SMASH

If you happen to run into Rowan tomorrow, go easy on him. I'm in with A & D reading before bed, Rowan's in his room - singing, per usual, and banging around doing god-know-what - also per usual. I hear this strange, metal-bending drawn-out screeching crash - the kind that has you yelling "WHAT WAS THAT??", while holding your breath - hoping the reply isn't a blood curdling "something-just-landed-on-me-and-severed-my-arm-off" type of scream. Silence. Even worse than the scream. "WHAT HAPPENED??" (now trying to untangle myself from other two kids - who are also trying to untangle- to find out what happened to render him mute. He comes around the corner - hands over mouth - mumbling. No blood - thats a good sign. His brothers try translating for him "You tried to do what?" "Window what?" I remove his hands from his face. "I just dropped the air conditioner out the (2nd+ story) window I DIDN'T MEAN TO!!" Wha? "WHY IS IT SO HEAVY??" Uh...what? why? Seriously?? Yeah. Seriously. Looked just like you'd expect it to look. Smashed. I am now doing my best not to laugh in his face because he is following me around mumbling things like "How did you put that in by yourself?", and "I really thought I had it", and "I"ll fix it. Really mom, I bet I can fix it." So we move it around front, fix the window, and get back to reading. 3 minutes later - another noise. Not so loud, but...not a "good" noise. In comes Rowan, hands up again. In trying to fix the broken outlet cover (yes, A/C was plugged in when it headed south) - this apparently involved sticking his fingers...wait for it....in the socket. He succeeded in shocking himself. The poor apple does not fall far from the tree. Pray for him.

Take my mother, Please.

My mother has moved to New Hampshire. From Florida. To be closer to "her grandchildren". I point out the fact that actually she has 12 of them, and there are only 3 that live here. I also remind her that I am not the favorite daughter, and I do, in fact, live the CLOSER to the NORTH POLE than any of my sisters do. This does not dissuade her. Did I mention that she has mobility issues due to a stroke, weighs about 110 pounds, and has more artificial joints in her than the bionic woman. Durning a visit here this summer, she came to a concert on the town green - in a long winter parka. And sat in the sun. It was August.

To say she is unprepared may be an understatement. The woman came here with a pair of slip-on boat shoes (and that's it, for her feet), no winter coat, one Christmas sweater, and one "Happy New Year" sweater, and I think 2 pairs of socks. Apparently, her winter coat is at one of my sisters, and boots are at another ones. She was not well prepared. And she was a girl scout for goodness sake. She drops hints to my friends when they are here about how cold we keep it in the house. I'm waiting for the day she slips a note in someones hand charging me with cruel and unusual punishment, or unjust treatment of the elderly.

She has been having trouble "getting started" in the morning more and more lately. She finally announced to me, "I think I know what my trouble is in the mornings. I think its the weather." "Oh....The humidity?", I said. "Oh!! You mean THE COLD...I warned you mom. I told you it was cold up here, this shouldn't be a surprise. It is January. In New Hampshire." I think I may have also said something later about the cold "getting her in the end", and the fact that "she will cry when this all sinks in - she does not live in Florida anymore."

Yes, I know I am cold hearted. Alas, I am a New Englander now.

I'll keep you posted.

Paging Bones to the Bridge, Bones, to the Bridge.

My 9 year old has poison ivy...or poison oak...poison something...a poisonous plant attacked him in the somewhere in the woods, and I would like to find said plant and poison it. Too harsh? No, I think not. This is our first foray down the itchy-rash road and I must say it's enough to make me put my kids in wader anytime they wander off the pavement. If I weren't afraid of them being labled "those freaking fishing pants wearing brothers", or the fact that playing soccer in rubber overalls is not without it pitalls, I would do it. We've had casts, stitches, sunburn, puncture wounds, cocksackie, croupe, cavities and colds. We've had the snotty nose that runs for five weeks straight and dries like cement on everything (especially anything black and fancy and more especially if I'm on my way out the door to something nice).

And can some tell me why childhood afflictions are akin to vampires and seem to rear their ugly heads only after the sun goes down? After the pharmacy has closed and just before I lay my weary head to rest. Why? The itchy stuff is particularly irritating (pun intended) - it's like Chinese water torture. The more you tell the itch-er to "stop itching - your only making it worse", the more...they...must...scratch.

It slowly drives them insane, which drives me insane. "Just CALM down. The Benedryl will kick in in a minute." "I know its been a minute. It will take a couple MORE minutes. Just give it a minute...I mean SOME TIME to work." "Yes - a couple is 2, you're right. Ok give it TIME. STOP SCRATCHING!" "I'm NOT YELLING. Just stop scratching!" "Stop. If you wake up your brothers I'm going to be REALLY mad. CALM DOWN." "Do you want an ice pack?" "It might work, lets try it!" "Ice is supposed to be cold! Its ICE. OK - so it doesn't work. "Nooo...I didn't say it "would" work, I said it "might" work..."

And on and on until your promising your child a Corvette and a hooker on their 18th birthday just to get them to stop scratching and go to sleep. How long to we have to wait for scientist to invent a shot like Bones used on Star Trek? The one that instantly knocks you out and cures you at the same time - leaving you to sleep it off under those funky shiny blankets. Until then, I curse you, poison plants.

FLY! Be Free!

So... today was the first day of school.  My 4th grader was so excited I thought he was going to pee himself before he could get his shoes tied.  I sprayed down my 2nd grader's crazy curly hair to settle the snakes, and then spent the next thirty minutes telling him to "STOP FLATTENING YOUR HAIR!!".  I had put a touch of mousse in his hair and he was trying to "spread it all over" - the result of his styling was making him look a bit like a grease-monkey/nare-do-well, and while other parents may allow it, its not what I'm going for on the first day.  We'll save that for picture day when the nice mom volunteer gets him with a comb.  

The Kindergartner.  He is is own paragraph or two.  He took his shoes off in the car before we dropped off his brothers, and that pretty much set the tone for the day.  Once he was assured that his teacher was not in the building (she's at another school in the morning) - we entered without incident.  We went then went to LLBean to get a lunchbox.   Did I mention that my husband told me, at 9:00 the night before, that "oh - I forgot to tell you, I threw out that blue lunch box because it had a rip on the inside."  oh.  I had ordered lunch boxes they informed me (the day they were supposed to be in my mailbox) that they were back-ordered and would be in sometime this week.  Which is why though the blue lunch box might have had a rip on the inside, I was strong enough to come off the bench for a few days.  

So - new lunchbox, his new pencil case with 2 shiny new pencils in it and his cute dinosaur backpack, and we head for school.  His day starts with recess on the kindergarten playground, which is great.  Or, at least, I'm sure will be great. 

Today it was a bunch of parents standing around trying not to look too obvious while checking their watches. 

I did have fun looking around trying to figure out the first-timers - identifiable because they're either A) following their daughter around adjusting her dress because even though she looks adorably like an American Doll in her plaid and knee socks, there is just no way to navigate a playground without flashing the Disney Princess undies, or B) fixing and re-fixing their son's hair.  Or peeling them off their legs.  Then there are the "been-there-done-that" parents, usually trailing their kids by half the parking lot yelling "JAKE!  YOUR LUNCH BOX!", followed by "GET OFF THE ROOF OF THE SLIDE!".  Then there is C) which is my group.  I've done this before, but not here.  I did have to yell at mine to stop climbing over the fence, but also had to peel him off my leg.

All the kids were herded into class lines along the fence - probably 25 - 30 kids in all - minus one.  Mine.  I knew better than to even try to shake him off and try and get him in the picture.  Parents started yelling "Have a good day!  See you later!" to their kids, who though not all smiling, were all noticeably not hanging on their parents.  My son's wimpering got louder every time someone would yell "SMILE!  Look over here Ashley!  One more picture!".  I started drawing those pittying-there-but-for-the-grace-of-god-go-I looks from other parents.  It made me feel a bit better to see another mom with a crying kid, that was, until I realized the little girl was crying because she wanted to go INTO kindergarten with her older sister.  Her mom was holding her back from running INTO the school.  I waved goodbye to ALL THE OTHER PARENTS and carried Devin into class. I couldn't help but feel like as I was carrying him, he was scouting possible exit routes for tomorrow.

It worked out ok - the teacher is awesome, and I was able to leave him with a last hug and didn't have to shed him off me and run.  He was happy when I picked him up  - although when I asked him if he had fun he said "I didn't even have one fun thing today.  Really.  I played with only the legos, and nothing else.  And I had to make me with play-dough and I really wish I could have made a snake because those are so easy and I can make a snake, you just have to roll it."   Later, at home, he told his brothers the words to the "Hello" song (which, I may add, that I sang - not him - at rug time), and showed him all the play-dough colors under his nails from when he got to make "a thing" of himself (I think they're making dolls).  Anyway, that's to say he participated in a fun day but will punish me until Christmas, likening kindergarten to Chinese water torture.  Bad mom.  Pray for me tomorrow.

Follow-up Note:

2nd day of school.  Observations were correct.  His scouting of exit points on the first day almost paid off, he tried (in vain) to escape, loudly, for about an hour after I left.  Teachers aide looked slightly sweaty when I picked him up at the end of the day.  Tomorrow, a friend is driving him.

Silly Old Bear

My oldest is nine and a half.  I remember being 9 1/2.  I do have some memories earlier than that, but fourth grade...school, friends, summer camp...the memories are more real.  Know what I mean?  Playing at recess, learning to spell Library (an "a"? in lieberry?), riding our bikes to school and pretending they were horses, making forts in the forsythia bushes (complete with kitchen, bath, bedrooms and a horse stable), my mom screaming at us before church on Christmas Eve, learning how to ski - fun stuff like that. When I think about that - my son will have pretty accurate memories of life now - its a bit scary.  

It's like being a teenage babysitter and hearing about nanny-cam for the first time.  "I'm being graded on this?!   Someone can actually play back the tape??"  It's not like I locked the kids in the closet with a box of Ho-Ho's while I skimmed vodka from the liquor cabinet and watched porn while I was babysitting, but, um, what time was bedtime?  And you did say I could call my friends, right?  And no, I was not sleeping when you came home, I was meditating. (That said, I was an EXCELLENT babysitter - the kind of babysitter I wish I could find for my kids (yes, I see the irony).

A secret camera hidden in the house?  I think it would make Mother Theresa sweat - "Oh look! Blessed be!  A teddy bear!  All the way from the Vadican!  I knew they'd remember my birthday!  So very very thoughtful of ...um, wait a sec...is that at a ??? a camera?  No, no, they would never.... In the gosh darn bear??  WAIT!  Shoot and sugar on a busicut - did I...did I just pick my nose?  No, no, no, no, I didn't pick my nose, it was just an itch, nothing wrong with that...but...oh oh oh, my goodness,  jiminy crickets, would you look at that...how did that french manicure get on my nails???   I mean, I do speak french, but I would never...did you do that Mr. Bear?  Silly old, cute little bear?  I must have fallen asleep and someone played at trick...or maybe, yes - I must be working my fingers so hard that they have discolored themselves, yes, just worked to the bone!" (beaches and dreams bone-white and spring's blush of pink, actually) 

My nine and a half year old can now "play back the tape" and blackmail me.  I know you know what I mean.  And by the way, I put stuffed animals on high shelves before a babysitter comes over.

Time, time, time, see what's become of me.

 You know when you get a subliminal soundtrack to your life playing in your head?  You have no idea how they got in your head - I haven't been listening to Paul Simon or the Bangles lately (they both sang that song) - but there they are.  Stuck on repeat. repeat. repeat.  So lets take stock...

1.  I was just informed I have kidney stones. 

 Two, actually - one is big, the other one is bigger.  And I quote "Yeah, big - you'll never be able to pass them.  You'll need to se a specialist.  Of course, if you start having any sharp pain, you need to go to the ER."  I did a bit of reading online about it and learned that kidney stones are more common in men.  Men in their late 40's - 70's.  Excellent. 

2.  I had my teeth cleaned today and now I can't chew.

The hygienist asked me how long its been since I had my last cleaning.  I just brushed before I came, doesn't that count?  Apparently not.  She was trying to jog my memory - "One year?  Two years?  How old were your kids?  Did you have kids?"  No clue.  My 30 minute appointment was an hour, and lets just say the trailer for that movie "There Will Be Blood" kept flashing in my head.  She used power tools I didn't know were appropriate for medical use.  I believe she actually had to mop her brow.  When did they stop offering bubble gum flavored tooth cleaner? I was flossed and polished to within an inch of my life.  I now feel like I have a mouth full of chicklets.  Soft, sore, extremely smooth, chicklets.  I never looked better.

3.  I can say "I'm old enough to be your mother".

And not finish the thought with "if I was a child bride from Utah".

4.  I'm wondering if I'd look distinguished with my natural hair color.

I haven't had the time or energy to color my hair quite a while, so I have fairly long roots showing.  What to do.  I'm curious to see what it "really" looks like, but am worried I'm just going through a phase.  If I let my hair grow out, what will I do next?  Berkenstocks and body hair?  Breast feeding my children until they're old enough to date?  Am I getting sucked into this country thing?  Maybe all the trees up here created so much oxygen it makes you feel light-headed and clouds your judgement.  Mother Earth, help me.

I could go on with this list, but I'm getting tired and my eyes are getting puffy, so I better go.  I think tomorrow I'll dig out my Flashdance soundtrack and listen to "Man-Eater" over and over again.  Maybe I'll get myself inspired - shave my legs or something.   Maybe shower. 

kidisms

This is actually from last spring, but I never got around to posting it...

My five year old was very excited to show me some cocoons he found under a deck chair today. He told me that the ones with the holes in them are the ones where the butterflies already came out. "They go in, right?, and get dressed for a few days and them come out, right? The get dressed in their butterfly...you know...and then come out." he asks/explains.

I love that. I'll be so sad when my kids grow out of that. I used to be good about writing things like that down in a book, but since our move, I can't find it. Shocking. Anyway, I've been trying to file them away in my brain, but my brain needs an upgrade so the whole "filing away" thing isn't working so great. I figured I'd share some here and give my brain a break.

I bought some Forget-Me-Not flowers the other day at the local nursery for our yard. Very pretty little flowers. They look exactly like a flower you would draw when you were young - perfect little tear-drop petals in a periwinkle blue with a perfect pink dot in the center. They made me very happy, these little flowers, so I guess I talked about them on more than one occasion in my house (I do that often, sometimes to make sure that someone actually heard me speaking out loud, and sometimes because I can't remember if I actually said it out loud). So, about a week later, my oldest comes in the house with a small bouquet for me (so sweet, I know), saying, "Mom, these are for you! These are those Ignore-Me-Nots, right?" I made one of those noises moms make when their hearts melt just slightly because even though your kid got it wrong, they got it perfect. Know what I mean?

My youngest was with me the day I got those flowers (which, in case you were wondering, I didn't care if my kids picked for me because it turns out the people who lived here before liked just as much as I do because there is a field of them growing next to my house). The last time we were there he desperately wanted to go into the green houses, but they weren't open yet. He whined and cried and made a big pain in the neck of himself that day because he knew that the farmer and I had some kind of secret conspiracy going on to keep him out of those greenhouses. Some kind of big "no-five-year-old" fun going on in there - pony rides, cotton candy - Willy Wonka lived in there and I was keeping him out. So when the farmer told him that they'd be open when we came back to by outside flowers, the five year old did not forget. Of course, I thought he did because the next time we went he kept whining about wanting to go to the pharmacy. I was not quite sure what the sudden interest was in the pharmacy was about, and slightly embarrassed that my child was winding himself up for a melt down because I wouldn't take him to the store where we get medicine. While he has been know to enjoy his orange flavored Musinex, I hadn't noticed it had become a problem. "PLEEEEEEEASE can we go to the pharmacy NOW?? You promised we could go!! The farmer told you to come back!! Remember?!? I heard him!!" Now the lady in Burkenstocks is looking me over. One of the ladies that works there said she wished she could help him out, but "you'll have to talk to your mom about that one." Nice. Ten minutes and I'm now trying to loose him in the aisles of "flowering shrubs" - giving people that "I don't know who's kid he is - not mine" look. Weak smile. "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?!", I finally manage to say through gritted teeth and a tight smile. "Why do you need to go to the pharmacy???!!!". He was talking about the greenhouse, and I'm sure you figured that out about twenty minutes faster than I did.

More favorites:

Dark Vader =Darth Vader

River Boy and Girl Fire = Shark Boy and Lava Girl

Safety in the deep end

I miss my pool.  I grew up in a lake community, thinking, of course, that it was WAY better then the pool.  The pool had  no docks to swim to, no sand, no sailboats...just boring clear water surrounded by boring hard cement.  I felt sorry for those people who had to go to a pool, getting blisters on their toes from the rough bottom, red chlorine eyes, green chlorine hair, heavy "I just drank half the pool full of chlorine" coughs.  Poor, forsaken pool-people.  

Then I moved to a place that didn't have lakes - if you wanted to submerge in water in public, you had to join a pool.  When a friend from playgroup invited us to go to her pool as guests, I didn't jump up and down.  Pool.  Whatever.  Yeah, I'll go.  But only because my Nemo sprinkler is on the fritz and he doesn't spin anymore. He just kind of leans to one side and spits  - one stream of water in the exact place my face is while I'm bent over holding my screeching toddler up, the other stream straight into the ground creating grassy mud that said toddler NEEDS to sit in. 

The first time I sat myself in the baby pool I believe I actually got light headed.  Thank god the pool was only a foot and a half deep and I was resting comfortable against the side because the shock was overwhelming.  I...was...a......pool-person.  How quickly the might fall.  I flipped faster than a crab on the deck of a ship on the Deadliest Catch.  Where had it been all my life? 

How could my parents have failed me all those years?  I grew up eating pb&j sandwiches laced with sand every summer.  We swam with the constant threat of snapping turtles lurking just beyond the ropes - never questioning why they respected the rope boundary - did we have some kind of treaty with them?  I wouldn't swim within ten feet of those ropes - I swear the water was colder over there - and anyone who did was either brave or stupid.  Mainly stupid.  Those docks were painted with some kind of glossy white paint that was mixed with sand so you wouldn't slip and crack your head open.  Of course, you always did slip and you ended up with an extremely painful sandpaper rash, (think road rash) and then had to, gasp, swim back to the beach trailing blood, and we all know what that attracts.  Sharks. 

(If you grew up in the era of Jaw's, you know what I'm talking about.  Heart stopping fear. Bleeding in open water is like putting a target on your legs, you will be eaten by a shark.  The best you can hope for is that the lifeguards are watching and would at least blow the whistle and yell "SHARK! SHARK! if they saw a fin because God knows your friends aren't swimming near you, they "swam ahead to let your mom know your hurt".)  

I digress.

The beach lifeguard (at least where I grew-up) would dole out punishment for those who didn't obey.  If, for example, you where caught climbing up the end of the slide (which was made of metal, by the way, so by noon on a sunny day you were likely to incur 2nd degree burns by the time you reached the bottom) you would be called in to the lifeguard stand if.  Your punishment would be to pick-up 25 cigarette butts off the beach.  If you had a bad reputation (and your mom wasn't at the beach), it would be more like 100.  It was a time when all the moms would sit in their low sand chairs, lined up in a half circle around the kids, wearing big sunglasses and baby oil, doling out pb&j sandwiches, smoking, and drinking TAB.  Of course, who needs and ashtray when your sitting in all that sand.  So, on a crowded day, kids would be getting in trouble all over the place because, hey, someone had to clean up the beach.

And so now it has come full circle.  I am in New England now - lake country.  I will now subject my children to the same perils I faced.  I will send them out into that freezing lake water and listen to them complain about sand in their bathing suits.  I will make them climb into the hot car - sandy, wet, and tired.  I will make them rinse the sand off in the freezing water from the hose in front of the house so they don't bring it inside. 

More importantly, I will no longer be able to sit right next to the deep water, thus keeping my standing-upright-in-my-bathing-suit time to a minimum.  I now have to walk my not-really-suitable-for public-viewing legs all the way across the sand and into the painfully-slow-deepening water.  I do believe I'll just bring a misting bottle to the beach and put my kids in life vests.

 

MAP-COPs (Moms Against Pecker-head Children on Playgrounds)

I've decided to form a gang.  My gang - MAP-COP (see above) - will be trolling the playground at my kids school after dismissal, using our scary mom voices and embarrassing our families. We are going to be throwing hard, disapproving looks and standing with our hands on our hips.  We are going after the overly aggressive, big for their age,  soccer players.

After school,  a mass of boys, ages 6 thru 11,  converge on the playground field .  That doesn't seem like a big age spread in print, but for those unfamiliar, thats like the difference between Stewart Little and the Stay-Puff Marsh-mellow man from Ghostbusters.  They split into teams and play soccer and it generally ends badly.  Insults and elbows fly, and mom's herd their kids into the car vowing "we will NOT be playing soccer after school tomorrow.  Really!  I mean it!  I'm done with the whole "ball-playing" thing after school!".  To which my kids mumble and snap at each other and huff and puff and say "it's SOCCER, mom, not "ball-playing" ".  Which, of course, lead one brother to yell at the brother who said that "Why are you so RUDE???  You don't have to be SO RUDE!!",  bickering ensues, whining impressions of each other are done, sides are taken, egos are bruised...until I finally yell "ENOUGH!!  NO MORE TALKING!  NOT ANOTHER WORD! NO TALKING TO EACH OTHER BACK THERE!!!".  Which works.  For about 50 seconds.  Then they start the post-mortem.  

"Marco is so mean.  He totally cheated", 

"Yea - he cheats, like, all the time!", 

"And its so not fair because noone else cheats except him", 

"Yea - just him.  He's such a cheater!", 

"That ball really hit his hand and he said it didn't but it really did 'cause I saw it and James saw it and we both said we saw it and he's like, "NO WAY!  I DIDN'T AND YOU'RE LYING!!", and HE'S TOTALLY LYING he's such a LIER!", 

"Yea...."

"Yea.."

"Yea - he TOTALLY lies, everyone could see he was lying because he's such a cheater..."  

On and on and on.  And on.  At least they stopped fighting with each other and are fighting the injustice of this obvious cheater.  (side note:  Names have been changed to protect me from being sued for slander.)

Of course "Marco" is 40 pounds heavier and 2 years older.  Marco is a bully and a pain in my ...

neck.  Today he pushed my oldest to the ground and I was ready to go "crazy mom" on him.  But, because my child begged me not to, (and the fact that I was wearing slip-on shoes and knew I would most likely suffer a blow-out and break my ankle storming over to bully the bully), I didn't "talk" to him.  Another (more attentive) mom saw what happened and came over to check on my son (and make sure he had a mother who gave a crap) and commiserate with me.  A couple other parents asked what happened (Marco wandered off by now) and we decided on the gang idea.  

We are in the preliminary stages of gang-formation, but are moving forward. We decided on purple as our "color", and agreed to look into some kind of pattern - maybe a stripe or subtle plaid - and re-group tomorrow.  There is alot to do, I realize, (gang sign, tags, tatoo, hood boundaries, aliases...) but you have to start somewhere.  I think I'll bring a purple blanked (I don't think I have a purple blanket so it may have to be a towel, or maybe a pillow case) and set-up our first meeting smack-dab in the middle of the field.  And I'm going to wear sturdy shoes.

Mutual of Omaha

Spring has sprung here in New England.  Every day here things get greener, buds appear, and bugs are being killed.  I am all for the Wild Kingdom in my backyard -  I am one sad Indian closer to having my own TV show - but I am walking on egg shells waiting for the big bugs. 

I walked around a few weeks ago with an industrial size can of raid and sprayed everything that was not man-made in my basement and garage.  Cobwebs and odd shaped sticks could not outrun my trigger finger.  I sprayed until I choked with the fumes, then I sprayed holding my breath.  I yelled at the kids if they came too close, I  doubled back and sprayed everything two or three times.  Especially the webs that look like tunnels that seem to be all over the place, hoping to God I was killing whatever was making them and that they would not panic and run in my general direction.  My friend told me I should look them up on the internet, and they I wouldn't be so afraid of them - she herself had a yellow spider the size of a grapefruit outside her door (a Yellow Orb Spider, I believe) and had researched it and actually enjoyed watching it everyday.  She is very, very brave. 

I can do snakes.  I like snakes, actually.  I can do mice or rats - pft!  Whatever.  I even get excited when we catch site of the ROUS (rodant of unusal size) that sometimes pokes around our backyard.  (We haven't figured out if its a woodchuck or beaver or a wolverine, but its big. It looks like its out there digging for bugs, so therefore, he is my friend.)  Bugs, like syrup of ipicack, cause nausea and vomiting.  They make me want to run, screaming like a pack of 4th grade girls running away from boys on the playground.  I DO NOT tolerate them well.  

So, while we're ooo-ing and ahh-ing over the baby deer and the wild turkeys dancing and singing (spring is mating season) across the backyard, I am biding my time.  I know they are much smaller than me, and generally travel without helmets, leaving their little noggings un-protected from my shoe - but I also know they have speed on their side. 

 One about the size of my thumb nail brazenly walked across floor in front of me the other night.  It was like I was in some Wild West movie - I swear I could hear that music that plays when the bad guy rides into town.  It, like me, froze in position.  I quickly looked around - trying not to be too obvious and give my intentions away - for some kind of weapon.  Not my new People magazine, (I haven't read it yet), tissues don't offer enough protection,  no shoes around, cup is too odd a shape and difficult to use if you don't get it on the first go.  Reluctantly, I went with the dictionary.   I got up slowly - and here is where I made my first mistake - slowly circled around it.  Like it didn't have four million eyes and couldn't actually see in back of its head.  I went in slowly to get closer then slammed the book down.  I made some kind of growling noise I believe as I pushed the book into the ground.  The I saw it.  I had only caught three of its legs, and only the ends at that.  Well, you might as well give it an oozy and let him snort some drugs, because now he's going crazy and I'm out of ammo.  Now I am growling/screeching louder,  pushing the dictionary harder, and panic has set in.  I need to reload - he has moved himself into a corner I can't wedge the book into.  Luckily, I was a girl scout, so am somewhat prepared, I think I finished him off with a catalog.  

Charlotte be dammed, I would step on her just as soon as look at her.  And her little spiders, too. 

Wold's dest Mom

There were two day every year when the local playground/park is full of dads and kids :

1. Mother's Day

2. Father's Day

I always thought that was funny - what better Mother's Day gift than a little alone time, and Hey Kids!  It's Father's Day!  Why don't you go do something special with daddy today!  I'll wait here for you...really...go...I'll make due without you...ok, go. now.  

Of course, my favorite is always the homemade cards - I always try to save them, and somewhere is this mess of a house I have them.  Some quote's off my cards this year (copied exactly as printed on the cards by my kids - the knack for spelling is a gift from me):

"Wold's dest Mom"   (World's Best Mom)

"Exelent at makeing dro"  (excellent at making brownies)

"Your nose is like mine"

"Thak you Mom"

"My mom your like mine mouse"  (you're like Minny Mouse)

"Mom what is your favret coler"  (what is your favorite color)

Minny Mouse....hu.  He didn't explain, but he read it to me with conviction, so I'll take it as a compliment.  Maybe its my big red bow.   As for my famous "dro", I'll have to agree, they are excellent, and they come from a box and there is nothing wrong with that.  The nose thing got me choked up.  It was a conversation with one of my kids so long ago, - I had to pull it out of storage locker in my brain - but I did remember.  I was having some of that great one-on-one time you sometimes get with your kids, this happened to be bed time, when somehow we discovered that we had the same nose.  Squishy on the end, so that if you push it like a doorbell it kind of flattens on your face making you look like a prize fighter.  My husbands nose doesn't do this - when you ring his nose it doesn't squish.  (Ok, who just tried to squish their nose?  You know you did...come on, admit it...ok now leave it alone and you can test your kids noses tomorrow)  So anyway, it was one of those quick, random conversations that just sticks and I'll always remember, and I guess, so will he.  I love that.

There were also some great pictures to go along with this creative writing, and I regret that I am not able to figure out how to show them here.  My youngest  drew a stunning self-portrait  - not an easy task when you are using the oven door as a mirror (while daddy is cooking breakfast  in bed - I am a lucky woman!) to view yourself.  Next to him (presumable standing) is me.  Well...my leg, to be precise, but cut a kid a break, Rome was not built in a day.  I must say, I do think it is the finest stick-figure drawing of my leg I have ever seen - long, skinny, no spider-viens, and no feet - which is handy because then I don't have to worry about needing a pedicure, like, ever.  I probably could have figured out eventually that it was indeed my leg, but it is always helpful to have  the artist himself explain things.  

 Another one of my cards had a picture of me with, um, a club foot.  Now, one foot is fully formed and apparently functional (perhaps a bit swollen), but I seem to have been in some kind of accident.  In the picture, I don't seem to be worried at all about it, I look like I'm having a good time, so I guess although I have a disability, I have very good coping skills.  Or maybe I'm just in shock, and the gravity of the situation hasn't sunk-in yet.  Either way - I'm having a good hair day in my picture, and some days you can't ask for more than that.

Runners, on your mark...

So moving to a new town means meeting new people, which had me thinking about my first foray into making mom-friends.  Hind sight is 20/20 I realize, but I was thinking about how having your first baby is a great equalizer.  It doesn't matter if you were a butcher, a baker, or candle stick maker.  (or a lawyer, a government employee, or teacher) Everyone is on an even playing field - usually first time moms, first time kids, nobody quite knows what they're doing, and thats ok.  Because usually, you are too busy and tired to know that the mom next to you doesn't know a diaper rash from a yeast infection either.  She's most likely taken her infant to the doctor with what she's sure is Scarlet Fever only to be told its heat rash, and honestly Mrs. Newmom, your baby doesn't need a onesie and socks under the flannel pjs and blanket bag, because, well, its July. 

When my oldest was a few weeks old he had a Serious Circulation Problem (in caps because it was an awful disease).  No matter what I did, no matter how many blankets I wrapped him in, his fingers were cold, and I swear, blue.  So, after a sleepless night of hovering over my terribly sick newborn, and was too much internet medical research (leading to me believe that my pediatrician doesn't know anything and why didn't I become a doctor because I am WAY more capable of figuring out that he has a liver problem that has lead to a heart infection, which - combined with his obvious lung obstruction and brain tumor - has caused is this Serious Circulation Problem.)  

So, of course, I called my sister.  She had four kids under her belt by this time and what I consider to be the love child of Dr. Spock and Madam Curie.  She suggested I put a hat on him.  Huh.  A hat.  And...that was that.  Fingers warm and pink within thirty minutes.  Who.  Knew.  

In my (weak) defense, I had put hats on him, but stopped doing it because somehow the thing would always end-up sliding down and covering his face, which, I'm sure you know, babies do not like.  So I stopped the cute little hats - but - guess which hat was perfect - the only hat that ever fit my newborns perfectly everytime without the threat of suffocation.  The lovely stocking hat they gave them in the hospital.  The one that was tied on the end with a curling ribbon you use to wrap packages, which I guess is appropriate.  So I guess those hospital-types actually do know what they're doing, they just have no sense of style.  

Sorry - back to original thought now...

When the doctor put my first child on my chest, looking like he's just been exercised through the bathroom ceiling like Carolann in poltorgist and making lottle wimpering noises (not unlike the wimpering I was doing), my very first thought -honestly - was "Now What?"  You're just giving him to me?  I don't think my child birth class (which the only thing I took from was my love of Crystal Lite that they served at every class), and a baby shower really qualified me to take this thing home.  It was the new mothers group that saved me.  A bunch of really tired woman sitting on the floor in ill-fitting clothing covered in spit-up, and having really bad hair days.  This was not a beauty contest.  Well, ok, the babies were usually dressed to the nines when they came in - my oh my how priorities change.  I remember that I wanted to cry, I was never so happy to see a room full of miserable people in my life.  

No one talked about what they did pre-child, no one bragged about how advanced their baby was, come to think of it, no one really formed full sentences, and that was just fine.  The group leader was a nice woman with a soothing voice and instantly made you want to ask her if she minded if you lied down and put your head in her lap (feel free to play with my hair or rub my back), while she talked.   But, looking around the room, you know everyone was thinking the same thing - can I go to sleep?  And,  by the way,  if Captain Loud talker sitting next to me doesn't bring her voice down an octive she will wake my baby up, and I will be forced to open a can of whoop-ass on her right here in front of all these people. Yet, even though the new mom sitting across the room was a police woman, I think she would have had my back, as would the new mom scientist next to her.  I like an even playing field and misery loves company. 

Mourning

I am sorry to report that Bob the beetle has died.  

He lived to be a ripe old age of about 4 days longer than I would have like.

I am grateful to him to him for bringing out good qualities in my kids, such as compassion, although not so grateful for the eye twitch he brought out in me.

He instilled a real sense of team spirit in the boys, which is really fun to watch.

He instilled a real sense of fear and loathing in me, and I did not think he was fun to watch.

Bob inspired my oldest to do some research, and I'm all for learning new things.

Bob inspired me to lie.  When my oldest asked me to do some research and find out what Bob like to eat, I said I looked into it and he wanted to eat leaves and grass and dirt.  (I had to really sell the dirt thing, which also inspired me to be creative, so thats a good thing.)

He showed me that my kids are full of endless amounts of hope, that was refreshing to see.

He showed me that I still really hate bugs (insects?)*, and never want to see one again.

My oldest wants to build an elaborate (yet tasteful) coffin out of legos.  Which he would also like to line with "some red, shiny material..you know, to make it look really fancy".  Uhhh, no.  Because in three weeks, when he's looking for "that" lego - the one that was used for a hinge on Bob's burial bed - I'm not digging him up and cleaning off all those legos.  I mean, yes, I'd make HIM dig it up and clean the legos, but then I'd have to clean the legos because he won't get it clean enough.  For me.  We will have a nice, quiet service for Bob (closed jewlery box) in the back yard - I will not be speaking, but the kids understand.  

*Bug/insect?  I know you can tell which it is by counting the legs, but come on.  I was not able to focus on him long enough to see anything other than what looked like 85 legs, and each and everyone of them were reaching for me like Johnny coming through the bathroom door in "The Shining".    Bye Bob.

Because I said so

Words I never thought I day to my kids.  Not that I'm one of those parents who try earnestly to answer every question that passes through their little angels lips. "That is a good question sweety,  mommy isn't sure of the answer but how about we go look it up right now?  I'm sure someone can explain why a 7 year old isn't legally allowed to go into a bar, and you're right, it doesn't seem fair, does it?"  

Don't get me wrong, I've been known to give a kid a Carol and Mike Brady answer when there is another mom or a teacher within earshot, - but you know I'm not the only one.  I do try and answer ones I can, and the ones I know they really want to know the answer to, (I'm not always smoty) but some days its just exhausting.  "But what if?....Why?...How come?...How do you know?...How do they know?...", but until very recently, I never pulled the BECAUSE card.  I'll admit, it didn't come out of my mouth easily - it had a bit of a guilty taste to it - but, wow.  The guilt was quickly replaced with a bit of a power rush.  The kids didn't know quite what to do with "just because".  The conversation went something like this: "Mom, mom? mom.  I'm gonna leave the (LARGEST BEATLE I HAVE EVER SEEN OUTSIDE A ZOO) bug on the counter and can you look up online to see what they eat?  Do you know what they eat?  I'm gonna get some leaves because they probably eat leaves and stuff, right?  Maybe other bugs though?  Should I try and find, like, smaller bugs?  Or maybe they're poisonous though.  How do you know if its poisonous?".  

(This run-in sentence was spoken by my 9 year old as he comes rushing in the back door (which is left open) in his muddy and wet (AND BRAND NEW) sneakers, followed by his two younger brothers, (also muddy and wet) all looking very serious and all having that air about them of slightly-cocky-we-know-what-we're-doing-and-its-very-serious-and-important-and-really-mom-you-wouldn't-know-about-such-serious-things-things-like-the-care-and-feeding-of-a-giant-bug-that-we-have-personally-discovered-and-will-probably-be-on-tv-or-in-the-paper-talking-out-and-we-will-of-course-be-taking-this-into-school-to-show-everyone-our-most-awsomess-discovery. )

" And, by the way, we named him Bob."

To which I responded, in a similar run-on sentence: "STOP! Do NOT leave that jar on the counter! And where is the LID for that jar?!?  OUT!  OUT! TAKE IT OUTSIDE, put a lid on it, THEN talk to me.  And DON'T come back in here with those shoes on!"

Which, or course, lead to much heavy sighing and "but moooooommmm!"-ing, and looks that said "you have got to kidding, don't you know what we're doing? I can't BELIEVE we have to take it outside".

And, of course, the obligatory "But WHY?!??  Why can't he be inside (HANGING OUT WITH YOU, FREAKING YOU OUT ALL DAY) just sitting on the counter?

Why?  I did start to form an answer in my head, and started to sputter it out - it had something to do with germs, and possible escape, and whether or not it could fly, and that I thought it was staring at me - but then I stopped, and said,

"BECAUSE!  BECAUSE I SAID SO!  END OF STORY!"

They went away, muttering under their breath and dragging their feet.  Just. Like. That.  

Zen.  Why hadn't I truly realized the power of "because"?  (It probably has something to do with the fact that it reminds my of my mother, and god help me, I will not turn into my mother, even if she was right about some things. )  Well, I do now. And let me tell you, there is a new sheriff in town, mister,  and her name is SMOTY.  And apparently  she talks about herself in the third person.  Why?  Because.

**Post script:  There is currently a family size Skippy Peanut Butter jar sitting on my kitchen counter.  It contains a bunch of dirt, a few twigs (none that reach anywhere near the top, thank you very much), some fist-fulls of grass, and a beetle as long as my thumb and twice as wide.  (My heart rate goes up just typing about it)  It is covered with layers of wax paper - poked with VERY SMALL holes - secured with about 5 rubber bands.  Whatever.

Spider Ranger

My youngest is sleeping next to me right now in pajamas he picked out himself, and it makes me want to freeze him at this age forever.  He has a spiderman top, with the mesh wing-things attached under the arms (I don't remember spiderman flying around with wings, but who am I to rain on a super hero's parade), and Power Ranger bottoms.  Putting this outfit together was not an accident.  There were pajamas spread out all over the floor.  There was a pains-taking weeding out process - batman bottoms have too much blue, lilo and stitch top doesn't have wings, harley davidson ones are too red.  Moving his top three down to the kitchen to get dad's opinion, and possibly check how the different lighting effected things.  Mind you, he is naked for this entire process - if you can't get the look right, its better to wear nothing.  His final choice was for obvious reasons - wings on top, flying dragons on the bottoms - and a fine choice it is.  Although he was not able to attain lift-off, it was not for lack of trying.  Backing further down the hall to elongate the runway, crouching lower to the ground for the run, banking to the right, banking to the left, making sure mom AND dad are watch! WATCH! watching the complete exercise.  After a near-collision with my dresser and a window (and the not-so-gentle reminder that if he didn't set a flight path toot-sweet for the kitchen he would be de-winged and not get ice cream) he took a break.  As it is hard for a super hero to stick to a set bedtime, he ended up here, next to me, and promptly folded his wings and passed out.

cheers

My family and I have recently moved from a big city suburb to a small New England town. Having grown-up in a suburb of New York City, then spending my adult life outside another large city, I would not call myself a country girl.  Don't get me wrong, I like the country as much as the next girl scout - s'mores!  camp fires! "LOOK! COWS!" - I just could never picture myself living in a place, well, not right outside a city.  While there is a certain appeal to being somewhere where everbody knows your name, (and they're always glad you came,)  for some reason, the thought of that really happening made me want to order another drink.  I was extremely shocked the first time I visited my husbands hometown.  We had been dating for months when he invited me to go "home" with him.  Uh, duh.  Yea I'd go.  We were still in that stay-up-all-night-talking-then-go-to-work-happy-happy-happy-all-the-time phase.  Going out 3 or 4 times a week.  Going out at 10:00(pm), getting up at noon, going out to eat, going to the movies...cooking a meal and doing laundry together was actually fun.  When he took me for a walk through the town he grew-up in I was confused.  I just kept thinking, "really?  REALLY? People actually come from towns like this?"  There is not one stop light.  You (I)can walk the length of the village with out getting winded.  People sit one their front porches and wave to you when you drive by.  The now-retired school librarian still lives right by the school, and still remembers all her students and the books they liked best.  It was beautiful, and I was speechless (a rarity).  I think this little visit actually changed me a bit.  I was (still am to a degree) a huge people pleaser.  "Sure!  I'll watch your cat for a week - no problem - I love animals!  Are you sure just one week?  I can do two weeks if you need - really!"  Of course, I'm highly allergic to cats.  My throat may close-up and my eyes will puff shut.  I'll end up at the allergist office because of course my inhaler is empty and I have no refills left.  I'm taking antihistamines that make me shake and and act like a grumpy-pissed-off person who's had too much coffee.  So I've missed work (dr. appt), missed happy hour(gotta feed the cat), am out about $60 bucks for the office visit and meds, my co-workers think I moody, and I can't get the smell of canned cat food off my hands.  But when you get back, I'll tell you how much I love your cat, and when are you going away again because I'd love to watch him again for you!    All this to say how big a step it was for me not to lie or sugar-coat the answer when my then-boyfriend asked me if I could ever see myself living in a town like that.  I paused.  paused.  and said "No.  I really can't."  Huge for me.  I did not want to continue down the garden path (that is the best part of dating) having him think that I was that type of girl - the type that would follow her man anywhere, stay home, have babies, make dinner, and find time to wave to everyone that went by as I was hanging the sheets on the line.  I felt very adult and liberated to have stood my ground and tell it like it was.  Low and behold, he kept dating me.  And almost 15 years later I'm living in a house surrounded by pine trees (cue the inhaler), waving to everyone when I walk out to get my mail, which is delivered by Mary, my mail carrier, who has been on the job for 20 + years and can tell me anything I want to know .  Not everyone in town knows my name yet, but I'm working on it.

etch-a-sketch

Did you ever try and draw a real picture on an etch-a-sketch?  Not easy.  I mean, I have to really concentrate.  If I don't, I end up with those little pieces of line sticking off the end of an other-wise perfect square.  Or fish.  Or word.  And all I can think is Agh!  It would have been PERFECT!  Damn line.  Of course, the one time I do manage to create a masterpiece - a house, WITH a chimney - I immediatly show it to my kids (who have been irritatingly impatient with me using their etch-a-sketch and I am threatening time-outs to the next one who bumps my arm) - and they look at it for about half a second and simutatiously shake it and say "Cool.  My turn!".   

Breath in.  Breath out.  Step away from the children.

I went downstairs and stole jellybeans from their Easter baskets and felt much better.

#1

S.M.O.T.Y = SH**** (rhymes with smitty) Mother of the Year,  a title I actually stole from my older sister.  She bestowed the title on herself when her then-toddler pulled a Christmas stocking holder off the mantle and ended up with stitches above his eye.  My sisters and I crown ourselves with the title whenever we perform under-whelmingly in the child-rearing portion of the "Motherhood Pagent".