for me to pull out with tweezers. I am slamming a beer tonight in hopes that her body will push it closer to the surface so that I can perform a splinter-ectomy in the next few days, otherwise it's off to the doctor's office for her.

Ah, Motherhood...


*Couldn't resist.

Question for the weekend readers:

If a neighbor yells at your child, and I mean YELLS as in extremely angry, harsh tone, with an accusatory, direct order to "Come here NOW!" and you are witness to it, what do you do? Take into consideration that your child and his child were playing very roughly in the yard. Both have different versions of what happened where his child claims to have been handled too roughly (which I totally believe) but your child claims that the friend was totally involved in the wrestling match and was sitting on your child's head.

I KNOW, right? Soap opera in the backyard, eh?

I try to stay out of things as much as possible. I have stated, NUMEROUS times to all the children that if you are rough-housing, you are accepting that you may get hurt. I have also repeatedly stressed to my child that he is incredibly rough and needs to tone things down. I have also told the neighbor child that if he plays this way with my son, he has to know that things may get too physical for him, so maybe he shouldn't play rough with my son?!? I've told the parents the same. We've all agreed that my kid doesn't always know the limits so their much smaller child shouldn't be playing rough with the other boys in my yard.

And yet.

And yet, they still wrestle and play football despite the head and a half my kid has on theirs. And things still get out of control, but it is NOT entirely my son's fault!

Faults aside, though, it all comes down to the way someone else is entitled to speak to your child. I would NEVER speak the same way to their children the way he speaks to my son. Only if the said kid was in extreme danger or in the act of committing a heinous act against another child would I raise my voice at someone else's kid like that.

Keep in mind that:

a. I am not a person who will do a "hand in your face, don't you talk to MY CHILD" kind of person. I may not be mild-mannered, but I don't feel that rudeness is necessary as much as the world seems to.

b. We live within very close proximity to this family. They are our friends. We may have different parenting philosophies and lifestyles, but neither of us are perfect. We help each other out and usually get along fairly well. I want to continue this, not destroy it!

c. My son was crying today because I was reminding him about not playing rough with this child. He cried because he said the father doesn't like him, is always yelling at him, and he just wants to play with his friend.

Help!

Most Excellent Morning

Parenthood is odd. In no other relationship would I ever tolerate someone who...

... yells at me for making them a meal without clearing every ingredient first. It's like When Harry Met Sally:

... clogs a toilet with poop, leaves it there, doesn't tell me, and LOCKS the bathroom door!

... kicks me in the head when I'm sleeping.

... left their crap all over the place and didn't understand why I get a little ticked off by it.

If this were ANY other relationship? If they were a guy I was living with? They'd have been gone years ago. Out the door, See Ya. Don't call me; I'll call you.

It's a good thing I love 'em. I swear, I do. Because it is their combined desire to see how quickly they can push Mom to the brink.

They're putting out a splendid effort today. Top notch.

Pfffttttt.....

My coffee pot is out to get me.

First attempt yielded hot water. After putting the grounds INTO the filter, it then sat there for 15 minutes, not brewing.

After pouring the boiling-hot water BACK into the spot where it has to bubble up and over (or something), it still sat there; not brewing.

It was then that I recalled every i.t. guy's words of wisdom and turned the damn thing off and on.

I now possess the most sought-after cup of coffee I've ever brewed.

Ahhhh.....

..........

Moments ago, Evan ran into the office and smacked me.

"WTF?!?"

Laughing maniacally, he dashed out screaming that I have the Cheese Touch.

It's looking to be a rip-roaring Monday!

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...)