I'm Not Sure My Family is Normal

"You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them." ~ Desmond Tutu


Isn't that a lovely quote? I mean really, it summarizes such a loving sentiment. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy and happy inside. Kind of makes you forget your family may or may not be filled with drama queens, fist fighters, law breakers, alcoholics or all-around shit heads.
But let's always remember the cardinal rule of families:
Everyone has a weird relative. And if you don't... then YOU'RE the weird relative.
Now that 2013 is coming to a close, it gives me time to reflect on what an interesting year it's been, and how fantastic it's been being surrounded by my family. Because if you're lucky enough to have a great group of friends, they're your family too.
Whenever it comes to my four kids and we're all in a room together, the pendulum can swing when it comes to how the mood is going to progress. We can be having a sweet moment at the dinner table and everyone is being actually kind and respectful to each other. And not even ten minutes later I'm trying to break up a melee between two daughters, each accusing the other of breaking all grounds of decency by wearing the other's underwear.
"Those are mine, you disgusting pig!"
"No they're not!"
"Yes, they are - you freak."
Then the challenge is made. A quick, calculated look from one to another. "Well, it's not like your name is on them."
Seriously? That's your litmus test? Because it's pretty safe to assume that unless any of us are named Victoria in this family, those undies are up for grabs.
Well, unless you're my 9 year old son. Pretty sure we'll always be able to determine which pair belong to him.
And even when my kids are threatening bodily harm over an xBox controller or giving each other the stink eye over who drank the last of the milk, I know deep down they love each other. And me. They just have weird ways of showing it.
A few weeks ago I shoveled the driveway, then walked back into the house and announced everyone had to put on their coats and shoes and come outside. I had something to show them.
Their speculation at what the surprise could be was intense.
"Did you get a new car?"
"Is there a package?"
"Are you pregnant?"
I rolled my eyes. "Good grief. Why would I drag you outside to tell you I was pregnant? You'd find me on the couch with a bottle of tequila, crying my eyes out."
Finally the five of us stood outside. They looked around, not sure what they were supposed to be seeing. After a minute, my eldest daughter said, "You shoveled the driveway."
"Ahhh, winner winner chicken dinner," I told them. "And let me be clear...that is the LAST time I am shoveling the driveway. I could slip and fall."
I noticed one of them rolling their eyes and looking at their sister with the "oh it's the ol' broken hip excuse." I narrowed my eyes and made my nostrils wide, hoping to emphasize my SERIOUSNESS IN THIS MATTER.
"I'm not kidding," I said. "From now on, whenever there's at least an inch of snow on the ground, I expect at least one of you to be out here shoveling. I don't care which one and I don't care if you come up with some type of schedule. All I know is that I will not be shoveling again. Any questions?"
They looked at me like I had just suggested a turd wrapped up in a crescent roll for dinner.
As we all made our way back into the house, my 11 year old daughter said to me, "I thought you were going to tell us that Channing Tatum was in our driveway, wrapped in a bow."
Ah, that's my girl. Always praying for beefcake.
I know most parents would hope that their children would willingly and lovingly offer to do chores around the house. In my fantasies I come home from work, and all four kids jump up and take my coat, my purse, and shove a cocktail in my hand. They fuss over me and have me rest my feet on the couch, while they set the table and get dinner ready. In my fantasy no one tells me my feet stink and they need money immediately.
But one thing I have noticed over the holidays is how sweet and gracious and loving my kids have been to other relatives. Especially when it comes to gift-receiving situations. It warmed my heart to see them with smiles on their faces and thank-yous come out of their lips on Christmas Eve. It made me think of all those years of pinching their elbows and hissing in their ears "I swear to god, if you don't say thank you in there and act like it's the best gift EVER I will take away every toy that's ever belonged to you and sell them on eBay" may have actually WORKED. I would look deep in their eyes to make sure we understood each other, and at some point one of my kids would say, "Yeah, I got it. Gosh, how much coffee have you had today? Brush your teeth. Gross."
In a few more hours it will be New Years Eve, and I'm going to be lucky enough to hang out with some wonderful friends. And yes, they are like family. Sometimes we argue and ignore each other and call each other on stupid antics. But most of the time, we are there for each other. We cheer each other on and embrace our collective weirdness.
So yes, over the years and amongst the legends ~ I may indeed be surrounded by drama queens, fist fighters, law breakers, alcoholics or all-around shit heads. Or I may not. That's what makes the stories good. My island of misfit toys is exactly what I need to feel loved and normal.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Put Down your iPhone and Show Me How You Twerk

"Mom, are you watching?"



How many times have I heard that? Dozens,  hundreds, thousands? I don't know for sure, but it's been a lot. Too many to count. I do know it used to be a constant hum in my ear, the background noise of every mom taking her kids to the park. The white noise of daily activities when your kids are little, when they constantly want your attention and your praise and want you to see how they jump off the swing.
And bike up the ramp.
And do a new dance.
And I wasn't always watching.
I would pretend to. I would do the absent-minded nod and murmur the standard, "Yep, good job."
"Mom, are you watching?"
"Yes, I told you I was."
But I wasn't always. Years ago when the kids were really little and I would wrangle them up and take them somewhere to run wild, I would sit somewhere where I could view them the majority of the time. Back then there were no smart phones to distract you, but you can better believe I would pick up a copy of anything accessible to read, even if it was a copy of The Shopper, just so I could mentally escape.
Now there are these constant guilt-inducing articles about the iPhone Mom. How mothers aren't paying attention to their kids because they're so engrossed in checking email, and updating Facebook and ignoring poor little Junior who has somehow managed to flip upside down in the swing, and is now licking gravel with his open mouth while he waits for his mom to finish her tweet.
And for this fault I will readily admit guilt. I have been that Mom.
My kids would probably say I still am - at least partially.
But I am trying to be much better. It's not easy.
One thing that helps is the ever revolving relationship with my kids. Now that they're getting older, I seem to be a lot less stressed. I no longer have to devote 4 hours each night to meal prep, bath times and teeth brushing. Sometimes I don't make a meal at all. Sometimes I tell the kids to dig out some leftovers and brush their own teeth afterward. And that, my friends, can be true bliss.
In addition to removing their own tartar and plaque, they can now keep themselves busy for hours on end. They don't need me to start a game timer on again, or scoop up the Legos and help them decipher a diagram. That's bittersweet though too, isn't it? Not being as needed as you were before. Sure, it frees up your time, but you are missing some of that precious interaction with them.
So why the hell do I whip out my phone when my kids are actually asking me to spend time with them? It's like an iCrack addiction.
The last few months I have been waning myself off my drug. And while it's not as easy as I had hoped, some of the one-on-one time I'm spending with the kids now is priceless.
Take, for instance, our discussion of Miley Cyrus and her pornographic use of a foam finger.
"She can't even twerk, Mom," Chloe, my 11 year old, informed me. "She's not even doing it right."
Now I'm not completely out of touch. I had recently YouTubed a tutorial on that very dance. "Well, she didn't seem to be able to do The Bounce," I told my daughter. "There wasn't a lot of front and back hip motion, but she seemed to be able to do the Side to Side part ok."
Chloe rolled her eyes. "No she didn't. She couldn't even keep the side to side part shaking. She barely has a butt at all anyway."
And then, for a reason I can only chalk up to temporary insanity brought on by childhood exposure to lead paint in my crib, I accepted my daughter's challenge to do the side to side booty shake. Luckily I was wearing yoga pants, so I merely bent forward at the waist, extended my arms out, and shook my ass like it was nobody's business. I was completely ready to see my daughter collapsed on the floor in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. See, I have no problem embarrassing myself in front of my kids for their amusement. It's a win win if we all laugh.
But what I wasn't expecting was my daughter racing up the stairs and barging in her sister's room. "Ohmigod Sophie, you are not going to believe it. But Mom can twerk and she's actually kinda good."
As much as I wanted to be the Jennifer Lopez of mothers, I had to come clean.
"I'd like to attribute it to my years of childhood dance classes, girls, but it simply comes down to Newton's Law in physics - An object in motion tends to stay in motion."
They stared at me blankly. I'm surprised they didn't ask if I was talking about a Fig Newton.
I tried to explain it in simpler terms. "The sheer size of my butt is what kept it moving back and forth. Not any technical skills on my part."
I think they grudgingly accepted that their mom was no Dancing Queen, but we still laugh about it and I am so glad I didn't have my nose buried in Facebook while the Shake Challenge went unanswered.
Another reason I knew I had to scale back in the use of my phone was due to a nightmare my 9 year old son recently had. Around midnight he scurried into my room and under my blankets.
"I had a nightmare," he whispered in the darkness.
"About what?"
"I can't say. It's too horrible." He buried his head next to me.
A nightmare too horrible to tell a parent usually only means one thing.
I turned to him. "Did you dream I died?"
He nodded, and with a little prodding began to spill the beans. To summarize a 9 year old's middle-of-the-night rambling, the dream started with me in a hot tub with Mitt Romney and President Obama. And somehow I ended up shot with a machine gun, but in Wyatt's dream he was rushing to my side and apparently while I was bleeding out I looked at him and whispered, "Quick. Take a picture of me on my phone before I die."
Now I know that was a horrible dream for my son. But I laughed so hard when he told me I almost cried.
Because seriously, what does that say?
I'll tell you what it says. It says I need to Put My Damn Phone Away. And it took a dream of a swimsuit wearing Romney (ewww) to remind me that I was on the right path by using my phone less and less.
In a couple years my oldest will be off at college. I don't want her to think of her mom scrolling through Facebook and "liking" a stupid photo of a bear in a tree.
I want my kids to remember me that I was present. And enjoying their childhood right along with them. And laughing at shared memories of their mom attempting to dance, and other ridiculous things they talk me into.
I want them to know the answer already when they asked the question:

"Mom, are you watching?"

Yes. I am.

From Carnies to Cowboys...

If you ever start feeling like you have the goofiest, craziest, most dysfunctional family in the world, all you have to do is go to a state fair. Because five minutes at the fair, you'll be going "You know, we're alright. We are dang near royalty." ~ Jeff Foxworthy

This quote could also apply to most, if not all, county fairs within the United States. Just this morning I was reading an article how a bull - dear god a real live snorting, nostril-flaring nightmare on hooves - got loose in a crowd at a nearby county fair and ended up trampling some innocent people. Luckily a few skilled rodeo riders on horseback successfully lassoed the beast and brought him back to his pen. It makes a gal feel her heart beat a little faster to think of a hero in Wranglers saving the day.
Even this gal, and I hate most things country.
But there's something about a cowboy that makes most women look twice. Maybe it's their mostly quiet nature, or their sexy Stetson. Who knows. Now in all honesty, if a cowboy was standing next to, say, a firefighter, I would have no qualms in shoving the cowboy into a hay bale in order to stand next to the uniform-wearing, hose-bearing eye candy who runs into burning buildings for a living.
Although a man who chases down a bull comes in a very close second.
I didn't always think cowboys were cute. Even when I was younger and went to the county fair at the end of every summer. Back then I was attracted to a whole different type of bad boy. A bad boy who wore t-shirts with the sleeves cut off, had a tooth pick in his mouth, who sported a mullet and a porn stache above his lip. A bad boy whose dental hygiene was questionable at best.
You know who I'm talking about.
That's right.
The 1980s era carnival worker. Also affectionately known as The Carnie.
School used to start in August for us, and the Pierce County Fair was always our last hurrah, our farewell to summer and a chance to maybe even wear some brand new, never worn school clothes. Never mind it was usually hotter than hell and the fairgrounds were filthy at night, I would strut those new white shoes like I was on a catwalk.
I can remember when I was 13 or 14 and I would think those carnies were so cute. I would spend all my babysitting money on the stupid balloon games so I could win another dozen 5 inch square mirrors with Journey and Black Sabbath on them. When I was tired of the mirrors, I would dig into my Lee jeans for more crumpled bills, and try my luck at more games. If I was lucky, I would win several feather roach clips, which I proudly wore in my hair, tucked behind my ears. Nothing screams small town hick like wearing drug paraphernalia as fashion, right?
It didn't matter. If I could catch the (sometimes crossed) eye of a carnie and make him smile at me, then I considered myself the big winner.
One summer when I was about 14, I was waiting outside one of the county fair buildings for my aunt. I was sitting in the grass and people watching. And then, right in front of me, sauntered My Crush. The ultimate Prescott Bad Boy. To this day, I can't think of his name, but I used to spend hours at the arcade staring at him while he fervently played Pac Man and Centipede. I would casually stroll by in my parachute pants and Billy Idol concert t-shirt and hope he caught a whiff of my Love's Baby Soft perfume. Ah, to no avail.
But there he was, in his skinny, pale, high school drop-out flesh, walking toward me.
And sweet Jesus, he actually smiled at me.
It was just then my aunt joined me. She took one look at the googly-eye fest going on between me and Ralph Macchio and told me two words. "Ish. Don't."
I don't know if it was my aunt's wise words of wisdom or just a phase I outgrew, but I stopped chasing down the carnies and the law breakers shortly after that.
Now many years later, it is me that is bringing my 14 year old daughter to the county fair. She has the good sense to avoid the carnies, but there are other boys there that I'm sure are catching her attention.
In fact I saw one this morning when we were decorating her horse stall. He looked like Justin Bieber wearing a cowboy hat. He walked by slowly and looked at my daughter sideways, like he didn't want to be caught. But I saw it. I narrowed my eyes and tried to mentally warn him to Stay Away. I want her to focus her next several days on western riding, some barrell racing and hopefully winning some of her classes.
I certainly don't need a Pre-pubescent John Wayne distracting her.
Back off, Mr. Check Out My Shiny Belt Buckle...
I have purses older than you. And I'm not afraid to swing 'em.

Damn Right it Takes a Village

“We need to understand that there is no formula for how women should lead their lives. That is why we must respect the choices that each woman makes for herself and her family.” ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton, It Takes a Village

There's a funny article that's been going around lately, popping up in emails and social media sites. It discusses a new method of parenting called the CTFD Method. In case you didn't know, it stands for Calm the F*** Down. I love it. It basically says you need to quit getting so uptight that you're not doing it right...just calm down and continue with your best intentions.
It's funny and calming, all at the same time. It makes you laugh and feel better about yourself and the choices you make.
Kind of like sipping a mojito while watching an episode of Dance Moms.
We all tackle this parenting gig differently. We all have expectations and ideas of what parenthood will be like.
Typically those ideas and expectations are dashed within the first week of birth, when you're removing a diaper off your newborn and realizing you should be wearing a bio hazard suit.
But all of us, or at least the vast majority of us, want the same things for our babies:
To be healthy...
To be happy...
To learn responsibility as they get older...
We just may go about it in a different way. Some of us are more organic, some of us are more into sports and athletics, some of us are more into the academic successes of our children.
And some of us are just desperately trying to give our children a little bit of all that, while keeping them confident and out of juvie.
We all go about guiding our children in different paths. As a divorced mom, I don't want my kids thinking they can get away with stuff just because they don't have a dad there every day barking in a stern dad voice. Trust me, my kids will say I bark plenty.
My friends will laugh and tell me, "You can be hard on those kids. I mean, good for you, but holy cow..."
One time I was on the phone with a friend, who is black. While I was telling my kids what to do before they could sit down and watch tv, my friend laughed on the other end and said, "Damn, Vanessa. You parent like a black mom."
Instantly I imagined myself as Tyler Perry's character Madea, standing in my kitchen. Minus the white hair and shapeless housedress. That coud be me, I thought.
About a month ago I had some girlfriends over and we were having wine out on my patio. I had told one of my daughters that she needed to mow the lawn.
"The front AND the back?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied, rolling my eyes.
"Why?" she whined.
"Because you didn't call me from the Mall of America last night when you said you would."
She turned around in a huff and began to mow the lawn.
During the next hour I watched her carefully while I sipped my wine. When she ran out of gas I instructed her how she should fill up the mower. When she missed a patch by some trees, I marched out into the lawn, carefully balancing my wine so it wouldn't spill, and pointed out that she wasn't finished. By this time my daughter had already showered, thinking she was finished. Nope, not quite.
My friends shook their heads and laughed. "Boy, you don't let up, do you."
But what are we teaching our kids if we let them get away with half-ass work?
Not that I'm always consistent. There are times I let them watch R rated movies, and play too many video games, and ride bikes around town and swim without life jackets.
The do-it-my-way and the what-the-hell-go-ahead attitudes have to balance each other out.
When we calm down, parenting becomes a lot easier.
You know what else gets easier? When we realize we can't do it all ourselves and accept help from the Village.
You know what Village I'm talking about - the other adults out there who help steer your kids in the right direction. Grandparents, teachers, family friends. Sometimes even complete strangers.
A few weeks ago I got a call from a number I didn't recognize. It was a woman who said she was with my 9 year old son, after he wiped out on the road on his bicycle. Apparently he was riding pretty fast and tried to take a corner without slowing down much. He wiped out and skinned his knees. This woman saw him and pulled over, making sure he was ok. Then she called me to let me know, and put my son on the line so I could talk to him.
It's instances like this that make me so grateful my kids are growing up in this town. They are surrounded by a great Village who look out for them and hold them accountable.
That's why I have no problem when my kids get reprimanded by my friends. Some people don't like it when other adults discipline their children. Not me. Have at it. Let my kids have the same fear growing up as I did:
Oh crap, how much did they see? And most importantly, are they going to tell my parents???
So you see, if we can embrace the Village and Calm the F*** Down, we'll all be better off. We'll be more relaxed as parents and our kids will know they can't get away with things.
Especially when they're mowing the back lawn.

Pig Bites and Summer Vacation

"God. When I was your age, I flipped burgers all summer just to buy an eight-track." ~ American Beauty

Tick tock.

The time is winding down, and the clock is about ready to strike, bringing us to the majority of working moms' most stressful time of year...

Summer Vacation.

Throughout the years my anxiety levels have run the gamut, morphing into their own special concerns as my kids have gotten older.

When they were really small, like babies, the only time I ever had summers off was if I managed to coincide them with a maternity leave. Funny, four kids age 7 and under never left me as relaxed as I had thought. I usually had one on the boob, one on a hip, and two more dancing around me, teasingly out of reach. Never was I able to sit pool side, sipping a margarita while all four would miraculously nap at the same time. Nope, the closest I ever got to leisurely pool activities is the one time when I jumped in - fully clothed in jeans and a t-shirt - because two year old Chloe drove her scooter straight into the deep end of the pool. That was fun.

Then when I stopped having babies, summer vacations consisted of paying obscene amounts of daycare costs for three months.

Eventually the years passed and the kids were allowed to spend limited amounts of their summer vacation at home during the day. I'd come home to the central air on full blast, windows wide open and 17 cereal bowls in various stages of destruction on the counter top. When school would return in September, I'd practically weep with relief and offer freezy-pop sacrifices in the back yard.

Now they're older, and if I can get them to look up from their XBox, iPad, laptops and cell phones long enough to make eye contact with me, I'll consider it a miracle. Seriously, I told them they're going to have to get exposure to the sun this summer or they'll all come down with rickets if they don't get enough Vitamin D. I'll probably pull into the driveway after work some day in August and find them all bow-legged in the front yard, pointing at the sun and asking each other "What is that strange glowing orb in the sky? We have not seen it in many, many moons."

Now to be fair, it's not that the school year doesn't have its share of stresses either.

Just a few weeks ago I was taking a week long insurance class. During a break, I checked my voicemail. My first message was from my son's third grade teacher. As soon as I heard her voice, my stomach dropped.

Please don't let it be lice, please don't let it be lice...

"Hi Vanessa, could you call me please? It's about Wyatt..."

My initial fear immediately morphed into teeth clenching frustration. Good lord, if she tells me again that little turd didn't turn in his math homework, I am going to chuck his Xbox out of the window.

Her message continued. "There was an incident during Show & Tell. One of the kids brought in a pet pig and it, uh, bit Wyatt in the leg."

I immediately called her back because I was still a little confused. Who, or what bit him? And did he bite back? Who was more traumatized, Wyatt or the pig?

Now I love my kids' teachers. I have been seriously blessed with having these incredible role models teach and lead my children. I couldn't ask for better ones. So I could tell right away that his teacher felt horrible. As soon as she got on the phone she assured me my son was doing just fine, the bite didn't break the skin, and he was getting lots of TLC from the staff at the school. 

"And just so you know," she told me. "The pig is totally healthy and has had all its shots."

I paused.

To be honest, I wasn't even sure my kids were all up to date on their shots.

In all reality, the pig-biting incident will fade from my son's memory all too fast. Unless he's anything like his mother - and then he'll whip that gem out during a house party in college.

"Seriously dudes, one time I was ambushed by a wild boar in the wilderness. I fought it with my bare hands and fed my family pork chops and bacon for weeks. Nah...just kiddin'. I got bit by one during Show & Tell during 3rd grade." The girls at the party will think he's hilarious and every one's a winner.

So just as my kids are counting down the last remaining days of their school year, I'm making lists in my head during the day.

Daily Chores for Each Child

Time Allowed on Electronics

Charts and Expectations for Earning Money

Now that my two older girls are 14 and 16, I am hounding them almost daily. "Get a job, I am not kidding. You should be pounding the pavement and offering your babysitting services if nothing else. Do you know what I did for my first job? I got up at 4:30 every morning - "

"And milked cows at your grandparents farm, just so you could earn enough money to buy Guess jeans for the school year," they'll say in unison, rolling their eyes at my obviously oft-repeated speech.

"Well, it's true," I tell them. "I put up with manure all over me, just so I could earn my own money. We lived in the country, so I took whatever options were available. Now you kids live in town. Live in town, do you hear me? Your possibilities are endless."

And to be fair, my two older girls are lining up gigs in which they'll be paid. I'm proud of them. I know it's not easy to be one of my kids... in full disclosure they may very well be agreeing to summer jobs just to avoid my incessant meddling. Oh well. They can like me when they're adults, right? We can all go on a vacation together, and we'll be sitting poolside sipping margaritas (finally!) and we'll chuckle and laugh and they'll say, "Hey Mom...remember when you used to lose your shit and go nuts every June through September? And you'd rant and rave about us not making our beds, and spending too much time on our lap tops? And you'd embarrass us in front of our friends and hiss, 'Quit feeding every freakin' kid in this neighborhood during the day! Jesus Christ, I'm not made of money!' Remember when you would do that?"

And I'll smile and nod, and probably pop a well-needed Valium.

Ahhh, summer vacation....

The good ol' days.

Why, oh why, is there poop on my shower floor?

If your house is really a mess and a stranger comes to the door, greet him with "Who could have done this? We have no enemies." ~ Phyllis Diller


Most of yesterday was a really, really good day. It was my last day at my job, so my co-workers were especially nice to me. They brought me in cake, took me out to lunch and generally made a fuss over me. I like it when people make a fuss over me and bring me complex carbohydrates and don't expect me to work much. 
Afterward I went to a mall and met a friend for a smoothie. By the time I got home, I was feeling good.
I was feeling happy.
I was still basking in the newness of having my own place, decorated how I liked it.
I was feeling independent, smart, and dare I say it - slightly glamorous.
Then when I walked into my house, I went to drop off some bathroom products I had bought. I was thinking how happy I was that I found the perfect shower curtain to go in my bathroom. I was making a mental list of the products I was going to buy at Bath & Body when I got my next paycheck.
Then I got to the open door of the bathroom and dropped my bags, speechless.
Three pieces of poop were on my shower floor.
Oh for the love of all that is pure and holy... what is going on???
Seeing turds out of their natural habitat (say, a toilet bowl) is akin to seeing a zebra on its hind legs, pushing a grocery cart down an aisle. You recognize it, your brain tells you its a zebra, but at the same time you are wondering, "Now why in god's name am I seeing this? Here?"
The last couple days when I had taken a shower in that bathroom I had noticed that the drain was starting to back up, and it was taking longer for the water to go down the drain. It is technically a handicapped bathroom, so the shower is level with the rest of the floor, just dipped in the middle so the water stays in its little stall. Where it's supposed to. I figured it might be clogged with hair or something, so I just planned on checking it over the weekend when I had more time.
I certainly didn't expect to waltz in my bathroom and see poop lying on the shower floor, with black sludge and remnants of toilet paper strewn about. I couldn't even comprehend what I was seeing; what did it mean?
Did the poop back up from the pipes and come out the shower drain?
Did one of the kids overflow the toilet and just run away when things got out of control?
Where did the black sludge come from?
For god's sake, I just learned to use a stud finder this last weekend - I was light years away from understanding the intricacies of plumbing.
But what I did understand was that I couldn't ignore it.
The poop needed to be dealt with. And fast.
And there's nothing glamorous about dealing with poop. Especially mysterious poop. As a mom of 4, I have cleaned up more areas of crap off my body than one would think possible. 
I have cleaned it out of my hair.
Scrubbed it off my jeans.
Wiped it off my arms, and scrubbed it out of my fingernails.
I have gone an entire day, occasionally getting a whiff of something that smells like a diaper, and driving myself crazy thinking, "Where is that smell coming from?" It's a mother's aroma of reality.
But back to the present. Time to get shit done. I bagged up the runaway poop and got to work.
I stripped down the new glamorous shower curtain and liner and threw them in the wash. I took every towel and rug and threw them in the wash as well. Twice. I used a year's worth of cleaning products and scrubbed every damn inch of that shower. I scoured the grout in the stall and covered it in so much Mr Bubble that it looked like I was in a vertical foam coffin. I tested the toilet and nothing overflowed, but I scrubbed it clean again anyway.
When I was finally finished, I collapsed on the couch so I could watch 'Scandal.'
Hmmph, I told myself. Kerry Washington looks pretty glamorous. I bet her character never has to wrangle in some errant poop.
This morning I was taking my two youngest to school and began my investigation.
"Hey," I mentioned casually. "Did any of you happen to see the mess in the downstairs bathroom yesterday after school?"
"Oh my gosh, Mom!" Chloe said, turning to me. "I didn't know what that was! I couldn't figure it out. I brought Tanner over so he could see our new house and then I wanted to show him the bathroom and I opened the door and there was all this poop on the floor and I didn't know what to say so I just shut the door."
"Wait," I said, starting to grasp the situation. "You brought a friend over and he saw that?"
Great. Now we had witnesses to our poop shame.
But whatever...nothing we can do about it now. I just know I don't want surprises like that again. Just as I would prefer to see a zebra in the great outdoors, I don't want to see turds unless they're safely contained. And no rubber gloves or heavy industrial cleaning supplies are needed.
Is that so much to ask?

Nuthin a little WD-40 won't fix

"It's a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself. Makes you wonder what else you can do that you've forgotten about." ~Alan Ball, American Beauty, 1999

 

 A year and a half ago I moved back in to my parents house, licking my wounds from a recent divorce and toting with me 4 kids and a dog. I'm sure that scenario wasn't exactly what my parents planned during their recent retirement, but I was welcomed back with open arms and my old bedroom.

Fast forward to the present, when I found a cute house in town to rent, close to my kids' schools and the park. The thought of moving in to my own place was exhilarating, and - to be honest - a bit terrifying. As I've mentioned before in previous posts, there are things I know I do well in life. And there are definitely things that I don't do well. For instance, anything that has to do with home maintenance and repair. Don't get me wrong, I can change a lightbulb and exchange a furnace filter with minor disruption. But if you ask me to mow the lawn or operate a weed whip, I'll start to twirl my hair absent mindedly and avoid eye contact. It's not that I would refuse to do it, it's just that I don't know how. Seriously. The first half of my life I had a dad that took care of the home stuff and outside work. The second half of my life I had a husband to do it. Now that I'm out on my own again, I realized I needed to learn to do these type of things. And fast.

Last weekend I went to Ikea with my parents, determined to buy a bedroom set. My dad waited in the loading area, while my mom and I picked out what I wanted. The sales person explained that I needed to pick up the furniture in the Self Serve warehouse, and told me where to grab a cart in which to load the boxes. After wandering around the disorientating Ikea maze, my mom and I finally ended up where we needed to be. I located a cart, checked my paper from the sales person, and headed toward Aisle 4. A moment later my mom asked, "When is someone going to come help us get the furniture?" "Mom," I said. "That's what Self Serve means. It means we have to get it ourselves."

"Oh," she replied. "I don't really like that."

"Me neither."

 

We finally tracked down the boxes we needed, and started loading the 10,000 pound pressed particle board furniture on to the cart. Attemting to navigate the cart toward the cashier was like trying to steer a semi truck on a go-kart course. I was all over the place and had very little control. But determined to do this like a functioning adult, I soldiered on.

Later on, I excitedly told my dad that I was sure I could put the furniture together myself. "Ikea is like every divorced woman's best friend," I told him.

"Who says that?" he asked. "Ikea?"

"No. My divorced friends."

A couple hours later he showed up at my new place with a handful of tools. "Happy housewarming! These will help when you work on the furniture."

"Yeah, about that..." I said warily. "I was looking at the instructions. There are no words in Ikea's instruction manuals, just pictures. And there is a picture of one person doing it all alone, with a sad face. And there is a big X over that picture. Next to it is a picture of two people working on it together, and they're both smiling. So I think that means you should maybe help me. You know, if you're not busy."

Luckily he agreed. Secretly I think he thought he better help me get set up so I didn't hurt myself and wind up back at his place indefinitely.

The next several hours were spent learning how to count pieces, operate tools, and figure out specifics of diagrams. I also learned why so many men swear when putting things together. It comes so natural. Like second nature. When I was doing battle with a screw driver and attempting to get a piece to line up, I couldn't help myself. The cursing flew out of my mouth like a symphony of my ancestors' mother tongue. "Get IN there, you dirty rotten bitch."

I think my dad was impressed.

And now I have a completed bedroom set that I can proudly say I helped put together. Well, most of it. I got bored with the hinges on the closet so I wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a Mike's Hard Lemonade, hoping my dad could finish without me.

He did.

All in all, I'm glad I tackled something that involved tools. It took the mystery and the unknown out of something I would have normally avoided. In the future, I can actually look at a screw driver and tell if it's a Phillips or not. Before this, the most recent useful advice I gave my daughters was in the shoe aisle at Target. "Seriously girls, don't buy high heels unless you know how to walk in them. It's a very unattractive look for a woman."

My 11 year old rolled her eyes. "Mom, I already YouTube'd it. You walk heel to toe, unless you're on steps and then it's toe only."

Well, so much for my much-imparted widsom.

So even though I feel like I've learned a lot of useful skills the last week, I know I have a lot more to learn. But the beauty of tackling one project gives you the confidence to tackle more. When my dad brought over a fully stocked tool kit the other night, I looked at it with a sense of possibility.

I've learned that WD-40 works wonders.

And how to work a stud finder and a leveler.

I've learned that if push comes to shove, I can do a lot of things by myself.

But it sure is nice to have help.

 

 

 

 

 

Bossypants

“And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,
Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends. For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.” ~ Tina Fey, Bossypants

My kids for sure would call me Miss Bossypants.
There's not a doubt in my mind.
I can just imagine them, huddled together, whispering to each other behind their hands, giving me the stink-eye.
"Just look at her. She thinks she's all that. Never lets us do anything fun. I don't know why she has to say No all the time. Probably wouldn't even recognize Fun if it bit her in the ass."
Look...
There are things I know I do well in life:
For instance, I can bake super good desserts. In addition, I am embarrassingly good at celebrity trivia. Also, I have my morning routine down to super-hero timing - I can do my hair and make-up in 8.5 minutes flat. The extra 30 seconds is for hairspray application. Not bad for a working mom of 4.
There are also things I know I do NOT do well in life:
I do not know how to operate a grill, either charcoal or gas. I'm too afraid I will blow myself up to even attempt it. I do not know how to change a tire (sorry Dad, I know you tried.) I also do not know how to keep my opinions to myself in certain situations.
And there are things that I consider a work in progress:
Parallel parking
Math
Methods of Parenting
It's the last one that I need to remember is a lifelong skill that needs to be fine-tuned and adjusted as needed.
When my kids were little I could safely kick back into the Assembly Line Method with all four of them - feed, give baths, brush teeth, read stories, put to bed. Rinse and repeat every night. It was always a lot of work but there was comfort in that routine. No surprises, nothing much out of the ordinary unless you count an occasional, "Oh my gosh mom he pooped in the tub!"
Then they got older.
Now the routines include sports, after school activities, hanging out with friends. Everything is changing.
One of the most important things I've learned is I cannot treat my children the same. It's impossible. They are four different human beings, with distinct personalities and characteristics. What works on one will not work on another.
During the last few years, each of my kids have morphed into their own special character.
Let me introduce you to my cast:
First we have The Kitty Cat. This is my oldest, my 15 year old daughter. For the most part, she takes care of things by herself. A lot of the time she flies under the radar. She's lovely. Moves through our lives rather stealth-like and quiet. However - rub her the wrong way and you will end up hissed at, with claws shown, and a strange sense you should sleep with one eye open.
Then we have The Pistol. This is my 13 year old daughter. In and of itself a beautiful object to look at and admire. Shiny. Strong. But handle her wrong and accidentally pull the trigger...you could end up with a hole in your foot, and wondering what the hell just happened.
I refer to my 10 year old daughter as The Negotiator. After years of watching her sisters ask for things, this daughter has her system down pat. She knows exactly what works with her mother. She can start a conversation by wanting to experiment on me with makeup techniques she learned on YouTube, to which I'll steadfastly refuse. "I can't. I'm late for work! You know better than to ask me something like that." Within two minutes I'll have my hair pulled back and I'm looking in a mirror and telling her, "Ok, but wash the zebra stripes off my lower lip before I leave for work. I have a meeting at 10."
Finally we have my 8 year old son, The Trailblazer. Trying to raise a boy after three girls is always a new experience. It's not just his outdoor plumbing that makes him different....his entire personality is defined by his Y chromosome. He likes dirt and video games and sports. He has absolutely zero interest in most girl things.
So this is what I've learned:
I can't treat the Kitty Cat like I treat the Pistol. Nor can I discipline the Negotiator and the Trailblazer the same. Whenever I try to hand down a blanket punishment, I am theoretically hissed at, shot at, lectured and assaulted with a foam football.
And that is one of the best things I've learned as a mother - there is no successful cookie-cutter method of parenting.
Sure, I can boss them around as much as I want (not sure it works as well as I'd like to think), but my little cookies are pretty special.
Especially since they put up with their mama, Litte Miss Bossy.





 

Mom, who's your favorite?

“A mother's body remembers her babies--the folds of soft flesh, the softly furred scalp against her nose. Each child has its own entreaties to body and soul. It's the last one, though, that overtakes you. I can't dare say I loved the others less, but my first three were all babies at once, and motherhood dismayed me entirely. . . . That's how it is with the firstborn, no matter what kind of mother you are--rich, poor, frazzled half to death or sweetly content. A first child is your own best food forward, and how you do cheer those little feet as they strike out. You examine every turn of flesh for precocity, and crow it to the world.
But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after--oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.”
― Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible

Ok, this quote from one of my favorite books may be a little drawn out and verbose, but it does a semi-decent job of trying to explain how mothers feel differently about their kids.
I can remember when I was pregnant with my first daughter. I was absolutely convinced there was no way I could love her as much as I loved my dalmatian, Smokie. That dog was one of my most favorite things on this planet, how could I possibly feel that strongly for anything else?
Within two minutes of my daughter being born, I was like "Dog? What dog? I have a dog?"
Fast forward just thirteen months later and I was pregnant again. I confessed to my friends, "What if I can't love this next baby as much as I love my first one?"
They would just smile and assure me, "Every mother worries about that. Love multiplies, it doesn't divide."
However, one friend wisely told me something I never forgot: "Of course you'll love your children equally. But there will be different times throughout their lives when they're your favorite."
For a couple years we coasted along nicely, a family of four. Then, I was pregnant AGAIN. By now, my abdominal muscles were screaming "Uncle" and my stretch marks were asking themselves, "Should we even bother fading? This crazy bitch just keeps going."
Before our third daughter was born, I worried yet again that I would be able to love a new addition. I was so used to my first two daughters...how would I feel toward a newbie? Would I think of her as an intruder on our little cozy nest of a family?
And as soon as she was born, and I realized that (finally!) one of my kids had my brown eyes, I was head over heels in love.
Just over a year later...are you sensing the pattern?...I was staring at a pregnancy test stick and thinking, "Holy crap." By now, any muscle in my torso threw in the white towel and said, "We give up. Good luck in ever trying to fit in anything smaller than a size 10, and laughing without peeing."
I didn't know if I was going to have a boy or a girl, and I didn't find out until that incredibly painful and vagina-punishing 10 pound bowling ball made its entrance into our lives. Imagine our surprise at finally having a boy. And of course, I secretly worried that I would not be able to love a little boy as much as I knew how to love a little girl.
Silly, silly, silly.
I do love them all, not one more than the other.
But yes, I do have my favorites at times.
And honestly, with a houseful of four kids - all within 7 years of each other, it's not difficult to declare a favorite. Sometimes multiple times during the same day. Sometimes it boils down to whoever butters a piece of toast for me and brings it over, sits next to me quietly and doesn't tattle for a five minute stretch. Sometimes that's all it takes to be my current favorite.
If you ask my daughters who their mother's favorite is, they will answer without hesitation: "Wyatt. Because he's the boy."
That is not entirely true. But he is my baby. And just like the quote from the Poisonwood Bible, there is something about your last child that makes you want to hold on to them and their "littleness" as long as you can. That's why you rock them a little longer at night, and let them crawl into bed with you during the middle of the night - even years after you made their older siblings stop.
For so many years my identity was tied into being a mother of young children. They're still young, but they're not babies any more. Now my identity is shifting into the murky waters of being a mom to teenagers. And trust me on this one, my kids have absolutely zero problem of letting me know when I am far from being their favorite.
So for now, I will continue in my smug confidence that I love all my children equally, without fail.
I will not apologize for declaring them favorites at different times. I will do my best to cherish and remember when they're sweet to me, when they're sweet to each other, when they just want to cuddle with me and whisper secrets in my ear.
I will call them my favorite during that moment and feel no remorse.
Us mothers know how short-lived and fleeting those moments are.
Because seriously? Sometimes they can really be a monstrous pain in the ass.