Winning!

Isabella: "Okay. we are going to have a 'good parenting' contest. It's a contest to see who can be the best parent."
Mom: "Yeah, how would one win this contest?"
Isabella: "Well, the parent that makes the rules that the kids can't stand is not the winner."
Emily: "So, whoever is the winner, most likely it will be Mom, will be the best parent!"

Whoo Hoo! Go Mom!

Quote of the Day

Isabella: "Declan, remember the time Jager (our dog) stepped on your cubes?"
Declan: "DON'T TALK ABOUT MY PRIVATES!!!"

Quote of the Day

Declan came home from school with an adorable handmade card for Mothers' Day. He had glued Hershey's kisses inside and the card said something about there being kisses for me.

"Mom, the kisses the card talks about are the chocolate kind, not the other kind."

"You mean that's the only kind of kisses I get? I don't get the schmoochie kind?"

"No Mom. I'm just not that kind of guy right now."

Quote of the Day

Emily: "Mom, what do you like better? Us or our pictures?"
Mom: "Well sometimes that depends on the day"

About ten minutes later...

"Mom, what do you like better? Nobody or us?"

And that, ladies and gentleman, is how you use language carefully to extract a favorable outcome...

Quote of the Day

I walked into the living room and saw Emily doing a weird sort of wiggle with her arms in the air. It was odd enough that I was slightly worried that she was injured or seizing.

"Uh, Em. What are you doing?"

"Oh, hi Mom! I'm hoochie dancing."

Fantastic. Her father will be so pleased.

The Challenges of Underwear

Isa walked downstairs in a t shirt and underwear. That was not disturbing. What was disturbing was that she was wearing her sister's underwear. It wouldn't be a big deal, but Em is half her size. The underwear looked like a Dora the Explorer thong. Exacerbated by the fact that Isa had the underwear on backwards.

"Why are you wearing Emily's underwear?"
"Because she's wearing mine."

What?!?!? What the hell?

"Emily!!!"

She came bouncing downstairs and was, indeed, wearing Isa's underwear. It was sagging so much that she had to hold it up while she stood there. So I looked at my two girls. Girls I often tell people are brilliant. One having to hold her underwear up like a gangster - except that instead of jeans she's OG in pink polka dots. The other in britches so tight that she has a muffin top coming out at every seam. Every seam. Dora looks like some weird acid trip or Dali painting.

"Aren't either of you uncomfortable?!?!"

Cheerful "no" from both of my genius daughters.

"Okay then. When you get dressed for school tomorrow everybody wears her own underwear."

They agreed and bounded back upstairs. Sometimes you just gotta pick your battles.

Quote of the Day

"Declan, what's the matter buddy?"
"I have a headache."
"Yeah?"
"Yep. I had a little headache at school, then the bus really piled on..."
I remember riding the bus as a kid. I'll bet it did.

Quote of the Day

"Emily, in what three events would you like to compete in the track meet Sunday?"
"Oh! Long jump, track and field."

Quote of the Day

Emily: "Mom, you are going to have the best Mother's Day present ever!!"
Mom: "I have you guys - that's already the best present ever."
Emily: "Yes, but this is almost specialer than us!"

Quote of the Day

Em and Dec were practicing track and field. They were hurdling over couch cushions. Considering the many things that they could have chosen as hurdles, I thought this was a relatively safe option. Score one for Mom!

Emily didn't make it over a cushion and collapsed on the floor. She didn't even lift her head and stayed crumpled on the floor.

"Uuuggghhh. I'm going to stay here. Just use me as a hurdle."

My Son the Fugative

Okay. the first thing that is important for me to say is that I love my son. Dearly. Really, I do. So, when I say that today I want to sell him to a band of nomadic gypsies, I am kidding. Mostly.

The beginning. My house looks like crap right now. Really, really bad. Long days at work, an overambitious and now temporarily abandoned clothes sorting project and a couple of mostly done home improvement projects have conspired to destroy any credibility I ever had as a homemaker.

Declan's birthday was Monday. After school, The Husband took him to an arcade/glow in the dark mini golf/paintball/pizza joint/everything an eight year-old ever dreamed of place in the city. They stopped and picked up a birthday cake on the way home. I wanted The Husband to go get a cake at the natural food store, but he didn't. Declan ate way too much of it and had to stay home from school the next day due to intestinal distress.

I had to work, and because of our attendance policy HAD to go. The Husband HAD to cover an event. So, the little guy settled in front of the TV, dutifully recited the "at home alone rules" and watched some cartoons.

He had been alone for about 90 minutes when my phone at work rings. It's The Husband's friend. He's on our deck.With the town police officer.

We know the officer, too. In fact, he's Declan's wrestling coach. Geoff tells me that someone placed a 911 call from our number.

WHAT?!?!?!?

The call was a hang-up, but Will has to follow up to make sure everything is okay. Which I appreciate. Since I just talked to the kid about a half hour ago, I told them to hang tight on the deck and I'll call inside. No answer.

Damn it! Maybe he is unconscious! Maybe his stomach ruptured. Maybe he's laying on the floor wondering why his Mom didn't save him... I told them to go inside and look for him.

They found him. He was not unconscious, sick or dead. He was hiding. In the absolute furthest corner of the house. After my relief wore off, it hit me.

The furthest corner of the house. THEY WALKED THROUGH THE ENTIRE HOUSE. Oh, damn. They walked past the not finished home improvements, waded through two years of outgrown clothes that have now become strewn all over the upstairs, and navigated around the huge box that contains Emily's new desk - also graffitied by Declan with about two dozen drawings of the Pringles guy. Shit!!!!!!!

I called The Husband in terror that before I could home, DHS would be there removing my son from the care of his incapable mother. He patiently reminded me that Will has four kids of his own, and Geoff is currently remodeling his house so actually living in the basement. "They aren't judging."

Whatever. This obviously all happened because of the cake. That he bought. Damn it.

I was going over with Declan where he could have made some different choices that day, and I asked him what he learned.

"That 911 really works."  Indeed.

Forcefields Aren't Just for Superheroes

Declan: "Mom! Isa's can of soda shocked me! When I touched it it shocked me hard! It hurts."
Isabella (to herself in the background): "That's amazing! This soda has built-in brother repelllant! I'm gonna have to get this one again..."

Trauma

I have been able to live in denial up until now about my advancing age. I was able to conveniently blame almost everything on childbirth and motherhood. That blissful state ended today. I couldn't figure out what it was, but something in my nose was bothering me like hell. The air is still pretty dry in our house, so I figured it was one of those super-hard boogers and tried to blow it out all day. To no avail. In desperation, I stuck tweezers up my nostril, grabbed what I could and pulled.

The good news is that my nose doesn't bother me anymore. The bad news is that what came out wasn't a booger. It was a nose hair. Not so bad right?

Wrong!!

It was approximately an inch long. And GRAY!! What the effing hell??? Thoroughly traumatized, I plan to crawl right back into my shell of denial. It didn't happen. I don't have gray hair. I don't have stupid long old woman nose hair.

How awesome is it that boogers are the most acceptable option? Harumph. I must go shout at kids on my lawn now.

Self Regulation

Overheard after the three children were sent upstairs to clean their rooms, a very unpopular request.
Emily crying.
Isabella says in her best mature voice, "See? That's what you get! That's what happens when you are lazy and you won't do your part! You get kicked in the stomach! Now, Emily, get up and clean your room!"

Quote of the Day

Emily: "Mom, you know really tall kids that sit in the back of the bus? The teenagers? Well, they are super loud and they use words that are inappropriate for little kids like me. Because of those teenagers, I know words like 'suck' and 'fucking a'.
Isabella: "Emily!! You should not use words like that!"
Emily: "I didn't! I heard them from the teenagers! Well, mostly the teenagers and a little from Dad."
Way to go Dad.

My Body, My Self

Conversations this week with Emily about the body:

"I can't hold the drinks, Mom. I'm sleeping."
"Then don't sleep."
"I'm trying, but these eyelids have a mind of their own!"

"Mom! I almost barfed! I felt something come up into my throat. I'm pretty sure it was a kidney or something."

"No! I don't want to take a bath."
"You should. You're a little stinky."
"Nope. Smell my feet - they are sweet as a flower!"

Quote of the Day

The Husband is glued to the television watching the NCAA wrestling tournament. They show two matches at a time. Trying to not ignore the family completely, he asked Emily which one of the four currently on the screen she wanted to win.
"Hmm. I don't know. Which one has the best abs?"
Shit.

Quote of the Day

"Emily, how was Kindergarten today?"
"It was pretty bad."
"Why?"
"Jacob farted during music class."
"Gross. Nice boyfriend you got, there."
"Yeah, I'm kind of starting to hate him."
"Huh. He really is your boyfriend!"

Quote of the Day

Emily was trying to patiently explain to me how something I'd asked her to do was completely unreasonable. She finally sighed and started over.

"Mom. That will take five minutes! That's like four hours in Kindergarten time!"

Betrayal PPO

Emily was four and super excited to be going to Kindergarten. She had attended preschool, but saw Kindergarten as "real" school and perhaps for the first time in her life, eagerly climbed into the car ahead of her brother and sister to go visit Dr. Jones for the back to school check up. And she knew there would be shots.

After the pokes and prods and shots, she was given a clean bill of health and Dr. Jones signed her form.

"The only thing left is the new mandatory lead test. Just take this order down to the lab and they'll draw a bit of blood and you should be all set!"

Didn't seem as if it would be a huge deal. Neither of the other two had to get this done, but it seemed straightforward enough. So, we gathered our things and headed down the stairs to the lab.

We were only in the waiting room a couple of minutes when Emily was called back. I remember being encouraged by this. Stupid, stupid Mom.

When we got back to the very tiny little room that I'm certain was orginally designed as a closet, Em got very nervous. She couldn't help but to fixate on all of the tubes and needles and gauzes. I could see the dread building. This was bad. Very bad.

I tried to be bright and encouraging, but soon was told that Dr. Jones' office had sent down an order for Isabella instead of Em, so we would have to wait until they sent down a new order. Great. They obviously did not work with small children very often. Give the kid more time to stare at the collection of blood tools. That's going to work out awesome.

Long story short, by the time the needle atually hit her arm, Emily was a mess. She wailed so loudly that I'm sure I could have rented her out for Middle Eastern funerals. When ALL THREE tubes of blood were drawn and she was sporting her pink camo bandage, the unit secretary was right there with a huge box of stickers and suckers and stuff. Em was sniffling but sorting through it, taking the opportunity to gaffle herself quite the little collection.

The secretary was pleased with her impact on Emily's mood, and said to her "see, that wasn't so bad, huh?"

Emily looked up from the box with a mixture of anger, disbelief and disdain.

"What?? That hurt like HELL!"

She was permitted to select several more stickers...

Quote of the Day

Isabella: "Mom, Declan uses faaaar too much inappropriate language."
"Yeah?"
"Oh, yes. He learned it from Dad."

Quote of the Day

Isabella: "Mom, Declan may look harmless, but really he can inflict a great deal of pain."
"Really? I had no idea he was so dangerous. Did he hurt you?"
"No, but the other day, he nearly broke Emily's spleen."

Quote of the Day

"Declan, how was school?"
"The usual."
"Yeah? Anything interesting?"
"Well, in speech today Mrs. P asked me a question I didn't know."
"What was that?"
"Columbus discovered what? I didn't know what to say because Columbus didn't discover America."
"Well, you're right about that. What did you say, then?"
"I said 'I don't know - pie?'"
"You said 'Pie'?"
"Yep. I like pie."
"So do I, son."

Ode to Joy

Whew! The holidays are busy around here. I know they are busy for everyone but I feel as if we are stretched more than most.

The Husband is a high school wrestling coach. Because he is a hard ass, they practice over winter break. A lot. In fact, he sees himself as extremely benevolent that they get Christmas day off. I work at a fancyish food store. Add that in with school programs and errands and all the other crap, and we don't have time to come up for air until the holiday is literally here.

When the kids were toddlers, this meant jamming them all into a car, shuttling back and forth between grandparents, trying to be "fair" about the time spent each place, jamming all the new, loud and plastic toys in between the kids and driving back again just in time to go back to work. I'm not going to lie. It sucked. I love my family, and it's nice to see them, but damn.

Why am I speaking of these horrible holidays in the past tense? We don't do them anymore. That's right! We seceded from family holidays. And, it's awesome.

Most people react with shock and awe, as if I just told them I put myself through college knocking off convenience stores or something. It was no big deal; very much a bloodless coup. We just stopped going.

The Husband and I were sitting up very late one night, staring at the mound of new toys and contemplating how the next few days would go since the kids had just taken a two-hour nap in the car when they should have been going to bed. I know it's stating the obvious considering the circumstances, but we were several beers in. We were fantasizing about how great it would be to not have to go through all of the rigamaroll and just have a family holiday.

"Why the fuck can't we? We're adults. If we don't want to go, we don't have to."
"You know, you're right! What's the worst that could happen? Everyone would be pissed and our holiday would suck?"
"Hahahahahahahahahahaha!"

We decided the reward outweighed the risk, and mutally agreed to try it the next year. When the holidays rolled around, we told our parents that we were too stretched to make the trip, and asked to make arrangements to get together sometime the next week. Mine graciously agreed. His freaked.

Sweatpant holidays were born.

Thanksgiving at our house starts with everybody sleeping in. Whenever I wake up, I start to cook. I also start to drink wine. We eat throughout the day, watch football and play games as a family. We go for a walk if it's nice and eat more if it isn't. Everyone plans the menu together, and everyone helps cook. This year we ate it picnic-style on a blanket in the middle of the living room. If you think that sounds amazing, it is.

We see my family when there's more time and we can really enjoy it, and we have started our own traditions, too.

Sweatpant holidays is one of the best decisions The Husband and I have made as a couple. It's a great lesson that sometimes you just have to say "Why the fuck not?" and do it. Especially if there's wine.

Quote of the Day

Isabella: "Mom! You know that new science book I got for Christmas?!? Did you know that in it there is a picture of slugs mating?!?"
"No. I was unaware of that."
"It's awesome! Slugs don't have privates, so do you know how the female gets to the sperm?"
"No I don't, and frankly that's just fine with me."
"Well, she pushes her organs to the outside! That way the sperm gets to where it needs to go! Isn't that great?!?"
I've always been happy I'm not a slug, but now more than ever.

Anticipation Parenting

So, I received a call at work from the oldest today. This is quite unusual, and I immediately assumed that someone was dead or on fire. Perhaps both.

"Mom! Emily has been crying for an hour!"
Still alive. Excellent news.
"Why? Did someone hit her?"
"No. You know that new brush? The circle one where the bristles go all the way around?"
"Yes."
"Well. Emily decided she wanted to use it because the thought it was awesome and it is stuck in her hair."
"Is it still in her hair?"
"Yes. I really need her to be quiet."
"Well, Isabella, there isn't a lot I can do about this from work. Can you try to get it out for her?"
She brightened up immediately.
"Oh sure, Mom! I'll go do that now."
"Isa. DO NOT cut your sister's hair."
"Oh. *long pause* Well, okay. I'll just try to ignore her, then."

Any bets on if she already had the scissors when she called me?

Reason Number Infinity Plus 3 Why My Parents Think I'm Going to Hell

After several references to the Almighty Father and an extended prayer before the meal, Isabella says to her grandfather, "If you like God so much, why don't you make a cardboard cut out of him and you can just eat with him?"

Looking for the sunscreen...

Rural Weaves

So, full disclosure: I didn't write this. The Husband did. He wrote it after Isabella's dance recital last spring. I ran across it this afternoon, and it made me laugh. So, I'm going to share it with you and hope it makes you laugh, too. He didn't make any of it up, by the way. 


Dictionary.com defines a weave as a process in which a hairpiece is interwoven with real hair to conceal alopecia or increase the thickness or length of the hairstyle. Why am I sitting here thinking about weaves? We’ll get to that.

As many of you are aware, I went to an "urban" high school. Thusly, I am familiar with the concept of a weave. Generally, it was part of an insult hurled from one girl to another.

For instance, “Don’t shake your head at me! Your sorry weave’ll fall out!” Or, “Don’t come with that fake attitude that goes with your fake hair!”

These, of course, are approximations as said insults usually came with very demonstrative body language and peppered with some, um, colorful word choices. This rendered them more specific and a whole lot funnier.

So why am I sitting in rural America pondering weaves? Because I just witnessed more flying fake hair than when a classmate of mine didn’t keep both of his girlfriends far enough apart. It made me nervous then, maybe because one of the girlfriends turned on Ronny armed with a stapler and an extremely bad attitude. Unfortunately my advanced age hasn’t provided me any sort of understanding regarding the concept.

Saturday evening, I dutifully attended my daughter’s dance recital.  No, that’s not exactly right. That makes it sound easy. Saturday I cleared everyone out of my wife’s way for hours as she helped Isabella with her hair, makeup and costume. This included providing encouragement, running errands, complementing her progress and most importantly, flawlessly reading her mind to anticipate each of these needs.

Then, I met my in-laws, kept my two younger children quiet and well-behaved during all 36 dance numbers and purchased a rose for Isabella after the event.

The dancing wasn’t entirely painful. Some of the groups were really quite good, and many of the music selections were enjoyable. With the exception of one adult male, who apparently had daughters in almost every number, only teenagers screamed out names during the dances.

There was also a significant decrease compared to last year in the obnoxious posturing and videotaping. For some reason, there seemed to be a drastic uptick in the use of weaves.

I do understand that here in rural America there might not be the level of experience on the subject that was available to the girls in my neck of the woods, so I would like to offer a bit of advice on the matter. Consider it to be my little urban contribution to my new home.

First of all, it really works best if you try to match the color of the weave to the color of your daughter’s actual hair. Sometimes the girls I knew would weave in different colors, but to pull this off you have to go all in. In 1989, it was fashionable to braid in your school colors or match your neon leg warmers. But, putting a platinum blonde weave on a sort-of blonde child just makes it look as if you got tired of shopping.

Second, you should carefully select the style. Unfortunately, stick-your-finger-in-a-light-socket curly appears to rank very high on the popularity scale here. There are other options. Ones that don’t look like Wil E. Coyote after he accidentally detonated a trap for the Roadrunner. You might consider a bit more variety.  A bunch of little girls with fake hair is mildly disturbing, but a bunch of little girls with identical fake hair is a bit too Stepford Wives for many of us.

Lastly, we really need to discuss the importance of the weave actually staying on the head. I witnessed some fights in high school where even a well-applied, vicious yank wasn’t enough to budge a weave. Admittedly, I’m not sure of the methods they used to secure their hair, but I would think that with a bit of ingenuity and some pins you could come up with something that would make it through more than one tumbling pass.

By the end of a number, one mat looked as if it were full of sad, lost woodland creatures with little balls of curls dotting the area. And, back to the hair matching point, I’m not sure how the girls sorted out which little tuft was whose.

I hope these tips were useful. I’m still not convinced that weaves are a necessary part of the dance recital experience. My daughter looked just beautiful and all my wife needed was a one-inch curling iron and some Aussie freeze spray. Of course, I’ve seen pictures of her in high school and she definitely came to the table with some big hair experience on her resume.

All things considered, the day could have been much worse. My daughter did great and was very proud of her performance, my wife made it through with only limited amounts of sedatives, and I ended up being entertained.

Aside from the joy it brought my daughter, the cost of the monthly lessons, the costume (which, by the way, cost more than a whole month of lessons), and all of the little extras such as the make up and curling iron were all worth it to see a $40 weave fall off of a four-year old and her horrified mother look on as the girl tossed it up in the air repeatedly instead of participating in the dance. Priceless. And a sure-fire guarantee that I’m going to buy a video.

By the way, my new favorite hairspray is Aussie because of their instructions for use on the bottle. “It’s hairspray. You put it on your hair.”

Simple

Completely out of the blue, Isabella rolls up on me while I was cooking dinner.

"Mom, did you know that boys and girls have different types of humors?"
"Really?"
"It's true. Girls' humor is complicated and based mostly on memories. Boys... well boys have something called simple humor."
"You're absolutley right, dear. Do you know what else? They never grow out of that."
"I know. Sad."

Seal of Approval

The girls both take dance lessons. I don't know how their teacher does it. Emily's class has 14 girls all about age 6. And she manages to get them all doing the same thing in front of a big mirror with noisy shoes on. That, for those of you who are not familiar with small girls, is nothing short of a miracle. I suspect she is either blessed with an inordinate amount of goodwill and kindness, or she does a healthy amount of drugs. Either way, she does a great job.

This week is the dance class Christmas party. I procured a gift for Ms. Jamie, one for Taylor (the high school girl who helps her), a snack and a grab bag gift. The gift I chose was an assortment of very loud nail polishes and nail stickers - mostly sparkles. Emily called me with some concerns.

"Mom. Why is there wine in the stuff to go to my party?"
"That's Ms. Jamie's present."
"You bought her ALCOHOL!??!"
"Yes"
"Do you think she will drink that?"
"I do. And if she doesn't, she should."
"Well, that's between you and her. By the way, I looked at the gift I'm taking. You know, the nail polish and the stickers and they are acceptable."

Glad to hear it, your majesty.

Golden Years

Emily informed me (she does very little talking, asking or discussing - she mostly informs) that when she's an adult, I'll be old. I asked her if she would take care of me when I get old.

"Oh sure! I'll bring you zucchini every day!"


Awesome.

To the Moon

It was a momentous day in parenting. For the first time, a child of mine showed up at home with a referral from school. Apparently my son punched a kid on the bus. I told him I was proud of him and took him out to dinner.

Now, before you call the cops or something, let's back this train up for a second. I am probably the most peace-loving hippie you know. I don't own Birkenstocks, but other than that, I'm there. I believe in diplomacy instead of war, I think we overspend on the military and underspend on education, I compost and recycle, I have a garden, I shop farmer's markets and use CFL light bulbs. My kids always say please and thank you, they are hyper-polite to servers and they do not smash bugs. So why am I totally okay with Declan smashing a kid's face in on the bus? Because the little fucker deserved it.

Everybody seems to be concerned with the rash of bullying going on these days, and they should. It's horrible. But you know what? It was horrible when I was in school, too. I'm not going to go all "back in my day when I walked to school eleventeen miles every day uphill in the snow sharing shoes with my brother" crap on you, but the fact is that people have always been horrible to each other. Do you know why it didn't get as far when I was in high school? Because if you were a jerk for too long, someone would eventually kick your ass and that would make you less of a jerk. If it didn't guess what? Yep. Ass kicked again.that process was repeated until the system worked.

The kid that Declan punched is most certainly a jerk. He is constantly mocking other kids and pushing them around. He demanded a candy cane from Declan, and when he didn't hand it over, the kid shoved him off the seat onto the floor. Declan came up, grabbed the back of the kid's sweatshirt and started throwing hooks to the face. The kid had a bloody lip and I'm guessing a whole new attitude about my son. I tell my children that they are never, under any circumstances, allowed to initiate a fight or to be mean for any reason. But, they are allowed to defend themselves and each other.

So, this peacenik treated her son to Chinese for beating a kid up on the bus. You know what? I bet he never has a problem with that kid again. Referral? Worth it. And they still are not allowed to smash bugs. A Mom's gotta have her standards.

Advanced Spelling

Somewhere in the middle of her monologue about the day at school, Emily proudly informed me that she learned how to spell a new word.
"Oh yeah? What word is that?"
"m-y-t-f"
"Huh. What word does that spell?"
"My tooth. I thought you could spell, Mom."

Quote of the Day

Isabella (shouting): Declan are you in the shower again?? Isn't it your second one today??
Declan (poking his head out from behind the shower curtain and also shouting): I take my hygiene very seriously.

Pestilence

I'm sick. It sucks. Hence, my writing today will probably be terse, tangential and a bit angry. Continue at your own risk.

My kids got me sick. All three were ill earlier this week. While it is never fun to have three sick kids, I did find it to be an interesting study in gender psychology. The girls were slowed down a bit - not as loud, not as mobile and a little whinier. The boy, on the other hand appeared on death's very door. He attached himself to me whenever I wasn't moving with the subtlety of a Nerf sucker dart. He insisted on thoroughly discussing each of his symptoms to be sure that none were the early stages of a horrible demise, and insisted on medication. Immediately.

When The Husband delivered him the bottle, he studied it carefully, asked what he weighed, and confirmed his dose with me. Two teaspoons every four hours. He, like magic, appeared in the kitchen every four hours after that for two days. On the nose. Without fail. The girls declined the medicine. Apparently grape-flavored medicine is "nasty" and not worth the promised relief.

Before I was struck with the pestilence myself, I was sharing with a coworker and she laughed. "Well, what did you expect? He's a boy. And they don't grow out of that crap - it just gets worse. How's your husband feeling?"

Great. I'd better go take some medicine or something. I'm going to need to get better fast.

Quote of the Day

Declan to Emily: "Your tiny little attention span makes my life very difficult!"

A Cootie Problem

So, Isabella rolls up on The Husband the other day and asks a very odd question.

"Dad, when you were little, was there ever someone who loved you and you couldn't stand them?"
"I don't know, why?"
"Well, there's this boy Jessie at school who is in love with me."
"You don't like him?"
"NO! He is telling everyone that he wants me to be his girlfriend!" Insert exasperated eye roll here.
"Why don't you like him?"
"Well, he has a bit of a cootie problem."
"A cootie problem? What's that?"
"He has been in love with every single girl in the entire school! That's definitely a cootie problem!"

Ryan

Ryan died on Monday.

I had held out hope that the doctors had underestimated his stubborn nature and he would wake up any day to demand beer and wings. They hadn't and he didn't. So, yesterday I dressed up the kids, stocked my purse with tissues, tied a tie on The Husband and set off for the funeral.

I knew it would be unspeakably sad. Ryan was only 31 years old, and a death that young is always extra hard. What surprised and delighted me was how much laughter and joy Ryan's family managed to include. Since he wasn't religious, the service was a series of eulogies separated by songs he loved. Pink Floyd, The Beatles and Nirvana. What made me truly grateful was that the speakers, his sister, best friend and mother, spoke lovingly and frankly about Ryan. His sister spoke about the horror of not being able to date in high school because he didn't approve of anyone. His best friend talked about skipping school and unfortunate drug use. His mom, and much of the family, wore Chicago Bears gear because he had asked them to.

I had never met most of the people at the funeral yesterday. While almost all of us wept through the entire service and little after-lunch, there was also a collective joy I'd never felt at a funeral before. Everyone loved Ryan for all the same reasons. He was funny, kind, loyal, sharp as a tack and one of the finest people I'd ever met. Yesterday we all shared the pain of losing that from our lives, but we also shared the privilege of our lives having been touched by Ryan in the first place. The funeral was very sad, but it wasn't only sad.

I think Ryan would have been very pleased. Go Bears.

sad

One of my friends is going to die this week. I don't know that for sure I guess, but that what his doctors say and I'm pretty certain they don't say that unless they are confident in that fact. It's not fair. Ryan is only 30. He wasn't in an accident or anything tragic, he's just sick and is going to die.

I've never had a friend die before. I'm not sure what to do. People in my life have died, but they've either been old or not very close. Ryan isn't either. I should have made more time to see him, invited him over more, all that stuff. But damn it, he's fucking 30. He's not supposed to die on us. He's supposed to be here for Thanskgiving and the zoo in the spring and to watch baseball next summer. He's not supposed to die.

I'm going to go see him in the hospital on Thursday. I don't want to, and I hate myself for that. I want to say goodbye, and I want to hug him and tell him I love him. But, I am going to cry. A lot. I'm going to be hopelessly sad and I don't want his last week to be sad. I want him to come over for wings and scones and beer and sit on our couch and watch baseball and talk about nothing for hours and just be a part of our weird little family for a day. But, he can't. I'm going to go see him in a sterile, horrible hospital that smells like death. He's probably going to be hooked up to tubes and shit and it's not going to be normal, there will be no baseball and there will definately be no beer. And, I'm afraid I'm not going to know what to say.

I'm angry. I'm distraught. I'm guilty. But most of all, I want him back. He's a beautiful soul and it's not fair that he's leaving.

I love you Ryan. I'll see you Thursday.

The Aspiring Princess

Emily was not pleased. I had the nerve to ask her to clean her room. Gasp! She put her hands on her hips and very patiently tried to explain to me where I had gone so horribly wrong.

"Mom.

I am a princess.

And princesses don't clean their rooms.

Princesses order someone else to do it.

So, I think YOU should do it!"

In the interest of not incriminating myself I will not give all the details of what happened next, but Her Majesty went and cleaned her room after some introspection and an attitude ajustment.

Picking your Battles

I yelled at my son yesterday. I really try to avoid doing that, but sometimes I snap.

A few days ago, I made homemade chicken noodle soup. It was amazing. But, the best thing about making a big vat of soup is that for the next few days we get to have leftover soup. For the woeful beings who eat their soup out of a can, I'll let you in on a secret. Leftover soup is vastly superior to fresh soup.

So all of us were dishing and heating bowls of deliciousness, and I went to get a spoon. I opened the drawer and saw that Declan had spilled about half a cup of soup inside the drawer, picked up a clean spoon and went about his evening. Are you fucking kidding me? I lost it. He did not respond well.

Though Declan did scrub the drawer, he also launched into one of his epic fits. And I mean epic. This son of mine is known for his commitment to his own anger. His first preschool teacher only taught one year. I don't believe it had anything to do with having to carry him, kicking and screaming, back to school from an unfortunate attempt at a field trip to the public library. At any rate, because I dared demand he clean up after himself, Declan bunkered in at the top of the stairs and would use toys as projectiles to anyone who dare approach. Great.

I sent The Husband up to try and talk him down from the ledge. Literally.

Declan gave up his position and fled to his bedroom behind the safety of his door. The Husband called through the door and offered to go in and talk through it. This was completely unacceptable to Declan, and he told The Husband "Don't you come in here! I have a wrench and I'm ready to GO!"

The Husband quickly weighed the risk. Though he thought it was probable that Declan did not, in fact, have a wrench and an even slimmer chance that he would actually use it, he knew that the boy does have an impressive and very accurate throwing arm and decided it would be best to give him some space.

Before long, Declan came downstairs on his own brandishing only a sheepish apology. We discussed the appropriate and inappropriate uses of hand tools, and everyone enjoyed some soup.

Stalking for Dummies

One evening, Emily was gushing about her "boyfriend". I always protest this; I just don't like my five-year old talking about boys yet. I know it will happen eventually and that she will, despite her father's best efforts, someday date. But, I really feel as if I should have been able to enjoy the delusion of the contrary a bit longer.

At any rate, she was quite a way into her diatribe when she dropped the boy's name. It was a different name than I was used to hearing. Awesome. I made a mental note to start going through her bag to remove the covert belly shirts and hoochie pants when she turns 13.

"Really? I thought your boyfriend was Tyler. How's he going to feel about Parker being your new boyfriend?"
"Mom. Parker isn't new. They can both be my boyfriend."
"Yeah, that usually doesn't work out so well, Emily. Boys don't like to share girlfriends."

This caused her pause. She had never considered that this wouldn't be a plan eagerly embraced by all.

She thrust out a hip, planted her hands on her waist and made her decision.
"Hm. Well, I guess they're just going to have to have a fight then."

Hopefully in ten years remote tracking devices that can be embedded at the base of a skull will become more reasonably priced.

Quote of the Day

Emily, how was Kindergarten today?
"Well it was great we had free play today but we could only play with certain toys so that doesn't make it free play it makes it table time and I played at recess with Amy and Madison and we were kittens like we always are at recess but usually it is me and Madison and Bailey but today Bailey didn't want to be a kitten so we substituted Amy and she did okay and everybody was really good today and nobody's worm even moved off the green apple to the yellow one not even Anna because her worm moves every day but not today because we were all so good and we got a new alpha friend today and you'll never guess what letter it was Mom it was N and he's not an animal at all he's a NOODLE and his name is Nyle isn't that the silliest thing you've ever heard A NOODLE alpha friend and we learned a new song about him and this is how it goes..."
And she started singing.
I don't remember the song, sorry.
Longest Quote of the Day ever.

My Gifted Child

So, my oldest was placed in Talented and Gifted Reading. I was not as excited as you may think. First off, the former teacher in me does not like pull out classes at all. I don't like the idea of her leaving her regular class. From an instructional point of view, an integrated classroom just benefits everyone - especially the kids that are having trouble.

Anyway, we got the letter and she was in. I knew we were in trouble when we read the little introductory note from the teacher. Most of it was about how organized the class would be and the penalties for the students if they do not display the appropriate levels of organization and structure. Organization and structure? My kid is doomed. Since Isabella is exactly like her father, I knew it would be only a matter of time before the meetings would be called. It took less than a week.

Isabella does not have that internal voice that tells her to comply. She views instructions from adults as suggestions and pretty much sees school as a cafeteria plan. While I think this critical assessment of everything will serve her well later, it does cause problems when one is in the third grade.

Well, Isabella brought to class only the supplies with which she was interested in working, and completed only the assignments she felt were valuable or interesting. Which was none. On day four of TAG, The Husband got an email from the teacher that suggested Isabella did not belong in the class. Which is not the way to build a strong working relationship with parents. "Hi! I've never met you before, but your kid isn't smart enough to be in my very important class." Yeah, someone should not be teaching TAG. Or at least should try to avoid grammar and spelling errors and limit herself to only one punctuation mark at the end of each sentence.

Anyway, we scheduled the meeting with the principal, regular teacher and the genius TAG teacher. We also lectured Isabella and instructed her to do her work, even if it was stupid or boring.

Two days later, I was driving Isabella to dance. I asked how TAG went that day.

"Oh... yeah... Mom. I don't remember."
"Isabella. It was today."
"Oh! TAG! Yeah it was great!"
"Really? What did you do in class today?"
"We took our test over The Dollhouse Murders."
"Yeah? How did you do?"
"Great!"
"So you did finish reading the book, then?"
"Hmmm. Well, sadly Mom, I did not actually finish the book."
"If you didn't finish the book, how did you do great on the test?"
"Well, it only had three questions on it! Isn't that awesome?!?"
"Isabella. In my entire life I have never seen a test with three questions on it."
"Hm. Well, Mom, I guess you should have been in TAG today, huh?"

Yep. I guess I should have been.

Earning Great Kids

I was emailing with the principal of my kids' school last week (who is totally great and I think should make $100,000 a year) (seriously) and he closed one of his messages with "you are blessed to have such great kids". First of all, we absolutely are. They are beautiful, athletic and have a very high capacity for intelligence. No bias.

But, we have also worked our asses off to have great kids. Starting from day one. One week after I went back to teaching, The Husband quit his job to stay home with our daughter. We decided that we were going to raise her, not a daycare. There are some amazing day cares out there for sure, but our decision was not to go that route. As a result we were poor. Really fucking poor. Go without power for a week until you can pay the bill and eat spaghetti for a month straight poor. The Husband starting driving a cab and we would eat based on how much money he made in tips. If he made $3 in a night (and sometimes he did you cheap fuckers) then we had spaghetti with the ghetto canned sauce.

The point is not to feel sorry for us, just to illustrate that we made huge sacrifices to spend time with our kids. We did not have cable and spent a lot of time watching Street Smarts and NYPD Blue reruns. We did not have a cell phone. Either of us. We shared one crappy car. I did not go to the salon. All of our clothes came from Goodwill. We did not eat out and did nothing recreational that cost a penny. We even had *gasp* DIAL UP INTERNET!

Do you know what we did do? We read to our kids. We went to state parks and walked trails. We visited family - partly for the free food. We hung out, played games and talked to our kids. Actually talked to them. Got to know them. Watched them grow. One of us was there for every single milestone.

And you know what? None of them remember eating ghetto spaghetti. They don't remember not having cable and they didn't know it was weird that our family only had one car and basically no technology. They do remember us. They remember our experiences and they still like hanging out all together.

We are a tight family. We hang out. Things are better financially, and we do have cable and fast internet and a couple cars. But we still have each other. We still go camping for vacation. We still go hiking and we still read. Now my kids are recommending books to me. And we talk. A lot. The reason I have so many great stories about my kids and my friends pestered my into this blog is because I actually hang out with my offspring. I like them. I enjoy spending time with them. I don't shove them off on my parents every weekend so I can go get drunk with my friends. I would rather read Wimpy Kid books or watch iCarly.

Do you know what else? All of my kids are the very best in their class at reading. They get great grades, and all love school. And, this may be a bit of wishful thinking, but I think I'm going to have great teenagers, too. I'm sure they will make bad decisions sometimes, but because I've been interested in them their entire lives I think they'll do okay.

We do have great kids. But, we didn't get them by magic. It has been hard fucking work. But, I think the payoff will be some excellent people with whom I will enjoy sharing my life. Who knows what life will bring. Maybe someday the Husband and I will be eating ghetto spaghetti again. But, I know that if that happens I'll have a table full of people that I love. Nothing else matters.

Quote of the Day

Declan: "You know, Dad, I don't think I'm going to get a wife when I grow up."
Dad: "Well, that's up to you. Why not, though?"
Declan: "Well, I don't think I want someone telling me what to do all the time and stuff."
Dad: "Yeah, well there is that."

Quote of the Day

My kids and I were discussing Katy Perry being disqualified from Sesame Street for wearing a slutty outfit. I don't actually use the word "slutty" with my kids. I don't need those calls from school. We say "hoochie". It's more fun to say, anyway.

So my oldest two were outraged that Ms. Perry would hoochie out on Sesame Street.

"That's just stupid." "Doesn't she know that little kids watch Sesame Street?!?!" "If little kids see her dressed that way, they might grow up and think that it's okay to be a hoochie!"

My youngest had just been taking it all in, but here she interjected "Hoochies are for grown ups!  Especially if they are drinking beer."

Indeed they are, my dear. Indeed they are.

Quote of the Day

"Mom! I need and ice pack!"
"Why"
The youngest pulls down her shirt to reveal large red streaks on her upper torso.
Voice of oldest sister from upstairs... "Because Declan was using her for a sled"
Down the stairs.
Awesome.

How I Met Your Father

Everyone always asks The Husband and I how we met, presumably expecting a story full of magic and rainbows. That's not how it happened. There was no glitter, no fuzzy bunnies. In fact, I wasn't even interested in him at first. So, that crap about how "you just know" the moment you meet someone and there is singing and bright lights and frolicking unicorns is crap. Unless you're high. Which I wasn't.

Anyway, I wrote this as a guest columnist for an editor friend of mine on an exceptionally slow news day.

Pay attention in school, kids. I know that message is bombarded at our youth from all directions. Everyone says it – celebrities in slick pseudo-cool ads, teachers, parents, loveable animated characters. The reasons everyone gives are as varied as the groups from which they come. You’ll get a better job, you’ll get into a better college, and you’ll stay out of trouble. But, the simple fact is that you just never know when what seems like a useless bit of information may someday come in very handy. Allow me to illustrate.
I met my husband in a bar. That’s not generally what we tell people, so if you could keep that little tidbit close to your jacket, I’d appreciate it. Usually we say that we met in a book store. Before the black hole of free time that is our children, we both read quite a bit so it’s plausible. And, our families feel a little better believing that we frequented Borders more often than bars. Whatever. We were in our 20s. Good for us for reading something without pictures ever.
So anyway, I’d gone to a horrible meat market bar with a group of girls I didn’t know very well. I was 26, and most of my group was 21 or 22. I was also the only one sporting an entire shirt. I had grown out of midriff cutouts and being recently free from an absolute train wreck of a marriage had zero interest in meeting guys. On the other side of this story is Future Husband. He had agreed to accompany a motley crew of wrestlers that he’d coached as one of them was turning 21 that night. His basic job was to make sure that nobody got arrested. If you think that last line was an exaggeration for literary effect, then you should go drinking with some wrestlers sometime, but only if you have plenty of medical insurance and know someone who can afford bail. The birthday boy chose the same bar my scantily-clad friends did, and the stage was set.
Showing the forethought of seasoned hunters, the wrestlers had arrived early and selected a long table with plenty of extra seats. Before long, the half-shirts lured the birthday boy over and he invited our table to join their table. With little squeals, the girls bounced up and followed his musclely lead. I was not as enthused. I was still wearing my coat and already had my cell phone out of my purse, to make sure I wouldn’t miss one of the many people I’d called to make alternate plans. By the time I’d finished my eye rolling and gathering of my things, the only seat at the table left was next to Future Husband.
At the time, Future Husband was sporting platinum blonde hair and an impressive amount of jewelry. I’ll pause for those of you who know him to let that image really set in… Given his appearance and the rowdy company he kept, it’s safe to say he was starting out a bit in the hole. After a few minutes of concentrating heavily on my drink, I mean book, and ignoring him completely, Future Husband leaned over and said “My friends are going to think I’m a total tool if I don’t at least try to talk to you.” I turned my head, narrowed my eyes and replied “What exactly had you planned on talking about?” He stopped drinking and spent the next hour asking me about myself, my hometown and anything else he could think of. All were met with terse, one-line answers.
He had extracted earlier that I was taking a grammar class in Lincoln at the University of Nebraska. He asked what we had discussed that day. I remember being very pleased at the question. The class was a 400-level grammar class that was very difficult. I had decided almost immediately that a rowdy, bleach-blonde wrestler would have the approximate intelligence of a garden vegetable, so this was my chance to embarrass him away. There was no way he could hang with me on this.
“Gerunds. We spent the entire four hours today talking about gerunds.” Ha! Game, set, match!
What I had not counted on was Dr. Jergen Shaver. He was apparently a battle-axe of an honors English teacher that had subjected Future Husband to an entire quarter of grammar and sentence diagramming his ninth grade year. At that moment in the bar, when a good answer would get him a wife and three kids and a bad answer would be rewarded with a night of supervising drunken wrestlers and belly-shirted girls, Future Husband reached back to ninth grade, looked at me and said, “Gerunds. Aren’t those verbs that get used like nouns?”
I blinked a couple of times, wondered why I hadn’t noticed before that he was really very handsome, and said, “I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?”
So kids, before you close that biology book because you’ve decided that insect phyla are something you’ll never need to know, reconsider. Someday you might end up sitting next to the person of your dreams and he or she might be studying entomology. You just never know. The celebrities and cartoons and even your parents are exactly right, doing well in school will probably result in a better job and all those other things. But, it can also result in impressing someone you find attractive someday – and that is something that always comes in handy.

The Hardest Question

My oldest, who is now nine, has an awesome imagination. She entertains herself with a pantheon of imaginary friends and doesn't give a shit at all what anybody thinks about that. My favorite is the duck named Pondulious.

Anyway, she asked me several months ago why some kids at school make fun of her for having imaginary friends but they believe in God. She wanted to know what the difference is.

I have yet to come up with a good answer for her. Thank goodness the child is creative and patient.