Late this afternoon I was at the nail salon when I got a call from my 11 year old daughter Sophie. I grabbed my cell phone and excitedly said, "Hi honey! How's your vacation going?" Just a few days ago, Sophie was offered an amazing opportunity. Her best friend invited her to go to St Thomas in the Virgin Islands, all expenses paid. She was told to just bring some "kickin' around money." Within 48 hours she was on a plane (first class no less) and on her way to paradise. I was dying to hear how her trip was going. I think I was secretly hoping she was missing her mama (just a little bit.) After listening to her tales of swimming with turtles, I could hear her bff whisper into Sophie's ear, and a little side conversation took place. "Just ASK her!" Sophie came back on the phone and said, "Mom, can I get my belly button pierced tomorrow?"
"What? Are you kidding me? Absolutely NOT!"
"But why not? Mackenzie is!"
I didn't want the entire nail salon hearing me do a freak out, so I lowered my head and hissed into the phone: "If you think I'm letting my 11 year old daughter get her belly button pierced, you are outta your ever-lovin' mind."
She pouted and sulked and barely mumbled a good-bye before she hung up.
I looked up and met the eyes of a few of the other mothers in the salon. They gave me a sympathetic nod and half smile. "So did I miss a trend here?" I asked them. "Do middle school girls actually have their belly buttons pierced now?" I was shocked when I was told that while it's not the everyday norm, it's certainly not uncommon to see.
What the hell... I was, in a rare moment, speechless. I don't even think she has pit hair yet... how can she even be contemplating getting her belly button pierced?
And what I think shocked me just as much - how did I miss a trend as important as this? I had always vowed to be the "cool" mom. I mean, I listen to Usher and Pitbull, I'm on Facebook, I know who Justin Bieber is, I shop at the mall and I wouldn't be caught dead in "mom jeans." One time I had brought my 4 kids up to my friend's house, who also has 4 kids. We went to college together and we get together at least once a year with all our 8 kids. We had a lot of fun living together in our sorority house. We thought we were all that and a bag of chips. Actually, we still do. Anyway, at our last get-together I had given her a framed photo of us at some house party up at college. We were looking at it and reminiscing, when one of her daughters looked at it and sneered. "Did you two think you were, like, POPULAR or something like that?"
My friend and I were outraged. "Oh we were popular all right! Everyone wanted to hang around us. We were so much fun!" Her daughter laughed and said, "Oh sure you were."
I'm sure I was that arrogantly confident back then. I know I thought my mother was woefully out of touch (even though she was hanging with her girlfriends and going to Rolling Stones concerts). I suppose my girls feel the same way. On the nights I come unglued when they won't go to bed and I end up yelling until my neck vein pops out, they probably look at each other when I'm out of ear shot and say, "God, did you get a look at her pajamas? How nerdy can she GET??"
Friday, February 25, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
All I want is a hamster!
What is it with kids wanting hamsters? Chloe called me today, barely able to speak because she was so excited. She had spent the night at a friend's house, and found out they were giving away THREE FREE HAMSTERS. "Mom, I'm not even kidding. Three of 'em, for FREE. Plus the cage. All we'd have to pay for is the food, and that's like two dollars." My kids are now acutely aware of how much things cost since I was unemployed for seven months last year. I told her, "Absolutely not. We are not getting any more rodent pets. Don't you remember how when we had the guinea pigs?" Several years ago I let my two older girls talk me into getting two guinea pigs from someone who advertsied in the local paper, free with all their supplies. The guinea pigs seemed okay at first, pretty low maintenance. But of course no one would clean their big container; that was always left up to me. And I thought they stunk after a awhile. Then we had "The Incident." Chloe was maybe three years old, and had been told repeatedly not to pick up a guinea pig without someone there to help her. A couple times she turned into Lennie from "Of Mice and Men" and was caught stroking a guinea pig, and coming very close to saying "George, tell me about the rabbits..." One morning we woke up and it was obvious one of the guinea pigs had come to an early demise. To console my oldest daughter Frankie, I promised we'd buy her a replacement guinea pig. "Why'd Chloe have to go and kill MINE??" I shushed her and told we didn't have proof, just a sneaking suspicion. I then took her to a pet store and forked over $40 for a long haired guinea pig we named Crystal (as in Crystal Gayle). We took Crystal home and explained her name's meaning to the rest of the family. My husband took one look at the guinea pig's hyperactivity and said, "Or as in Crystal Meth."
I'm not sure how long we had them until the kids lost complete interest in them. I placed an ad in the paper, called the schools, called pet shops, even Chino Latino in Minneapolis. In case you didn't know, they serve guinea pig - it's considered a delicacy in Peru. No one wanted free guinea pigs. I called the humane society and there was a "surrender fee." I even broke down and called the Guinea Pig Rescue Association and lied and told them my kids were allergic. I was told I needed a consult from a vet and needed to go through a counseling session before I was allowed to surrender them (plus there was a fee.) I had no idea what to do. Finally my dad was over one night and said, "Just give me the pigs. I'll take care of 'em." I excitedly told my two older girls the guinea pigs were going to a farm and handed the animals to my dad in a shoe box. To this day I still don't know exactly what happened to them. I asked my dad once and he turned into Marlon Brando: "Don't ever ask what happened to the guinea pigs." Ok, then. 'Nuf said. So Frankie and Sophie, if you're reading this - we um, probably need to have a talk about "the farm."
Now I have Chloe begging and pleading for these free hamsters. Ick. I don't like little pets that look like rodents with cuter coats. She was standing in the hallway this afternoon, wearing these thigh-high boots my friend let her have for dress-up. They're basically mini-hooker boots, and she was using them to stomp her foot down and cry harder. Her fists were balled up and I did feel bad for her, but I know how this is going to end, and I don't think I can count on Marlon Brando for another "favor" like the last time...
I'm not sure how long we had them until the kids lost complete interest in them. I placed an ad in the paper, called the schools, called pet shops, even Chino Latino in Minneapolis. In case you didn't know, they serve guinea pig - it's considered a delicacy in Peru. No one wanted free guinea pigs. I called the humane society and there was a "surrender fee." I even broke down and called the Guinea Pig Rescue Association and lied and told them my kids were allergic. I was told I needed a consult from a vet and needed to go through a counseling session before I was allowed to surrender them (plus there was a fee.) I had no idea what to do. Finally my dad was over one night and said, "Just give me the pigs. I'll take care of 'em." I excitedly told my two older girls the guinea pigs were going to a farm and handed the animals to my dad in a shoe box. To this day I still don't know exactly what happened to them. I asked my dad once and he turned into Marlon Brando: "Don't ever ask what happened to the guinea pigs." Ok, then. 'Nuf said. So Frankie and Sophie, if you're reading this - we um, probably need to have a talk about "the farm."
Now I have Chloe begging and pleading for these free hamsters. Ick. I don't like little pets that look like rodents with cuter coats. She was standing in the hallway this afternoon, wearing these thigh-high boots my friend let her have for dress-up. They're basically mini-hooker boots, and she was using them to stomp her foot down and cry harder. Her fists were balled up and I did feel bad for her, but I know how this is going to end, and I don't think I can count on Marlon Brando for another "favor" like the last time...
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Attention Deficit Disorder and Stripping Wallpaper
Last Saturday morning I announced to my husband: "I want all the wallpaper gone in our house, with all the rooms painted, before my purse party on the 26th." He turned to me, then gave me a look like I asked him to give the dog an enema. Needless to say, that was the extent of his enthusiasm throughout the weekend.
I am the first to admit - I am not a big fan of wallpaper. We've owned a few different homes, and each one of them required a lot of wallpaper removal and re-painting. I'm a big planner... I like to take a critical appraisal of the room, decide the wallpaper has to go, then head off to Benjamin Moore for paint samples. While I do some of the stripping and painting, the majority is left to my husband. I do a lot of circling the color squares and asking, "Do you like Cocoa Brown or Cobblestone better?"
The house we're in now had a Wallpaper LOVER as the previous owner. Complete with bird's nest-borders in the kitchen, and some kind of tapestry fabric in the living room. The wallpaper is coming off okay, but the glue backing is going to drive me to go stark raving mad.
The three repetitive steps are the worst:
Score (the wallpaper with the circle thing)
Spray (with Dif or something similar)
Scrape (with the metal spatula)
Score. Spray. Scrape.
Score. Spray. Scrape.
Ugh.
I can do it for all of 3 minutes before something else grabs my attention. "Hey Mom, can you sign this permission slip?" "Phone's for you..." "Do you want a piece of toast?" (Hell to the yeah, of course I do...)
Stripping wallpaper with adult ADD is no easy task. I'm not trying to make light of ADD; a couple of my kids are treated for it. And just to be clear... I am not one of those mothers who believe "behavior modification" is the key. No way. If I could slap an Adderall patch on my kids' necks each morning on their way into school to make them behave, I would. I'd sprinkle Ritalin on their cereal if it made them remember to pick their towels off the floor.
A few years ago I was in the doctor's office with a few of the kids, trying to do a "patient assessment" on one of them, to determine if they did indeed qualify for ADD or ADHD. The doctor asked me if ADD ran in the family. I must not have been paying attention because he cleared his throat and asked again. "I'm sorry, what?" I asked. I had been busy doing the scratch-n-sniff off a magazine perfume sample. When he repeated his question, I nodded knowingly and leaned forward. "They probably get it from their uncle. He totally had it as a kid."
Needless to say, this wallpaper scraping thing is completely boring.
Score. Spray. Scrape.
Well, I better quit blogging and get back to scraping. I could have sworn I just saw a squirrel run by the window.
I am the first to admit - I am not a big fan of wallpaper. We've owned a few different homes, and each one of them required a lot of wallpaper removal and re-painting. I'm a big planner... I like to take a critical appraisal of the room, decide the wallpaper has to go, then head off to Benjamin Moore for paint samples. While I do some of the stripping and painting, the majority is left to my husband. I do a lot of circling the color squares and asking, "Do you like Cocoa Brown or Cobblestone better?"
The house we're in now had a Wallpaper LOVER as the previous owner. Complete with bird's nest-borders in the kitchen, and some kind of tapestry fabric in the living room. The wallpaper is coming off okay, but the glue backing is going to drive me to go stark raving mad.
The three repetitive steps are the worst:
Score (the wallpaper with the circle thing)
Spray (with Dif or something similar)
Scrape (with the metal spatula)
Score. Spray. Scrape.
Score. Spray. Scrape.
Ugh.
I can do it for all of 3 minutes before something else grabs my attention. "Hey Mom, can you sign this permission slip?" "Phone's for you..." "Do you want a piece of toast?" (Hell to the yeah, of course I do...)
Stripping wallpaper with adult ADD is no easy task. I'm not trying to make light of ADD; a couple of my kids are treated for it. And just to be clear... I am not one of those mothers who believe "behavior modification" is the key. No way. If I could slap an Adderall patch on my kids' necks each morning on their way into school to make them behave, I would. I'd sprinkle Ritalin on their cereal if it made them remember to pick their towels off the floor.
A few years ago I was in the doctor's office with a few of the kids, trying to do a "patient assessment" on one of them, to determine if they did indeed qualify for ADD or ADHD. The doctor asked me if ADD ran in the family. I must not have been paying attention because he cleared his throat and asked again. "I'm sorry, what?" I asked. I had been busy doing the scratch-n-sniff off a magazine perfume sample. When he repeated his question, I nodded knowingly and leaned forward. "They probably get it from their uncle. He totally had it as a kid."
Needless to say, this wallpaper scraping thing is completely boring.
Score. Spray. Scrape.
Well, I better quit blogging and get back to scraping. I could have sworn I just saw a squirrel run by the window.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Only call me at work if it's an emergency
Back in the day, say late 70s or early 80s, my brother and I would be at home some afternoons while my mom worked as a nurse in a clinic. She would always admonish us by saying "Only call me at work if it's an emergency." I think for the most part we took that to heart and followed the instructions well. I'm fairly certain she never knew about the times we would take off for hours on exploration field trips in the woods by our house, or when we'd make homemade weapons with rusty farm machinery we'd find lying around. My brother and I used to play a game called "War" that basically just allowed us to beat the crap out of each other with no ramifications. Nothing was off limits. That was when Mom would get a call at the clinic, and all she would hear was a croaking "He's KILLING me!"
I'm surprised she didn't just come home, spank us with the wooden spoon, tie us both up to chairs and then head back to work.
Things are different now. My kids call me at work all the time. I've tried threatening, bribing, pleading.... nothing seems to make a difference. I haven't even given them my direct line at work, because they would be blowing that number up non-stop. They just have my cell phone number, and that's dangerous enough. Here is a small sample of the "emergency only" calls I've received:
From Chloe: "Mom, you need to ground Frankie when you get home because she's making me do all her crap and I'm sick of it."
From Frankie: "Just so you know, Mom, Wyatt put a ladder up to his bedroom window, removed the screen and is now climbing out, and going up and down."
From Sophie: "Mom, I want a pair of Wildcat sweat-pants that say my name across the butt."
From Wyatt: "Mom, will you bring me home a treat?"
And this afternoon, I received an urgent call from my 13 year old daughter Frankie: "Seriously Mom you need to schedule me an eyebrow wax appointment IMMEDIATELY." Sigh... (see previous post regarding our family's issues with facial hair).
I suppose you can ask why I even bother answering the phone, knowing that 99% of the time they are just calls that make my right eye twitch uncontrollably. But it's always the 1% chance that someone has knocked out a tooth or needs stitches (also both examples of calls I've received.) I do need to keep in mind that in just a few short years, I will undoubtedly be checking my cell phone and hoping one of them has called... just to check in.
I'm surprised she didn't just come home, spank us with the wooden spoon, tie us both up to chairs and then head back to work.
Things are different now. My kids call me at work all the time. I've tried threatening, bribing, pleading.... nothing seems to make a difference. I haven't even given them my direct line at work, because they would be blowing that number up non-stop. They just have my cell phone number, and that's dangerous enough. Here is a small sample of the "emergency only" calls I've received:
From Chloe: "Mom, you need to ground Frankie when you get home because she's making me do all her crap and I'm sick of it."
From Frankie: "Just so you know, Mom, Wyatt put a ladder up to his bedroom window, removed the screen and is now climbing out, and going up and down."
From Sophie: "Mom, I want a pair of Wildcat sweat-pants that say my name across the butt."
From Wyatt: "Mom, will you bring me home a treat?"
And this afternoon, I received an urgent call from my 13 year old daughter Frankie: "Seriously Mom you need to schedule me an eyebrow wax appointment IMMEDIATELY." Sigh... (see previous post regarding our family's issues with facial hair).
I suppose you can ask why I even bother answering the phone, knowing that 99% of the time they are just calls that make my right eye twitch uncontrollably. But it's always the 1% chance that someone has knocked out a tooth or needs stitches (also both examples of calls I've received.) I do need to keep in mind that in just a few short years, I will undoubtedly be checking my cell phone and hoping one of them has called... just to check in.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Waxing Humiliation
Back in 1984 when I was all of 14 years old, I finally talked my mom into letting me get my eyebrows waxed. I was so excited... I had images of thinly arched brows, while wearing Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. (Not sure why the "swan jeans" were part of my dream, but they were.) Even though thicker brows were considered "in", I wasn't buying it. I didn't care WHAT Brooke Shields was wearing underneath her Calvins, all I knew is that I didn't want her eyebrows. Once my first eyebrow wax session was over, I was hugely disappointed. I could barely tell the difference. Aside from cleaning up the unibrow in the middle, they still basically looked the same. I still had what I've always called my Chewbacca Brows.
Through the years I've gotten much better about being more assertive with the people doing my brows. I'm not afraid to hold that hand mirror and give direction: "Nope, thin them out more please. Need more of an arch toward the middle." Also, back in 1984 I was told that eventually I wouldn't even have to wax my eyebrows. That the constant pulling out of the hair follicles would render the waxing process unnecessary. Bullsh*t. I could probably feeding a third world country for a day based on the amount of money I've spent on waxing.
And do you want to hear the beauty of it? As I've gotten older, I've had to wax more than just the eyebrows off my face. About 5 years ago I started getting my upper lip waxed. Sometimes my stylist, Amy, gets the tweezers out when she's done waxing "just to get the strays." One time about a year or two ago she paused, then asked "Do you mind if I remove one from your chin?" What? Seriously? I told her, "God, Amy if there is anyone who has authority to rip out a stray facial hair, it's YOU."
Now I've given her carte blanche to use her full authority in making sure my lip and chin area is hair free. I feel like each time I go in there for a wax I shouldn't even specify "lip and eyebrow wax." I should just ask for the "entire hairy face special." Last time I was there she spent an inordinate amount of time by my chin, and then God forbid, by my neck. She said she was just looking, closely, but I'm not sure. Then she took the tweezers and had a field day with that little area above the chin, right underneath the lower lip. Not sure if you've ever had anything tweezed/plucked in that area, but it is unbelievably sensitive. Finally, I think I grabbed her wrist and said, "Amy, for God's sake if you have to do my Soul Patch, next time just wax it. I can't stand the tweezing!"
To borrow a phrase, Gettin' old ain't for sissies. I'm just thankful I'm not at the stage where I have to get my nasal hairs trimmed. Yet.
Through the years I've gotten much better about being more assertive with the people doing my brows. I'm not afraid to hold that hand mirror and give direction: "Nope, thin them out more please. Need more of an arch toward the middle." Also, back in 1984 I was told that eventually I wouldn't even have to wax my eyebrows. That the constant pulling out of the hair follicles would render the waxing process unnecessary. Bullsh*t. I could probably feeding a third world country for a day based on the amount of money I've spent on waxing.
And do you want to hear the beauty of it? As I've gotten older, I've had to wax more than just the eyebrows off my face. About 5 years ago I started getting my upper lip waxed. Sometimes my stylist, Amy, gets the tweezers out when she's done waxing "just to get the strays." One time about a year or two ago she paused, then asked "Do you mind if I remove one from your chin?" What? Seriously? I told her, "God, Amy if there is anyone who has authority to rip out a stray facial hair, it's YOU."
Now I've given her carte blanche to use her full authority in making sure my lip and chin area is hair free. I feel like each time I go in there for a wax I shouldn't even specify "lip and eyebrow wax." I should just ask for the "entire hairy face special." Last time I was there she spent an inordinate amount of time by my chin, and then God forbid, by my neck. She said she was just looking, closely, but I'm not sure. Then she took the tweezers and had a field day with that little area above the chin, right underneath the lower lip. Not sure if you've ever had anything tweezed/plucked in that area, but it is unbelievably sensitive. Finally, I think I grabbed her wrist and said, "Amy, for God's sake if you have to do my Soul Patch, next time just wax it. I can't stand the tweezing!"
To borrow a phrase, Gettin' old ain't for sissies. I'm just thankful I'm not at the stage where I have to get my nasal hairs trimmed. Yet.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Bump-Its and Bitchiness
You know those hair things that have been touted all over infomercials? They make your hair poof out toward the back of your head, like a mini beehive. They're called Bump-Its, and my 8 year old daughter Chloe became obsessed with them. I don't always claim to understand what drives my children's obsessions, but I am all for using them for bribing purposes.
A couple weeks ago she woke up and said, "Guess what Mom? Only 4 more days until you get paid and buy me a Bump-It like you promised." She'd been marking the days on her calendar with big X's, and knew that her prized possession was within grasp. And me, being a child of the 80s and a lover of all things Big and Over The Top, can appreciate her love for big hair.
I finally bought it for her - it actually comes in a box of 3 sizes. $5.99 at Walgreens only, good thing I waited until payday. She spent a good 2 hours in front of the mirror that night, trying on the different sizes and trying to determine which one made the biggest impact.
Just a few days later was her third grade class field trip that I agreed to help chaperone. Her outfit choice for the day? Skinny jeans, a leopard hoodie, a Bump-It, and a silk Hawaiian flower in the back of her hair. I called her my Little Wisconsin Snookie. I also showed up wearing an animal print top, teased hair, heels and blinged out jewelry. I think I was switched at birth with a baby from New Jersey. Somewhere, out there in Trenton, is a confused woman with straightened hair, minimal makeup and an outfit from Lands End.
After spending about 4 hours herding cats/chaperoning kids, I went back to work for awhile. Later that evening another round of Nighttime Chaos ensued. Dinner needed to be made, homework needed to be checked, etc. I was trying to get the kids into bed and coerce everyone into not screaming. Chloe kept trying to get my attention and I admit, I was distracted. I think I was trying to figure out why the dog had barf on it's chin and what that possibly meant for clean-up later. Anyway, in a fit of 8 year old rage, Chloe screamed "All you care about is your fake nails and your fake hair!!" I looked at her (and very maturely responded) "Fake hair? I'm not the one wearing a Bump-It!" She sneered, spun around, and left the room. And 3...2...1... door slam.
A couple weeks ago she woke up and said, "Guess what Mom? Only 4 more days until you get paid and buy me a Bump-It like you promised." She'd been marking the days on her calendar with big X's, and knew that her prized possession was within grasp. And me, being a child of the 80s and a lover of all things Big and Over The Top, can appreciate her love for big hair.
I finally bought it for her - it actually comes in a box of 3 sizes. $5.99 at Walgreens only, good thing I waited until payday. She spent a good 2 hours in front of the mirror that night, trying on the different sizes and trying to determine which one made the biggest impact.
Just a few days later was her third grade class field trip that I agreed to help chaperone. Her outfit choice for the day? Skinny jeans, a leopard hoodie, a Bump-It, and a silk Hawaiian flower in the back of her hair. I called her my Little Wisconsin Snookie. I also showed up wearing an animal print top, teased hair, heels and blinged out jewelry. I think I was switched at birth with a baby from New Jersey. Somewhere, out there in Trenton, is a confused woman with straightened hair, minimal makeup and an outfit from Lands End.
After spending about 4 hours herding cats/chaperoning kids, I went back to work for awhile. Later that evening another round of Nighttime Chaos ensued. Dinner needed to be made, homework needed to be checked, etc. I was trying to get the kids into bed and coerce everyone into not screaming. Chloe kept trying to get my attention and I admit, I was distracted. I think I was trying to figure out why the dog had barf on it's chin and what that possibly meant for clean-up later. Anyway, in a fit of 8 year old rage, Chloe screamed "All you care about is your fake nails and your fake hair!!" I looked at her (and very maturely responded) "Fake hair? I'm not the one wearing a Bump-It!" She sneered, spun around, and left the room. And 3...2...1... door slam.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
The Ninja of Poop
Before I had kids, I used to imagine parenting very differently. It was a lot of images of ProEx portrait sessions, cheering from the football sidelines and getting my dancers dressed for their recitals. It was NOT wiping vomit off the floor or physically putting myself between a couple of my daughters before they scratched each others eyes out. Oh well... I wouldn't change it for the world.
Last Monday night was another day of snow. This has been the snowiest winter I can ever remember. As a result, it's been making my commute home from work a lot longer than it normally is. When I got home on Monday, I realized I was going to have to take Sophie (my 11 year old) to the doctor. She hadn't been feeling well for a week. She had just done the Polar Plunge in White Bear Lake a few days before, and I had a sneaking suspicion I was going to feel pretty guilty going to the doctor. We dropped her 8 year old sister, Chloe, off at gymnastics and headed to the clinic. I also had my 6 year old son Wyatt with me. After an hour long wait/visit, we left with a prescription for antibiotics to clear up Sophie's case of strep throat (nice work, Mom. Way to encourage her to jump in a frozen lake) We stopped at the pharmacy, then I brought Sophie and Wyatt home. Still had to pick up Chloe. While waiting in the parking lot of the gymnastics place, some driver not paying attention backs into my car. My vehicle that I've made all of 4 payments on. I was so upset, I came out of that car like my head was on fire. After seeing that there was no damage and chastising him for not clearing the snow off the back window, I grabbed Chloe and we left for home. At this point, I was exhausted. My husband works afternoons and evenings, so I do all the single-mom running around during the week. To every school event, dance class, activity session - you name it.
Here's my deal with bedtime: At the beginning, I'm the sweetest mother ever. I give hugs, kisses and sometimes even lie down with them. But then, by the 4th or 5th time that they sneak out of bed "for just a glass of water" I start to lose it. All I want is some down time to sit on the couch and watch the shows I've recorded (like Maury or Intervention... shows that make me feel better than some other hoarders and alocholics out there). So on Monday night my nerves were just shot. No one was listening to me. Then I went into the bathroom and realized one of them had clogged the toilet. EVERYTHING had spilled up and out and onto my bathroom floor. Of course all the kids denied it was them. After 15 minutes of cleaning, scrubbing and gagging, I finally had the bathroom cleaned. I carefully scooped up the towels and rugs and brought them to the laundry room. At that point I felt something warm and wet fall on my foot. That's when I screamed and started flailing the arms and legs. I thought it was a turd. But alas, I looked down and it was just a cough drop. I could not pour myself a glass of wine fast enough after that.
Two nights ago, in another night of exhaustion and just wanting bedtime to get here, my son walks out of the bathroom and announces "Someone must have clogged the toilet again. My socks got wet when I stepped on the bathroom floor." I wasn't sure if I was going to scream or cry. I think what I did next was a mixture of both. Do you ever have those moments when you "lose it" as a mom? When you can actually step back and see yourself and how you're acting? And not be able to stop it no matter what? That was me. I came out of the bathroom with the plunger, practically brandishing it like a Samurai sword. I'm surprised I wasn't swinging it over my head. My kids looked at me like I had lost my mind, which in a way - I momentarily did. All I can remember is yelling something along the lines of "If none of you know how to wipe your butts without using an entire roll of toilet paper, let me know so I can re-train you!" I sent my husband a text saying I was exhausted, I needed a break from the kids and I was about 2 minutes away from the bell jar. Thank god for the weekend.
Last Monday night was another day of snow. This has been the snowiest winter I can ever remember. As a result, it's been making my commute home from work a lot longer than it normally is. When I got home on Monday, I realized I was going to have to take Sophie (my 11 year old) to the doctor. She hadn't been feeling well for a week. She had just done the Polar Plunge in White Bear Lake a few days before, and I had a sneaking suspicion I was going to feel pretty guilty going to the doctor. We dropped her 8 year old sister, Chloe, off at gymnastics and headed to the clinic. I also had my 6 year old son Wyatt with me. After an hour long wait/visit, we left with a prescription for antibiotics to clear up Sophie's case of strep throat (nice work, Mom. Way to encourage her to jump in a frozen lake) We stopped at the pharmacy, then I brought Sophie and Wyatt home. Still had to pick up Chloe. While waiting in the parking lot of the gymnastics place, some driver not paying attention backs into my car. My vehicle that I've made all of 4 payments on. I was so upset, I came out of that car like my head was on fire. After seeing that there was no damage and chastising him for not clearing the snow off the back window, I grabbed Chloe and we left for home. At this point, I was exhausted. My husband works afternoons and evenings, so I do all the single-mom running around during the week. To every school event, dance class, activity session - you name it.
Here's my deal with bedtime: At the beginning, I'm the sweetest mother ever. I give hugs, kisses and sometimes even lie down with them. But then, by the 4th or 5th time that they sneak out of bed "for just a glass of water" I start to lose it. All I want is some down time to sit on the couch and watch the shows I've recorded (like Maury or Intervention... shows that make me feel better than some other hoarders and alocholics out there). So on Monday night my nerves were just shot. No one was listening to me. Then I went into the bathroom and realized one of them had clogged the toilet. EVERYTHING had spilled up and out and onto my bathroom floor. Of course all the kids denied it was them. After 15 minutes of cleaning, scrubbing and gagging, I finally had the bathroom cleaned. I carefully scooped up the towels and rugs and brought them to the laundry room. At that point I felt something warm and wet fall on my foot. That's when I screamed and started flailing the arms and legs. I thought it was a turd. But alas, I looked down and it was just a cough drop. I could not pour myself a glass of wine fast enough after that.
Two nights ago, in another night of exhaustion and just wanting bedtime to get here, my son walks out of the bathroom and announces "Someone must have clogged the toilet again. My socks got wet when I stepped on the bathroom floor." I wasn't sure if I was going to scream or cry. I think what I did next was a mixture of both. Do you ever have those moments when you "lose it" as a mom? When you can actually step back and see yourself and how you're acting? And not be able to stop it no matter what? That was me. I came out of the bathroom with the plunger, practically brandishing it like a Samurai sword. I'm surprised I wasn't swinging it over my head. My kids looked at me like I had lost my mind, which in a way - I momentarily did. All I can remember is yelling something along the lines of "If none of you know how to wipe your butts without using an entire roll of toilet paper, let me know so I can re-train you!" I sent my husband a text saying I was exhausted, I needed a break from the kids and I was about 2 minutes away from the bell jar. Thank god for the weekend.
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