Corn-fed and Proud of It

So Kirstie Alley manages to lose a staggering 100 pounds and announces she's down to a size 4 and what happens? Tim Gunn has to immediately go on the offensive and declare (and I'm paraphrasing): "There's no way Kirstie Alley is a size 4. That's vanity sizing. Truthfully she's more likely a size 8 or 10."
For crying out loud, can't we just let Kirstie have her moment in the spotlight and bask in the fact she doesn't have to wear elastic waist pants anymore? Why does the media have to immediately pounce on the metrics of all of this?
It's no wonder the majority of women have body issues with their weight. Every time a celebrity has a baby they have to go into hiding for fear some tabloid is going to snap a picture of them at the grocery store wearing a velour track suit and stockpiling cans of Slimfast.
Oh wait...maybe that was me after my pregnancies. Never mind.
But the tabloids are very quick to proudly display "New post-baby body for Mariah!" or "Heidi Klum back on the runway only 6 weeks after giving birth!"
Seriously, the majority of women still haven't shaved their legs six weeks after delivery, much less attempted to put on a bikini.
Then someone like Kirstie Alley bravely announces what she's done and how much better she's eating and how much more she's exercising and some skinny little man who's mainly famous for knocking on other people's fashion choices has to immediately discount what she's said.
With all that said, it's much easier for me to talk the talk than to walk the walk.
I'm going shopping with my friend Nicole this weekend because she wants to find some boots. I'm a size 9 and she's a size 10 so lots of times we will buy a 9 1/2 so we can share. Not this time, however.
"Vanessa," she told me. "I'm really having a hard time finding boots because the bigger size is too baggy on my calves."
Oh Jesus. I never have that problem. My calves look like they belong to a Romanian gymnast. I like to say it's not even a cankles issue... I prefer to describe them as "thalves." Meaning, my thighs streamline right down to my calves.
I don't think it's in my genetic makeup to ever be a size 4. Or a 6 or whatever Mr Gunn denounces it is. Currently my goal is to start training for a 5k so I can slide on a pair of absolutely ghetto-fabulous Apple Bottom jeans I bought off of eBay last year.
About 5 years ago I went to Connecticut to visit my friend Jane. We were visiting shops in some tony little town where Paul Newman and Martha Stewart used to live. After about the third store we walked into, I realized I was bigger than every single woman I had come across. I turned to Jane and said, "Wow. Not one single corn-fed girl in the bunch." She laughed and replied, "That's because the Connecticut housewives diet consists of nothing but Starbucks and cigarettes."
No thanks. Bring on the butter... and ladies ~ let's embrace our curves!

Little Monkeys with Machine Guns

"Children today are tyrants. They contradict their parents, gobble their food and tyrannize their teachers." ~ Socrates

For as eager as I was to have school start again, it sure has been a bumpy road. In my naivete I thought/hoped/assumed they would all settle nicely into their routines, embrace healthy friendships and unequivocally respect authority.
What a humbling experience the first few weeks have been. I'm pretty sure I've learned as much as they have with certain life lessons.
Growing up, I don't think I ever saw my parents cry. Swear, yell, shriek, sure... but never cry. And up until last week - excluding the time we told them about the divorce - I don't think my kids have ever seen me cry. I always feel like I have to hold it together, stay strong, put on a face that shows them I'm in charge and I've got this.
The beginning of last week was tough. I came home from work in a sour mood. I'd already dealt with the principal for one of my children's bad decisions, and I was feeling overwhelmed. My back has been hurting me for months, and my allergies were kicking my ass. I rummaged through the cupboards and couldn't find any Benadryl.
My friend Jill happened to call, right as I was sprawled out on my bed, trying to hold back the tears. As I was explaining to her what had been happening the last week, my son Wyatt flung open my bedroom door...completely oblivious to the fact that his mom was having a "bell jar" moment.
"Mom," he demanded. "Are you or are you NOT going to be making us dinner soon?"
"Jesus," I told Jill on the phone. "I have raised a tribe of ingrates." I showed Wyatt my angry eyes and told him I'd be out soon.
After dinner I was back in my room, wishing I had Benadryl and an IV drip of morphine for my back. My pity party started back up again. I was sitting in front of my closet when Chloe waltzed in. She took one look at my tear streaked face and said, "Oh, allergies?" I nodded and she left. Later I went to Kwik Trip to get a fountain soda (because they make me happy). I brought Sophie along with me. She saw me digging in my purse for quarters and said, "Mom, I can pay for it if you don't have enough money." It was so sweet of her to offer that I burst out laughing. "Honey, I can afford my Big Gulp. But thanks for offering." Just then Chloe called me on my cell phone. "Mom," she said excitedly. "We found your allergy medicine!"
As soon as I pulled into the driveway, Chloe and Wyatt came running out. She was clutching a packet of over the counter allergy pills, and he was running with a glass of water. It sloshed outside the cup and ran down his arms, but he didn't seem to notice.
All four kids decided I needed to rest on the couch. Frankie covered me with a blanket and Chloe administered the pills to me. She leaned down and whispered, "Do you know how I know it wasn't allergies and you were really crying?"
"How Lola?" I asked her.
"Because it was all wet underneath your eyes, that area right above your cheeks."
I nodded. "Yep, you're right. But thanks for finding my pills anyway."
Then miraculously the kids went to bed without fighting.
The very next night I had to address an incident that involved the River Falls police. Apparently my three youngest children decided it was perfectly acceptable to run around on the roof of our elementary school while playing there on a Saturday afternoon. Just as their dad pulled up to take them home, a cop showed up because he had been called from a concerned neighbor who saw my little hoodlums on the roof. Their dad sat all four of them down and flipped out on them, and I was ready to do the same.
"I don't understand how any of you thought this was acceptable," I began. "And do you know what the worst part of it was, the absolute most terrible part...?"
"That the cops were called and we might have a record?" Wyatt ventured.
"No, it's not that the cops were called. Although that isn't one of my most proud moments either. What's the absolute worst part is when your dad told me about the fence that you had to crawl over to actually get onto the roof. Those 12 inch metal rods that stand up and are supposed to deter you? If one of you would have stumbled and slipped, those rods would have IMPALED you and you would have died!"
My voice broke and for the second time in 24 hours I started crying in front of them again. They stared at me, completely silent. Nobody said a word.
A mental health professional recently told a group of us parents: "Elementary aged children are in a precarious group. They're becoming more independent and are recognizing their abilities to do things away from their parents. The problem is, they don't really have a firm grasp on their new found independence and how to handle it responsibly. They're like little monkeys with machine guns."
After I had (hopefully) scared the shit out of my kids with the metal-rod-impaling speech, I went to the store to buy some milk. While I was gone, they had hurriedly crafted a card for me, which they all signed...including their last names. That part made me laugh.
While I was recalling my last few days to my friend Nicole, she wisely said, "You know, Vanessa. It's not such a bad thing for your kids to see you cry. Now they know you're human and you have fears, too."
It warmed my heart when she said that.
I love my friends.
And I love my little monkeys, too.

Where's my Alice the Maid, ala Brady Bunch?

"I hate housework! You make the beds, you do the dishes and six months later you have to start all over again." ~ Joan Rivers

This last holiday weekend, I celebrated like the calendar said I should. I truly, truly labored. And not in the ten-centimeters-you-can-push-oh-jesus-someone-just-hit-me-in-the-head-with-a-hammer-and-get-it-over-with kind of laboring. I did something almost as crazy.
I spent almost all of my free time cleaning my house.
No, I didn't have a fever. No, I didn't lose a bet.
In the spirit of wanting my home life to go smoother, and less stress on my kids, I decided to follow a columnist's advice about organization. I wanted to do my part in making sure things were organized so we weren't doing the typical school morning chaotic dash:
"Mom, did you sign my permission slip?"
"Where's my sports physical form?"
"Who hid my backpack/gym shoes/jacket?"
"Isn't today my field trip? If so, I need a check for $15."
And one of my favorites - as I'm dropping them off at school: "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Today's my special day and I need a snack for 25 kids. No dairy or peanuts because someone has food allergies."
And in full disclosure... I have never been good at housework. I hate cleaning. My room was so messy when I was a kid that my dad used to take the door off the hinges. There I would stand, in the middle of my messy bedroom, with no door to hide my adolescent shame.
My brother would saunter by and snicker.
"Shut up!" I'd tell him. "At least my room doesn't smell like farts."
"You sure about that?" he'd ask, raising an eyebrow.
One time we had a small fire in our garage and the fire department showed up. One of the fire fighters said he had to check out the bedroom above the garage, to make sure there were no more flames or damage. I raced past him up to my bedroom and shoved everything I could into my closet. He walked in and promptly announced he needed to check the closet. After a brief tug on the closet door handle, he flung it open.
A small avalanche of clothes, school supplies and other miscellaneous teenage crap came tumbling out and covered his boots. Once he determined there was no burning fire remaining in the walls, he turned around and to walk out of the bedroom.
Unfortunately one of my bras had become firmly clasped on the buckle of his boot. He tried to shake it off, but ended up having to bend over, remove it manually and hand it to me.
"Here," he said. "I believe this is yours."
Um, thanks.
So this weekend I decided to do some major cleaning. I tackled the laundry room first. With four kids, it's a room that sees constant action and lots of turnover. It's like a truck stop rest area...minus the hookers.
I did over a dozen loads of laundry, threw out Tide bottles, organized and wiped down the shelves, swept the floors and even vacuumed the rugs. I found missing video games, clothes that I assumed were long gone, belts and accessories, and almost four dollars in loose change.
I barely recognized the room.
When Sophie arrived home not much later, I told her to check out the laundry room. I was upstairs and told her, "Go downstairs and look at the laundry room. I totally cleaned it."
I heard her open the door and then she yelled upstairs, "Wow, Mom, have we always had rugs in the laundry room??!"
Ah, yes we have.
After that I turned my attention to my son's room. He wanted to document the occasion with before and after pictures that he took with my camera. He knew it was a monumental event.
I'm always a little apprehensive cleaning his room. Boys rooms are different than girls. There are different smells, lots more dirt and mud, and broken toys everywhere. And did I mention the different smells?
I was on the carpet and tossing garbage in a bag. "Why does this corner smell like urine?" I asked him point blank.
"Mom," he replied in his "duh" voice. "My sisters dared me."
Jesus...do I need to put a bulls-eye target in the toilet bowl? It shouldn't be such a difficult thing to do.
But after a couple hours his room was clean. I periodically walked in and out of it, just relishing the sight of it. I know it won't stay that way forever.
After my industrious laundry and bedroom cleaning, I thought I could enjoy the rest of the weekend at my leisure. Oh no. My parents showed up on Monday and announced they were going to help me clean my garage.
Oh goody.
I'm actually glad they did. I would have become a great grandmother before I would have attempted to clean that garage myself.
So on Labor Day, for approximately 7 hours, I worked on cleaning that garage with them. I had no idea I owned so much crap. By the time they left and I was ready for bed, I collapsed on the couch. I smelled like Windex and arm pits. Not the sexiest combination.
But hey... things were now clean(er).
I do really like the way things look when I don't have to remove a bean bag chair out of the way to appreciate the view. I wish they would stay that way longer.
I need to do better. I will try to do better.
Because I don't want to spend another Labor Day laboring.
When we were done with the garage, covered in sweat and dust, my mom took a look around and said, "Yep, as my dad Clint would say - We cut a big ol' hog in the ass today, didn't we?"
Spoken like a true German farmer.

First Day of School!

Ahhhh.... tomorrow is the day I've waited for, anticipated and looked longingly at the calendar for the last 89 days (but who's counting). It's what makes parents look at each other knowingly when one of their kids screeches because they've been socked by a sibling, and it's all the parents can do to prevent themselves from responding: "Oh, just shut it." They know the countdown to sanity is imminent. Freedom is almost here; it's within our grasp
Yep, that's right. It's almost the first day of school.
The last week has been a whirlwind of activity. Getting four kids ready for school requires tactical planning similar to a military maneuver.
Supplies.
Doctor appointments.
Dentist appointments.
Hair appointments.
Activity sign ups and registrations.
More supplies.
Forms to fill out.
And since 3 of my 4 kids are girls, we can't ever forget the most important aspect of all: back-to-school clothes. And really, the attention my girls pay to their first day of school outfit is my own damn fault. If you ask them what are the two most important days for clothes selection are, they'll be able to answer in their sleep: "First day of school and last day of school. Because they deal with first and last impressions."
Re-reading that sentence makes me realize my shallow and self-absorbed skills as a parent. That's ok, though... I realize my fashion nonsense teachings counter-balance perfectly with their father's teachings of more important life lessons. Like virtues, responsibility and parallel parking.
The last two days have been hectic to say the least. Because I'm horse shit at personal planning, I've been attempting to cram a week's worth of activities into 48 hours.
Yesterday my schedule was this:
Get up at the crack of dawn and grocery shop at 6:30 am. It was the only time in the foreseeable future that I could afford to go, and my kids were getting sick of the bread and water treatment. Ingrates. So there I was at Econo Foods, wearing a dress and heels and stocking up on food.
Go work from about 8-4:30.
Drive furiously home after work, hit the driveway on two wheels and scream out the window "Get in the car!" Took Sophie to middle school orientation and ignored eye contact with all the teachers because I didn't have time to make small talk.
Drove her immediately to a dentist appointment, then to Walgreen's to pick up prescriptions.
Finally get home at 8:30 to a house that looked like it had been taken over by homeless squatters. I changed into my pajamas, threw a box of wine into a grocery bag, turned to my children and announced "I am going to the neighbor's. I will be home in less than an hour. I expect this house to be cleaned or I am going to lose.my.freaking.mind."
I have no idea what the other neighbors thought when they saw a pajama-clad mother clutching a grocery bag and mumbling to herself while walking down the driveway, but my mini-breakdown seemed to do the trick. Housework was done when I got back and I could actually see the bottom of my kitchen sink.
Tonight was equally chaotic. I had to pick up two kids from karate, buy toilet paper, drop off something at a friends, bring Sophie to Shopko and be back home by 7. While I still had the younger two kids in the car, I took Sophie to the store and told her I'd pick her up about 20 minutes later after I was done running errands.
She called me when she was ready and I told her I'd be there in a few minutes. I had just one more errand to run. Just one. Trying to cram it all in the night before school. But after running that errand and getting a call from a friend, I did the unthinkable.
I forgot all about Sophie and left her at the store.
I was almost home when she called me. I looked at the caller ID and thought "Why in the world is Sophie calling me when she's in the car with me?" I looked at the empty passenger seat next to me, mumbled a quick expletive and whipped a U turn on Main Street. I promptly picked her up and tried to pretend I didn't hear her question "Where were you?"
I finally drove them home, counted heads and breathed a sigh of relief. Whew... they were all there. Of course, three of them were distinctly aware I had temporarily "lost one" earlier, so they all looked at me a little warily. I don't blame 'em. Who forgets a kid at Shopko?
Tonight the girls already excitedly have their outfits picked out for tomorrow. I don't think Wyatt really cares. He just casually mentioned he wants to wear a Twins shirt. Apparently boys don't put as much thought into coordinating accessories for the first day of school as girls do. As long as Wyatt has dry socks and clean underwear each day, he's fine. And even the clean underwear is iffy sometimes.
Tomorrow morning I'll take their annual First Day of School photo and probably be just as excited as they are. The beginning of each school year is a blank slate, just like their brand new notebooks and art pads. The possibilities are endless.
I found a picture of me at the beginning of kindergarten. Color coordinated barrettes, a locket necklace and the best part of all - Hee Haw bibs with a matching purse. I remember wearing that outfit and thinking I was the cat's meow. I think the only thing that could have topped a Hee Haw outfit would have been something with the "Gilligan's Island" cast on the front.
Hee Haw?
I say Yee Haw! School is starting!

Thank you, Reality TV, for Making Me Feel Like a Better Parent

This weekend, while we were at a parade, my seven year old came up to me and announced in a hurt voice, "Do you know why I hate my life, Mom?"
Normally, as a parent, the thought of ever hearing this from any of my children would have caused me immense pain.
Not after four kids. He's lucky he even got a reaction out of me.
I turned to him and sighed. "Why do you hate your life?"
"Because," he said. "You didn't buy me that helium balloon I wanted from that lady who was selling them."
I barked out a laugh. "Kiddo, let me tell you...if that's the worse thing that's happened to you this far, consider yourself very lucky."
He just looked at me, trying to figure out if my speech and/or tone of voice meant he was going to walk away with a balloon.
"I mean really," I continued. "At least you're not one of those 19 Duggar kids on TLC. I didn't give birth to a couple softball teams and make you get your teeth brushed and fed meals regularly by an older sibling."
He stared at me, his eyes narrowing.
I was on a roll. "I doubt those Duggar kids even get to go to a parade. In fact, when they show up... they are the parade. And no one's handing them a balloon."
At this point Wyatt realized his ploy didn't work, and he turned around to join his friends.
I settled back into my chair and felt good. Once again Reality TV shows have bolstered my confidence as a parent.
Perhaps as the tv audience we're supposed to feel sympathy for some of these people. And I do. I do feel bad for the lady who has to pee in her backyard because her bathroom is filled to the ceiling with Readers Digest magazines. I gag when I realize there are people who hoard animals and live with their floors covered in chicken shit.
At the same time, it makes that ring around my toilet seem a little more tolerable. And with having a young boy in the house, my bathroom always seems to be on the verge of smelling like a Texaco station restroom anyway.
AIM PLEASE. That's all I ask.
My mother has always kept a beautiful home. Beds are always made, dusting and vacuuming are always done on a regular basis, and I can't ever remember seeing dried toothpaste in the sinks. I think she probably braces herself mentally every time she steps foot in my home.
Dozens and dozens of shoes scattered haphazardly in the entry way.
Dishes piled in the sink.
Laundry breeding on its own.
Dog hair everywhere.
I always tell myself I'm going to get better with keeping my house clean. But whenever I start to get too hard on myself, I watch an episode of "Hoarders" and breathe a sigh of relief. No one in my house is at risk of getting smothered or buried alive under a pile of shopping bags. As a mother, I can check that fear off my list.
Another show I love to watch to make me feel good is "Intervention." Sometimes I have my older girls watch it with me. Admittedly I do this for two reasons.
1. So they know the dangers of getting involved with drugs and alcohol.
2. So they know how good they have it.
"See," I'll tell them as I sip from a glass of wine while watching the show. "You guys don't know how lucky you are. At least your mother isn't passed out in the driveway while you kids have to bike around me. I've never had to go to Walgreen's to buy 10 bottles of mouth wash so I can catch my daily buzz."
I'm not sure if my "lessons" are working yet with them, but it sure is fun.
Now on the flip side of using reality tv shows to my advantage, my children are attempting to use them to their advantage as well.
Both of my older girls have told me they wanted a "Sweet 16" party, just like on MTV.
"Ha!" I laughed. "That's funny. Maybe I can afford a Barbershop Quartet to sing at your party."
"Mom! Not cool. Usually the kids get a car at their party too. And Uncle Shawn does work at a car dealership..."
I just shook my head. "The only vehicle you can probably expect to get is your dad's beat up Saturn, with over 200,000 miles and extensive body damage."
Chloe thought she would avoid her older sisters' plight and announced to me: "Don't worry, Mom. I don't want a Sweet Sixteen. I want a Quinceanera when I turn 15."
"Chloe, you're not even Mexican."
"So what?" she shot back. "I look Mexican."
Well, she does indeed, but I think I can just buy her a poofy skirt, take her out for dinner and call it good.
So to all of the old school scripted television shows that make me feel like a complete parenting failure - Brady Bunch, Leave it to Beaver, Little House on the Prairie - I say your time is way over.
Bring on the drug addicts, alcoholics, hoarders and dance moms... you ladies make me shine!

Back to $chool

Thank you, Jesus.
The utterly-chaotic, complete-disregard-for-human-decency-and-acceptable-behavior, lord-of-the-flies-lawlessness of summer vacation is drawing to a close.
And I couldn't be happier.
It means many, many wonderful things are on the horizon...
My house will stay clean for an 8 hour stretch.
My food budget will no longer rival the GDP of a small country.
I will not do inane amounts of towel laundry, over and over again every week.
I will not come home to all the windows wide open with the air conditioning going full blast and set at 68.
I will not be breaking up lunch time fights of two kids in the garage who are wearing shorts, wife-beaters and brandishing sticks at each other.
I will not have to hear the hourly, nails-on-a-chalkboard chorus of "I'm bored."
But all of this wonderfulness comes at a price for parents. It's called Back To School Supplies.
Whenever we go to Shopko to get the supplies, I always mistakenly think it's going to not be that expensive. I get lulled into a false sense of security when I see notebooks advertised at .15 each, and loose leaf paper on sale for less than a dollar. I don't know why, but I always think I'm going to walk out of there by only spending about $75. With four kids? I must be sniffing glue or something because that's just not even in the realms of possibility.
We stroll into the store, each kid clutching their supply list. I push the cart, and everyone takes off in different directions, randomly throwing pencil boxes, highlighters and folders into the cart. I get a little panicky when I see the mound of supplies grow. "Wait!" I'll yell as I see a calculator tossed in there. "What kind did you get?"
"I dunno, Mom. The one on the list."
"Well, is it a $15 calculator or is it the one next to it on the shelf for $108?" It's these kind of things that make my heart race.
I'm also going to go on record (and it's my blog so I can) and state that it's pretty sad that parents are expected to now be providing disinfectant wipes, tissues, napkins and other classroom supplies. I am not blaming the teachers or the schools for this. Not at all. I know teachers spend a ton of their own money for things. But I do think its sad that so much money has been stripped from our schools' budgets that teachers are forced to pass along these additional expenses to parents who might already be struggling. Something is wrong with our politicians and government. Let's stop with some of these uber-wealthy tax write-offs and toss a little more toward education, shall we? Ok, my political soap box moment is over.
Back to the costs of going back to school...
And we haven't even done the school clothes shopping yet. The thought of that makes my face get hot and a sick feeling in my stomach.
Maybe those shorts and wife beaters will come in handy after all. They can also use the sticks, hobo style, and carry their books to school with them.
But I shouldn't complain too loudly... I don't want my kids to think they're a financial burden. I mean they totally and completely are, but they shouldn't be made aware of this (at least until they read this blog.) Look at my son's face as he held up the receipt from our school supply shopping. He thinks it's fantastically funny that it's as long as an alligator.
I want my kids to be excited and happy to go back to school.
God knows I am.

Girls Just Wanna Have Phones

What did we ever do before cell phones?
I mean, really...how did we send a quick "OMW" to a friend to let her know we were on our way? How did we ever notify someone we were already in their driveway without texting a quick "Here"?
Do you think we actually got OUT of our cars, walked to the front door and rang the doorbell?
I suppose we did, years and years ago.
I bought my first cell phone in either 1995 or 1996. It was dark gray and the size of a small loaf of bread. I had to pay extra for the flip part on the bottom, and I thought it was worth every cent of the extra $40 for that feature. I can remember being in a restaurant and standing up to "make a call." I thought I was cooler than shit when I flipped it open, and then pulled out the 7 inch antennae. I knew all eyes were on me and everyone was insanely jealous.
Nowadays the phones get smaller and smaller, and the demand for them gets bigger and bigger. My two older girls have their own phones, and my two younger kids beg me routinely for one of their own.
I try to explain to them that when I was young, we didn't have cell phones. We didn't even know what they were. I remember when my parents got my brother and I our own separate phone line for our bedrooms...I thought I had died and gone to heaven. This was back in the day when we only had to dial 5 digits to make a local call, too. When I try explaining this, my kids look at me like I just told them I used to take a horse and buggy to school.
A couple months ago my son Wyatt called me from my parents' house.
"Mom," he said breathlessly. "You are not going to believe this. I am using a phone in grandma and grandpa's basement. And I had to stick my finger in a hole and move it in a circle to dial your number. Did you ever see such a thing?"
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Yes, honey. It's called a rotary. And your grandpa refuses to get rid of it because he's convinced that nothing can beat its quality and reception."
Wyatt was quiet for a minute. "I have never, ever seen anything like this before."
I shouldn't be surprised. Kids are more familiar with cell phones and their technology than their parents. At least mine are. My daughters can figure out an Android faster than a Republican can find a tax loop hole.
And I have to admit...I love that I have "instant access" to my kids when they're out and about. They know they need to answer my calls or texts or they risk losing their phones. I don't ever put up with "My phone was shut off" or "I didn't bring it with me." I don't care if they have to attach it to the side of their face with duct tape; I want to make sure I can reach them. Screw individual civil liberties...I'd plant a chip in their heads to keep track of them if I could. I'm halfway tempted to bring them to the vet to do it. If I can get my golden retriever implanted with a micro-chip, why can't I do it to my teenagers?
Now on the flip side of having instant access to my kids, they also have instant access to me. And during summer vacation, they call and text me throughout the day. I could literally check the TMobile bill and it would show hundreds and hundreds of calls and texts with their necessary attempts to reach me.
Some of the texts are more along the lines of FYI:
"Taking the dog to the park"
or
"We're out of milk"
Some of the texts are to tattle on their siblings:
"Sophie kicked me"
"The dog crapped on the steps and no one is cleaning it up"
or
"Wyatt just said the c-word."
I wasn't too concerned about this one. I figured the c-word was crap. Not my favorite, but I later found out it was worse. Much worse. I came home and asked him about it. "Wyatt, what c-word did you say earlier?"
He looked at me seriously. "I'm not supposed to repeat it."
"Just tell me," I told him. "I need to know."
He took a deep breath. "Well, it starts with a 'c' and rhymes with sunt."
We both just looked at each other, neither saying another word.
"Where'd you hear that?" I finally asked him.
"I don't remember. But I told Grandpa about it."
"Oh really? And what did Grandpa say when you told him?"
"He told me that it was probably the worst swear word there is, and no matter what...I should never, ever say that word in front of a woman."
Good call, Dad. And here I just thought you were teaching him lawn mower safety.
Now I have to attempt to parent via cell phone technology. It helps me give some direction as I'm leaving the office: "I want the house cleaned before I walk in the front door or you lose your phones and everyone goes to bed by 7:30 tonight."
And voila ~ the house is usually clean when I get home.
It also helps me figure out what sort of moods I'm going to encounter before I get there. One of texts that still make me laugh was one I got last year on my way home from work:
"I need pads and Teen Midol."
Oh greaaaattttt
So I know there are plenty of parents who don't think kids in middle school need cell phones but I choose to focus on the benefits. I can reach my children faster, threaten them and bribe them. They can instruct me to pick up Teen Midol without their brother overhearing. They can take pictures and listen to music.
I found a picture of me when I was just a few weeks old, barely able to hold my head up. Thank goodness the photographer found it necessary to prop up a big (rotary) phone next to me. I might have fallen over. But I think I look pretty excited in the picture. Excited that I've discovered a new way to communicate. See, kids are just ingrained to want to talk on the phone. At least girls are!