Worst Mother Ever

A month of Christmas television specials have already come and gone since Thanksgiving, and my three kids have seen exactly ZERO of them. Well, Nora did see the Grinch on video one day because we own it, and all three of them saw part of Elf at their cousins' house on Thanksgiving. But that's it. By contrast, when I was a kid I flipped through that thick TV Guide like it was a dog-earred Bible. I had the whole week scheduled out. The toughest nights were those on which two equally AWESOME Christmas shows were airing at the same time. But today, in a tech-crazy world of streaming and on-demand programming, my kids could conceivably be watching Christmas shows all day, every day. But their ingorance is my bliss. I have checked the listings online often during the past month, checking for a show they could watch together. But whenever I softened enough to think I would let them stay up to watch something, I changed my mind well before 8 o'clock. Aidan doesn't even know about Jim Carey's character in Pet Detective, yet he mimics it beautifully every night between 6 and 8. All three of them are wild that time of night, and it's all I can do to get them up the stairs by 8 pm.

Save the Drama for your Mama

I don't have enough drama in my life. Clearly, it's just another day in the life when my daughter Nora mutters, "I hate my mother". I know she's the baby, but she doesn't get whatever she wants. Instead I see her at the end of a perpetual queue - always waiting to tell me something. I triage her with a finger to my lips and a nod to one of the older kids to continue with their monologue of the moment. Poor Nora, I think. But she is no shrinking violet. She mutters and retaliates, moans and complains. I don't really know what to do to fix it (I've tried a bunch of things). Of course, not all drama is bad drama. I'm fortunate to have children who can't go an hour without singing. In the car, I get to listen to the Willy Wonka soundtrack. Track numbers are shouted from the back seat and I scramble to find them. Around the house, everything is a dance number or a comedy sketch. Zany one-liners are regurgitated ad nausea. Lucky me!
Check out Rowan at her cousin's graduation party this summer.

Home Schooled

I have just experienced an epiphany bubble. If I had to do it all over again, I would (alright, maybe could is the better word here) have home schooled my children. My kids begin arriving home at 3:15 and this process wraps at around 3:55. They drag out snack until about 5 pm. Then we need to shake a leg because we're usually due at some sort of team activity by 5:30 which doesn't end until 7 pm or thereabouts. Then onto homework, flute/sax, math facts, yucks, dinner, crazy nonsense, and don't forget the micromanaging through every ridiculous detail of their lives. Here's me (and don't forget to come up for air because you are merely reading this, not saying it in one robotic monologue like I have to do), "hang your jacket on the hook, put your shoes away, hang up your backpack, put your lunchbox on the island, put the icepack in the freezer, get out your homework and show me what you have to do ...". Truth be told, they are fried. I can tell because they can't listen to one another without attacking, deflecting or crying (or all 3 at once!). But if I home schooled them, we could waltz around the grocery store comparing prices and ingredients. We could find FUN ways to master math facts and read about myths and legends. We could spell, and write letters to friends and congressmen. We could whip up something fun in the kitchen (and maybe even eat it). Now home schoolers, don't take offence. I am not built to home school. The stress of it would most certainly paralyze me. However, it is a little sad that there seems to be so little time left after the school is done with them, and yet there's still so much left to do.

Back to School

So the kids have been in school for just over a week and I'm not nearly approaching any sort of daily rhythm yet. Day two or three I grab a quick osmosis dose of Faith Middleton's Food Schmooze on the radio. I'm only half listening because I'm kind of sick of the perpetual orgasm Faith has while talking recipes. Then I hear her say, "It's back to school and were thinking sandwiches and homemade bread". Well that's just about all I can handle. Come on Faith? While I'm busy pushing a variety of store-bought breads - trying to spice them up with Nutella and Fluff - Faith is busy stoking her olde world oven, at least in a virtual way. So here's what I have to say: My kids have proven time and time again that they eat differently at school than at home. For the years they've been in school, they've snubbed apples, cheddar slices, organic yogurt, turkey breast sandwiches and homemade soup. So in an effort to avoid my starving child's inability to learn in class, I'll send just about anything if I know they'll actually eat it.

Rich Girl

My lovely visionary announced today that she was going to have her lawn mowed by other people and have her grass fertilized everyday. She said that she would color her toilet water blue and that she would be rich to pay for it all. Ready to pounce with a moral lesson about hard work, I asked -

"How will you do that?".

"What do you call those things that suck your blood?"

"Leaches?", I guessed. "Yes, I'm going to be a leach hunter. They get paid a thousand dollars a day."

Good to know...

Thank you Dirty Jobs.

Guns ~ for the kid in you

Is it wrong of me to use an image of my son toting a gun as the cover of his birthday thank you notes? But nothing better captures the revolutionary spirit of Aidan's sleepover birthday extravaganza than this photo of him sizing up his next target (in this case, me) using a Nerf weapon. Are you picturing a half dozen 8-9 year old boys infiltrating splinter factions in every pocket of my yard with varying degrees of Nerf artillery. And it seems like only yesterday that I bonded with other new moms at play groups over our tacit commitment to raising nonviolent males based on our loosely researched position to keep all manner of toy guns OUT of our homes. It was our responsibility after all. Violence was not something we were willing to condone. Since then, as most mothers of boys become quickly schooled, weaponry has spawned itself. Seemingly benign Legos and Lincoln Logs render themselves rifle butts or better still, nature lends a helping hand by improvising with limitless sticks. Wrap them up with some electrical tape, and you've got something high-end, specialized. After awhile, the battle to sequester young boys from their weapons of choice becomes pointless and you end up with photos like this one and mail them to friends. Voila!

Calling 911

While driving alone in the car the other day, my phone rang and I answered it. "Hello", I said. The unfamiliar voice identified herself with the state police and asked, "Are you alright, is everything alright? We received a 911 call from this number." Flabbergasted yet sure this wasn't a prank, I responded, "Gee, I don't know how that happened. I'm sorry. I'm fine, every one's fine." The call ended cordially and the caller was so nice that I didn't even feel guilty. But after I hung up, I looked at the display on the phone and read the words, emergency mode activated. So that was it. Who knew I even had an emergency mode on my phone, and God help me should I ever need to activate it. Oops! The next thing I did was laugh out loud as it occurred to me that I had butt-dialed 911. That's right, the phone was in my rear pocket while I was driving. I laughed harder when I thought that I had just birthed song lyrics. "I butt-dialed 911" could so readily echo the flippancy and begrudgingly likable melody of "I kissed a girl and I liked it".