Other People's Kids

You know what sucks? Taking care of friends' kids. Not because there are more kids to look after, but because you realize that your friends are doing a damned sight better than you at raising their kids. Yesterday, I picked up two extra kids from school. W is 2 grades older than Ethan, and one is Sam's bromance, T. Their sister, V, is a toddler and stayed with grandma. So, the usual whine and cry of snack is delayed because all kids are chatting happily. There is no bicker and bitch about the day at school. We drive home as I outline the plan for the afternoon: homework, play, dinner, tee ball for S. No complaints. Everyone piles into the house smelling of summer and boystink. S has a meltdown. Probably because he's hungry, but he should always be hungry, so that's really not an explanation. He sits on the stairs cursing my name, parenting techniques and questioning my intelligence. E does his homework as though he's a space cadet, and trying desperately to impress W, his senior and therefore guardian of all coolness. W finishes his homework and cracks a book silently. T watches and asks him questions periodically about Harry Potter. Does W snap and call his brother stupid? Does T physically pester, poke and annoy his brother? No. They have normal, adult verbal exchanges. I look on, mystified. When homework is done, everyone boogies upstairs to play Lego. Like Lego is what the world is missing to create world peace. They are up there, giggling and playing, and actually complimenting each other and admiring one another's workmanship. I can hear mine squabbling. S slips into his uniform without complaint and we all head off to dinner. The OTHER boys both agree on where to eat. Mine bicker. We go with majority rules, and grab burgers and fries. W is very responsible about taking care of some stitches (for a previous injury that I had nothing to do with, thank you!). He swallows medicine, gargles with nasty peroxide and complains NONE. The salty fries, however, irritate his injury, and I offer to stop and get some Advil. This is the response (Brace yourself, as these are words not normally appropriate for a child): "No, that's ok. I'll be fine. I don't want you to go out of your way or spend extra money on me." Just for that, we're stopping. At the tee ball park, the three non-participants play catch with one another nicely in the shadows. No bickering, no drama. They even come over and watch the final inning of S's game without mentioning how boring it is OR how S was the final out of the game. "Good job. Nice game, S." Did E offer S words of praise? Nope. Hell is still toasty. Everyone came home, and W and T went off to bed and shower without a single complaint, even though I know that I sent them to bed earlier and with night time baths which isn't how they do it at home. E and S accused each other of flooding the bathroom, using all the soap and going into one another's rooms without permission. To top it all off, I go up for lights out and W is all snuggled in reading his Bible. "Can I just finish this paragraph?" Of course. I don't need another reason to be struck by lightning in the middle of the night.

Fit the tab into the buckle and pull low and tight across your hips

I am just coming to terms with last Wednesday. And I had a whole long weekend to recover from it.

It started with the guy who came over to adapt my new grill from propane to natural gas. My awesome electrician's son had planned to come do it (and that's some good eye candy), but an unanticipated rewire of a house in midtown and the crap weather of last week made it impossible for him to come by. The electrician, though, didn't want to leave me in a lurch (imagine that, gardener!) and sent a colleague over.

The colleague, though really really nice, kinda hit me by surprise. First off, he was struck by a motorcycle when he was stranded on the side of the road, which left him half-paralyzed a year ago. So, he's still got a substantial hitch in his giddy-up. Two, he brought his chihuahua with him. I was concerned about his steadiness on my uneven driveway and patio. I would have felt terrible if the motorcycle accident had paralyzed him, but my lawn furniture had finished him off. Second, who brings a chihuahua with to hook up a grill?

Clearly, I had no business playing with natural gas (I really need my eyebrows) but I hadn't planned on supervising the whole modification procedure. Two hours gone.

Then, I head off to school for the 3rd, yes 3rd, Thanksgiving celebration of the week. Yes, Virginia, the Pilgrims ate Froot Loops and DID drink Capri Sun out of foil pouches during the first Thanksgiving. You got a problem with that?

THEN, I had to go to the girlie doctor for my annual TSA-style check up. Which, of course, provoked all the usual questions pertaining to my mortality. Especially: if 40 is the new 30, then why do I need a mammogram now? Do the girls not know they are ten years younger than they were a generation ago? Ugh. Although seeing all the mothers-to-be in the waiting room with their babydaddies always gives me a chuckle. There was this woman sitting with her mom-to-be folder cooing over every prenatal milestone with her man beside her: "AWWW. Look what the baby can do at 18 weeks. AWWWWWWWW at 22 weeks. AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW at 28 weeks."

Meanwhile, I'm playing on my iphone because sitting in the waiting room listening to mellow music and doing the online crossword puzzle is the first calm I've had all day. I'm thinking, "wait 'til you get a load of what they do during week 312, lady! I'll give you a hint: it involves permanent markers, hot wheels, and your new upholstery. Sucker."

I'm all proud of myself as the woman with the mature uterus until the nurse asks me to get up on the scale. What kind of sadism is this doctor practicing? And, why, oh why, on my health history questionnaire is there a box to tick off if I wear my seat belt? SEAT BELTS? This is how we assess my quality of life? Do I smoke? Do I drink? Do I wear a seat belt?! For real? How about the box where I check that I do all three. At once. Or if I eat vegetables occasionally. Or if I eat fried foods at every meal. Nope. Seat belts=how seriously you take your health.

After finally escaping with an ego feeling its age and my girlie parts excessively lubed up, I head for the boys' friends' houses. Very nice friends have picked up my kids from school and taken them home to play. Unfortunately, said friends live on opposite ends of the universe. I stop in at the grocery and head to midtown to Friend #1.

Friend #1 is the most optimistic, good natured soul. EVER. It's just really beyond belief how upbeat and positive she is. TOTALLY unlike me. I just sit back in awe, thinking she should be in a zoo or something. Where's the cynicism? The angry humor? The wry and insulting sarcasm?

I have groceries in my trunk, and I walk into her (immaculate) house and agree to chat. But, time gets away from me. I realize I've imposed for nearly an hour while Friend #2 has S at her house. ACK! I rush out and half-drive, half text Friend #2. (And the doctor thinks a seat belt is important. Hah!)

EXCEPT. I accidentally text Friend #1 the message intended for Friend #2. Fortunately, Friend #1 is (as mentioned earlier) perfect, so I had nothing nasty to say, but was a bit frazzled at the mix-up nonetheless.

Now, I'm driving in holiday traffic, panicked, and trying to retext Friends 1 and 2 to clarify the mistake.

Blessedly, Friend #2, KH is the most laid back mom ever. She has boys and babies and chaos and seems remarkably sober and well adjusted depsite it. She called and offered to keep S overnight. Which is AWESOME, since it would have taken several more hours in that traffic to get to her house anyway. She's laughing at my texting gaffe. Her LOL comes through as actual laughing.

Finally, I got home. E and M and I wolf down our belated dinner and chillax in front of the TV. I refuse to tell M of the texting debacle since he is anti-text anyway. Around 10, KH calls me. S wants to come home.

I get BACK in my car, which I have been in for a substantial part of the day, and head off to pick up S. Who has been keeping KH's household up for hours. I apologize, pick up my kid, and head home.

Finally. It's 10:30 and everyone's asleep. I thought of my new scripts (Hooray! Chemical sanity!) to console me and my girls for their medical trauma. I faded into sleep and dreamed of more awkward texting scenarios, wondering if perhaps wearing a seat belt is really my best option.

A brief anatomy lesson

By and large, I have taught my children facts. The true kind. I haven't sugar coated too much, or fibbed or fudged. I mostly explain their world in their vocabulary in the most straightforward way possible. Example: Boys have penises. Girls do not. However, everyone pees and poops.



Here in Mobile, more so than in other places, parents use nonsense and euphemisms to describe their children's worlds. Such that: Boys have wee wees, girls do not. However, everyone tee tees and potties.
I'm a big grammar aficionado, however it is difficult to determine just how letters and nouns became verbs and pronouns came to represent nouns to which they are unrelated. It's all very confusing.

But, since we live here, I have discouraged the kids from shouting penis. So, the word for genitalia in daily usage (and because we have boys, there is ALWAYS a daily usage) has become tenders. While I am no expert, it seems as though the name seems apt, as men's genitalia do seem pretty tender, and also, it's nicer than nuts or whatever.

So, "MOM! He hit me in the tenders!" or "MOM! I fell on my bike and hurt my tenders!" or "MOM! Don't look at my tenders!" (The last invariably as the speaker is standing on his head nude in the kitchen while I'm making dinner.)

Now, to move the story forward, the only thing that preschool boys are obsessed with more than their tenders is junk food. And since their birth, the boys have eaten nothing but macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and chicken nuggets. Thank you, by the way, to Ronald MacDonald who coined the vague term nugget for the equally vague ingredients of whatever goes in a chicken 'food product.' Now, all unidentifiable fried chicken bits are universally known as nuggets.

Except at this one restaurant. That called them chicken tenders. It said it right on the menu, "chicken tenders." And I made the mistake of failing to translate "tender" into "nugget" for S.

You see where this is going, right?

"So, do you want the hot dog, the macaroni, or the chicken tenders?"
*Snicker* *Snort* "Tenders. Heh heh."

"Chicken NUGGETS. Do you want the chicken nuggets?"

"Are chicken nuggets REALLY chickens' tenders?"

"No. They're part of the chickens' breast meat."
"BREAST?!? Heheh."
"No, dopey. Breast meat is muscle. Like this part on you." *poke*

"Have you ever seen a chicken's tenders?"
"No. Have YOU ever seen a chicken's NUGGETS? No. They're different words for the same piece of cut up chicken meat. Do you want the chicken nuggets or not?"

"Fine. Chicken nuggets."

"An excellent choice."

I am quiet for a moment, wondering if I should resuscitate this now defunct subject. I decide to just lob one out there for him:

"By the way. Only roosters have tenders."

Democracy: So Easy A Caveman Can Do It?

It's official. Civilization is over. Gone. Done with. We can now go grab our spears and loincloths and find a 2 bed/2 bath luxury cave with a view.
I try very hard not to blog about politics. I respect people's privacy when it comes to their personal and political beliefs. I would hope that others would respect mine.
I don't want this to be a forum for advertising my political beliefs, either. Right now, though, I want every one to SHUT UP. I can't tell if my issues with politics are regional or national or global. I don't know if the poor behavior of my fellow citizens is regional or national. I can't tell, because my view is limited. But, from my standpoint, civilization has crumbled.
We, as a nation, are just plain disrespectful. We couch our disdain for each other in superficial pleasantries, which we abandon readily. We shout at one another, we shout over one another so as to drown out the opposing voice. We dismiss opinion rather than considering it. We hear rather than listen.
This healthcare debate, which finally appears to represent the interest of a narrow majority of the population, has brought out the worst in so many people.
Some among us have decided to be vocal in our discontent by shouting falsehoods and calling one another names. Some have decided to demean the President by refraining from using his title. Some have decided to turn on each other and point fingers of blame. Citizens are hoarding weapons and ammunition for the impending apocalypse or in case of federal weapons laws. They're hoarding their money in case of social programs' failure. From here in Alabama, it appears the End Is Near.

What I see here looks like Neanderthals have taken over the political debate. We have nee-ner nee-ner, my brain cavity is bigger than yours bumper stickers. We have Oh yah? Take this woolly mammoth bone and shove it stickers. We have public temper tantrums and private temper tantrums. We have rumors started in the cave painting room. It's chaos.

While everything falls apart, and while my house is in tatters, I am going to daydream about my new cave. I'm guessing that since we are going to be a family of vegetarians. Not big hunters, us. I want a cave with a natural spring so we can have indoor plumbing. Our cave will be all granite (even the walls and ceilings). We will have a Clooney rug. We will have a steady fire and nicely knitted cat-shed-fur caps. My children will go to cavemangarten and learn the basic subjects of hunting, gathering, and cave maintenance. S can take his TBall bat, club a girl over the head with it and we'll have a feast to celebrate his new bride. E can choreograph our first rain dance. I'll knit and cook and wash everyone's fur wraps. M can go out of the cave each day and teach people to speak instead of grunt.
Cave life will be good. Our friends Betty and Barney can come over for a nice brontosaurus steak. As long as nobody talks politics.

What's Your Mantra?

I read an article yesterday outlining how to survive--even enjoy--your family road trip. I find survival probable, however, I am still skeptical of enjoyment. It seems to me, that when we were young, and we took many family road trips, that the only way to survive was to sleep. Nowadays, kids have the DVD player, and the handheld game players, and even (as the article suggested) iphones to load up with things to do, that I can't imagine that survival is that hard. After all, how many hours can a family drive in a day? Maybe 8 or 10? My kids could easily go zombie in front of an electronic babysitter for that long.
MT and I drove for only 4 hours last week each way. The way up was easy--DVD, stop at Chic Fil A to get the antsy pants out, and we were there. No problem. For whatever reason (mostly I think logistical) we didn't put out the DVD on the way home. I thought for sure that after S's restless night of kicking me in bed, and the late bedtime, and the early rising, combined with a full 4 hour walk around the zoo in the heat, that four kids would get into the backseat of the car and pass out.
Wrong.
Those kids talked, played games, fought, hassled, complained, wrestled stuffed animals, listened to music, and asked incessant questions the whole way home. At the last exit, S started getting really restless. I said "shit" as I was changing lanes to exit the highway for the last little stretch home, and S started repeating it. Like a mantra, "shit shit shit shit shit shit" until the other 3 joined him. By the time we pulled into the driveway, the kids had established a harmonious little round, and I thought MT was going to pee herself from laughter. I guess it takes only four hours of being constantly peppered with questions to go insane. Has anyone talked to Dick Cheney about this enhanced travel technique?

And I Thought I was Crazy...

I found this on one of my favorite sites, Awkwardfamilyphotos.com. I will read this everytime I start to go overboard for any occasion ever again. This is a mass email sent to Marney's family, prior to Thanksgiving:


From: Marney
As you all know a fabulous Thanksgiving Dinner does not make itself. I need to ask each of you to help by bringing something to complete the meal. I truly appreciate your offers to assist with the meal preparation.
Now, while I do have quite a sense of humor and joke around all the time, I COULD NOT BE MORE SERIOUS when I am providing you with your Thanksgiving instructions and orders. I am very particular, so please perform your task EXACTLY as I have requested and read your portion very carefully. If I ask you to bring your offering in a container that has a lid, bring your offering in a container WITH A LID, NOT ALUMINUM FOIL! If I ask you to bring a serving spoon for your dish, BRING A SERVING SPOON, NOT A SOUP SPOON! And please do not forget anything.
All food that is to be cooked should already be prepared, bring it hot and ready to serve, warm or room temp. These are your ONLY THREE options. Anything meant to be served cold should, of course, already be cold.
HJB—Dinner wine
The Mike Byron Family1. Turnips in a casserole with a lid and a serving spoon. Please do not fill the casserole all the way up to the top, it gets too messy. I know this may come as a bit of a surprise to you, but most of us hate turnips so don’t feel like you a have to feed an army.2. Two half gallons of ice cream, one must be VANILLA, I don’t care what the other one is. No store brands please. I did see an ad this morning for Hagan Daz Peppermint Bark Ice Cream, yum!! (no pressure here, though).3. Toppings for the ice cream.4. A case of bottled water, NOT gallons, any brand is ok.
The Bob Byron Family1. Green beans or asparagus (not both) in a casserole with a lid and a serving spoon. If you are making the green beans, please prepare FOUR pounds, if you are making asparagus please prepare FIVE pounds. It is up to you how you wish to prepare them, no soupy sauces, no cheese (you know how Mike is), a light sprinkling of toasted nuts, or pancetta, or some EVOO would be a nice way to jazz them up.2. A case of beer of your choice (I have Coors Light and Corona) or a bottle of clos du bois chardonnay (you will have to let me know which you will bring prior to 11/22).
The Lisa Byron Chesterford Family1. Lisa as a married woman you are now required to contribute at the adult level. You can bring an hors d’ouvres. A few helpful hints/suggestions. Keep it very light, and non-filling, NO COCKTAIL SAUCE, no beans of any kind. I think your best bet would be a platter of fresh veggies and dip. Not a huge platter mind you (i.e., not the plastic platter from the supermarket).
The Michelle Bobble Family1. Stuffing in a casserole with a serving spoon. Please make the stuffing sans meat.2. 2.5-3 qts. of mashed squash in a casserole with a lid and serving spoon3. Proscuitto pin wheel - please stick to the recipe, no need to bring a plate.4. A pie knife
The June Davis Family1. 15 LBS of mashed potatoes in a casserole with a serving spoon. Please do not use the over-size blue serving dish you used last year. Because you are making such a large batch you can do one of two things: put half the mash in a regulation size casserole with lid and put the other half in a plastic container and we can just replenish with that or use two regulation size casserole dishes with lids. Only one serving spoon is needed.2. A bottle of clos du bois chardonnay
The Amy Misto Family (why do I even bother she will never read this)1. A pumpkin pie in a pie dish (please use my silver palate recipe) no knife needed.2. An apple pie in a pie dish, you can use your own recipe, no knife needed.
Looking forward to the 28th!!
Marney

I Want My Kids' Life

My dad used to say that if there is reincarnation, he wants to come back to life as his kids. I never understood what he meant. I mean, we were sometimes in trouble, we had to clean our rooms, we had to eat broccoli and stroganoff (sometimes at the same meal!)--who would want THAT life?
Now, as a parent, I get it. And I want to be reincarnated as my kids. This week, I am introducing myself as Julie, the Cruise Director from the Love Boat. The most immediate similarity between me and Julie, the Cruise Director from the Love Boat, is that I am always ready to avail myself of the services of Isaac, the Bartender. But on a deeper level, I am coordinating my kids' week like they were paying for an all-inclusive cruise to Puerto Vallarta. Today, they went to summer camp and had swim lessons. Tomorrow, they are going to luncheon at a restaurant of their choosing and see the movie Up! and then have swim lessons. Tuesday afternoon, E's best friend will be coming to the house for a sleepover and swim lessons, and Wednesday, he'll stay here to play with my boys. Thursday, S's beloved girlfriends come over to play, and Friday more friends come over to play. I am the personal assistant and activity planner for the youngest socialites since Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen.
I bought s'mores ingredients and a tent for an at-home camp out. My kids don't even have time to be bored! On the one hand, it's easier to have them on the go with their friends than it is to sit inside at home with them. But, on the other, it takes a lot of energy to coordinate, schedule, and pay for every summer activity known to man.
But it's all good, because their daily signs of gratitude make every second worth while. Oh, no wait....

Cher, Elton John and Other Divas

I get it. Celine Dion, Cher and Beyonce are required to change outfits every time they reappear on stage during a performance. Poufy hair, straight hair, wig hair. Different mood, different image. It's Hollywood.
My question is, why does my E have to change clothes 14 times in the morning before school? I'm no fool: we lay out clothes every night. Right down to underwear and socks. And then this morning, he comes traipsing down the stairs in a bright blue stripe shirt with green and brown plaid shorts. What is this assault on my eyeballs? It's too early in the morning for him to be wearing clothes that make me dizzy. For SURE, that is not what I laid out with him last night.
He thought it was cool. But today is a school day. He doesn't need to look like a GQ model. He just needs to not look like an Escher painting. For chapel, I don't require he dress fancy. I require only a collared shirt. Shorts are even ok when you're five. But he can easily go the extra step and wear a polo-style shirt. (With or without pony on it)
First comes the Transformer Tee, on backwards. "I'll wear it backwards to chapel and then turn it around." I point my finger back to the bedroom.
Then a completely over the top black and white striped long sleeve polo shirt with a giant golden Ralph Lauren seal on it (not my purchase). With brown and green plaid skate shorts. Finger again.
Next down the runway we have a lovely Hanes white undershirt. Finger.
FINALLY, he makes his way down the stairs in a navy collared short sleeve shirt. No pony. No festoon. No freaking stripes. It looks good. You know why?
IT'S WHAT WE PICKED OUT TO WEAR LAST NIGHT!!!!!
By now, 12 minutes have elapsed, and we are frantically slamming on shoes, slicking down Alfalfa hairs, and slurping down cereal. The backpack I have prepared for him and left on the bottom step is missing. Ah, he took it upstairs. Why? Shoes untied, socks on crooked, teeth half-brushed, cereal bowl left on the table, frantic departure. Completely unnecessary.
Finally, he is off. I go into his room, and it looks like robbers have tossed his dresser.
I should get his autograph now before he forgets the little people.

Cruel and Unusual

Good morning. This morning, the next door neighbor's gardener actually beat S to the wake-up call. I'm up and at 'em.
Yesterday, I enjoyed the rare trifecta of experiences not sanctioned by the Geneva Convention. Worse than water boarding. We've already studied the sleep deprivation techniques practiced by children. This adds to their torture repertoire.
After breakfast and treadmill (which kicked my butt):
I mentioned my Himalayan laundry piles earlier this week. Monday, I really got on that and did it ALL. Yesterday, I carried up a heaping basket of clean laundry and was sorting it on my bed. S reaches across said laundry basket, tries to get a sippy of milk, and takes down 16 ounces of Coke Zero (my preferred after-work out hydration). On my bed. Ew. On the white carpet, natch. On the dust ruffle. And, in order to completely send me over the edge, a big heap of CLEAN laundry. I cried. S cried. Cruel.
Lunch:
I discovered a new pet peeve. I was at a self-serve cafe yesterday, (in itself a peeve) and I was refilling S's drink, when a woman came up behind me and started filling her cup with ice. WAIT YOUR TURN. The ice will be there, the cup will be there. Your food won't be exactly waiting for you by the time you sit down. "Excuse me," I say. "It's okay," says she. Grr.
Now, I should mention that we (S & I) went to aforementioned cafe early in the lunch rush. S would not cooperate while dressing, so he wore flannel fighter jet pajamas, backwards bulldozer pajama shirt stained with yesterday morning's water coloring fiasco, uh, project and Crocs. He looked awesome. Especially when he decided he HAD to pee, stood up, ran across the cafe barefooted into the men's room. I grabbed the shoes and followed, too late. The people waiting in the self-serve line stared (another reason not to like self-serve--lots of witnesses with nothing else to do but stare at the crime you're about to commit.) S comes trotting out of the bathroom, barefoot (ew) announcing his successful urination. I chastise him using my "public mom" voice of sternness without threat and we retreat to the table. Unusual.
Last, and not to be overly dramatic or anything, but impossible to overstate--A person on hold with a physician's office awaiting a refill on psychotropic medications should not, and I mean should NEVER be subject to Barry Manilow's Copa Cabana as hold music. Ever.
Cruel and Unusual.