Purple Prose Pens in Short Supply!

With the Obama administration having taken the reins of power and freed the land from the oppressive darkness of the evil Bush-Cheney years that shall henceforth be called "the-years-that-could-not-be-named, but-caused-all-that-is-wrong-in-the-world," writers from every corner of the globe are dusting off their thesauruses to rediscover positive adjectives.

Eight years of excoriating vitriol and "I triple dog dare you to Hate Bush more," one upsmanship in the journalistic world has left the media struggling to remember how to give an genuine compliment.

When Bill Clinton was elected president in 92, Newsweek ran a cover with him as Saint George with the pensive and supposedly "hypothetical" question, "Can He Save Washington?" with the Dragon being the obvious bureaucratic monstrosity that everyone denounces except when it's giving your state, special interest, bank, business, or "very special friends," a sizable kickback.

When "W" became president, there were equally silly articles talking about how "the grownups" had arrived. Every election, the news industry gets collective amnesia and works itself into a frenzy that typically would result in the issuing of a restraining order if exhibited by normal human beings.

In articles this week alone, President Obama has compared to Joshua in the Old Testament and John the Baptist and Saint Paul. One person said, hearing him speak was like hearing God. A professor of political theory likened the new president to being both Superman and Clark Kent. Memo to the good doctor, Superman IS Clark Kent! Not to mention the friendly neighborhood Spiderman giving his own web slinging thumbs up to the 44th person to hold the office via a commemorative comic.

There were articles about how the seagulls were in awe of the crowds as they soared overhead. 1000 stars seemed to gleam back at the President as he took the oath and the throngs took their pictures. The poetry flowed from every pen, except the poet's. The combined reverence of Couric, Oberman, Matthews and others rivaled love notes written by 14 year old nerds to the head cheerleader in ABC afterschool specials.

But we have been told, drool over the man's physique, fawn at his every utterance and please don't disturb the historic nature of the moment or the good vibrations half the nation is feeling in it's Pepsi One euphoria by asking any questions. We have to get with the program!

But how to compete when so much praise has already been given? Alas, I'm not sure there are superlatives left in the English language that haven't already been ascribed.

Here is my fledgling attempt to outdo the media in their dog like devotion. Comparing Obama to figures from the bible seems so "Right wing." We are an enlightened people. We eshew such pedestrian references as childish things. To venerate the President and properly acknowledge his place in history, we must go further back to summon icons worthy of such an individual.

First the academics should substitute Barrack's name anywhere in the Illiad or other Greek Myths, they find the name Zeus. The same should be done in Nordic, Odin shall now be Obama as well. There shall be a Buddah Obama, the Dahli Obama, and so forth.

The scientific community should then create a constellation using the National Star Registry and call it Obama. It will use every star visible to the Earth. Any stars having prior names shall shed them in light of the need to honor this historic leader.

Next, Congress must accelerate the Mint's production of quarters so that the only ones in circulation are Obamas. In Barrack we trust, all others pay Obamas. In fact, in light of the current fiscal situation, all other currency shall be seized to help pay for the bail out. It would have happened anyway, this just speeds up the process.

Then we can render unto Obama, what is Obama's. And all will be well. There will be Peace.

Ahhhhhhh, I feel it. The oneness.
All Hail Caesar!

I'll Have a Banana Split

In this down economy, we no longer employ my favorite survival crutch, a maid service with the wonderful name, “Crisis Cleaners.” So now, I must cajole, bribe, entice and warn with a scary low calm voice, my children into keeping their rooms neat and the public areas of the house reasonably free of debris.

The following are provided as a public service to parents everywhere, methods of getting the under 18 crowd to clean up their acts, however temporary.

One Room at a Time Tornado: If I send each child to clean, they will scatter to the four corners of the house, knowing that as I work, I will only rarely come into contact with all of them, thus allowing whoever does not get caught in my peripheral vision to remain in relative obscurity and leisure. By corralling all the critters in a single room and declaring, “We’re not leaving this room until it is perfect.” and blocking the door, the room will sparkle. Some children may get roughed up by others in the process. That’s okay as long as they don’t make a mess of the carpet.

The down side: When they grow up, they will write about you.

One Task at a Time: This approach seems promising, with a Socialist, Each Task according to His/her Skill, appointment of duties. Gamers however soon discern that incompetency equals easier work. So despite the fact that my sons can enter cheat codes and create power points, text message without looking and create 1000 part Lego masterpieces, the operation of a dish washer, washing machine and the mop remain mysteries. For a time, we were at an impasse. However, as I now have the passwords to all the computers in our home, I now can conveniently “forget” how to log onto the machines until they remember how to operate a vacuum.

The One Task at a Time method works as long as tasks can be clearly delineated, but sometimes, the house needs an overhaul in cleanliness, which leads us to the next method of extracting a clean home, straight bribery.

We paid a professional to get the home clean on occasion. Now, we shall pay the amateur. Putting post-its on the rooms with the designated required tasks and the going rate does lead to competitive cleaning. As long as the dollars are cold hard cash and not checks, you can get a room that looks like it was cleaned by a kid for pennies on the dollar. The trouble is, they expect prompt payment and usually, the rooms require a professional (Mom), to go through and redo. The money pays for the illusory feeling of children obeying commands.

Beat the Clock: This works when they are three and you have a fist full of Hershey bar mini’s for the kids who help clean up in the next two minutes. I could tell you that I don’t use it because I worry about cavities or obesity or that my kids have gotten wise to this approach but the fact is, Hershey bars don’t last long in our house, and it’s not because of the children.

The one guaranteed method of getting the home House beautiful is to enlist the aid of my beloved spouse. If Dad is cleaning, then no child has a prayer of exonerating themselves or escaping the chore taskmaster me. We set the timer for one hour and everyone cleans. There are Windex bottles spraying windows, toilets being scrubbed, floors mopped and a vacuum humming everywhere. There are flourishes like children who put fresh flowers on the table or the enterprising nine year old who straightens the pantry and by the end of the sixty minutes, the house looks like civilized people might live here.

After an hour, everyone is exhausted and the idea of dirtying the sparkling kitchen with pots and pans seems a poor tribute to the children’s actual work. So we’ve added a bonus to Sunday One Hour Clean up rule. Dinner on Sunday is Sundaes, and we go out to get them. Now, I just have to figure out how I can manage my diet if we keep the house clean.

Time Out for Time Management

*Sorry I missed posting yesterday* Here's Your Chocolate Fix!*
Families with more than two children know the transition from man to man to zone defense in parenting takes many forms.

Some of the changes are in perception. For example, mini-vans and SUV’s seem oddly small and hand me downs no longer seem shabby.

Others are in policy; the five second rule gets extended to about a minute. Bathing is an every other day affair with the option to push to a third. Bedtime is strictly enforced, whereas television viewing options and time limits are often relaxed.

With three or more children, parenting becomes much more pragmatic and purely functional. There is none of that “hush that blanketed the house during nap time.” Having a child chug the dregs of your left over diet coke is no longer cause for alarm. The purity of the first baby’s diet, which never saw French fries until after the age of two, has given way to frustration, as the youngest just “won’t eat her Chicken McNuggets.”

But the greatest change in family policy and procedure is in the arena of transportation. Once one is past three kids, getting from point A to point B requires a pre-factored half an hour devoted to purely loading and unloading. Subsequent children necessitate factoring in ten additional minutes per minor to account for lost shoes, trips to the bathroom, negotiating car seats and memory recall about where one was actually going. With nine, I’ve had to accept that I will make it within 45 minutes of being fashionably late.

Now, I really hate being late. So I keep tweaking the system. To date, I’ve tried pre-packing a diaper bag and laying out the clothes the night beforehand. I’ve tried keeping their shoes in the car and spare socks in the back pocket of the driver seat. I’ve considered dressing them and myself before going to bed. We’ve even set our clocks to be ten minutes fast to help trick everyone into leaving earlier. That works until I start calculating the fake ten minutes into my schedule, or someone helpfully resets the clock to the actual time.
Enter reality.

I had made an appointment for our youngest. “I want you to bring in the baby for a weight check up on Friday at 8:30 before any sick kids come into the office,” The receptionist said.

The nurse was helping me out, letting me in before office hours. I agreed despite every mom cell in my body screaming “ARE YOU INSANE?!” But I told myself, I can do this. I just needed to plan out my attack.

The next morning started badly. I woke up at six thirty instead of six. Getting them dressed, fed, cleaned up from being fed, loaded in the car plus the diaper bag, the double stroller, purse, cell phone, keys, appointment book, coats, socks and a change of clothing for the child that was wearing pants with matching holes in both knees, we were on the road by 8:50.

When I made it to the parking lot, it was 9:20. It took every ounce of moral courage to not fake the sign in time on the sign in sheet. (9:37).

“Mrs. A!” the receptionist beamed. “You’re early.”

“What? My appointment was at 8:30.”

“It’s tomorrow. Today’s Thursday.”

“Right. Thursday.”

I looked at my four under the age of five children, all dressed, all fed, all ready to go somewhere. We were ahead of schedule.
“Can we wait?”