I've Got The Touch.

Midas was a lucky man. I too have superpowers. Everything I touch turns to *BLEEP*.

I know I've said it before, but I run into things all. the. time.  In the last week alone, I've knocked children over, broken my favorite porcelain sugar spoon, snapped the head off a doll (on accident, not in some psycho fit of rage, I swear), spilled coffee on my favorite coffee table book, ruined my favorite jeans sledding down a hill (somehow ripping a huge hole in the crotch), and burned a hole in Terry's favorite pair of shoes.  The last one happened with such good intentions too.  After our day of sledding, I placed the family's wet shoes behind the fireplace screen to dry out.  Terry's shoes being the biggest, were the only ones that had holes burned right through the toes.  Whoops.

(Terry was such a good sport about it too.  He only made me feel a teensy bit stupid.)

But to top off the week's suck, I made the worst mistake of all: I never read Fiona's class email.  (The one with instructions for Valentine's Day.)

Apparently, all week, the parents of kids in her class were making homemade valentines for their children, secretly giving them to the teachers at drop-off, and were read aloud by the teachers at circle time.  Sweet, right?

Thursday rolled around and Fiona waited for her name to be called, just as all of her friends had.  It never happened because Mommy doesn't read emails in her spam folder.

Later that day, Fiona's sweet teacher, Ms. Lori, walked down the hall to my classroom, holding a heart-decorated piece of paper in hand.

Ms. Lori: "I don't know if you got the memo, but we are reading the kids' valentines that you were supposed to write to your child in front of the class.  Fiona got sick of waiting, so she made herself one.  From you."  (Sad pat on the back.)

∞ FIONA'S HOMEMADE VALENTINE ∞ 

"FIONA (hearts next to her name)

LOVE FOR FIONA 

(open it up)

DEAR FIONA, WHEN YOU CAME OUT OF ME YOU LOOKED LIKE A PRINCESS AND YOU STILL LOOK LIKE A PRINCESS AND I LOVE YOU LOVE NEVE AND DERA AND TERRY.  (drawing of a crown and flowers)"

I got crap for the rest of the day from her teachers for the "princess thing" (we are sooo not princessy here), but I was too distracted by how awful I felt that the poor kid had to write her own valentine to care about anything else.

So, Terry and I made sure that we had her valentine ready for Friday.  It wasn't easy finding a skywriter to write "WHEN YOU CAME OUT OF ME YOU LOOKED LIKE A PRINCESS" over the playground at the last minute, but where there's a will there's a way.

(Valentine flowers from Terry, complete with empty Scotch bottle/vase.  Resourceful and romantic, no?)

Moral of the Story? Don't Knit Your Own Wick.

(Fiona sitting behind the new fireplace screen, compliments of mother-in-law, Lani.)

So, my mother in law, Lani, is in town.  And we're having a good time.

But.

She worries.  Like grandmas do I suppose.  As far as our family's grandparentry goes, we've got all the worries covered on both sides of the family.  My mom worries about all things outside of the home (safe travels, going outside after dark, boogie men, and charged cellphones [in case the boogie men steal our car and leave us stranded]), while my mother in law worries about all things in the home (making sure we have covers on our outlets, having a fire extinguisher in each room, keeping fresh batteries in our carbon monoxide detector, black mold, and the responsibility of the parents of her grandchildren).

When the grandmothers talk, it always ALWAYS results in trouble for me and Terry.  Yesterday, my parents and grandparents came over for lunch.

Lani (Terry's mom): "Ask your mom what she thinks about your fireplace."

Dera (victim): "Oh jeez.  Mom, what do you think about my fireplace?"

Rosanne (my mom):  (she makes a face of disapproval)

Faye (matriarchal worrier or my grandmother or Nana): "Don't even ask me what I think, becawse I'll tell you the truth."

Dera: "Just say it, grandma."

Faye: "Alright.  There's FIYA in there!" (fire)


Rosanne: "And because you got kids!"

Lani: "And does anyone see a screen over it?"

Rosanne, Faye, and Lani (in unison): "NOOOO!"

Dera: "Mom, we grew up in a log cabin (i.e. a matchbox) that was heated only by a furnace and fireplace.  (My hippie upbringing deserves it's own post.)  Why is it different when I do it?"

Rosanne: "Because your father was careful to always watch the fire.  AND we had an asbestos rug.  AND I was always ready with a bucket of water, just in case."  (All of which were untrue.)

Faye: "And they don't make houses like they used to."

Dera: "But, Grandma, this house was built in 1940."

Faye: "Exactly."

I'm confused and annoyed, so I leave the table of worriers to continue their fun.  From the other room I hear whispers and see heads shake in further disapproval.  Because I turn into an angsty teenager when parents are present, I yelled, "Will you all please stop!?"

Rosanne: "NO I WON'T BECAUSE YOU ONCE HAD AN AUNT WHO WATCHED HER MOTHER KNIT A SCARF TOO CLOSE TO THE FIRE AND GO UP IN FLAMES!"

{Silence falls over the room, as no one knows what to say.}

Lani: "Pffffft." (stifling laughter)

Worry Winner- Mom: 1/ Mom-in-law: 0

Happy New Year

Dinner at a friend's house, 11th hour run to the drugstore to pick up prescriptions before the new 2010 deductible kicks in, crash a child-free party (with our children), home, 3 Stooges marathon on AMC, fall asleep on the pull-out sofa with the kids at 11:45.

That was how we rang in our new year.  And it was awesome.  Beautiful.  Perfect.  Sober and yet so unbelievably giggly.

Of all the fun that was had, I think the girls enjoyed this the most:

Our children discovered the timeless hilarity of slapstick.  It was quite a hit.  And let me tell you how satisfying it was to watch their little confused faces look to us for permission to laugh at, say, Moe kicking Curly in the rear end.  I'd nod, and there was a moment of what I thought was an understanding that this was a different kind of violence... a fake violence... a pre-political-correctness-historical kind of violence that we could overlook because, well... IT'S SO FUNNY!?

We were all having a good laugh until this morning...

A little game of "Tie You Up In The Woods With The Coyotes", anyone?  Seriously.  That was Neve kept saying as she was slowly slowly slowly trying to manipulate her nonthreatening vienna sausage fingers to tie a knot in the tights, I mean the mouth gag.  (FYI- don't ever google "mouth gag" or "mouth muffle", as there weren't as many pictures of Olive Oil tied to the train tracks as there was pictures of certain adult games I was unaware the rest of the world was playing.)

Also, coyotes?  When did Neve ever even hear about a coyote?  And why was she leaving her sister in the imaginary woods to be eaten by them? 

And it doesn't stop there.  In the car today, our sweet extremely patient dog, Banjo, began to howl in the backseat when Terry hopped out of the car to pump gas, like hounds do.  Neve did not like this at all, and proceeded to yank his floppy ear and said, "If you keep doing this, I'll cut your ear off with scissors!"

Me:  "Neve!  Terry!?  Did you hear what she said?!"

Terry:  "No, what?"

(pause)

Terry:  "Neve!  That's awful!"

Neve:  "But those men on tv did it.  And it was funny!"

(adult heads in hands)

Happy New Year, Beautiful Friends!  I hope that this year brings you loads of smiles and laughs, even when you're left in the woods to be eaten by the coyotes.

AskDrDera.com

Road trips are an invaluable opportunity for communication in our marriage.  We read books aloud, we talk about those things that we're usually too tired to discuss on the average day, we listen to music from our pre-children days, and we try to enjoy the scenery (even if the scenery happens to be miles of Asian Love Den billboards alongside God Speaks billboards).

This particular Thanksgiving Day road trip to Grandma's house was spent reading some good 'ole Dr. Sears Discipline wisdom.  It just felt like the right time to remind myself of some forgotten principles of parenting.  (Like your children.)

Terry was a great sport about my marvelous "cooperative parenting" idea, despite the fact he was probably hoping for a different kind of read-along.  (He packed "Infinite Jest", which was just tooooo heavy for me right now, and a few art magazines.)  He listened, and he occasionally interrupted me with a "can you read that last line again?"... it felt nice to be thinking about issues that we hadn't thought about since our children were toddlers.  Little did we know then that the real need for intervention and Dr. Sears wisdom would come a few years later (like say at age 4 and 6, when yours truly observes the girls yelling at their dolls, "Do you think I'm kidding?!  Because I'm not!  I'm MOMMY!").

Truthfully, (I may be divulging a bit too many of our skeletons here...) I used to be wary of his teachings.  Just his name conjured images of Cailou and his wet dishrag parents, dropping everything they were doing to humor the whiny whims of the bald little s**t.  I really hate that show.  While I wanted to be a modern, loving, and patient parent, I've found myself time and again remembering my parent's (still very loving and patient, but a bit old school) philosophy of, "Children should be seen and not heard."  Yikes.  Did I just write that?*

Clearly, I love my children.  I treasure all their little garbled words, and I actually love playing child-to-adult translator/psychologist, reading between the lines of what they are saying and figuring out what they really mean.  It's why I get out of bed.  It's what makes me feel like I have purpose.  It's the ultimate gift from God.

But.

There are times in life when you just lose sight of such concepts.  Their little voices can sound like fingernails on chalkboard.  (Cailou.)  Their hyperactivity can make me feel like we live in an inflatable Moonwalk.  Their clumsy hands and constant spills can feel intentional and avoidable.  I begin to set expectations of them as if they are 2 adult roommates.  I lose perspective.  And I sound like a barking dog.

That was where Dr. Sears came in.  Not Dr. Brazelton (although his "Touchpoints" is usually my first choice).  Dr. Seuss couldn't even help me for that matter.  I just needed the reminder that they are just. kids.

If you are unfamiliar with this man or are in need of a refresher like I was, click here.  He will surely make you feel like you've been doing things very wrong.

After this 6 hour drive and the accompanied crash course in Discipline 101, I began to think about a few other missing topics he forgot to include in his 300+ page book.  Perhaps the world needs me to write a book on discipline?!  (Reading is such a rare luxury these days that it's not uncommon for me to have delusions of grandeur after reading 1 chapter of any book.  Dr. Seuss books included.)

How would my book read?:

Chapter 1:  Take a shower, you sweaty ho.
-Wash the pre-day Toms-of-Maine-what-are-you-good-for funk off, and you'll be feeling better in no time.  And even more so, avoid any pants with an elastic ankle and/or waist.

Chapter 2:  Don't eat cookies for breakfast.
-It will make you feel like a cookie for the rest of the day.  Otherwise you will eventually need said elastic waisted pants.  And somehow this effects your ability to better parent.

Chapter 3:  Don't turn the tv on in the morning unless you can be sure it will go off before afternoon.
-You know that deep-in-thought look on their little faces as they stare into the neon tube?  They're not actually thinking.

Chapter 4:  I've heard that exercising makes you feel good.
-(It's been a while.)

Chapter 5:  Don't curse in front of your kids.
-They will call grandma a sunuvabitch more clearly than they've ever uttered anything else in their life.

Chapter 6:  Don't spank your children unless you're not really that angry.
-So when do you spank?  According to this logic, you can spank on birthdays, when they make A's on their report cards, and when they earn a brownie badge.  Better not to spank at all then, in my case at least.

Chapter 7:  Try to enjoy being awake as much as you enjoy being asleep.
-read Chapter 1 again.

Chapter 8:  Don't blame your children for your public flubs.
-When getting coffee out at a rather grownup coffee shop and you accidentally spill half-and-half down the side of the counter, don't yell, "{insert child's name here!}" to save your own face.  It may cause some insecurity issues down the road.

Chapter 9:  Don't call your daughter's private parts a "piggy bank".
-Unless you want an aspiring stripper.

Chapter 10:  Smile, sing, keep lots of Glamour Shot photos of yourself around the house.
-The kids will think you're fancy and pretty.  Then, as they get older and wiser, rotate those photos out with photos of you hugging wax museum celebrities.  Using a sharpie, fake an autograph that makes it sound as if you both partied together at Universal Studios.  And, when the day arrives at long last that they have either figured you out or lose interest in your "wall of mommy's memories", just take them to get a matching lower back tattoo with you.

Bottom Line: Build a relationship of trust, love, and respect for themselves and others.  Most importantly, don't wear pants with an elastic ankle.

Buy my product.

*my parents were the best kind of parents one could have.  I find myself using them (and others I love the most) for a laugh on this blog only because I am but a sad clown with low self esteem.  Who was spanked on birthdays.

Little Red Riding Fiona (and her lazy ass mother)

A story, by Fiona McKay White:

"Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Little Red Riding Hood who needed some fresh air.  So she asked her mom if she could take a walk by herself, and her mom said yes because her mom thinks that she is old enough to go for walks alone.  Little Red Riding Hood is 6 years old.

Her mom said, 'you can walk to grandma's house to bring her some pie and chicken soup because she's sick.'  I think she had a problem with her neck or something.  Like a bump on her neck or something.

So, she went out the door, gave her mom a kiss, she doesn't have a sister, her daddy is at work, and her mommy said, 'stay on the path!'  So Little Red did, but she really wanted to go a new way, not the way she always goes, and she walked and walked.  Into... THE WOODS! 

(Fiona gives me spooky fingers.)

While she was walking and looking around at all the stuff she never had seen before, she saw a wolf.  And he was mean, but she didn't know that he was mean because he was kinda nice.  Not really nice, but just kinda, you know, like Daddy.  Whatever you call that.  Happy but no smiling?  What's that called?

(I'm totally at a loss for an actual term for "happy but no smiling?", but that is indeed her father.  I must seem bi-polar to these kids.)

He tricked her.  He said that he would go with her to her grandma's house too.  And Little Red said ok, but she had a BAAAAAD feeling about this.  So they walked together, but then Little Red wanted to walk because she got a little scared.  So then the wolf started running too, but not after her, he was going to grandma's house.  But Little Red didn't know that, and so she hid behind a tree because she thought he was going to eat her.  And the wold ran to grandma's house by himself.  He's a man-aged wolf.

When he got to her house, he opened the door and walked right in.  He didn't even knock!  And then he took grandma out of her bed.  Then he took off all her clothes, because he only eats meat.  (Laughs).  Grandma meat (uncontrollable laughter now) is so gross.

(She quickly regains composure.)

So he puts her head in first.  And then her shoulders.  And then her body part.  And then her legs.  And that makes his tummy feel really bad, because the grandma is like so much bigger than that.  I bet her legs were sticking up out of his mouth.  But when Little Red walked in he pushed the grandma all the way in.  And then he got in her bed with the covers pulled up to his face.

Little Red walked inside and she said, 'Grandma, I brought you some food because my mom said you didn't feel good.  Your neck.'  And grandma said, 'thanks', in a funny voice because it was really the wolf.

She said, 'Grandma, what big eyes you have.  Grandma, what big ears you have.  Grandma, what big feet you have.  Grandma, what big teeth you have.'  And he said, 'the better to eat you with!!!'

But guess who's hand came out of the wolf's mouth?  Yup, GRANDMA!  And the grandma climbed out while Little Red punched him so hard.  (Miming punches.) And out she came, in her bra and panties.


(I ask why she always feels the need to insert 'bra and panties' into every story.) 

Well, because the wolf had to wear her clothes to trick Little Red, remember? And even grandmas wear bras and panties, right?

And then he ran out of the house yelling and screaming, because he didn't know that the grandma could climb out of him.  He didn't chew her, I guess.  And then Little Red and her grandma hugged, and the grandma said you are my best daughter.

(I say, "you mean granddaughter?")

No, best daughter granddaughter, because my other daughter, your mother, didn't come to save me.  So thank you, not her.

(I ask if the grandma has her clothes on yet.)

No. But Little Red doesn't care.  She's seen bras and panties before.

(The end?)

Um, yeah, sure.  The end.

First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage, Then Comes "Baby Orphanage"

Fiona's good friend, Sophie, spent the night on Saturday.  She is one funny girl.  And she brings out the funny in my girls as well.

Heard from the backseat:

Sophie: "I don't like those kind of princesses anymore.  Just the ones like Leia.  She's not so 'princessy'."

Fiona: "Me too!  I don't like them anymore either!  They're so sparkly and pink.  I like boy stuff now."

Neve: "Well, I like princesses.  Aurora, Snow White, Cinderella... (fades off as she realizes the 2 older girls aren't listening.)

Fiona: "Why don't you like princesses anymore, Sophie?"

Sophie: "Because they just like to kiss and get married and stuff.  And I do NOT want to get married."

Fiona and Neve in unison: "WHAT!?!?"

Fiona: "Not get married?"

Sophie: "Yeah, I don't want to.  I want to do other stuff."

(I'm cleaning my ears out at this point in disbelief.)

Fiona: "But I want to get married so I can have a baby!"

Sophie:  "Fiona, you don't have to get married to have a baby."

Me: (adjusting rearview mirror towards Sophie) "Ahem, yeah you can adopt a child, right Sophie?"

Sophie: "oh yeah, adoption.  But that costs a lot of money.  And I want to have a lot of money for other stuff.  No, I mean having my own babies.  I just hope I don't get triplets.  Gah- triplets!  What if 3 babies came out of me?! Whoa.  I might have to give the other 2 away."

Fiona: "Give them away!?  Why???"

Sophie: "Because that's what happens to orphanages.  Orphanages (she means orphans, if you couldn't guess) are kids who had mommies that couldn't take care of them, so they give them away.  Other ladies look at them to see if they want to adopt them.  But it costs so much money.  And I want to keep my money so I can buy good stuff for my baby."

Fiona: "Mom?  Do you want to buy a boy orphanage?  Oh, never mind.  You don't have money, right?"

Me:  "No.  Not enough to buy you a brother.  Sorry."

Sophie:  "Why don't you make another baby?  You might get a boy."

(mental picture of a Shoney's toy claw pulling out a naked crying baby boy.)

Me:  "Me?  Maybe.  I don't know if we're ready to have another baby.  Plus, there's no guarantee that I'd have a boy.  I might have another girl."

Sophie:  "3 girls would be great.  I have 2 sisters, and we love being girls.  AND, my Abuelita had 7 children!  And she didn't die!!!  You should have another baby!"

Fiona and Neve chime in on the only topic they can agree upon: "yes! Another baby! Another baby!"

Me: "Stop, you bullies.  I have to ask Mr. Terry (Dad) first."

Sophie, with an air of disgust: "Yeah, because you're MARRIED."

First Day of School (2 Weeks Late)

Thanks, other bloggie-Moms, for making me feel like a jerk as I read about your kid's first day of school.




Well, here it is at long last: a little 2-week-tardy-reenactment of their first day of school. (Notice Neve's expression of uncertainty, and Fiona's teacher's pet enthusiasm.)


Hey, Oijoy, Smacksy, and My Life: we couldn't all be camera-ready and sober, you know.*








*I'd like to think there is an easier way to make the point that I'm only joking. But since I'm not the emoticon- ;) - j/k - or LMAO/ LOL type, the asterisk with accompanying explanation will have to do instead.

I was not drunk on their first day of school.*

*...at least not first thing in the morning. I waited until after school snack.

suckiestmom.blogspot.com

Terry hands me the latest Newsweek this evening. There's an article that he wants me to read. He prefaces it with, "I'm not saying it's you, but I thought you'd find it interesting."

{I would encourage you to read the article here.... especially if you're a blogger who happens to be a mom.}

I won't lie. I bristled. And I bristled because I'm paranoid that this article is written about blogger types like myself.

I want my girls to trust me in both real life and internet life. I want them to grow into beautiful adults, confident that their mother loved them more than the laughs she got over them and their antics.

However, I also don't want to stop writing here. It's therapy. It's a place to gain perspective. It's a place to laugh about things that are not so easy to laugh about otherwise. It's a place to connect with other people who share similar concerns, similar struggles, and similar jokes.

There are far too many testimonies of bloggers, facebook users, and twitterers who've been bit by leaving a written virtual trail of err. They come in many shapes and sizes, but all say the same- "are you serious?". In the case of the "mom blog", I fear the wrath of the greatest employer: my children.

So where do I draw the line? I suppose I'll be more conscious of how they will feel at, say, 13 or 14 years old, when they can Google search themselves and find Mommy Dearest writing about their adventures in puberty.

Yes, parenthood is messy. And yes, there are boundaries of respect (even for our innocent and Google-illiterate subjects of discussion) which can be crossed easily. But ultimately (in my humble opinion), if the child grows into adulthood knowing that their parents were people who could laugh at themselves and the world around them, they are better for it.

Besides, we'll be the enemy one day no matter what proof exists on our
insert-pseudonym.blogger.coms.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on the matter.

Smart Ass

Neve (who does not particularly like animals): "that donkey is scary."

Fiona (who has recently discovered the joy of sarcasm): "yeah, I think he has a gun."

I'm teaching 'em young.

Sadistic Parents Like Fried Shrimp

... thus leading their kids to Clark's Fish Camp.

Otherwise known as a permanent scar in child memory. I think this post warrants it's own blog category, "Another Bad Decision":





But the seafood was good! Alright. Not that good. We just really thought the girls would get a kick out of all the zoo hand-me-downs. (I'm not even kidding. Our taxidermied dinner guests were given to this classy restaurateur by the local zoo.) And despite our attempts to clarify "once alive" from "not alive anymore", they both sat motionless, waiting for a large cat to jump into their basket of popcorn shrimp. Little was eaten that night.

I felt awful:

(Caught by the bartender and some regulars making the universal cat-claw gesture to the camera. This is me embarrassed.)

The upside? I got my picture taken for the first time in... ever. Apparently, ladies, if you want the mister to point the camera in your direction, it helps to be surrounded by stuffed wildlife.