Why This Blog Grew More Silent As We Grew More Busy

The danger of Mommy blogs, is the use of children as fodder for the story.  When they are infants and toddlers, this is not a problem. Their issues and problems and moments are cute and endearing, funny and crazy and a particular kind of wonderful that includes no small amount of parental servitude and surrender.   

Once they get older, one must pick and choose and parse the stories, not because one is hiding something, but because one is sheltering those one raises, allowing them to grow up with all the awkwardness that such a process entails.   Once the kids hit middle school, they're mostly off limits except for those moments that cut through the grades, for the events that reveal something more or wonderful or that require reflection and invite sharing. 

The world still needs moments of light and laughter and all of that, and I'll try to oblige.   Yesterday, my teen thought long boarding down the driveway as we scraped off the ice would be a good idea.  (I'm not sure why he thought this, but he thought this).  I fired off the following text.   

Wear a helmet. Love, Mom. 

I promised to blow up the phone with Mom phrases like Love you, love you, love you, during school. 

Today, he found his helmet.  Not sure if he'll wear it, but it's a start. 

Driving them crazy, keeping them safe and loving them all since 1993...

An Unexpected Hello*

*Edited to include recipe at the end of the story....

For years, I've wanted to make Christmas cookies with my children, but somehow it never got off the ground.  This year, I set my heart, it would happen.  Saturday night, Rita, Regina, Paul, Anna and I donned aprons. I'd set out foil trays, bowls, cups, spoons, and six recipies.  We made Hello Dollies and Rice Crispie Treats.   We danced and sang to whatever Christmas songs came on the radio but Regina got bored and went to play in the other room in between tasks.  We made the pumpkin muffins and sugar cookies.  Paul joined her.  When Anna asked if she could stop, I allowed them to put on a Christmas Rudolf special on TV.  Rita made it through making the bananna muffins and went to watch. It wasn't the full outcome I'd wanted, but it was. Next year, maybe the happy memory would encourage them to stay longer.  I felt happy and at peace to be alone in my kitchen for the final recipe.

The last cookie wasn't one they could eat anyway.

The signature cookie of the season is my dad's Bourbon balls.  He and Mom would be in the kitchen and he'd roll them powedered sugar to put in a tin for whoever was on the list.  I always wanted to like them, but as a kid I never could.

My mom gave me a cook book from my home parish, where the recipe for Dad's bourbon balls is published.  I'd always just scanned the recipe, but yesterday, I found a side story on the page from my mom, reminding me Dad made these from the time he settled in Beaumont for the clerks of the court such that every year, they'd get requests.

It was like Dad saying, "Hello Beautiful." to have that story, (one I've known but dimly), fully stamped on the page.  I made the Bourbon balls and ate one, plunging into memory.

They tasted better than I've ever remembered.

Recipe for Bourbon Balls (as published in Saint Anne's Church Cookbook), submitted by my mom.

1 12 onz box vanilla wafers
1 cup powdered sugar
2 Tablespoons Cocoa
1 cup walnuts
3 Tablespoons Karo Syrup (white or light).
1/2 cup bourbon
extra powdered sugar.

Directions:  Crush Vanilla Wafers into powder.  (I use a ziplock and a rolling pin but a food processor does this very well).  Add powdered sugar and cocoa, mix well.  Chop walnuts into tiny pieces and add to these ingredients.  Add the Karo and the bourbon, mix well. (I used my mixer).  Form the cookies by hand and roll them in powdered sugar.  Place in an airtight tin.  If the batter seems dry, add more bourbon.

Darn it all, I want Applause.

It is craven, self serving and proof sin (in this case the desire to be admired) makes you stupid, but there should be some sort of annual Mommy Awards.

Mommy Awards aren't for "best mom," because that spot's already taken by my own mother.   The Mommies are for doing what no one else will do, the unreasonable, the impossible, and the obnoxious.  We as moms, do not get the praise we deserve.  One day out of three hundred and sixty-five does not cut it.  Besides, that day we get flowers and breakfast in bed for BEING, not for what we've done.

These are MERIT based trophies, designed to call attention to the winner, for having the fortitude to endure the call of motherhood.   As with any award ceremony, there are many categories in which one might be nominated.

Sleep is for Losers Mommy Award:  As self explanatory as the name might seem, there's more to it than not getting the prescribed eight hours rest most adults need to function safely the other sixteen.   New Moms go sans sleep as a matter of initiation.  No.  Sleep is for Losers is given to the Mom who after doing the dishes after ten o'clock and crawling into bed by eleven, wakes fully when someone cries out at 2 a.m. because they've wet the bed, goes up the stairs, strips the bed, finds new sheets, cleans child, redresses and comforts child and then goes back down to bed.  Additional wake ups come at four by the teen who raided the refrigerator and left the lights on, five because another teen wants to take up early morning running and set an alarm she didn't wake up for, and again at 5:45 by the six year old who's hungry and wants breakfast.   Nominees must detail their schedule for a period of five days.  Voting will be done under the heavy influence of coffee and diet coke.  Award includes five minutes with a baseball bat and an alarm clock.

Schedule Goddess Award:  There are some moms out there who sign up for sports camp, back to school night and the Christmas pageant months in advance.  We think they might be robots or aliens or alien robots.   Schedule Goddess books everything at once and somehow gets all the kids assigned for whatever it is at the same place and at the same time even though they're at four different levels.   Schedule Goddess also books everyone's dentist for the same day.  A photo copy of one's calendar is required for nomination, to make sure you haven't booked things months in advance, proving yourself to be either a robot, or an alien, or an alien robot.   Your schedule will be put on a Pin-it under the heading Organized....immortalizing your moment of perfection.

On Time Award:  Mass, movies, hair cuts, they all have time slots.  But most moms view those times when things start as more like guidelines than actual rules.  I know the receptionist at my pediatrician nearly fainted when I showed up within five minutes of the actual scheduled appointment.   Nominees will be given a test (timed of course). Each contestant will be given a mini-van loaded with three children (without snacks) and a half gallon of gas. They must get from their homes to the dentist, the gas station and soccer practice within the hour. Closest to actual time for the two time stamped errands (while still keeping track of all three children) wins a NASCAR driver for the following week to do the trip instead.

ESP Award: This one seems like it's own reward but there should be public recognition of Moms out there who while going about the ordinary business of checking homework, paying the bills, managing their work emails, stop and register (a'la Madeline's Miss Clarvel) "Something is not right."

The number of trips to the emergency room averted by this seldom acknowledged matronly superpower cannot be overestimated.  Examples will be rated on a scale of 1-10 for level of severity, with bonus points added for property damage averted (say flooding the basement while filling water balloons) which would not be covered by insurance.  Reward: Whatever wasn't covered by insurance, gets covered.

And finally, the award everyone's been waiting for, The Mother Lode:  Submit your to-do list from the past month.  Whoever did the most wins! Winner will receive a trophy, and a day at the pool when it's closed to all but other nominees, and all food will be brought to you.   You cans spend it floating in absolute leisure, just be sure if you're also a nominee from the Sleep is For Losers category, you wear a life jacket while hanging out in the pool.

The reason for this post?   I scheduled ten physicals, ten dental appointments, two driving tests, 1 SAT Subject matter test and swimming lessons for five of them.   As I said, craven and self serving but darn it all, I wanted to mention it to someone.


Next Up:  Nominations for DAD Trophies are now open.

What Fathers Do

When our house flooded back in 1979, my sister was newly home from the hospital. She'd been a premmie like me and spent her first two and a half months at the NICU.   We'd been watching the rain all afternoon.  The sky was black and the ground was saturated.  Then I walked into my room and my carpet squished. 

For some reason, I'd thought the water would come through the front door. I'd been watching the water outside and seen it creeping towards us, but it was still a good five feet from our entrance.  But that was it. The water was coming in.  As kids, we were both delighted and annoyingly loud.  "We're flooding! We're FLOODING!" Our eyes were wide as we'd get way too close into each other's faces and state the obvious with an odd mixture of joy and panic, "We're flooding!" 

Thus began the odd exodus as we were instructed to put everything on top of our beds or on top of tables.  Shoes, stuffed animals, clothes, anything we wanted to keep.  It was fun and felt important to be stacking things.  We soon learned that we had an awful lot of things on the floor.  Books.  Socks.  Games. Dolls.  Things. Things. Things. Things.  Every table groaned.  Every bed was covered.   The block was flooded.  We wouldn't be able to get away via car.

My father loaded all of us, including our dog (we kids thought this was heroic), onto the john boat.  A john boat for the uninitiated, is a metal boat used in duck hunting. It lacks style or coolness but it's light, sturdy, strong and was very effective.  My mom held an umbrella over herself and my new little sister.  Scrambling inot the boat, one of my brothers lost his shoe.  We huddled under another umbrella and were told to be on the look out for debris and snakes. 

My dad had put on his waders and pulled the john boat with all of us in it through the black water in the pouring rain down the street to our neighbor's house.  They had a two story home, which made them ecentric by our standards.  Most homes were long ramblers and built out, not up or down.  Upon arrival, we (the kids) were completely delighted to experience the novelty of another person's home.
We would have 18 inches of water inside our own house by the time the flood crested, but to show you how little kids get it, we kept asking, "So, do you think we'll have school tomorrow?" My dad smiled and said, "We'll see."  I suspect he kept the answer vague to keep us from rioting with joy, for we were now four adults and six kids and a dog crammed into an upstairs watching the water in the streets.

Dad just did what needed to be done.  In retrospect, it was scary and even heroic, but he didn't let us know he was scared and it never occurred to us to be so as a result. 

The next day when the rains had stopped, we begged to go intertubing on the street. (We were told no).  Mom and Dad ferried us out to friend's homes where we wouldn't see the level of devastation done to our home.  We never quite saw it.  Instead of having memories of everything we ever loved being washed away, we had the story of our neighbor's cat that refused to go upstairs and sat on the island in the kitchen watching the water which was only two inches up in their home.  It was decidedly perplexed by the tadpoles or fish that were swimming across the kitchen floor.  This was the memory. 

Mom and Dad deliberately worked hard to keep the harder sharper edges of that experience, the snakes, the thrown away toys and books and like from being taken in and to a large extent, it worked.  They couldn't blunt everything but they did enough such that when we flooded again the next year, none of us felt tramatized, instead we thought, eh, we've done this before. Let's go pile up everything on top of the beds. 

Recovery from the floods was slow. We spent six months I think, eating casaroles and complaining about the hard cold floor.  The day our house was completely repaired, we sat down to dinner in the dining room for the first time and the faithful table that had held so many things for so many months while repairs were going on, collapsed under the weight of a normal table setting for six.  It was both comic and iconic, because I remember everyone's surprised faces as the thing fell. 

We still felt like everything was home because the things which made it home had been preserved. Somehow Dad's 1000 plus books and the record collection that seemed to never get bigger but always had things we loved listening to, his guitar, my little wooden chair from when I was  toddler, the copper wash basin that was my mom's mom's and possibly her mom's, a pale china blue statue of the Blessed Mother and child, the crystal candle sticks that I always tried to take apart to pretend that the crystals were diamond earrings, and the lazy susan on the table survived.  All of these little things that made up the feel as much as the sights and sounds and smells of our home.

We never worried what might happen.  This was part of the core of what I think Dads do.

Mom and Dad made it such that no matter what happened, it was okay.  It was still home.  It was still safe even if everything had been destroyed.

Quick Takes Friday

1.   Family!

 I got to see my mom this week!  So writing was light, as  it should be. 

Of course, we didn't think to take a picture until it was time to go.  But time with Mom always zooms.  We had to snatch visits in between laundry, serving meals, convincing the daughter with a broken arm she couldn't do tricycle races down the hill, hyperventilating about school being 10 days away, teaching a 15 year old about makeup, getting haircuts, ordering some books for high schoolers, finding books lost during summer, insisting that yes, you all have to start getting back to bed at civilized hours and supporting a 20 year old through his temporary job at the fair that runs 7:30 am to 12 midnight. We did rebel a bit and leave the teens in charge to get lunch out. 

2.  Book Launching:

First, I've learned a few things.  Don't watch the Amazon ranking too much, it will drive you nuts. One minute you're ranked 28th in Alternative History (highest ranking I received that I know about) and the next, you're unranked and 118,677 overall. 

  Just write, revise, review and promote.  Most authors want reviews and will thus do swaps, but there's a thing about reviews, don't agree to one you wouldn't want. I had to back down from a book I wouldn't/couldn't read.  Not a fun moment, a rookie mistake.  Still looking for reviewers for Helen and hoping some readers will rank her on Amazon.  

3.  Speaking of Reviews:  Creative Minority Report  did a review of my book yesterday, but I'd already posted twice and didn't want it to get lost in the shuffle.  Every review is a gift of real time and effort and I want to properly acknowledge anyone who takes the time to write one. Here's the link to my longtime blogging friend, Matt Archbold.  Thank you.

4.  School Supplies

I've bought crayons and three ring binders long enough to wonder how far to the moon I could get stacking all of them end to end.  People have asked how do you do it?  I make a spread sheet.  Then I go to the store. Then I get frustrated at some point or off list or can't find what's on the list or forgot where I was on the list, buy too much, go home, sort and make two more trips to get it all done.  That's how I roll. 

5.  She Who Must Not Be Trimmed

This week, my daughter took her senior portrait for high school.  I got a bit misty when I saw her.  I also made her get 2 1/2 inches cut --truthfully, I wanted 5.  I asked for 3.  2 1/2 was the compromise. I think she altered it to 2 when they went back to get her hair washed.  She's still annoyed.  I live in fear of searching for a graduation gown.   When does this get easy?  It does get easy right?  At some point?  Stop that laughing.  I hear you.

6.  What An I Reading?

Right now, I'm really enjoying Stephen King's On Writing.  In addition to fleshing out things I've heard over the years about the craft, (no adverbs, head hopping, passive voice), he's quite funny in detailing the story arc of his own life in episodic fashion. 

7.  What am I Writing?

Well, I'm working on learning how to use Scrivener while drafting The Book of Penelope.  She's revealing herself slowly (very Penelope like) and I'm collecting supplemental material.   One of the things I've collected is Proverbs 31.

The Wife of Noble Character

^10 [b]A wife of noble character who can find?
    She is worth far more than rubies.
¹¹ Her husband has full confidence in her
    and lacks nothing of value.
¹² She brings him good, not harm,
    all the days of her life.
¹³ She selects wool and flax
    and works with eager hands.
¹⁴ She is like the merchant ships,
    bringing her food from afar.
¹⁵ She gets up while it is still night;
    she provides food for her family
    and portions for her female servants.
¹⁶ She considers a field and buys it;
    out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.
¹⁷ She sets about her work vigorously;
    her arms are strong for her tasks.
¹⁸ She sees that her trading is profitable,
    and her lamp does not go out at night.
¹⁹ In her hand she holds the distaff
    and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
²⁰ She opens her arms to the poor
    and extends her hands to the needy.
²¹ When it snows, she has no fear for her household;
    for all of them are clothed in scarlet.
²² She makes coverings for her bed;
    she is clothed in fine linen and purple.
²³ Her husband is respected at the city gate,
    where he takes his seat among the elders of the land.
²⁴ She makes linen garments and sells them,
    and supplies the merchants with sashes.
²⁵ She is clothed with strength and dignity;
    she can laugh at the days to come.
²⁶ She speaks with wisdom,
    and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
²⁷ She watches over the affairs of her household
    and does not eat the bread of idleness.
²⁸ Her children arise and call her blessed;
    her husband also, and he praises her:
²⁹ “Many women do noble things,
    but you surpass them all.”
³⁰ Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
    but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
³¹ Honor her for all that her hands have done,
    and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.

 

This is Penelope in a nutshell, her actions reveal her character, not her words. Penelope is a woman of few words, which makes crafting her so that the reader can know her, difficult.  How do you convey a contemplative spirit without telling? Telling in a story is dull dull dull and a writing no-no!   

 

I'm researching weddings of the time, so I can create the three day feast that normally took place and was set in three places, the home of the woman, then a separate place, sacred, and then the home of the man.  It should also reveal something about Penelope and Odysseus, as all weddings do reveal not merely  something about the individual actors involved, but about their relationship in specific.  That's a fun bit of writing I get to do, and I have no idea how to do it yet. 

I Know She's Not on the Ballot

But given the state of things, what this nation really needs now is mom and apple pie. 

Moms deal with fighting siblings who view minor infractions on their property as a reason to declare World War III, so a mom could certainly deal with the squabbles in congress.

When one party locks the other out of a bill writing session what do you think Mom would do?  She'd bang on that door and demand they open it up and share or they'd be doing dishes and the laundry...in fact, because they did that, they get to do the dishes and laundry together.

When someone issues a fake apology, Mom would be there to make him redo it, mean it and make restitution. Then she'd watch over him like a hawk to make sure whatever it is, it didn't happen again.

When Congress votes itself a pay raise, Mom would be there to cross it out and say Knock it off, it's not like you're suffering and tell them to get back to work.

Mom would not let them leave the house in a mess, she'd make the Senate pick up their toys too. 

Do you think Mom would let the press tell fibs about either side on anything? Me neither.

About Childhood obesity.  She'd tell everyone to turn off the computer and tv and get outside and get some fresh air until dinner.

About the deficit. She'd cut coupons. She'd go to each department and tell them to prioritize. She'd then tell everyone who helped make this mess to chip in a bit.  She'd also give everyone who helped spend us into this mess a serious lecture about accepting responsibility and make them chip in more.

On dealing with other countries/foreign policy.  Don't give money to bullies. Don't play with bullies. Don't put up with bullies.   And bullies? You're not welcome, you can't play with us. Shape up and we'll talk. Pretty simple. 

On the unemployment problem, Mom always has jobs.  Every mom I know can think of ten jobs that need doing right now.  Imagine an army of moms. We'd have the rate down to zero if moms were in charge. 

And lastly, it's been a hard few years.  It's cold outside. We need a little warming, a little joy and sweetness and happiness.  That's what the pie is for, she'd even make it a'la mode.

So Vote Mom in 2012 --She's not on the ticket, but she should be.

Better Parenting via Science Theory**

There are several scientific theories that would have been discovered faster if only the world of science had allowed for mothers to be part of the discussion much earlier in history.

Nature seeks homeostasis: This is a truism. Every time I wash my floor, a child attempts to reassert the natural sticky feeling their feet have become accustomed to, by spilling something impossibly hard to clean up within ten minutes of the floor actually drying. Olive oil, maple syrup, and salt are amongst three of the most memorable illustrations of this theory in practice.

Opposites Attract: Clean white wall. Permanent Black Marker. Any questions? I mean, other than from my own mother asking why in heaven’s name do I even own a permanent black marker, or from my mother-in-law, where is this clean white wall you speak of?

Chaos Theory: Some individuals would stipulate that a child's very essence illustrates Chaos Theory's validity, independent of space, time or setting. Some individuals don't yet know the untrammeled power of a hungry child. For those who are still confused by chaos theory, perhaps a live demonstration is in order.  Please come on over to my house at five o'clock and try to fix dinner.  I will take a nap. 

Matter cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.

Exhibit A: my son’s laundry.
Exhibit B: An orange oversized tee he got in 3rd grade that defies all maternal efforts to transform or destroy. Handing it down has not stopped the older child from retrieving it for his wardrobe. Purchasing new shirts has produced no measurable effect. Now that it is, arguably, a bit tight around the arms, he still resents the fact that his mom has twice attempted to give it to goodwill. The shirt in question is currently stored in a secret bunker under his bed and heavily guarded by legos, books, smelly socks and other items that if discovered, would lead his mother to despair.

Time is relative theory: The simple errand of driving to school normally takes twenty minutes. Starting at 8:39 a.m. after Mom has whisked away breakfast materials and begun the getting dressed routine for all occupants still home, there is a tearful phone call from her third grade son. “Today is bake sale day and I didn’t bring any cookies.” Thinking about the frozen cookie dough in the freezer, Mom stupidly agrees to bring something by 10:30, as the bake sale starts at 11.

While in the process of getting the toddlers dressed, Mom throws the cookies in the oven, locates shoes, puts three unmatched socks in the laundry basket, flushes an abandoned toilet, puts milk away, turns off the lights, removes four bikes and two whiffle ball bats from the driveway, takes the cookies out of the oven, straps the two toddlers (who both want cookies) in their car seats and the baby and then signs a form for a package being delivered before starting the car.

Once in the car, Mom remembers that the aforementioned cookies are still in the kitchen. Retrieving the cookies, the phone will ring; it will be the same child asking if you are bringing the cookies. While inside, Mom will spot permission slip that needs to be dropped off and feel so virtuous for multi-tasking, she will run to her closet to gather the dry cleaning. Leaving for the second time, Mom gets half way down the driveway before realizing; she brought her purse in, but not out. In the few seconds Mom is in the house, the phone rings again, she forces herself to ignore it. Grabbing a prescription bottle on the counter that is about to run out, Mom returns to the car with her purse, cell phone and a diet coke. Triple checking to make sure she has all her children, her errands, and all required equipment for those errands, she drives.

It is part of the law of nature that she will then hit every red light plus have to navigate one traffic jam owing to a cop issuing a ticket and a second at a train crossing. She arrives around 12:15. The bake sale is over, and the volunteer has several dozen frozen dough baked cookies left over. When she checks the message on her answering machine at home from the phone call she ignored, it was her son saying “Never mind, third grade isn’t doing the bake sale this week, it’s fourth grade.”

Theory of Gravity: How annoyed your mother will be after enduring the above mentioned scenario versus. how much she loves you.

Next week: Scientific Law in Relationships:

Theory of Constancy: The level of stress in a marriage is constant, the level felt by the individuals within the marriage, is fluid.
** Originally ran on January 20, 2008, back when I only had 8 children. What a piker! 

Meet Missedcongeniality

Back in 2008, I went to the Erma Bombeck Writer's Conference.  It was great for several reasons.  I got to try stand up.  I had a blast.  It was a weekend on my own.  And most importantly, I met a whole host of lovely people including one daring woman who wore bunny slippers the entire conference.  Her real name is Joy but she goes by Missedcongeniality. 

She's very funny and even better, she's kind. 

I'd only a week before received news that my son would have Down Syndrome and she became for me, an understanding face as I wept in fear and anticipation, grieving the ideal that was lost because I didn't know the wonder I would receive.  She stayed with me and skipped a lecture to let me cry.  She also sat by me when I had butterflies about doing stand up.  I check her blog from time to time and this one, written by her oldest son ought to be shared.   If you want to leave a comment, please go to her blogsite so that proper praise can be given where it should.  So without further adieu, here is Joy's latest piece.  Enjoy!

Missed Congeniality


From Pookie with Love

Being a parent in a blended family requires the ability to not take yourself too seriously. I never knew how much so until this week. In preparation for impending military deployment, my eldest son decided to send a ‘love note’ to his blended teenage siblings containing ‘insider information’ about yours truly.
The original list had 25 bullet points, but is abbreviated here due to space constraints. Here is his wisdom:

To my brother and sister.

This is for the very next time you think you are getting a raw deal…

I understand that you have been told (repeatedly) that you are dealing with Mom Lite™; but I recently came to realize that you probably don’t grasp what this really means. So, for your benefit and with your best interests in mind, I have compiled a list of Rules and Regs from the Old Regime of the Deity known as Mom. It is not complete, but I can assure you that it is accurate. Remember, this is a labor of love; Big Brother is trying to look out for ya here. The following rules are absolute. Disregard at your own peril.

Alright, here goes:

1. When Arguing with Mom: YOU. ARE. WRONG. You shall forever be so, no matter how logical your argument is. If you are proven right later, guess what: You’re still wrong. This is a fact of life; get used to it.

2. If you are summoned at any time before 10 am, you are to appear by Her bedside with a cup of coffee in hand, half creamer, two Splendas. This is not negotiable: sleep on your own time. Acceptable substitutes for your name are “COFFEE!!” or “BEAN JUICE!!”

3. MOMMA’S CHOCOLATE IS MOMMA’S CHOCOLATE. Get your own.

4. You are not Chuck Norris; SHAVE. YOUR. FACE.

5. This is not GQ and you are not a body builder, so put on a damn shirt and cover your hairy self. NOW.

6. The Impending Apocalypse is not an acceptable excuse for getting out of school. If these be your last moments, then it sucks to be you, now get outside, you’ll miss the bus.

7. When asked your opinion, “Whatever you say” or “Yes, Ma’am” are your options; quit fooling yourself. ”I’m on it” is also acceptable.

8. You can’t use the Force, so quit telling Her that “these aren’t the droids you’re looking for” and walk the damn dog.

9. It doesn’t matter if you just walked the dog, do it again, he needs to poop. Don’t agree? See Rule 1.

10. No goose-stepping around the house. You aren’t that funny.

11. If the word “Revolution” leaves your lips, you better be reviewing history.

12. If She says you did it, you did it. See Rule 1.

13. Chores are not “slave labor,” now do the dishes.

14. If She tells you more than once, IT. IS. A. WARNING. So get off your butt and take out the trash…


As a final note: I admittedly laughed through the entire thing, until I came to the realization that compared to his life with me, Basic Training must’ve seemed easy for eldest son. So, to him I say, “Thanks for helping the younger ones, and I’m sure they will have a response in the coming future. We love you, Pookie!”

**Note to Joy; thanks for being there then and for raising such an awesome person and for letting me cross post this here.   Thank You!

The Cure for Seasonal Foodie Obsession Disorder

I suffer from seasonal foodie obsession disorder or SFOD.

Last summer when I went to the pick your own produce farm, it started. I’ll began by picking too many strawberries, inducing me to once again consider learning how to make jam. I bought the fancy jam jars and pectin and little hand produced book on how to make jellies and preserves. Then I started reading the recipe and my brain froze up, so I just fed the kids waffles with berries for dinner two nights in a row and used up the excess that way.

The jars sat in the closet next to the jars I bought and forgot about the year before. I promised myself I'd make it up to them the next time I went berry picking.

Then, a friend invited me on an innocent trip to the Amish market I never knew about. Perusing all those freshly cleaned chickens and gorgeous fresh chops, I impulsively purchased enough meat to survive a nuclear winter.

“Sherry? What good is it to purchase fresh meat if we’re just going to freeze it?” My husband asked.

Up to my neck in butcher block paper, I just smiled. “You’ll thank me once you taste it.” I promised as I fired up the grill for a mixed feast of roasted goodies. "Could you taste the difference?" I asked eagerly. "Not really." my husband admitted. The kids shook their heads, but hey, they weren't upset, chops off the grill were awesome. I was certain a steady diet of it would eventually enlighten their palates.

Over the next few weeks, I began scanning those gourmet catalogs from the mail, my eyes lingering over the Bee Hive Pizza Oven Outside Grill and the specially imported knives guaranteed to cut through even bone. My husband found the strategically placed dog eared pages of some on his side of the bed. “Sherr?”

“Well, my birthday’s coming up…just in case you need any ideas.”

We went to the public library and I checked out seventeen different cook books, to try things out. Driving my son home from baseball practice, I discovered NPR’s “The Splendid Table” and a few other radio cooking shows which became my substitute for music in the afternoon. I could feel myself slipping into the obsessive compulsive gourmet cook want-a-be as I filled out the form for my buy one, get five free magazine subscriptions, all of them dealing with food. It began to interfere with regular life, as I now required draconian type silence from my toddlers when the morning shows did their 10 minute cooking spot, and I growled whenever someone switched it from the Food channel.

The local grocery store was no longer sufficient for our family’s daily repast. Shopping for the proper ingredients required three separate visits to get the true staples, one at the specialty shop in the scary strip mall, one in the market only open on Thursday and a special pilgrimage on the freeway to the one store in the tri-state area with the RIGHT basalmic vinegar, saffron, organic eggs and creme fraise. Eventually, my needs could only be met by the outrageously-beyond-all-sense-over-priced gourmet stores where the vegetables are so bright, they're probably hand painted with acrylics at the New York school of Art. Witnessed scrutinizing a clutch of bananas for color, firmness and consistency and pulling off only the acceptable ones to create my own bunch; my family began to feel unease.

What stopped the long skid into bankruptcy that summer was the harsh cold reality of my children. They could humor my fledging steps into multi-hued pasta as long as I covered it with enough olive oil and cheese. They indulged my attempt at rosemary potatoes, as I served grilled pork tenderloin on the side. However, they drew the line at goat cheese wrapped in radicchio and pinned together by a tooth pick with a piece of Italian bacon.

My husband had called home to say he’d be working late when I served this latest elegant creation, thus the kids decided to perform an intervention. They stood there, bowls in hand, armed with spoons and a large box of sugar frosted cereal. The oldest had already poured each child their preferred portion and the second stood ready with the milk. “We’re fixing our own dinner Mom.” They explained.

“But what about my Italian appetizer?”
“You can have it Mom.” The oldest gallantly offered.
“Enjoy.” said his younger brother.

And there I sat, eating smoked goat cheese, wrapped in wilted purple lettuce, pulling off the toothpick to tug at the chewy bacon. After the third appetizer, I conceded that perhaps I had gone too far. Placing the remainder in plastic wrap for their father, I pledged to keep my foodie impulses in check by always ensuring some element of dinner was readily identifiable to children under the age of 12.

“Are you sure?” My second daughter asked, hands on her hips. She always has been a bit of a skeptic.

“I promise.” I nodded meekly. “Please, pass the frosted flakes.”

And I’ve kept that promise throughout the year but then today in the mail, I found a flyer. “Berry Picking starts Tuesday!” Maybe this year, I’ll make my own jam.

Did I say that?

Memo: My computer is being retooled. (stupid virus).  That leaves me precious little time on the old machine.  Thus, you get a microwaved frozen leftover re-run from last summer. (Originally run on July 17, 2009). But, if you didn't read it last year, it's new to you. Enjoy!

“Don’t put stickers on the car door!”

“You shouldn’t play the piano with a toothbrush.”

“Please, give me the hammer back…Now!”

There are sentences that need no other explanation in the civilized world other than to say, “I am a parent.” Usually, they translate as imperatives that for all sentient beings, would never need be spoken.

Yet I have begun collecting them as samples of what my offspring require to survive 24 hours in my care. While on the phone with my brother, I heard similar utterances from him at his three children. “Put that down! Stop running into the window!” I started to laugh until I had to shout, “Don’t sit on the baby!” Now it was his turn, but we both recognized conversation was impossible and hung up.

My friends started giving me samples too. “What are you doing?” to a teenager stuffing an entire tortilla into his mouth in one swoop at ten minutes to six as she was serving dinner. “Who told you you could color your arm purple?” from a kindergarten mom. (It was picture day at school). “It’s a free dress day. I don’t have to wear my uniform.” was the child’s explanation. My personal favorite was “You made dinner?” from a third mother who said she’s still finding sauce stains in her kitchen from her fifth grader's experiment.

What is unsaid and unexplained about raising children often transcends what stories are told. Part of the omission is from personal shame. We can’t explain why our child had a three gallon water bottle in the middle of his room. We asked. He didn’t want to get up in the middle of the night to go the extra five feet to his bathroom sink to get a drink. We still don’t understand.

Part of it is the dim recognition that too much truth may be unbearable. Yes, she colored on the piano with a permanent black marker. Yes, he hid dirty clothes in a drawer until they fermented. Yes the toddler took a bite out of a tomato because she thought it was an apple and spiked the offending vegetable onto the newly clean floor. The amount of labor and property damage in those three sentences alone may be enough to doom the human race if universally disseminated.

When I asked my mom about these sorts of odd phrases that were coming out of my mouth as correctives of my children, she laughed and explained everything. “I told you about that when you were a kid...” “What was that? Mom? Hold on. Sweetie, stop squirting the instant mop on the wooden floor. Don’t pull your brother on a towel…”

“Mommmmm, we were playing sled.”

"What was that Mom?"

“See dear, you just weren’t listening.” My Mom answered over the phone.

It may be a dodge, but it’s a good dodge. I’m keeping it for when my kids have kids.

P.S. Today I said, and meant with all my heart, "Don't throw the cat at the chandelier." Son was tossing his beanie baby in the empty dining room and it got stuck. It's like they're secretly reading these posts!

7 Quick Takes Friday

1. 15 seconds

My youngest son stood for 15 seconds.  He also said "Hello" this week and "I love you Dad."  It's hard to top that, but my pediatrician said, "He should work on saying, "I love you Mom." for Mother's day."  I'll just feast on his kisses on my cheek as he says, "Love, love, love, love, love."  It works for me.

2.  I'm Nominated

I didn't even know I was nominated in the 2010 Cannonball Awards for Most Underappreciated.  So go, show your love for Chocolate for your Brain! The losers still get a badge, a "I got nominated and all I won was this wrongful sense of pride" widget.  I'm just pleased to be in the company of My Wonderful Life and the Crescat and Aggie Catholics. 

http:www.//thecrescat.blogspot.com/search/label/Cannonball%20Awards

3. Fortelling

When my daughter was born 14 years ago today, I begged the nurse to show her to me.  "Let me see her." I demanded as they were wrapping her up. They turned her face towards me.  "She's beautiful." I said. The nurse then asked me, "Do you think you will have any more?"  Mind you this is three minutes after delivery and I guess it was in my heart before my head knew it because I responded, "Oh sure."   Happy Birthday!

4. My sons have discovered the hose.

My grass will never be thirsty again and socks will never be dry.  But the hose is the one toy that brings a surly almost 11 year old, a sensitive 6, a sparkly 8 and a brass 4 together.  Watching them play, as much as I hate to say this, it's worth a bit of extra laundry even if one child is wearing a leather cowboy costume vest.  

5. Prayer

Prayer never fails.  Not once.  We begin to speak towards God and God is waiting to pounce, to lavish us with His love, to answer, to answer, to answer.  So I invite each of you to pick one person you know that for the next week, you will pray for.  You don't have to tell them, you tell God.  You petition God for them, because of them, out of love for them, out of a difficulty loving them. It does not matter.  Pray for that person with your whole heart.  God hears; God responds.  I've got mine.    

6.  Saints

A jewler sends me a catalog and I drool over the silver he designs.  For over 15 years, I wore a silver cuff my father gave me.  It was just the right fatness, it got dented, left in a bar in Italy --I made the bus turn around, lost in a couch for six months, and then one day, I couldn't find it.  I remember I couldn't find it and voiced my sadness to my mother as I looked at the silver cuff advertised on the cover.  She suggested prayers to Saint Anthony and I agreed, I'd petitioned him on many an occasion for keys, for purse, for peace of mind, for minutes in the day, for a solution to a problem, for the energy to pray, for the capacity to act. 

"What would we do if we didn't have Saint Anthony?"  she asked. "Where would we be?"   It took me two seconds to find the answer, "Lost."   But sometimes, God works in the losing too. I lost my keys today after we came home, hence we had to bag softball practice and the slow winding weekend start was just what all of us needed. I've looked everywhere but can't find those keys. Yes I've put in a request to Saint Anthony too, but also I'm really enjoying Not being able to go anywhere so I can't say I'm looking too hard, not yet anyway.

7.  Happy Mother's Day

My mom was here for the week and it was really nice to have unrushed time with her and Dad.  Happy Mother's Day Mom!  I love you.  Still after all these years, you're one of my best friends and it's hard to go a day without talking.  Thanks for all you do, while here and from afar.  Any skills I have as a Mom come from you.  Much love.  --Sherry

How will this help me in the Real World?

Getting children to sit for an hour when they’ve just spent eight in school remains a thankless task and no amount of cookies and milk, hugs and freshly sharpened crayons can make it otherwise.

Clearly, all of my kids are feeling the pressure of having ascended to the next grade and being thus required to do more work. One of them in a fit of disgust asked the question asked by so many scholars before him, “Why? If it didn’t stick in all the time it was drilled at me in class, why will one more hour make a difference?”

Presuming it was a purely rhetorical question, I ignored it until he clamored in frustration a second time. I tried explaining that this helped seal in his brain the concepts taught during school.

He countered with "If the teacher were really good, I'd remember it without this stuff." I asked if something was wrong. "No." I asked if he needed a break. "No. It will just mean I have to do it later." That fatalistic vision of putting off tasks had never stopped me, but it clearly dogged his spirit. "What difference will this make?" He wailed again.

I put out the makings for dinner on the counter. Then I handed him a plate. “Dinner time.” I announced.

“What’s this?”
“Your pasta, meatballs and salad.” I explained.

“It hasn’t been cooked.”
“I know.”

“The spaghetti is still in the box.”
“You’re right again.”

“And the meatballs are still frozen.”
“Well, I’ve cooked all day so one more hour, how would that make a difference?” I asked.

Defeated, he handed me back the plate and went back to his worksheet. “I hate it when you get creative with your parenting.” he groused.

Spirograph Brave

My little son does not like shots. He hates them.

When he learned he would have to endure two for his kindergarten physical, he said to me, "I think I can summon up some bravery."

I hugged him and assured him I would hold his hand and it would be okay. I told him about how at his age, I didn't like shots either and that my mother got me to stop going on about having to have a vaccination by making me chose an item that I could earn if I was brave enough.

"What was it?"
"A Spirograph."
And I explained what a spirograph was and how much I had enjoyed it, and how his sister had one up in her room.
"Well I don't want a spirograph for a shot."

So we went on to negotiate a suitable prize.

The day of the physical arrived. Having scheduled a double up, my daughter in first grade attended as well. Her doctor's appointment went first. She got her shot and said "Ow." When it came time for the shot, my son cried hard.

He cried as we left the office. He cried as we went down the elevator. He cried as we walked through the parking lot. Getting into the car, he was still going on about the pain.

My daughter, ever solicitous, put her arm around him and said, "You were so brave." He was at this point, howling from it, saying over and over again, "I hate shots. I don't like them. It still hurts."

But when she said that, he looked at her with moderate annoyance, "I wasn't brave. That wasn't bravery."

He may not take a hit well, but he's ruthlessly honest about his state of being. I think I'm going to buy him a spirograph.

Lessons Learned from Riding the Bench

Whatever lessons you failed to master as a kid, come back to bite you as an adult.

When I was a kid, I absolutely rotted at sports. This was back in the Jurassic era, when kids were assigned to A and B teams, and you could even be a second stringer on the B team, or not make it at all. I doggedly tried out every year for every sport and consistently made the B second string or sat out the season. I drooled over the idea that some day, if I just worked hard enough, I'd make the A team and get a ribbon, a trophy or maybe even a letter. I was a victim of too many After School ABC specials. I even prayed for this daily. When I wouldn’t make it, I was often reminded, “Sometimes, God’s answer is “No.” but being a bullhead, I figured I’d keep asking.

Fast forward to adulthood, when the one letter I did manage to get remains locked in a memory box somewhere, the wisdom of 25 years sans trying out for A-teams has informed me that not having your name on the list is survivable. That lesson isn’t being taught today, at least not to kids.

In the enlightened 21st century, children now have endless options for participation in “non competitive” sports, meaning anyone can play. The term “non competitive” is hopelessly misleading, as I see antics on and off the fields of play that rival the steroid scandals in cycling and judge rigging in ice dancing. Competition may have been removed from the play, but it hasn’t been extracted from the parents. Parents who made the team when they were kids on merit, are determined to show that their kids would have made the cut in the old school. I know of one mom who played her four year old up with first graders. She lied on the application. No one had the temerity to ask, "What was the point?"

Spotting high school talent scouts with note pads scoping out forth grade CYO games, I started to snicker. I was told very seriously by another mother, if your name gets circulated, you could get a free ride by the time you get to applying for private high schools. Looking at the field of boys, all of whom I had personally seen have long discussions about which pokemon was best and which character in Harry Potter they would be, I wondered why any adult would spend time projecting what a 9 year old might become as at 15?

I thought things would be better when some of my children showed promise in the sports of their choosing. One of my girls seemed a whiz at basketball. She was even invited to join a select team. The initial pride at having a “talented” player went out the window when the coach explained; we would have to pay a four hundred dollar registration fee, plus money for uniforms and three nights of practice a week. Maybe I would consider this if my daughter was in high school and it meant college scholarships, but this was third grade! Besides, at $400 per ten weeks, I figured I could save for college and maybe we wouldn't need a scholarship!

The parents in the league looked at me with pity for denying my daughter this shot at the “big leagues” for a reason as flimsy and petty as money. I saw a mother tsk at me and murmur, “What a shame, her daughter showed real promise.” This refusal to commit was a moral failing on my part and doomed my daughter to a lifetime of lackluster accomplishment in the world of sports. If so, well, at least I know what sin I committed to wreck her life. Given her other talents, I’ll take that chance.

Another of my sons is a natural athlete. If there is a ball in play, he’s on it. He’s good. He’s fast, he understands the game and he cares about sports. It must be a recessive gene. Anyway, I couldn’t wait to see him on the field. Finally, it would be my kid everyone cheered. I dreamed happily of watching him score a goal and say to the camera, “Hi Mom!”

Like most fantasies, reality was far uglier.

In his first practice, my son did a gloating dance as he scored on a kid half his size, from his own team! Then there was the fight he had with a girl because she stole the ball from him. I'm yelling "Red Card!" and the coach explained, they didn't do that at this level of play. Yes, he still moves like a gazelle but I dread showing up at the sidelines. I feel I need to carry a sign that simply says, “Yes, it’s my child. I’m sorry and I’m working on it.”

The problem is, he’s really good at sports. He’s just not a good sport. At one game, when my child was being particularly aggressive and had been warned by the referee, I shouted to the coach, “BENCH HIM!” Everyone else watching the game looked at me as if I were nuts until I explained. “I’m his mother.”

Given that he’d scored the only points our team had made this season, the coach shook his head. I’d be forced to teach the virtue of humility some other way…like maybe when he had kids.

The years have resulted in a treasure trove of ribbons and trophies in my house that signify having played a sport, having been a good sport, having been good at a sport and having simply showed up to watch a sport. As I picked up the feather duster to remove the recent cobwebs, I pined for the days when you might not make the team. The morals learned from not winning, from riding the bench were clear; Not everyone is good at the same thing; Life isn’t fair; Sometimes things happen; Practice and work hard and maybe; all these life lessons came from not making the cut.

Suddenly, making the B teams didn’t seem like it was such a bad thing. And I heard God lovingly laughing at and with me, “Now you’re finally getting it.” And my daughter came home, "Mom, can I try out for competitive softball this Summer?"

Video Games, A Family Intervention

My kids love video games.

We have admittedly fed this love, because we enjoy a good round of Smash Brothers or Mario Cart as much as anyone. It’s cathartic to occasionally beat your children in an area they consider themselves to be “grand masters.” When I schooled my son recently on Soulsword, he was most gracious. “She grew up on Mortal Combat and Kung Fu Battle and Gauntlet.” He explained to his awe struck sisters. Being a gracious mom back, I said, “Yes, young grasshopper, you have much to learn.” My son didn’t know his mom could trash talk either.

Being a child of the 80’s, I have fond memories of blowing wads of quarters on Ms. Pac Man, Centipede and Donkey Kong Jr. I was the Jedi master of the Star Wars game, back when all you had to hit was line drawing outlines of those tie fighters, which really meant something because I was…shocker…a girl! I was one with the force then, and sometimes, even now the mitochondrion rally to my side.

My husband and I have brought our children up on the classics, Frogger and Paperboy, and told them of the lost favorites like Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom, or the classic Gauntlet, wherein we were both frequently told, “Never have I seen such bravery.” when we would launch into suicide missions against hordes of orcs once we were out of spare change. The fondness in our voices at those times indicated tacit approval for this activity as a form of recreation.

Unfortunately for our offspring, games and game systems change and people sometimes grow up. Being grown up, we get the fun job of imposing limits in life; bed time, what’s for dinner, what’s for snack, what they can wear to church and how much they can watch television. However, in the arena of video games, we have admittedly, shown our human frailty. With seven of eight kiddos preoccupied with no mental or physical power supplied by a supervising adult, it’s hard not to succumb to sloth too.

With the baby safely tucked in her crib, my husband and I would race to our respective computers and begin our own plunge into the opiate that video games provided. Originally, we showed characteristic adult restraint, setting a proscribed time limit for this indulgent activity that was strictly observed. Then one day, the timer went off and I turned it off and instead of barking the usual, “Game over. Time’s up.” I returned to the computer to finish my round of spider solitaire. The kids stayed in Nintendo Land and my husband walloped on the French with his massive Roman navy in an island based scenario of Civilizations.

Hours drifted by and we ordered pizza. The baby played in the room with us, supplied with hugs and cuddles, occasional bottles and diapers and a pick me up as needed. The day shot by and everyone had vacated reality for all of 8 hours. We felt exhilarated and drained at the same time. We had frittered a day. Here in 2008we had managed to beat the demands that we always be doing with a unplanned unstructured day of pure indulgence that cost only the price of ordering three pizzas plus cheesy bread.

The next day was sort of a hangover, the price of our day of hooky. Laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, homework projects and gardening all acted as silent critical editorials for our day of indulging the Id. Naturally, we did what any beginning addict does, we made excuses, did a quick cursory attempt at each of the problems and then rushed back to our addiction of choice. Another wasted day, but this one did not thrill as much as the first when the work week returned. For a time, we keep this mentally and physically destructive but entirely legal habit under control. It was limited to a weekend only pursuit, we would binge play on Saturday and Sunday.

I stopped scheduling weekend activities.

However, the creeping addiction of virtual crack provided by fake worlds and fantastic swords kept trying to pry open the rest of the week and eventually succeeded. Homework finished, they would rush to their screen of choice. I wasn’t much better, feeding the baby as I played on my laptop in the kitchen.

Fortunately, we have many actors in our family and the one least invested performed an intervention of sorts. It was partially due, as all interventions actually are, to the increasing level of sloth by those supposedly providing guidance, supervision and care. Having requested a glass of water and received none, my two year old decided to help herself. She got a paper cup from the closet. She took it to the sink. She filled it to the brim and quenched her thirst .

Smacking her lips with satisfaction, she walked over to where her siblings sat pushing buttons and cheering on their latest hero, Link. Toddlers are called toddlers for a reason. Sippy cups are used for a reason. Toddlers carrying sippy cups can trip all day and not spill a drop. Toddlers carrying nearly full paper cups trip and electronic equipment designed to provide hours of entertainment do not like the results.

The cry went out too late but there it was, a 6x6 inch cube of plastic rendered unusable by virtue of one of the basic necessities of life and the “we presume” innocence of a two year old. Looking at the remains of the once beloved box, the children shook their heads in disbelief as we all recovered from our madness and remembered again the taste of barbeque, the spray of the pool waterslide and the glory of listening to baseball on the radio that should fill the hours of summer.

Never has a toy fallen from grace so quickly. Never has a recovery come so instantaneously. The next few weeks passed in a blur of summer activities that made me proud to be a parent and put the whole video crack addiction behind us. It was just a bad bump in parenting and family dynamics, a fall, the result of our fallen nature, from which we had emerged stronger.

Then the kids started a lemonade stand. I was feeling so proud of them for inventing a way to enjoy the day until I saw the sign. “Raising Money for our OWN Wii. 50 cents a cup. Donations Welcome.”

And I know, I may have to give the baby a glass of lemonade one day.

Future Politicians in the Family

My daughter doesn’t accept correction easily. She’s five and a quick study of her two older sisters. As such, she is quite convinced that she has everything figured out. For example, the other day I came upon her as her drink spilled all over the table, chair, her outfit and the floor. Grabbing paper towels to clean it up, I said the obvious. “You should be more careful. You dropped your cup.”

She folded her arms and gave me a cold corrective stare.
“I did Not.” She pouted at me.

“Yes. You did.” I couldn’t believe she would argue the point.
“I saw it.”

“NO I DIDN’T.” She shouted back.

Irritated, I stopped cleaning the mess. “Alright then, what happened?”

“I didn’t drop the cup. It fell.”

I suddenly understood that in her world, nothing she did was actually wrong as long as she could omit herself from the picture.

The technique remains the same even as children age. When my oldest was preparing for a special evening out at the local high school, he came down the stairs in jeans and a t-shirt. I explained that this tour of the school was about first impressions both ways and that he needed to dress up a bit. He went back upstairs.

My mom was visiting. She saw him come down, button down shirt and a tie and sensed he still needed a bit of sprucing.

“Did you brush your teeth?” she asked.
“Yes.” He said without looking or smiling.

“I don’t mean during your lifetime.”
He looked down.

“Did you brush your teeth today?”
“Yes.”

He still wasn’t making direct eye contact.

Mom is a veteran of these things.
“This afternoon?”

“Oh.”
Up the stairs he went.

Perhaps it is a consequence of living so close to the beltway where language only holds as much meaning as the speaker and the listener invests. Having such skilled negotiators for children requires that the parents be thinking two or three steps ahead with each and every utterance.

“Did you hit your sister?”

“No.” My son responds.

The sister is screaming, howling, proclaiming to all the world of her outrage at his having injured her and then denied it.

“Why is she crying?”

Rather than directly lie, a severely punishable offense, he shrugs his shoulders.

Knowing I can guess the actual series of events, I chose my next words carefully.

“Did you in any way, inadvertently or intentionally, touch your sister in some fashion that might have caused her to be unhappy with you?”

“What does inadvertently mean?”
“By accident.”

“What was the question?”
“Did you hurt your sister whether or not you meant to?”

He looks down at his feet, buying time to figure a way out of Mom’s verbal trap.
Resorting to a time tested trick of politicians, he tries blaming the accuser,
“She started it.”

Mental yoga aside, they’ll be ready for a career in Washington by the time they leave home.

for more non partisan fun, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!

20 days until Erma Bobmeck Conference...guess I better start working on being funny.

Relative Math

God had proclaimed a snow day.

The County had declared a two hour delay.

The Jesuits apparently have a chronological system all unto themselves. A two hour delay means school starts at 9:20 a.m. So my son arrived via bus and Metro at school forty minutes late. He was assigned JUG. (Justice Under God, detention for all those non S.J. educated).

My argument that 2 hours+an 8 o’clock starting time equals ten could not defeat the emotionally indifferent “Did you read the parent’s handbook?”

I don't read instruction manuals either but usally, in English, 2 hour delays mean 2 hour delays.


My other kids got the day off in its entirety.
Why?
I lost my car keys.

Seven children fed, dressed, coated, mittened, scarfed and hatted even! Seven children loaded into the car with lunches packed for four. Seven children sitting waiting for Mom to drive them…and she can’t find her keys.

Even worse, Mom thinks she knows where the keys are…somewhere under the snow from shoveling the night before to clear the walk.

Now I could have just called and said, “Car trouble,” but with four children at the same school, odds were the truth would have come out anyway. I could just see my five year old brightly marching into her classroom to explain she got the day off because Mommy couldn’t find her car keys. So I ‘fessed up to the school. The secretary was still laughing when she hung up.

Exponents…

So the kids pile out of the car and explode into the home. By the time I unload my stuff and the baby, they have scattered to the four corners of the world, one on computer, two playing Nintendo, two are raiding the refrigerator for a second breakfast and one has buried herself back in the blankets with a book. Blowing my whistle (a’la Captain Von Trap), I summoned the horde.

Do any of you know what exponents are?

The two oldest raise their hands, eager to show off to the others what they know.

“Good.” I thrust a calculator in one child’s hands and a pencil and paper in the other’s.

“ You. Add this up. You. Check her math.”

You, all six of you come in the door. You drop your coats –those of you that can, (6), and gloves (12), scarves (6), hats (6), lunch boxes (4), backpacks (5), shoes (14), socks (13) how does that happen? and the baby comes in with her car seat, blanket, baby bag and then you add my purse and bag and coat and I have…seventy two things to put away. Add to that five beds to make…, the eight meals already served, the spoons, cups, plates and napkins, (32 items) and you’re lucky we even got in the car!

They are all looking at me blinking, waiting for the grande finale.

If you would like to eat before nine o’clock tonight…message received before she’s even finished pushing buttons to give me a grand total…they began scrambling.

Lessons learned…The Miracle of Compound Interest

I still haven’t found my keys. I've reshoveled the walk and walked the yard where I might have dropped them. I remember losing my student id and keys in the snow in Southbend Freshman year in early October. In April, I found them thawing by the sidewalk. At least it isn't as long a wait.

We’ll be able to drive tomorrow regardless, I’ll cannibalize my husband’s keys, but I have offered a ten dollar reward after offering a two dollar award and having no takers even for a cursory search. When I asked my son why he wasn’t interested in the new bounty being offered, he smiled, “Well, I have a lot of shopping to do for Birthday month.”

“And?”

“I figure if I wait a few more hours, you’ll raise the reward to $20.00.”
"Fink!" I'm thinking. "Fat chance." I say. "I could buy a whole new set of keys for that."

Birthday month is the season from March 8 to April 13th, when one cousin, two sons and two daughters have celebrations honoring the days they first started making their needs publically known. Usually Easter is sandwiched somewhere in there too, so it is a time overflowing with cake and celebration despite Lent.

We suffer our sack cloths and ashes in other ways…

Any parent who has ever accidentally won at Candy Land knows the game was designed by someone who either really hated kids or loved punishing grown-ups. Being a snow day and unable to go anywhere, I couldn’t weasel out of playing it by giving the adult excuse of “Have to run errands.”

So we played. It just doesn’t satisfy a three year old or a two to say “Good game.” So I go in planning to throw the game. On more than one occasion, I have deliberately miscounted to avoid the great slide of doom for my offspring, or self sacrificed and sent my own piece careening down so I could endure another 15 minutes of spinning the dial and moving the little happy people up the ladder.

It is a tedious experience, such that I have considered adding numbers to the number wheel like 20 and 15 to speed up the pace. Then it hit me. Those Jesuits used Candyland Math to get through the day.

So What Have I Learned?

Thinking of creating a Parent Manual with the option of an Evening two hour delay which would require that bed time be moved up 80 minutes in the event of a snow day or a mental emergency on the part of an adult.

I summoned the kids. "I'm setting the timer." I push 30 minutes. "The bounty for the keys is 10 dollars. If the keys are found in the next 30 minutes, you will get the ten bucks. After that, you get nothing but thanks."

Candyland toddler girl found the keys in five minutes. Wonder if I can swap the ten spot for another round of Candyland.

Moral: There is none, except don't lose your keys and try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!

Toddler 100% Proof

For all the talk of how one has to make a house safe for an infant, the reality is steeper than a newbie parent can possibly bear. Alas, those veterans out there know it well, a baby needs no padded walls or toilet locks, no latched drawers or bundled cords in plastic yoyo shaped discs.

Two year olds however, require a ruthless and systemic streamlining of the hearth and home to prevent maximum property devaluation from occurring before said toddler reaches the age of reason or the domicile is condemned.

Rules for Toddler Proofing a Home.

1. Ban writing equipment. As of this moment, all pens, markers, crayons, pencils, paint brushes, nail polish applicators, lip sticks, high lighters, sharpies, white out, paint, India ink, mascara and glue are officially illegal. They may not be purchased. They may not be borrowed. They may not be accidentally brought home in one’s purse or briefcase or backpack. Older children in school will have to complete their assignments either before coming home, or using blood, which will discourage excessive use and make it highly unlikely that the toddler will seek to imitate his or her older siblings.

Please understand that these precautions may not protect your walls from toddler creativity entirely. I just found my daughter drawing on the window with a bannana. Which brings us to rule two.

2. All food shall be placed at a height of 60 inches or higher to prevent scavenging. This includes traditional foods thought to be the preferred choices of toddlers, like multi-colored gold fish, Oreo cookies, apples and juice boxes, and some items that most adults would consider at the very least, unusual; free basing Maple Syrup, eating a stick of butter like a candy bar and grabbing whole fists of ground beef before it’s cooked.

3. Car keys are fun. They make excellent experimental objects for sockets and those plug plastic covers? They pull right off. Keep keys in a box on the top shelf of the cabinet or be willing to suffer the embarrassment of being awakened on a Sunday by the annoying car alarm going off that turns out to be yours.

4. Consider installing a close circuit TV and an ankle bracelet. Why? Because toddlers do 16 things in the time it takes an average adult to pour a cup of coffee. Your watch just went into the pewter pitcher in the lower cabinet, the one you use for special occasions, meaning you’ll find it on Mother’s Day when you go to put some orange juice in a pretty container.

5. Explain to older children it is unjust to use the fact that they are living with an essentially non civilized entity with opposable thumbs, to their own advantage. The two year old did not mess up your room or strip the bed or leave the toilet scrubber in the middle of the room. Okay, maybe that last part, but own your own mess. Even SHE can’t have done all of this.

If you impliment rule 4, you can even produce evidence, though as I said before, sometimes one cannot bear that much reality.

6. All liquids stored in the house, be they ketchup or water, Windex or shampoo, will be tripple sealed to prevent a "help yourself" mentality that has lead to more than a few moments of hyperventilating on the part of Mom. They will also be stored out in the garage.

Drinks served at meal time will be in sippy cups for all family members. This will prevent any unfortunate run-ins with electronic equipment that does not like liquid. No exceptions. You know, Cabernet with a touch of ice does surprizingly well in a plastic container.

ONE FINAL NOTE:

Take lots of pictures of her when she draws her arm entirely purple with the one marker left in the house, or when she stomps on grapes in the kitchen. This impossible stage fortunately is blessedly short, and you’ll want proof for when she has two year olds herself one day of why you can just listen and laugh.

Editor’s Note: These six rules were compiled from the antics of seven different children going through the stage of being two. Cupie Doll, a.k.a. Miss Chief, it wasn’t just all you.

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I AM A GPS...

Now a days, every rental car has one of these Tom Toms or Guardians that is designed to eliminate the age eternal battle that goes on between the driver and the designated draftee navigator. With one of these babies on board, you can Tom Tom Cruise to your destination, and no wacky side trips to Oprah's couch are necessary.

Thanks to GPS's, these conversations are a thing of the past.

"Where are we going?"
"To your brother's house."

"Where do I turn?"
"You go North."

"No. Where do I turn."
"You don't turn for another forty minutes. Just go north."

"Where do I TURN?"
Sigh. "You turn right."

"Which exit?"

Getting out the map, the subbordinate counts the exits. "I think it's sixteen."

"You THINK? or you KNOW?" Takes map, in two seconds, "It's here." Points at map, is dead on, "Number 18. I thought so."


"If you knew..."

The conversation reads more like a defendant's interrogation in a bad law show than a dialogue between two people who would willingly consent to be in the same vehicle.


GPS's have helped lower the collective blood pressure of couples everywhere. Bliss is just a button push away. The disembodied voice supplies the information, no one gets mad and the machine never says, "I told you to turn left at the Exxon station exit but you..." A whole venue for passive aggression has been nearly universally eliminated from the emotional landscape of America. Dr. Phil has taken to trolling area hospitals for Brittany Spears melt downs, as the number of couples in marital trouble have dropped procipitously.

People listen to GPS's. The GPS's tell them where to go. The GPS's tell them what to do. The people do what the GPS says.


...I want to be a GPS.

Then I realized, for my family. I am the GPS or rather, the MPS. (Maternal Property Seeker).

Currently, I am the chief finder of all objects big and small, important and profound, paper and plastic. Mom is the great refuge for those unwilling to search or unable to find their important papers, toys, uniform pieces and necessary accessories.

Tom Tom, meet Mom Mom.

"Mom! Mom! I can't find my knitting!" Daughter is learning to sew in art class, currently making a hat or maybe a yellow tribble, she hasn't made up her mind.

"You left it in the TV room on the bookshelf near the top. Your library books on Copernicus were under it."

"Oh yeah."


"Mom! Mom! I can't find my silver shoes and I wanted to wear them to Christine's Princess Party this afternoon."

"I think I saw your younger sister wearing one of them in the study, so check under the blankets she left there as a tent, and the other one is in the far right pocket of the pool table, under the eight ball."

"Mom! Mom! I can't find my cell phone! I tried calling it but I put it on vibrate for Church this morning and..."

"Your phone is in our bathroom charging. You left it in my car when you brought in the doughnuts."


Mom-Mom can beat Tom-Tom most days. Most clients are satisfied with the speed and accuracy of information an MPS can provide. Testimonials include locating the Cub Scout manual and hat, the remaining box of diaper wipes, a set of car keys, two basketball uniforms, the science review sheet, socks, six shoes, a hair brush, nail clippers and a wallet all in one day.

Further investigation proves that MPS has only had one customer complaint.

Mom-Mom was completely ineffective when Sherry lost her purse.

Moon Woman Speaketh

Some day, when aliens land on Earth, the president will have need of me.

I know it seems odd that a mother of eight children would have found the time to master an alien language without formal training at some university, but it seems I have somehow acquired this gift gratis. I know, because sometimes, I have spoken to my children in what I perceived to be plain English, asking them to get dressed in the morning, or at night, to sit at the table, to put away their clothing, pack up their back packs, and turn off lights and these simple normal every day actions go undone.

Sometimes, even as I have been speaking, “Don’t hit your sister!” and the child is looking at me, he or she chooses to still punch with abandon as if I said nothing. I can say “No! No! No! No! No!” and it avails me naught.

Since I know my children are intelligent, and that they are generally good kids, I can only conclude the fault is mine. I must somehow not be making myself clear. Thus I have determined that unconsciously, occasionally, I slip into some weird “moon man language,” which my children are unable to decipher.

Moon man language sounds to the adult ear, like English, but apparently conveys either no meaning, or the opposite of the speaker’s intent. For example, “We’re having dinner soon.” translates as far as I can tell to “Please help your self to a soda, an ice cream and a few pieces of left over fried chicken right now.” “We have to run an errand. I need you to get in the car.” means “Find a secret shelter immediately, remove your shoes and if possible, lose them. Make no sound and hope the danger passes by.”

“Clean your room.” elicits an aggressive response, that I think means what they hear is, “I have come to kill your dreams and destroy your future. Flee if you would live.”

I am working on the reverse orders, but so far have had no luck in actively initiating my fluency in Moon Man. “Have a snack.” does not have a corresponding translation. Neither does, “You can watch TV.” nor “Does anyone want pizza for dinner?”

To begin to master Moon man for that eventual day when the commander in chief calls, I practice. Since I can’t control when I begin speaking, I have to create situations that will allow the talent to flower. One method I have found successful, is to actually choose to speak gibberish to my children when they are peppering me with questions.
“What’s for dinner?” a child asks as he grabs an apple.

“Repast for thine evening’s pleasure is perchance a fowl most pleasant, roasted with gracious loving care and infused in a honey soy emulsified marinade to create a mahogany sweet and salty outer crust, served with wild grains that have been softened by a chemical reaction with evaporated H20, and fresh stalks of brocollini, prepared in the same manner, with pasteurized juices brought forth from a bovine as your beverage.”

“What?”

“Chicken, broccoli and brown rice. Milk to drink.”
“Cool, Mom.”

“Set the table please.”
“I’m going next door to see if I can walk Mr. Chips for the Browns. Be back in five.”

Hmmm. Set the table meant walk a dog. I think I’ll start a book of useful phrases.

I wonder how take me to your leader would translate? Probably something like “Please turn on the tv and watch until your brains ooze out.”

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