Another Cautionary Tale, this one with a side of mortification

Mornings are my own personal experiment with chaos theory.  I don't enjoy them.  They are, each of them, little vignettes of failure and regret.

It's not the hour.  I enjoy quiet, peaceful early morning hours.

It's not that I have to go to work; I love my job.

It's that I live with all these other people, who need to arrive at various educational institutions with bright shiny faces, full warm bellies and lunch boxes loaded with nutritious and tasty goodness.  It's that they need to be wearing school uniforms.  Clean ones.  It's that on any given day, a few of them have soccer practice, and a few of them have early release days or late start days, or a change in the carpool, or forms to hand in, or projects to bring with them, or picture effing day.  This one needs hotdog money and that one is clamoring about free dress and that one yonder has a stuffy nose and this one I just tripped over needs her rat's nest of a hairdo transformed into a proper little Catholic schoolgirl coif.

This morning, all of that reduced me to tears and silence.  The tears are commonplace.  The silence, however, freaked out the kids.  I don't usually find myself at a loss for words when it comes to giving lectures.   Come to think of it, the silence freaked me at as well.

So I resolved that tonight, before my five offsprings' heads drifted down to, crashed into, or haphazardly landed upon a pillow, they would produce for me every article of clothing they each required for the next day: school clothes, soccer clothes, sweatshirts, socks, underwear, shoes...the whole nine.

This is where the cautionary bit begins.

Let me be a lesson to you.  Do not assume that basic messages are penetrating your children's skulls.  Do not -- ever! -- be afraid to repeat something you think for sure they must know.  Go ahead: be that broken record.  Annoy them.  Let them roll their eyes.  Let them say "I KNOW mom."

Should you choose not to heed my advice, you could be one of the players in this little morality play:

* * *

Mom:  "I am starting a load of laundry in a few minutes: bring me what you need for tomorrow.  If you don't have clean underwear in your drawer, bring me some to wash."

Daughter: "It's OK, mom.  I'm wearing underwear."

Mom: "Right.  I mean clean underwear for tomorrow."

Daughter: No words.  Just a quizzical look.

Mom: "Very funny.  Yes, dear, you do wear clean underwear everyday."

Daughter: "WHAT???  Are you KIDDING ME?? That is NUTS!  I wear them for a week!"

At this point, a sound sort of like being enveloped by a wind tunnel drowns out any other sound.  At least for the mom.  Howling through the tunnel are phrases like: What the--  and How the hell--  and You are effing kidding me!! and Have I taught her NOTHING??? and What kind of mother--

We're talking shades of Mr. Kurtz here.  When the howling scream subsides, the mom, unable to even look at her beautiful child, sternly sends the daughter to the laundry room to get clean underwear.

The daughter, meanwhile, and without the vortex of horror clogging up the mom's ears, can be heard completely melting down, and complaining to anyone who will listen, or anyone forced to listen by virtue of proximity, that her very, very mean and not nice mother is making her find clean underwear.

The mom lies on her bed, wallowing in abject failure, and wondering where it all went so horribly wrong.

Another gem wafts up from the living room: "Dad!  She wants me to find clean underwear!  She's CRAZY!"

There were other, even more embarrassing gems.  This is enough.  This is too much.  This is my sad little tale, and you should redeem my utter failure by telling your kids the obvious, every chance you get.

* * *

My kids are in for the following extensive lectures this week:

Eat food.
Do homework.
Brush teeth.  All of them.  Really.  Twice a day.  Really.
Pee when you need to.  Also?  The same for poop.  Every time.
Broken Glass?  No bare foot dancin'.

* * *

There.  Now don't you feel better about your parenting?

* * *

The Last 20 Minutes

Got home from the grocery store.

Trying to make dinner.

Girl doing laps through the house on heelies.

Girl playing "volleyball" with a rubber glove balloon.

Boy playing a loud video game.

Boy putting clean dishes away loudly.

Girl riding unicorn hobby horse throughout the house, yelling random things.

Girl opening freezer door forcefully and straight into her sister's forehead.

Boy doing his best imitation of Eminem.

Girl crying about something and yelling "HEY GIVE ME MY PONY BACK!"

Girl repeatedly kicking a soccer ball against the kitchen door.

Girl hiding Biscuit the dog from other girl.

Girl crying and yelling "WHERE'S BISCUIT???"

Kids ignoring orders to put stuff away.

Girl making tent in living room. This is the part where I go on record to say that I hate tents.

Children asking to watch a movie like they're entitled.

Boy singing Hey Jude.

* * *

Mom drinking beer.

* * *

Of Pilot Lights and Washing Machines

The pilot light in my oven is out. This is a first. I'm used to the front right stovetop burner going out on me, and am familiar with how to re-light it. We keep matches in the drawer next to that burner just for such occasions.

But the oven? I haven't a clue. So I have a giant glass pyrex dish full of 18 chicken legs all dressed up with no place to go. It's very sad. Those ladies look positively forlorn.

My son, however, suggested a solution: "Maybe I should sit on it!"

There is precedence. Last week, my washing machine futzed out right after filling with water, and it stayed that way long enough for the soaking wet contents to start to smell. I was this close to inviting a repairman into the deep, dark hole that is my garage, something I was loathe to do given the high embarrassment factor. Four days went by, and the stench was rising. The only reason I made it that long is that the last load to make it successfully through was chock full of underwear (both genders!) and socks. Then, right before I gave in and made that call, I mentioned for the trazillionth time that I was very bummed about the machine being broken.

Son #2 decided it was time for this little gem: "I sat on the washing machine yesterday and it started up!"

Apparently, he was looking to see if his jeans had fallen behind the dryer. I dashed out to the garage and started looking around for heavy stuff. After several iterations, I hit upon a combo of heavy stuff that worked and WAHOO! the washing machine went on. I didn't need a repairman after all! All I needed was two thick books, two landscaping rocks, and an anvil. Simple. It seems the latch needs a little extra encouragement to do its job.

So the answer to this morning's quiz is, in fact, C. Thanks to everyone who submitted answers! Oh wait...no one submitted an answer. No one. Not one single solitary person.

Sigh. Sniff.

* * *

Just to see if any of you are actually awake, I'm giving you another quiz: Should I take my son's suggestion and try to fix the oven pilot light while he is sitting on top of the stove?

(a) YES

(b) NO

(c) I'M CALLING CPS RIGHT NOW

(d) IF THAT'S WHAT HE WANTS TO DO, WHO ARE YOU TO STAND IN HIS WAY?

To make things more interesting, tonight's quiz includes two essay questions. These can be in short or long answer format.

1.) How long will Monica be moving two books, an anvil, and two landscaping stones on and off of her washing machine every time she does a load of laundry? Please discuss her interior motivations, as well as any external contributing factors. Extra credit will be given if you say nice things about her.

2.) How long will Monica be using her neighbor's oven to cook dinner? (Thanks Emmett for saving the Chicken Leg Ladies tonight!) If you are her husband, for your answer, please take into account the amount of time you will need to find the oven manual, how many nights this week you will be meeting with clients and/or on a soccer field, and how many small children you will be stepping over and around while doing the job. If you are not her husband, for your answer, just go ahead and make her a dinner and drop it off at her house.

Cast your votes and submit your answers! Even if you're calling CPS, at least I'll know you're out there and reading.

* * *

Mud and Worms on Mother's Day

Still pajama-clad, picking my way through the early morning fog, trowel in hand, I began Mother's Day 2011 trudging through the garden with my 10 year old. We found the most likely vegetable bed and started digging.

This is what you do if you forget to buy crickets – again – and you've got some fire-bellied toads in need of a meal. This is what you do if you're a mom. You extricate yourself from warm blankets and comfy pillows. You shove your hands in damp earth before you've even had a cup of coffee. You ring in Mother's Day with mud and worms, so that a worried son can tend to his pets.

I did try to "worm" my way out of this task. When my son came upstairs early this morning, bed-headed and wearing his worried face, I sent him out to the garden on his own, with the commandment Get Thee Some Worms. I told him the most likely places to look. I told him no, we could not jump in the car and drive to the pet store to buy crickets, that that errand was not on my How To Spend Mothers Day list, and that driving there and back would take longer than digging around in our own back yard.

He came back in empty-handed. I sent him back out there on his own.

Twenty worm-less minutes later, he was starting to get panicky. He is a great pet-owner, and had reminded me many times that we were low on crickets, then out of crickets, and then still out of crickets. My bad, as they say. Anyway, he was getting pretty worked up about his hungry little ones and his worm-finding failure. So I got up and helped.

I enjoyed some strange gratification when I found worms rather quickly and got an awestruck "How'd you do that?" from my son. And I enjoyed some peaceful gratification when I saw how relieved and happy he was to have four fat worms to feed his flock.

I was cold, muddy, and notably, not sleeping in as I hoped to be on Mother's Day. But the crisp morning air smelled wonderful and the vegetable beds were lovely to look upon. And I made a child's worry dissipate, before I even had a cup of coffee.

You've done it too, if you're a mom. That's what we do. And I can't think of any better use of my time and talents.

And just in case I ever forget to buy crickets again, my son and I now know that the tomato bed is a veritable worm paradise.

* * *

Happy Mother's Day to all, with particular apologies to the Mommy Worms whose offspring got eaten by our frogs early this morning.

* * *

And Then I Hit the Brakes

A little advice from an experienced mom.

If you've had a really bad day and you are trying really hard to regroup, and your four year old is making that difficult by ignoring every directive you issue, especially the one about staying buckled in her booster seat while you are running 201 errands, and your twelve year old is devastated and thrashing around over Barcelona's loss to Real Madrid, and you've spent too much time trying way too hard to get people who are ignoring you to do stuff, and you're pretty sure you are PMS-ing because as hard as you try to control your rage response you have failed repeatedly and your throat is sore from speaking too forcefully (aka screaming), and if you planned the afternoon poorly and realized too late that everyone will have to be in the car between 4 and 7 instead of at home eating the meal you had planned, and then the traffic is terrible again so that you are sitting tensely in the driver's seat listening to bickering and worrying about arriving everywhere late, and if your six year old picks the car ride to become the third child to vomit since last Wednesday and then you almost joined her when you had to clean it up on a curb next to your son's soccer practice, and if the only receptacle you can find in the van for your little Barfer Babe to clutch until you can get her home is a (thank God, clean) pie plate, which by the way works fabulously when she throws up a second time as you are on your way to drop of the recovering Barcelona fan at his Shakespeare play rehearsal, and if you pull over quickly to dump out the pie tin so that all of the occupants of the car can once again breath, and if you need this last bit of the evening to go as smoothly as possible so that you can maybe, hopefully finally be home in 20 little minutes, my biggest piece of advice to you is this: Don't hit the brakes too hard. You will regret it.

Apparently, I'm still learning from my experiences.

* * *

Why Information Is Good for Kids

image credit: www.cksinfo.com

My 12 year old son has discovered the movie Stand By Me. Classic, wonderful, fantastic movie, especially for teen boys. Granted, twelve is more tween than teen, but he is straining against that particular boundary with every ounce of his hormone-ravaged puberty-bound person.

So I let him watch that movie. It has since become his favorite of all time, and we've had some great conversations, about fathers and sons, about profanity, about friendship and cruelty, about story-telling, and more. Apparently, one of the words used in this movie is also a word he asked me the meaning of years ago. At the time and at his age -- maybe 8? -- it seemed entirely inappropriate to really answer his question, so I opted for the following: "Oh, that's another word for kitty-cat!"

Those of you familiar with the movie will surely remember Vern, the chubby kid who provided so many classic moments. ("That's easy. Pez. Cherry flavored Pez. No question about it.") Well, today in the car, Sam was telling more stories from the movie and he momentarily forgot Vern's name. I offered helpfully, "Oh, his name is Vern!"

Sam, right out there in front of his little sibs: "Right. But they all call him pussy!"

And that, my friends, is why kids need accurate information: so they don't grow up to teach their younger siblings that it's perfectly acceptable to go around calling people pussy.

Can you say BACKTRACK? I can!

* * *

Tomato Soup for the Tortured Soul

There is a bright side to one's minivan being ankle deep in discarded jackets and sweaters. When your daughter up ends her bowl of tomato rice soup on to the floor, very little car clean-up is required. All you gotta do is scoop up the clothes and drop them in the wash.

So I did recover from today's tomato soup spill. But not before I blew a gasket upon hearing the bowl clatter to the floor.

Let me set the scene for you: I had failed to feed the children in a timely manner, and had just spent the last 10 minutes trying to rush everyone through a late lunch in order to herd them all into the car and get Cenzo to his soccer practice. Everyone, more or less, finished, but Tallulah did not and she was having a love affair with this soup. She couldn't bear the thought of leaving it behind. I could have put my foot down, but I was in one of those situations where you have to choose your battles. I chose unwisely. I let her bring the bowl of soup.

Before we had been in the car for even one minute, I heard the clatter and roared: "DID THAT SOUP JUST SPILL?" Meek little voice from the back seat: "ye-es..." Here, I let fly my trademark mother-growl: "ARRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHH!" I've actually passed this growl on to my kids, and I cringe whenever I hear them do it. I don't cringe when I do it; usually I'm too busy throwing something. And then, I swore. "SHIT!" (I did not yet know that the jackets caught most of the soup at this point. I was imagining ropes of creamy soup and globs of reddish rice sliding down the back of the seat in front of her.)

Lola immediately reacted to my shenanigans: "Mom! Don't do that! Please, Mom!"

I told her: "Lola, when you have kids one day, and you are in a hurry, and it's freezing cold and raining, and you have to shuffle everyone into your van to get somewhere on time, and your daughter fights with you over bringing her soup, and you give in and let her, and then the soup spills, creating a much bigger problem for you to take care of and you are still running late, if you manage NOT to lose your temper and say something you should not say, call me at that moment and tell me all about it, and I will give you $100."

Cenzo warned me that I should not make that bet, that I was sure to lose it one day.

"In that case, I consider it an investment in the happiness of my grandchildren."

I hope I lose that bet.

* * *

The Perfect Writing Lesson

OK, so see? Right here! This is perfect. Let's talk about what writing can really do. Now, you could say the following:

I slipped and hit my face on the couch and my tooth fell out. I bled a lot. It was gross.

There's nothing really wrong with that. It communicates information. It gets the idea across. But oh, the picture you could paint instead:

I was minding my own business, not bothering anyone, just going about my day. Little did I know what awaited me in my own living room. Two steps into the room and my foot met up with a sheet of paper carelessly (and typically) left there by my good-for-nothing brother, who never thinks of anyone but himself. My legs shot out from under me and WHAM! I slammed face first into the back of the couch. My first thought was, "That's funny, I didn't think I was eating anything just now" and my second thought was "Holy Moly, that's not food roiling around in my mouth, that's my TOOTH!" My third thought was "Wow, I didn't know a mouth could generate that much blood." And that third thought stayed with me for a good long time, as did the spurting blood soaking through tissues my semi-panicky mother kept shoving in my mouth. I did, in fact, knock one of my baby teeth clean out of my mouth, but the real blood was coming from my gums, where two other adult teeth have been making their glacial-like way into their front and center position. Adult teeth. You know, the ones I'm really going to USE, if I want to keep eating all that meat I enjoy so much? Yay, those adult teeth. That are now gushing blood down the front of my face and freaking out my younger siblings. That little one keeps trying to hug me. She's so annoying. You'd think my blood-curdling screams would keep her away, but she seems strangely fascinated in a can't-look-away-from-the-car-crash kind of way. Anyway, what I'd really like to do right now is relax and enjoy my first full day of being a homeschooled homegirl, but instead it looks like I'll be taking a little trip to the ER to see what they know about bloody gums. Let's hope the rest of this year turns out to be a little less exciting.

And that, dear daughter, is a lesson in writing, brought to you by life. Welcome to homeschooling. Now please stop marking big occasions with a trip to the hospital. You are starting to get predictable. * * * Good first day, until the bloody part. Will write about it later. Maybe by the time I get them all into Ivy League colleges. Because that's why I'm doing this, right? * * *

How Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth...

...are my children.

And curse you, Will Shakes, for penning words that have proven only too true under my roof.

If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen, that it may live
And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her!
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth,
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks,
Turn all her mother's pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt, that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child!

King Lear Act 1, scene 4, 281–289

To make matters worse, I have teemed five times, so that five serpents' teeth can cut me to the quick. What have I done to deserve the cadent tears and the wrinkled brow? I am no less innocent than Cordelia herself, and yet I endure the eye-rolling, the puffs of disgust and the scorn in spades. What have I done to deserve this?

Oh, THAT'S right: I decided to take the kids somewhere fun today. No wonder my name is anathema to them.

We were having an uneventful day around here. Three World Cup Games had already been viewed by 1:00 pm. Two kids were playing outside, a few were hanging around inside. I got an email from a friend that a group of moms and kids was meeting at a local park around 1:30. I had been doing work and chores all morning, so I figured it would be good to get everyone out of the house for awhile.

Note to parents: Never interupt a perfectly boring day with the suggestion that you do something fun with your family. When I made that mistake, the complaining started. And the bickering and the fighting and the back-stabbing.

I want to go to the beach instead. Who's going to be there? Do we HAVE to bring Tallulah? Stop being stupid, [Insert Sibling Name Here]. HE PUNCHED ME. I don't want to wear shoes! Can't we go somewhere else? I-don-wanna-go-pee-first-why-do-you-always-make-me-do-that-I-don-wanna. I'm staying here. SHOT GUN! NO I CALLED SHOT GUN! YOU HAD IT LAST TIME! IT'S MY TURN! HE ALWAYS GETS SHOT GUN. MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! SHUT UP YOU STUPID IDIOT. Mom, make her stop or I am going to punch her. Can we bring [insert 20 different toys or 10 friends that live 30 minutes away or a catered meal]? WHY NOT? You are SO mean.

If that weren't unpleasant enough, the stalling made it positively unbearable. How long, exactly, does it take to put on a pair of shoes? And why do you need to change clothes three times at the last minute, only to end up wearing what you started with in the first place? And how hard is it to clear the table of your three lunch dishes and why am I asking you to do it 5+ times before it gets done?

And then there was the car ride. Nearly dead from the effort to get them in the car in the first place, I was then treated to a 10-minute trip during which they managed to insult each other, make each other cry, scream, complain bitterly that I don't care about them, and freak out over various minor offenses.

Why, oh why are they so downright unpleasant?

Must be because I am ineffective as a parent. Sure, that's it. If I were more consistent, or more organized, or more competent, they'd all hop to and do my bidding, right? Well, then they're as screwed as I am.

Thomas Hobbes had it almost right: Children are nasty, brutish and short. Apparently, I need to establish a social contract with my own kids.

* * *

We went to the park. They had fun. I was exhausted. I am not sure it was worth it.

* * *

Part of the adventure of our 5 hour road trip on Sunday included having to stop in a dinky little gold rush town on our return trip to change a tire. Imagine that little tableaux for a moment. Everyone's tired and hopped up on birthday cake and soda. Everyone knows we will be cooped up together in a car for at least 2.5 hours. And we realize that that rushing sound we are hearing is our rear passenger tire, gushing air out of a hole in the valve stem. So, we pulled over and found an empty lot where Rick could put the spare on while the kids could occupy themselves without being in danger of (a) getting hit by a car or (b) knocking the car off of the jack.

It only took about 30 minutes. It was the best 30 minutes of watching my kids that I've experienced in quite a while. They played soccer: Sam, Elizabeth and Tallulah against Vincenzo and Lola. They were downright gracious and kind to each other. They played hard, with good sportsmanship. The olders passed the ball to the littles, and went a touch easier on them too. Sam was the very picture of the Perfect Oldest Brother. They encouraged each other, and laughed at their own missteps. It was one of those moments when having a big family really is about always having a crowd to play with and always having a tribe to watch your back. I just sat back and watched them play, honored to witness the kind of freedom and happiness that adults can't remember experiencing.

That's what I want for my kids. Watching them that evening, many miles from home, I saw that they do and will have each other for their entire lives and that when push comes to shove, they'll take care of each other. They really do love each other, despite their serpentine days. I'm going to hold on to that and pray that sometime before Sam graduates from high school, I get to see another 30 minutes like the ones we spent in the setting summer sun, in a parking lot far, far away, changing a tire and having a happy family.

* * *

Today, they were pure evil to me and to each other.

And so goes the yin and yang of family life.

* * *

Just Things

Just Things were taken from us yesterday.

I came home from dropping the kids at school and discovered that our front door had been kicked in. Plaster, nails, splinters of wood were scattered across my front hall.

This is the first time something like this has happened to us. Luckily, we are all completely safe, unharmed, whole, and well.

Luckily, I was by myself when I walked in, no kids with me, so no kids around to see me shaking like a leaf, rocked to the core, teary, confused, overwhelmed, stricken.

Luckily, "they" took our computers, camera, ipod, wii, games, but left our precious sentimental stuff undisturbed.

Luckily, "they" didn't find my son's ipod, or his stash of cash. Luckily, my son is a complete slob, or his stuff would have been far easier to find.

Luckily, I reluctantly agreed to have coffee with a friend after dropping off the kids, or I would have been home.

The worst part was telling the kids and watching the knowledge that sometimes people do awful things sink into their brains. My 7 year old's repeated refrain for the last day has been "I hate people."

Sometimes, I do too, sweetie. But I sure do love the family and friends who have responded with calls, food, pizza, beer, friendship, care for our children, care for us, a computer to borrow, a power cord to go with it, and the certain knowledge that sometimes people do wonderful things too.

Luckily everything "they" took was Just Things and can be replaced. Every single unreplaceable bit of love that resides in my home and my heart is still here, safe and sound.

Hug your children today.

* * *

Seriously???

This week is Catholic Schools Week, the annual celebration of Catholic education that involves lots of activities and events and whatnot. The whatnot is going to kill me.

Tomorrow? Here's what I need to coordinate. This is AFTER attending the K-4th grade pizza night fundraiser tonight and BEFORE attending the 5th-8th grade pizza night fundraiser tomorrow night. In between:

My 2nd grader has an Ancestor project due tomorrow. We started it way ahead of time. And then left it alone, so she must finish it tonight. I am her subject, so I'm pretty involved.

Tomorrow is Stuffed Animal Day. I don't even want to get started on my real opinion of Stuffed Animal Day. I'll just say it drives me bonkers.

Tomorrow is the Multicultural Pot Luck. This means FOUR dishes, for FOUR class potlucks. And I can't convince the kids to let me throw four heads of cabbage in their back packs and call it a day.

Tomorrow is the 100th day of school, which Kindergarten celebrates by having each child bring in 100 somethings to share, which of course the Kindergartner is supposed to be in charge of counting, what with her new-found counting skills and all. This will be painstaking. She can do it. I will go grey in the process.

My 5th grader is carting around the "pretend baby" he is supposed to be caring for 24/7, along with the "baby's" shoe box house. It's anyone's guess if he'll actually be able to find his "baby" when we need to leave for school; if yesterday morning is any indication, we'll turn the house upside down in great angst and upheaval because we think we put the baby through the laundry.

OK, so let's recap. I worked all day long. We've got one art class this afternoon and one basketball practice. We've got the pizza night fundraiser. I somehow must shop for whatever half-assed excuse of a contribution I come up with for the Multicultural potluck. I must throw together said half-assed excuse. We have to finish the 2nd grade project. Have everyone else do their homework. Get the Kindergartner to count out 100 goodies.

And then, tomorrow morning, I must leave the house with:

4 stuffed animals.
4 potluck dishes.
100 goodies.
One completed ancestor project
One late assignment that was due today, but our printer futzed out, which reminds me, throw a trip to Staples for new printer cartridges into this evening.
One box and "baby" for the 5th grader.
The usual four backpacks and lunch boxes.
AND the five kids.

Let's hope that, unlike this morning, we have access to our garage. This morning, after our three-year old completely jammed our locked garage door, rendering it un-openable, we were separated from our clean school uniform laundry for about 20 panicked minutes, way too close to departure time for comfort. We only gained access to said unforms by going through the garden gate, REMOVING a window from our back garage door and essentially breaking in. And then gathering the clean laundry and walking back through the garden gate, around the house, and back in the front door. It was nutty. And dramatic. And supremely annoying.

For those of you who might see me at pizza night, you'll find no need to question why I am weeping into my beer.

My minivan isn't big enough for the next 24 hours and all of the sudden I have an overwhelming desire to homeschool my kids. And now, to accomplish before Pizza Night: bank, staples, grocery store, art class pick-up.

Oh yeah, Kelly, I need that hermitage.

* * *