And this is why I can't be bothered with making (new) mom friends...

I have to believe that San Francisco is not the only hotbed for crazy women taking competitive mothering to new heights. You know who I mean: women who are the dysfunctional combination of Head Cheerleader meets Wall Street Tycoon meets Mother Earth. They shun common sense parenting in favor of “techniques” and “philosophies” espoused in every book on child rearing they can get their overzealous hands on.

Often with their bodies, minds and careers in a state of limbo (typically a result of their new role as mom—or even better, stay-at-home-mom) I suppose they have to exert their drive for success somewhere. And so, they live vicariously through their children, passively competing through them and with them. It’s so g*ddamn lame.

One of my fellow mean mom friends shared this video with me. You’ve got to watch; it is so on the money. (If, however, you accidentally found yourself here, but sympathizing with the Turbo Parent I have aforementioned, you might want to log off instead…)

Click Here: Why I Can't Make Mom Friends, Posted by val1107

Thank g*d for the friends I’ve already got. If I had to start over, making new BFFs on the playground, I’d stick my finger in my eye.

Random acts of malice, pt. 5

Let's face it: shit rolls down hill. So when I'm in a bad mood, the kids need to watch out lest they bear the brunt of my wrath.

To make up for today’s maternal malice I bought cookie dough. The plan: children and mother will reconnect over melty, chocolate chip happiness.

Except that in an effort to make myself feel better immediately, I ate most of the cookie dough before it got in the oven. I have enough left for about...let's see...yep: three cookies.

Good thing I’ve only got three kids.

Like a soldier who goes MIA

Yesterday a friend of mine e-mailed and asked what had happened to the Meanest Mom: why no posts? Was it possible that I was no longer mean? That I was out of material?

Rest assured fine people, that is not the case. The number of stories that have gone undocumented over the past few weeks is criminal. (The acts as well as the fact that I haven’t blogged about them.) And though in many ways I welcome the day when I can abandon my dubious title, the Meanest Mom on the Block is still plenty mean. She’s just on a new block. For the time being at least.

God save the Queen? Yes, and all her subjects, too. Team Murdin has come to town and we’ve got our game on.

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Stay tuned for more on

Expedition to England, Summer ’10:

2 Weddings +3 Countries + 0 Communication = Infinite Chaos

Operation “Toddler Takes Toy Story 3” = FAIL

Today I met a couple neighbors and their kids at the local cinema for a viewing of Toy Story 3. May I just say, Pixar does some fantastic work. This movie does not disappoint: it is adorable and well worth the $$$ that a trip to the movies will run you. But, may I also make one simple suggestion? Please. For the love of all that's pure and good in the world:

LEAVE YOUR TWO YEAR OLD AT HOME.

I was warned by friends: 2 year olds are too squirly. They don’t have the attention. You’ll regret it. But with three kids so close together in age, it hardly seems fair to keep the boys under house arrest while we wait for Midget to develop some (much needed) social skills. So foolishly (and stubbornly) I did bring Mighty with the boys and me. Afterall, she loves movies and watches anything that her brothers do, so why not this show? But again, the subtle-yet-important difference being this: it’s not what you watch, but how and where you watch it. Watching a movie in your own home where you can get up, run around, and generally not worry about making anyone else’s life miserable is a very different experience (for child and parent) than being in a theater.

Let me elaborate:

• 10:00  Enter cinema complex. Tell Midget she must take the stairs instead of the escalator. Experience Midget’s first fit.
• 10:02  Finally get to top of stairs.
• 10:03  On way to theater, pass restrooms. Listen to Midget announce emphatically “NO PEE PEE!”
• 10:04  Step into theater; pick best seats. Switch seats with brothers; switch back. Repeat.
• 10:07  See other friend arrive with Cool-Dad-Who-Buys-Son-Popcorn. Brothers M and Midget demand to know where their popcorn is.
• 10:08  Mom gives in and attempts to take Midget to concession stand. Midget denies Mom. Insists she will sit quietly with Brothers, Friend and Friend’s Mom. “No go! You go! Stay here!”
• 10:10  While Mom is in line buying popcorn, Friend’s Mom appears with Midget. Apparently Midget tried to make a run for it while Mom was out of the theater. Friend’s Mom passes Midget back to Mom.
• 10:12  Back in theater—with Midget and popcorn. All are happy. Trailers start.
• 10:15  Trailers continue.
• 10:20  Trailers are interesting, but Mom worries about losing the kids before the feature film even starts.
• 10:22  Trailers drag on. Midget and Middle Man fight over who gets to use the shared armrest. Much shooshing and placating is done by Mom.
• 10:25  Last trailer and Middle Man finishes the popcorn that was supposed to last him throughout the movie. Demands more. BMoC agrees to share the rest of his if a trip to McDonald’s is in the near future. Mom agrees to shut everyone up.
• 10:30  Movie starts. Mom sighs with relief. All are happy.
• 10:50  Midget jumps out her seat and announces, “Gotta pee!” Mom grumbles something in appropriate, especially given other children are in earshot.
• 10:55  Trip to facilities successful. Mom and Midget settle back into their seats.
• 11:10  Midget announces, “Gotta poo!” Mom ironically less annoyed just comes to terms with the fact she’ll have to watch the movie when it comes out on DVD. Takes Midget back to facilities.
• 11:15  Trip to facilities unsuccessful. (Unless just playing with the toilet paper constitutes success.)
• 11:16  Mom and Midget try to sneak back into the theater. Again.
• 11:25  Midget wants to switch seats.
• 11:30  Midget wants to dance in the side aisle.
• 11:35  Midget makes a run for it. Mom catches her before she can get to the bottom step.
• 11:40  Midget runs up and down an empty row of seats while Mom sits on the bottom step.
• 11:45  Suspecting Midget is becoming too much a distraction for fellow patrons, Mom benches Midget outside of the theater and she attempts to watch movie through small window in door.
• 11:50  Midget’s wails of woe subside with promises that she’ll be good.
• 11:55  Mom and Midget find new seats in theater: on the floor in exit path. New seating allows ample room for Midget to dance, do somersaults, and also provides easy access to main hallway where possible future screams of frustration cannot be heard (well) by fellow movie goers.
• 12:15  Midget settles down and finds a comfortable spot, laying in Mom’s lap.
• 12:20  Mom returns with Midget to original seats (and her two abandoned children, the Brothers M).
• 12:21  Midget spies empty bag and demands more popcorn. Mom placates her with “OK, OK, just hold tight, it’s coming, we'll get some in a minute, hold on…” Mom is actually thinking, “I’m going to beat you with the popcorn if you don’t shut the f#@% up.”
• 12:30  Movie ends. The Brothers M turn and ask Mom when they can come back and do it all again. The answer to which being either “when Hell freezes” or at the very least “when your sister turns 4.”

 I will now be changing my name from Meanest to Dumbest Mom on the Block.

The war for independence

It’s tough letting your kids do things for themselves. While I’d like to pretend it’s because I'm reluctant to let them go, sad to see them moving just a little further from the nest, really it’s just because that learning curve often creates more mess for me in the here-and-now.

Sam (aka, the Mighty Midget) is all of 2 years old. And her favorite word is “SELF!”

“Here, honey, let me help you get those shoes on.”

“SELF!”

“Baby, can Mommy help you put that dress on?”

“No! Go’way! Do it self!”

“Sweetie, let me help you with this bottle of water. No, come on, it’s too full. Let me help.”

“NOOOOOO! SEEEEEEEELF!”

That the shoes wind up on the wrong feet, the dress is inside-out, upside down, and she’s drenched herself with the bottle of water is irrelevant. She’s 2 going on 22, and she knows best.

It just makes me CRAZY! I’m thinking, “For the love of all that’s holy, please let me put the goddamn shoes on your stubborn little feet so that we can get out the door! We are already late!” But I can’t. I let her do it herself because I know that I have to sooner or later. And hey, eventually she will be able to do it all by herself. (I just pray she won’t wind up color-blind like her brothers…who really puts a red-and-blue striped shirt with khaki camo shorts anyway? What Not To Wear? We’ve got a candidate for you right here. His name is Zach.)

Anyway...

Yesterday Mighty announces with a wave of her hand, “Poo! Gotta go poo!” as she prances out of the kitchen on her way to the toilet.

“OK, let Mommy come and help you.”

“No! Self! Pri’cy (privacy). Do it self. Go’way.”

Fine, you little prima donna. Go for it.

Not more than a minute passes and then I hear gagging coming from the general direction of the bathroom. Oh god.

“Honey? What’s the matter...OH MY GOD! What happened?!”

There is poo everywhere. On her dress. On her hands. On the floor. And yes, folks, on her face. Hence, the gagging. Because if you have poo on your face, I’m gonna bet you’d gag, too.

Crying. (From Sam. Not me, surprisingly enough.)

“It’s OK, baby. Mommy’s here. Let me take care of this. You’re OK. Alright. Let’s rinse off your face. Here, drink some water. You’re fine.”

There are just sometimes when asking for a hand is OK. And yes, I guess I should remember that when I find myself in deep shit—it’s OK to ask for help. You can’t always do everything by yourself.

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Hope you have a great Independence Day of your own. Happy 4th, everyone!

Always a winner

I don’t have any trophies. Well, not anymore. I used to have some from ponytail-league softball (like, from when I was 10). I even had a few cheerleading medals—but isn’t THAT a story for another time.

Now: nothing.

As an adult I’ve managed to go without recognition. Some might think this is wise: flying under the radar and all. But my neglected ego (stop laughing) could use a little faux gold bling on the shelves. Something to let me know just how fabulous I am.

And so, I’m creating my own: the Deadbeat Mom Awards.

Being a Deadbeat Mom comes more naturally to some than others. Some probably learn from their own moms. For some, maybe it's just their cultural norm. For whatever reasons, most of the women I spend time with don’t really fit the image (see above). They’re all cute. And fashionable. And super into buying overpriced-organic-anything-as-long-as-it-fits-in-their-reusable-canvas-bags. They do whatever it takes to make sure their kids are healthy! And fit! And ready to take on the 10+ club activities crammed in post-preschool.

Still...I contend that while no one really aspires to be a Deadbeat Mom, we are all part of this group every once and a while. You just get caught off guard and WHOOPS! you drove home forgetting to buckle Junior into his carseat (and you don’t realize it until you are—thank God—safely home). Or YIKES! I totally didn’t mean to throw the baseball that hard, and no I wasn’t trying to give you a bloody nose while we played catch.

There’s the time Liam fell off the top bunk, and instead of racing him to the ER, I nonchalantly informed him that with my Mommy Powers I could “kiss it and make it all better.” Xrays about a week later showed that he did, in fact, have a broken arm. My Mommy Powers: sucky at best.

Then last week I caught Zach watching True Blood. Yeah, he’s 5. And at 5 he really shouldn’t be watching a show filled with violence, blood and frenzied vampire sex. Unfortunately Husband’s series recording picked up the East Coast airing and thus cut off the episode of Dragon Tales Zach had been previously watching. Awesome.

So, come on, ladies, time to fess up. You can put on your Jackie-Oversized sunglasses and hide behind your huge Orla Keily bag all you want, but I know you are out there. Won’t you stand up with me and accept your award with whatever dignity is left? And, yes, while might all wind up in Hell, at least we'll be there together. (I’ll bring the boxed wine.)

The next best thing

So yesterday I lamented the fact that I do not yet possess a vuvuzela. Since I never learned how to whistle like a freight train (you know the kind: where you stick two fingers in your mouth and let rip a shrill that can be heard across town), I must rely on devices such as these to get the kids’ collective attention.

But just as I sat down to see how much they were on eBay, I heard the low bleating of some kind of horn from downstairs.

Low and behold: the boys have found our didgeridoo. Not quite as portable as a vuvuzela, but I’m excited thinking of all the ways we can use it in the meantime.

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Why do we have an authentic didgeridoo? Oh, we got it as a wedding present. Because really, nothing says “wishing you luck and love in your married life” like an aboriginal wind instrument. What? Why are you laughing? You mean YOU didn’t get one when you got married? Huh…Too bad for you.

Deep thoughts, brought to you (in part) by FIFA

While it’s far from over, with both the US and English teams knocked out of the World Cup, the intensity has lessened considerably at the House of M. And so now I can sit back and reflect on some things I’ve learned while enjoying the world's most-watched tournament thus far:

1. Despite having soccer on ALL THE TIME at our house, I still don’t understand the rules of the game.
2. The world’s oldest sport needs to catch up with modern-day technology. Listen footballers around the world: instant replay could save us from much unnecessary grief! Was or was not the goal justified? Was there a foul? Was he offsides? Or...in our house: which boy threw the first punch? How did the Sharpie hieroglyphics really get all over the bedroom wall?
3. I should have been handing out yellow and red cards to my kids long ago. Thinking about all the times my offending offspring should have been benched from penalty behavior makes my head swim.
4. From what I know of their international reputation, our 2 year old’s tantrums suggest perhaps a future playing on the Italian national team.
5. And lastly...When you have a baby, why doesn’t the hospital send you home with a vuvuzela along with your prescription for Vicodin? I’m not saying you’d need it right away, but I know it would come in real handy every now and again at our house. 

Extreme make over, the blog edition

Don't worry: yes, you are at the right spot. I just got a little carried away playing with the new blog templates and creating a new look.

Whatcha think?

(Sorry for all you e-mail subscribers...you have no idea what I'm talking about...you'll have to go to the site to see!)

More soon...stay tuned.

Why I'd like to punch a gift horse in the mouth

In case you didn’t know this about me, let me share: I cannot stand clutter. Thus, the decision to have three children suggests I must be some kind of masochist. My house is cluttered with children, let alone the clutter that children collect. Like toys, for example.

One of my favorite things to say is, “if you don’t clean up these toys right now, they’re going in the trash.” 1) This hopefully gets the kids to move into action, tidying their books/cars/trains/blocks/whatever lest they lose the beloved playthings. 2) It makes me feel OK about junking a few items here and there. Nothing major—I have yet to actually send Spiderman or a Star Wars light saber to the dump. But just enough of a clear out to feel like we’ve got some much-needed breathing room, and (if anything) rid ourselves of those weird items extracted from birthday goodie bags or trips to the dentist.

Yesterday I once again let the kids play out in the front yard. The toys of choice: my gigantic cardboard boxes from numerous UPS deliveries, proving my point that the kids don’t need all the plastic, battery-operated, shrieking crap they’ve got. All they need is for mommy to keep shopping online and everyone should be happy.

But I digress…the kids: playing outside…

And then I hear a trio of “Wow!” and “So cool!” and “Thank youuuuuuuuu!” and I go out the front door to see one of my neighbors has brought down an entire shopping back of—let’s just call it what it is—crap. Crappy toys that he’s apparently been collecting since the dawn of time.

This is what I like to call the “Disney” collection. Poor Mickey. Obviously got the worse end of a fight with Donald. And, hey! A megaphone! Exactly what this house needs: amplification for noise from the kids.

This we’ve named the “Tin from the 50’s” collection. These toys are not only old and rusty, but they make lots of noise. Yippee! A tin tambourine, complete with sexy gypsy. A scarey-ass clown clacker. Rattles leftover from a New Year's party circa 1955. Twirly gadgets that should have been left on the set of The Howdy Doody Show. And a single wind up firetruck that all three kids are now fighting over. Sweet.

I am not sure what the hell this stuff is. A brass dish? A string with a fly-fishing fly? A miniature sombrero from the neighborhood junkeria? Who knows. And unless it crosses your threshold, who cares.

And my favorites: ceramic figurines. Perfect for play as well as décor.

So awesome.

I need to get those kids to play in the backyard from now on.

Driver’s ed

I’m a good driver.

Seriously, I am.

I’m the beautiful harmony of safe-yet-efficient on the road. I observe the zipper principle (when two lanes narrow into one, you take turns merging with your fellow drivers in adjacent lane). I give those turning into traffic a chance to pull out. I get a small high from the warm-hearted hand wave saying, “Thank you, lady! Giving me the chance to pull out of this here gas station before next Tuesday has TOTALLY made my day!” I don’t run red lights…but I also don’t stick it to the drivers behind me by slowing to a snail’s pace when I see yellow. (There’s not much worse than a hyper-safe driver who stuffs you up by making you miss the light because they drop to 5 miles/hour as soon as the light goes amber.) I have never hit a cat, dog, or anything that breathes for that matter. I can parallel park my SUV or truck in a way that makes my tractor-driving dad proud.

I’m a good driver.

So imagine my surprise when last week, as I’m merrily driving along, I hear honking followed the sound of an engine gunned, then see a car rocket in front of me. I mean, this is the City, and people drive a little more recklessly than in the ‘burbs, but you still wonder “what the…?” The light turns red; we all stop. Then I see the driver of this car get out and seemingly approach mine. What?! I’ll be honest: my mind went a little blank. I couldn’t figure out what to process first: that I’d found 50 Cent’s long-lost brother, or the fact that I was in the bowels of the City with him approaching me and my car (complete with a tinge of malice).

So, apparently I cut him off. (Between you and me, I beg to differ. Especially as he wound up in front of me.) Figuring a battle of logic wasn’t going to help me out of this situation, I just apologized and made sure my doors were still locked.

** Quick PSA: immediately apologizing stuns aggressive people. They can’t do much with an apology except repeat it really loudly on their way back to their own car. It might sound something along the lines of, “That’s right you're sorry. Stupid lady driver. You’d better be sorry, cuttin’ me off. Open your eyes...Sorry ass driving...blah, blah, blah...” **

Did I mention that my kids were in the backseat during all this? Yeah, that makes this all the better.

“Mom, why was that man yelling at you?”

“Well, he was concerned that Mommy wasn’t driving safely, and he wanted to come over and remind me to be careful.”

“He seemed really mad.”

“No, baby. He was just worried I wasn’t being as safe as I should be.”

“Oh.”

I’m guessing a split screen conversation with my do-rag-wearing guardian angel wouldn’t have featured the same explanation or choice of words.

Still, I maintain I’m a good driver.

And then I got this two days later.

My guess is that Husband’s going to be teaching the kids how to drive.

Random acts of malice, pt. 4

Thanks to a FUN case of food poisoning, I’ve been the unwilling creator of the most fragrant wind. Unforutunately this did not go undetected for long, and as soon as the boys started writhing on the floor from the foul odors, I maturely blamed the fumes on their sister. Because, hey, at two she can’t really argue otherwise, and my boys are easily duped.

In the meantime, y’all might want to stay upwind.

Labor of love

This weekend we celebrated Liam’s fourth birthday. (Liam, also known as Middle Man, but now simply referred to as Liam because all the code was starting to do my head in…)

Like all neurotic parents of my generation, I was compelled to indulge my boy with a big ol’ birthday party. In my defense, I had yet to actually throw a party for him (despite the fact that his older brother has already logged a gala at the zoo, a neighborhood-wide Halloween/Birthday bash, and another we like to call “The Chuck E. Cheese Incident.”)

Because the weather in San Francisco is so unreliable—especially in the summer—I decided to hold a little soiree at The Party Playhouse instead of our own home. Read: a warehouse in the middle of a low-rent industrial area, not even within the city limits. And I'm sure that just because I’m a big fan of irony, we were actually blessed with one of the hottest days on record anyway, so essentially we invited family and friends to sweat-it-up in a ghetto-fabulous warehouse on the outskirts of hell. Of course. But who cares because the kids loved it. The sweatier and stinkier, the better.

The décor (if you can call it that) at The Party Playhouse is all castles and dragons, so I OF COURSE felt compelled to stay within the theme.

“I want a Spiderman party.”

“I’m not sure…How about a knights and dragons party?”

“Is Spiderman a knight?”

“Ummm…he could be. As long as we can make sure that he’s a purple and yellow Spiderman. And very small. Maybe like an invisible Spiderman.”

“OK.”

Man, sometimes Liam is such an easy sell.

“And you know what kind of cake we should have, big boy?!”

“What, Mom?!”

“A DRAGON CAKE!”

“Like with Spiderman on it?”

“No. Just a dragon. Here, let’s work on it together.”

OK, now THIS Liam loved. He got to be in charge of the green icing. Especially the part when he kept scooping it out of the bowl with his fingers while I was trying to ice each damn cupcake. (My sincere apologies to everyone who actually ate the aftermath of our teamwork-in-cooking.)

“There. We’re done. What do you think?” Smiling, almost ready to pat myself on the back. “We do good work, don’t we?”

“Mom, where are the dragon’s wings?”

Really? Remind me about the wings AFTER the cake is done?

So it turned out to be more of a gigantic salamander cake. But again, it was a cupcake arrangement for four year olds. Four year olds who only care about how much icing is actually on each serving of cake they are given. In fact, they don’t even care that I forgot to add vegetable oil to one of the batches of cupcakes. Not one of them said, “Hey, this cupcake would be great, but it seems to be missing about a 1/3 cup of vegetable oil.” Four year olds are very very forgiving and therefor very awesome in my book.

Anyway, all in I think I invested about 9 days of planning, shopping, goodie-bag assembling, inflatable knight sword blowing-upping, dragon cake sort-of making, and general hand-wringing. In comparison to 9 months of pregnancy, I suppose that’s not bad. And yet, throughout the process I saw some similarities to the birth of a child and the annual celebration of said child’s birth.

• Preparing for these celebrations involves a lot of labor.
• In order to handle the labor successfully you can either A) plan ahead with classes, a birth/event plan, and (at the very least) making sure a camera is in your bag, or B) do a lot of screaming, swearing and crying at the last minute. Ask strangers to e-mail you pictures because you can't find your camera.
• The labor becomes MUCH easier once you are on your drug of choice (Epidural. Gin & tonic. Whatever.)
• The exhaustion/elation you experience after these blessed events often prevents you from properly retaining important details—details that were you to remember them, would make next time easier. Like, maybe, “why exactly am I putting myself through this hell again?!”
• You do it all because you love the child you are doing it for. 

(Sigh)

Lastly, I feel compelled to make a few shout outs to some of our most generous guests…

To the multiple friends who gave bug collection devices, kits and CAGES for said bugs—cages that enable crawling, flying and buzzing critters to become inside pets, I say: THANK YOU! I can’t wait to be invited to your kids’ birthdays now. I totally know what I'll give to your children.

To the particular family member who gave the large rubber bouncy ball: THANK YOU! However, you might not want to read about the fate that befell our beloved yoga ball…

 

And to the family member who gave not one, not two, but THREE loud, blinking, shrieking, plastic, battery-operated Spiderman vehicles: THANK YOU! I guess you forgot that I know where you live and I that have the code to the gate. You might want to sleep with one eye open for a while and definitely not let your rose bushes go unguarded. (And please spare me the line about payback being a bitch, etc., etc. You are my mom first, and the their grandma second.)

My name is Jen, but you should call me Zach’s Mom

So this is my latest conundrum: what should I have my kids’ friends call me, and likewise how should I have my kids refer to their friends’ moms and dads?

I don’t know where along the way we lost our manners. When I was growing up it was always “Mr. This” and “Mrs. That.” I never dreamed of calling my parents’ friends by their first names. Whether the Mr. and Mrs. titles subliminally elicited respectful behavior is something my mom would have to answer. But at least it sounded better.

Nowadays we are so psyched—and overanxious—to have our kids start talking, we grab the first and easiest name that we can use. I mean, really, can you imagine sitting around some happy-clappy circle time at Gymboree trying to get your 2 year old to sing “Bye bye Mrs. Really-Long-Multi-Syllable-And-Lots-Of-Consonants-Last-Name”? Get real.

Up until recently I hadn't given this (boring) topic much thought. But with an increasing number of play dates, I’m getting the SUPER AWESOME pleasure of spending too much time with my son’s friends. Five year old boys with attitude like you would not believe.

“Hey Jen. I’m really thirsty. I want some juice.”

What?

“Ugh, Jen. I like my sandwiches withOUT the crusts.”

Mmhm.

“Jen? Jen! I just went poo. I need you to wipe my bottom!”

Sweet LORD!

Now, swap out all those commands/demands with a Mrs. M or at least Zach’s Mom instead. Isn’t it just a little less harsh? Obviously the word please would soften the blow tremendously, but let’s not ask for miracles, people.

What do you think? Am I really parenting in the wrong decade? Or are manners something that we can make fashionable again. Like victory gardens. Or even wayfarer sunglasses.

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An PS...In case you didn't gather, I'm selling out and calling my kids by their real names. My nicknames are too tough to use, and if all my kids come after me for is libel, I'll consider myself lucky.

If it’s brown, flush it down

You’d think with the Mighty Midget 99% potty trained I’d be dancing a jig. Well, I am, because I don’t care what kind of mother you are—you could be Mother Theresa for all I care—no one likes dealing with poo.

And so, we are just so close to being done.

Except now the Middle Man has decided to leave calling cards after he uses the facilities.

“What the…? Duuuuuuude. Why didn’t you flush toilet, buddy?”

No response... other than a couple of long-lashed blinks.

“Seriously, what is going on? Why didn’t you flush?”

“I don’t know. I guess I forgot.”

How is that even possible? You are right there and there is a TURD STARING BACK UP AT YOU.

“OK, well, please try to remember next time. Because it’s not a pet. It’s poo. And we need to flush once we are done with the toilet, OK?”

“Got it, Mom.”

(Repeat this conversation twice daily for two weeks straight. Now you are experiencing my pain.)

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Any tips on how to handle this? And is this just a boy thing, or is short-term shit amnesia something that affects girls as well as boys?

Random acts of malice, pt. 3

Sometimes I do things that I know Husband is going to freak out about but then just blame the offensive acts on our children.

For example, I have always hated our yoga ball. It takes up a huge amount of space and has never been used for anything other than bowling down any unsuspecting child. Husband bought it at Ross for $3.99, thereby justifying the acquisition. ‘Cause, if it’s a deal, we MUST get it. Even if we’ll never use it (in the manner for which it is intended).

I just can’t believe that THE KIDS ACCIDENTALLY POPPED IT.

Whoops.

The baby shower

Last weekend my family—as well as my sisters and their kids—trekked from the Bay Area down to my parents’ home in Southern California. It’s a little slice of Eden down there: the weather is always warmer, the sun is always sunnier, there are activities a ‘plenty for kids and adults alike, and booze flows like water. It’s a wonder we don’t spend more time down there.

Our travels were aimed at not only taking advantage of the long weekend, but to also celebrating impending arrival of another baby in the family: my cousin’s wife is pregnant.

For most people, celebrating a cousin’s kid’s anything is a fairy tale. You have your siblings and maybe the random niece or nephew. The extended family is something of days past (or The Sopranos series.) But not on my side of the family. There are a total of 16 cousins in my family, and 9 of us already have kids of our own…so that number’s only going to go up. This past weekend we had almost two dozen kids running around my parents’ place during a “baby shower” inflicted upon this poor girl.

I don’t know if there’s a crueler way to treat a woman who is 9 months pregnant with her first child than to make her sit through a sugar-induced pool party with 18 kids running around. I mean, hello? It’s too late for protection now, and here she is looking down the barrel of her child-rearing future, of which she is surely ill-prepared.

Plus, what happened to the dignity of a ladies’ luncheon? Where guests sit around in a civilized fashion, make polite chit chat, and pay attention to the mother-to-be? Isn’t the shower supposed to be for her? So what’s the deal with the whole “couple’s shower” where not only spouses but kids are invited? I can think of no faster way to take the spotlight OFF the poor pregnant guest-of-honor than introduce children to the occasion. Children doing cannon balls, hurling water balloons, and shooting you with either water launchers or laser guns.

To be fair, I think my cousin (and my mom and aunt who co-hosted the shower) thought that an early summer bbq would be casual and relaxed. Judging by the pictures below, you can see that my mom interprets a hot-dog-and-hamburger pool party as something that necessitates rented linens, centerpieces, and the wrath of God brought upon anyone who touches her napkin display or puts fingerprints on the windows. Totally laid back.

I just hope that my cousin’s wife got some good loot out of this shower. And I do have confidence that now that she’s survived her couples baby shower, she can survive anything that motherhood throws her way.

****
We love you MH!

15 minute bliss

Twice a month I get to enjoy about 15 minutes of Pine-Sol-infused bliss: the 15 minutes immediately following my house keeper completing the monumental challenge that is cleaning my house.

That I'm a stay-at-home mom AND have someone come ‘roudnd to clean up after us is embarrassing, but it's my reality. I am a neat-freak at heart, yet sadly my husband and children don't share my love for a germ and clutter-free environment.

Surely the most absurd piece of the puzzle is how frantically I do clean the house before the cleaner herself comes over.

“Babe, why are we cleaning the house before Evelyn comes?”

“Look at how filthy this place is! I can't have her see that we live like this!”

Really, it makes sense, no?

I justify the massive amount of time I block out each cleaning day as “tidying” rather than “cleaning”. I pay my dear, sweet Evelyn to clean the house. I don't want a second wasted on shelving toys and books, nor do I think she should be paid to put away the golf equipment and weights that migrate their way into the house.

My Evelyn, the cleaning fairy, just left. And not five minutes later I also see Middle Man has finished his snack.

Really, it would just be easier if I lit cash on fire rather than go through the charade that is keeping a clean house. Because let's be honest: having a professional clean your house when you still have kids makes about as much sense as hiring a personal trainer yet eat nothing but Twinkies for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Backside betrayal

See this function on your phone?

I highly recommend you use it. You never know who your butt may dial while you innocently go about your day. Apparently today my butt dialed a neighbor in my babysitting coop.

A neighbor who isn’t (yet) hardened by raising three kids.

A neighbor who doesn’t let her own 2 year old have a temper tantrum in Target, and then announce rather loudly “Listen up: I’m leaving now. I’m not sure why you are so sad and angry, but if you want a ride home you’d better get off the floor and follow me out.”

A neighbor who isn’t undeterred when followed in public places by the howls of 2 year old woe.

When the distress call ended, my neighbor *69’ed me to make sure that everything was OK. Much the way the 911 operator follows up on a misdial, making sure police, ambulance or fire services don't need dispatching. I guess my neighbor wanted to see if CPS was warranted given the amount and decibel of wailing she overheard.

I have for years hated my butt. Now I have one more reason to add to the list.

Memorial Day, caterpillar-style

When I was about 5 years old I was really into “pet” caterpillars. Like most kids, the idea of my fuzzy little friend transforming into a beautiful butterfly blew me away. Here was glamour and science working together. And it involved bugs, so HUGE bonus there. I would collect them, one after another, in the hopes of one day seeing a beautiful Monarch fluttering around in the jar-turned-terrarium I’d build for them. (That my caterpillars were nothing more than the Western Tent variety is a small-yet-pertinent detail a 5 year old typically ignores...)

Sadly, none of my pets made their full journey from little ‘pillar to beautiful winged friend. In fact, most perished well before their chrysalises even formed. And although I did once manage to sustain a caterpillar long enough for it to create a chrysalis, when I eventually found the common household moth fluttering madly in the Prego pasta jar, I was totally of bummed out.

Well, I guess these infatuations are timeless, ‘cause guess what new pet our family adopted yesterday while at Grandma’s house.

BMoC: “Mom! Look! It’s a caterpillar!”

Middle Man: “Hey, let me see!”

BMoC: “No! Get off. You’ll squish him. Leave him alone.” This said as BMoC picks the caterpillar up, flips it around in his hands and basically does not leave it alone.

While I left the boys to enjoy (but ultimately tire) of their new find, my mom stepped in and audaciously suggested that BMoC create a little habitat for it so he could KEEP it. Whipping around, I looked at my mom with an expression that said, “are you kidding me?!” My mom replied with an unspoken, but clear-as-crystal smile suggesting, “welcome to my world.”

Well, just like his mother, BMoC (unfortunately) does not have a future in zoology. Or at least not an unchaperoned one. Our Mr. Caterpillar did not make it to Day 2. (Quite frankly, I’m not sure he made it past Hour 2 in the plastic tub that was serving as his new home.)

"Mom? My caterpillar isn't moving?"

Ugh oh.

"Umm...maybe it's just taking a nap."

"Maybe. But, like, it's a really long nap. And see how when I shake the tub, he doesn't wake up."

Ah, yes. I wonder what ever could be the matter.

"OK, well let's give it until after lunch, and if he doesn't move by then, what do you think we should do?"

"I think he's dead."

And then tears.

"He was such a good friend. I'm going to miss him so much."

Right. You guys shared a lot together.

"Buddy, sometimes caterpillars are better left living outside, in the grass, where you find them. No matter how nice a home you make for them, maybe we should just leave them outside and visit them rather than move them into a new place."

"Maybe. Or maybe I just didn't have enough water in his new house."

Maybe.

Once BMoC called time-of-death, it was time to move onto proper burial services...

...as well as spreading the news to all family members, such as Husband/ Dad at work. (I made sure he called Daddy's cell phone so that even meetings were interrupted for the urgent and grave news.)

Memorial services are expected to continue tonight with a wake including comfort foods such as corn dogs and mac ‘n’ cheese.

Who wants to bet how long it takes to ask for a dog?

A haircut: more than just cutting hair

When BMoC was born, I was ill-prepared for a 10lb baby. I mean, I could see that I was LARGELY pregnant, so much more distended than my cuter-while-pregnant friends. But at a mere 5’4”, I just didn’t figure I could and would birth a linebacker. Surprise.

I also didn’t expect said linebacker to be a yeti. My little/large BMoC was covered in hair. So much hair all over his head, then growing down his neck and back. Even little tufts on his shoulders. And in my first moments of mommy delirium I thought “I love you so much, you fuzzy little bear.”

Well, thank goodness that fluff fell off and is no longer BMoC's defining physical trait. Nor is it for his brother or sister, both also born in the same furry state. But all three still have thick heads of hair. They have ever since they were born—BMoC clearly needing and therefore getting his mullet cut within that first week of life. And ever since then, once a month, we line 'em up and clean 'em up.

The day I shear my sheep is not a fun day in the House of M. You see, I’m the one who does it. And, since I’ve always cut Husband’s hair, it never occurred to me to send my kids to a professional. (I guess what I could have asked instead is why Husband won’t pay money for a professional to cut his own hair, but then we’ve already established how, ahem, 'frugal' Husband can be…) Anyway, if I can save some $$$ by wielding scissors and clippers at home, I can further justify spending ridiculous amounts of cash on my own hair hat.

So this weekend it was time.

“Guess what everyone?! Haircuts today!”

An announcement met with a defeaning “Noooooooooooooooooooooo!”

“Yep. Who’s first?”

Because BMoC is the first born, he defaults to being first up.

Now, let me refresh your memory: BMoC is but only 5 years old. He is in PreK. He is not an adult runway model working in Milan, nor is he even trying to land work in Hollywood as a Young Romance Heartthrob. At least, that’s been my understanding. But given the amount of instruction I got from him as he took the chair, you’d have thought he was Taylor Lautner. 

“Mom, let’s make sure not to make it too short. Remember I like to keep it spiky on top. And the girls really like when I have these points on the side,” as he touches where I’m supposing sideburns should be.

“Riiiiiiight.” Who is this kid? And who are these girls he’s concerned about impressing?

Shrugging it off, I cut away.

“How long is this going to take?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Do you have someplace to be? It'll take as long as it takes.”

“I’m missing the Bernstein Bears on TV right now. Are we almost done?”

“No, we aren’t. And if you don’t stop wiggling, it’s going to take longer.”

Just a little more here. A little more there.

“OK, done. Nice! Lookin' good, young man.”

BMoC runs to his room, ripping off his prickly, hair-covered shirt and inspects his new style.

“Mooooooooooom! You’ve ruined my hair!”

Angry tears start down his cheeks.

“What are you talking about?’

“My hair is ruined! All the kids are going to laugh at me.”

Umm, what? Hang on. He’s 5. He’s a dude, not a chick. Is he kidding?

“Babe, come on. You look great.”

“No, I don’t. Go away.”

I'm now getting annoyed, fixating on the tantrum rather than the emotionally fragile state of Sampson. But fortunately before I say something to make this bad situation worse, Husband does what every good dad does. He comes to the rescue.

“Buddy. You know what? Your hair does look a little ridiculous, but that’s just because Mom doesn’t know how to fix it like guys do. Here, put some of this stuff in your hair. It makes a spike in the middle. There. Now THAT looks good.”

BMoC now has a faux hawk, red eyes, but the beginnings of a smile.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You got it, buddy.”

So clearly I didn’t realize vanity begins this early in life, and that it affects boys just like it does girls. Next thing you know, they are going to want to pick out their own clothes, dress themselves and actually have a say in their own lives. The nerve. I'm so ill-prepared for parenthood’s curve balls.

Got milk?

We are big milk drinkers at the House of M—all five of us. Without exaggeration, we go through about a gallon a day. The California Dairy industry loves us. My kids’ pediatrician not so much, and so I’m continually lying about how much my children consume when paying her office a visit. (Let's quickly point out that lying to your kids’ doctor is really such a smart idea, right?)

“Can you tell me about their diet? What are they eating and drinking?”

“Oh, well my kids drink milk…but, ugh…I usually cut them off at lunchtime…and then I switch to water. So I think it’s only about 15 ounces a day.” Or 30.

“Well, oooookaaaaay, but make sure it stays at that. It’s really important that they get their nutrition from a balanced diet. The calcium is important of course, but they can also get it from leafy greens.”

“You got it.” Fingers crossed behind my back.

Anyway, for this reason above all others I have to make a trip to the store every couple days. There are only so many gallons of milk you can buy in one grocery run without either A) getting REALLY weird looks from your fellow shoppers or B) running out of refrigerator space at home.

Guess what: today we are out of milk. And I’ve got all three of my lovelies home. And it’s raining. And this is what happened the last time I had to take the entire posse to the store with me.

I think it’s time to bring back the milk man.

Amber Alert love

Wow…has it really over a month since I’ve last posted to this blog? That’s pretty pathetic, even for my standards. But! I do have an excuse! Not necessarily a good one, but an excuse none-the-less. My in-laws were in town.

Clever readers that you are, you probably already figured out that if Husband is a displaced Englishman, my in-laws are not locals either. So, when they pop in for a visit, they really are coming to stay. It’s a feast or famine situation—we’ll go for three months with little more than a weekly e-mail or phone call, then all of the sudden have three generations living under the same roof for three straight weeks. It’s crazy, but it is what it is.

Needless to say, when this set of grandparents is in town, little more can be scheduled into the kids’—and my own—agenda. (Ahem…including blogging.) We are all about maxing out every waking minute with bonding. Parks. Playgrounds. Museums. Walks. Beach trips. Even skiing. It’s a veritable cornucopia of family fun time.

On one particular day during this last visit, Grandma and Grandad offered to take the kids—all three—to the zoo. “Fabulous!” I thought. “I’ll be off to get my much-neglected hair cut while my kids demand train rides, corn dogs and gawking at displaced wild animals.” Overwhelmed with the thrill of my sudden ‘me time,’ I overlooked outlining the rest of the day’s schedule with my in-laws. In my defense, the zoo opens at 10 am and even with a full day there, I still figured that they would make it back before 4:30pm (in time for the boys’ karate class) without having to be asked. Yet, when 3:30pm…then 4pm…then 4:30pm rolled around, and there was no sign of the adventurers, I got a little worried. And a little more miffed. Did I really have to establish a curfew? With grandparents?

Apparently I did.

Somewhere between 4:30 and 5pm the troop collapsed back through the front door, tired, happy and having had a great time. But, excuse me, where had they been and why hadn’t they called? I smile through my irritation, knowing it comes from a warm and loving place. But next time I think I’ll micro-chip everyone. And I’ll add a pedicure to my own itinerary, too.

Like mother like daughter

We've all the seen the photos of Katie and Suri, Jen and Violet, Angelina and Shiloh…the list is long and strong. All these celebrity moms absurdly dressing their kids—2 year olds—like miniature versions of themselves.

Unthinkable.

I mean, it’s so ridiculous.

Really, who would do that?

(Coughs.) Really.

OK, so here’s the thing. The Midget and I do often dress the same. But I’ve got to chalk it up to the fact that I’m just lazy. When I get dressed in the morning, I have a hard enough time coming up with one non-garish combination, let alone doing it again for my daughter. So guess what, she winds up wearing something pretty damn similar. It’s not intentional, I swear. It’s even kind of cute at first, but does quickly move towards the embarrassing when the 4th and 5th person of the day comments, “Oh how adorable—Mommy and Baby out in the same clothes.” (Mighty’s gonna just LOVE hearing that as she gets older because Katie Holmes or Angelina Jolie I am not.)

At the crux of this I fear are my own issues with getting older. Because why on earth do I have clothes that look like my 2-year old daughter’s?! Yes, I know the fashion for even toddlers these days mirrors teen looks. Buuuuuuuut…should my mommy wears be doing the same? Is that normal, or maybe just me in denial about my age?

When I was in my 20’s I shopped at Ann Taylor because it made me feel stylish, sophisticated and like a grown up. In my 30’s I now shop at H&M because it makes me feel young, hip and less like an old bag. Honestly, at the rate I’m going, you’ll find me searching for deals at the Gymboree sale rack once I near 40. And with the invention of the Slanket, my adult onesie should keep me comfy as I move into my golden years.

Husband looks me over in my ballet flats, skinny jeans and tee shirt. He shakes his head and I know is wondering if there’s some 80s party he hasn’t been invited to. Sometimes he is wise and recognizes it’s best to let me have my midlife crisis in silence. But I smile when the Midget races in and he comments on her cute she is…in her ballet flats, skinny jeans and tee.

Circle of life

This is a small, pretty little bird known as the Cedar Waxwing. This is what it looks like when daintily perched on the branch of a berry bush from which it happily feeds.

Or perhaps here resting in one of the trees on the edge of a serene wood.

This is what it looks like after the worse end of a window vs. bird incident.

THWUNG! THWUNG!

“What on earth was that?” I asked, moving toward the front door. Perhaps UPS is getting cavalier with the way they deposit our packages, I thought.

“Mom, look! There’s bird poo on the window!”

“That was the sound of bird poo? That must have been a lot of poo.” Sure enough, a splat across the front window. “Gross! Was the bird flying sideways? How did it manage to do that?”

“MOM! LOOK! There are two birds are on the ground in front of the house!” exclaimed BMoC. The mixture of horror and fascination was palpable. Here was fresh kill, literally right on his doorstep.

“Wha… OMG. OK, stay here. No, you can’t go outside and check them out. I’ll go and see how they are doing. Yes, I’ll call for back up if needed.”

After not so close inspection, I pronounced our winged friends DOA.

Crap, I thought. Now comes the time when I need to explain why I can’t fix the birds. Why sometimes no amount of tape will do the trick. Why I’m not going to take the feathered ones to a special bird hospital. Why I’m not going to even consider putting stickers on our windows like the ones at Grandma’s house, I don’t care how cute they are. I even thought that maybe more theological ponderings about bird heaven were about to be explored. And fair enough: all this is just part of the mom-job—navigating the sensitive topic of the circle of life.

But as I collected the bird remains, moving them to an eternal resting spot that was not our front walkway, I was caught off guard by the actual exchange between Brothers M.

“Hey Mom, why don’t you just leave them for our cat to eat?”

“Good idea, Bro. I’ll bet they are better than cat food.”

Sometimes boys are the easier—if not grodier—sex.

****
Oh, and BTW, the window splat was nothing more than berries that didn't fair well upon impact. I'm pretty sure our feathered friends broke their necks and were gone instantly. :(

The view from 10,000 feet

Today I got some sobering news about family friends and their baby. So, here’s a small break from my typical ranting.
 
Do me—and yourselves—a favor. Take a minute, grab your kids, and give them a squeeze—the really good kind. Breath in their sweet (or maybe funky) smell. They are the loves of your life and you would fight like tigers to protect them. Because, even us mean moms know when we’ve got it so, so good.

Random acts of malice, pt. 2

I believe that it is better to turn to PBS Sprout (or your favorite Pixar movie) than to drinking in the afternoon. Unfortunately there have been times when I've turned to both.

Shares well with others

For three days straight we’ve seen sun, so it was of paramount importance I get the kids outside again to run off the remains of Easter candy and pent up energy. To the park we headed.

Now once upon I time I used to pack for the park like a sherpa trekking Mt. Everest. I’d have snacks, lunch, sand toys, diapers, wipes, anti-bacterial liquid, sunscreen... a mall’s-worth of goodies in my multiple diaper bags. Today I’m much more of a minimalist. I bring coffee for myself and if the kids want to bring toys, they have to convince me they are worth the extra effort, and they have to carry them.

“Can we bring our swords?”

“No.”

“Why?!”

“Because you beat each other with them, and I like to reserve that experience for when we are home and the neighbors can’t see.”

“We promise we won’t hit other kids.”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”

“Why don’t you take your squirt guns,” I suggested, thinking that at least those would be harder to use in maiming another child.

“No, we want the swords.”

“Fine, but the first sign of aggression, and I’m taking them.”

Insert irony: as soon as we got the park, the boys didn’t want anything to do with the swords anyway. What did strike everyone’s fancy was playing in the sandpit.

The sandpit is the bane of my existence. While it at least keeps the kids contained, thus allowing me a chance catch up with fellow moms at the playground, it is the messiest, dirtiest place in the whole park. God only knows what other animals use the sandpit for, but I don’t want to go there.

Additionally, some architectural genius also decided to put a “fresh water” fountain in the middle of this play area. So, not only can our kids get sand in every pocket, cuff and crevice, but they can also get themselves sopping wet in the process. Always interested in pushing the envelope, the Mighty Midget today decided sopping wet wasn’t good enough, and proceeded to actually drink from one of the water-filled communal buckets left for all the neighborhood kids. To cover for my poor parenting, I plied her with oranges announcing loudly and awkwardly to mothers looking on in disapproval, “Oh well, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger!” and “I’m sure the vitamin C in these oranges will counter any pathogens.” A few moms scooted themselves and their young a few feet further from us.

After a while, that embarrassing moment passed and everyone was having a grand ol’ time. But all good things must come to an end, and the owner of most of the toys started collecting her buckets, rakes and spades to take home.

“Um, excuse me, sweetie, can I have that?”

I turned to look and see what was going on.

“Here you go. Can I trade this watering can for that scooper you have?”

There was a mother trying to bargain with my two year old, hoping the Mighty Midget would willingly give up the shovel she had been loving so for the past 10 minutes. And the Midget seemed to be the one controlling the situation.

“Sweetie, it has to go bye-bye. Will you give it to me, pretty please?” this mother further cajoled.

“Ummm…you know, you can just take it, especially if it belongs to you. That’s so nice of you to give her other toys, but you don’t have to negotiate with my daughter. You’re the mom,” I good-heartedly laughed, still unable to believe that this was what was actually taking place anyway.

“Well, I just don’t want her to think we're OK with grabbing. Or worse! That I don’t want to share with her! Learning to share is so very important, isn’t it?!”

It was actually more of a statement than a question.

“Oh, right. Ugh, thanks,” I mumbled as I extracted the coveted shovel from the Midget’s mighty grip. Yet, I think all this episode might have taught my daughter was that she was the one wearing the (albeit wet) pants in that situation.

Ummm, WTF? When did our kids become the boss of us?

Kids nite out

One of the restaurants in our neck of the woods does something crazy-yet-brilliant: they feature a kids nite. I think their marketing literally goes a little something like, “We're here to help kids learn proper ways of eating in nicer restaurants.”

Upon reading this the first time I immediately I started daydreaming of something akin to ski school…where we might leave our young diners with a professional, maybe dressed as a lion tamer, tackling the job of teaching table manners. Imagine my disappointment when I found out it was the restaurant’s position that parents were still responsible for their children throughout the dining experience. They were simply willing to open their doors to the vertically challenged, and they weren’t a Chuck-E-Cheese.

Even so, here was our opportunity to go out as a family and enjoy a meal that wasn’t eaten in the car.

Not wanting to take any chances, I managed to rope about six other neighborhood families into also taking their brood to the restaurant. “Come on,” I cheered, “it’ll be fun and the kids can hang out with each other while we throw back a few!” My secret plan was that with the extra families there, someone else’s kids might actually be worse behaved than mine. I needed to stack the odds in my favor.

I went so far as to over-stimulate my three with a trip to the zoo in the morning followed by ferocious play in the afternoon that involve hurling Wii discs like ninja stars at one another. I got them good and wired and tired so that everyone collapsed into a nap by 4. I let them sleep until 6:15, when I attempted to dream transfer them to the car for our 6:30 reservation. My hopes were that they’d still be comatose for the first half of dinner.

Husband would be joining us directly from work, so I had the pleasure of bringing the three into the restaurant by myself. As I entered I got a heart-warming mix of looks that said either “how sad” or “oh no.” When someone says to you, “You are so brave to come out by yourself with the kids!” what they are really saying is, “Your kids are obnoxious and you are crazy to leave your house without back up. Please don’t sit by me.”

The quote of the night came from our waiter who joyously announced, “I don’t have kids and these family nights make me want to drink.”

The rest of the evening progressed with far less drama than I expected. Eventually the cavalry (Husband) arrived, and though he only got to eat the leftovers from a kids meal barely touched, I think our outing was a moderate success. Our kids behaved relatively well, ate a fraction of their dinner, and we made it out of the restaurant without the assistance of a boot in our collective ass. Yes, what we consumed still amounted to nothing more than hot dogs, chicken tenders, fish & chips and apple juice. But it cost us about $80, so it must have been good, right?

I dunno. Maybe the drive thru isn’t so bad after all.

Random acts of malice, pt. 1

Sometimes when my kids are bugging me, I eat their Easter/Halloween/Christmas candy in front of them, saying I'm not going to stop until they shape up. Rarely does their behavior improve, but I've satisfied my sweet tooth without being sneaky.

Spring break

So far, spring break 2010 is the biggest misnomer on record.

Spring? There is no spring. We’ve had nasty rain and cold temperatures that rival most SF winter (or—OK—summer) days.

Break? Absolutely not. My kids have been out on break since Wednesday afternoon, and today is the toughest day yet. All three home for 11 consecutive days, all day long, and the inability to mix in park/playground/outside time is making for a very rough “holiday.”

Mix in the ill-conceived Easter candy, and it’s the perfect storm: they are bouncing off the walls. Sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally.

Maybe it’s time to mix in a play date.

Heh, heh, heh.

Thank you, Easter Bunny

Shocked that the Easter Bunny paid us a visit. Inspired by his message of forgiveness and redemption. Hopeful it makes an impression on the kids.

Based upon the fights already ensuing over who gets which Pez dispenser, doubtful it will. But have a Happy Easter anyway!

The real meaning of Easter

Easter at the House of M includes timeworn traditions such as hunting for eggs, fighting over chocolate, stealing candy from your brother’s and sister’s baskets, sneaking treats when your parents have explicitly told you that you’ve had your quota, and watching the Arsenal football match on Fox Soccer Channel. As if that isn’t enough to fill a day, I’d like to add to it something novel: going to church.

Raised in a moderately Catholic family—parents Catholic, their parents Catholic, everyone attending Catholic school, but all doing so more for the tradition of it rather than the fervor—I feel that the legacy should continue with my children. The fly in the ointment is that I’m married to a non-Catholic who is allergic to organized religion.

Husband has made it clear that while he will not oppose my need to expose the kids to religion, he is not prepared to become a “happy clapper” and thus will not be joining us at Mass. (For the record, I haven’t actually come across many happy clappers over my years and still hold hopes that he’ll accompany us. But so far, no dice.)

So that leaves me with the challenge of taking the kids to Mass solo.

I have managed this plenty of time in the past, but it’s such a major drag, and I’m fairly certain defeats the whole spiritual benefit of our going in the first place. Usually what happens is I show up, loaded down with my young, a sippy cup or two, and some books or toys to keep them happy. On the occasions I forget toys, a missalette (book of hymns and readings) must be sacrificed for the greater good.

Then we get about 10 minutes in before one of them wants to know when we can leave and get donuts. Occasionally I’ll get a runner who takes off down the aisle. Always I have someone announce rather loudly, “This is soooooooo boooooooooring.” (That’s always a crowd pleaser.) And before we’ve even made it through the first reading I’m breaking the Third Commandment and through gritted teeth swearing at the kids.

“For the love of G*d would you PLEASE pull it together or I swear to Ch***t I’m going to beat you right here and now!”

I mean, really can’t understand why Husband doesn’t want to mix this into our holiday traditions.

But with all the things that Easter does represent—a fresh start, new life—maybe this year will feature some positive change for our little pack, too. Stay tuned…and Happy Easter!

Taggers

Living in San Francisco presents some challenges that all my suburban friends know not of. For example, we don’t have an easily accessible back yard into which I can banish my kids when they are getting rowdy. We do have a back yard—and for that I’m very grateful. But getting there requires trekking down two flights of stairs, and is not conveniently located off the kitchen (where we’ve already established I spend every waking moment of my day.)

So my kids get to play in the front yard. Which also means that they are basically playing on the street because our yard is little more than a 6’x6’ patch of green space. To keep children amused in such a lush and inviting environment, there is side walk chalk. The toy of choice for children of the concrete jungle.

My kids love their chalk, and why not? They write their names, draw trains, play hop scotch, even outline each other’s bodies (so that it looks like our house is a perpetual crime scene).

The only real rules I have with regard to the chalk are 1) you may only deface the sidewalk in front of our house, and 2) no drawing on the house itself—only the actual sidewalk.

“OK guys, here you go. You can draw, but remember: not on the house.”

“Got it.”

10 minutes pass, and while I can’t hear anything disturbing, I stick my head outside to see what they are up to.

“Umm…what is this?! Did I NOT just tell you that you may NOT draw all over the house?!”

I’m met with blank stares.

Apparently my children don’t speak English very well. (Had I realized this, I would have marked accordingly on our SF Unified school application form. Maybe then we would have been placed in a school of choice.)

Breakfast for dinner…for breakfast

I find that one of the great joys of motherhood is wearing the hat of short order cook. Not only do I get the pleasure of making at least three meals a day, but it’s often three different meals at each seating, not including the adult courses that I lovingly prepare for Husband and myself. So I guess that’s about 10+ plates I’m whipping up on the average day. Pepper in the snacks and ill-timed requests for beverages, and it’s no wonder I never leave the kitchen to do other fun jobs, such as laundry, cleaning bathrooms, etc.

What makes this facet of motherhood particularly delightful is when each version of each meal prepared for each child is rejected with a “what’s that?” and “looks gross.” As I mentioned yesterday, I’ve been somewhat under the weather. So while under normal circumstances I smile like Donna Reed and ask my little darlings to suggest something more to their liking, last night I was in no mood to mess with them. More to the point, my offspring were not using their best judgment in messing with me.

“Moooooooom! What is this? It looks weird.”

“It’s scrambled eggs with cheese, heavy on the cheese. If you recall, you cracked the eggs, put in the cheese and whisked them together not a minute ago.”

“Really? I thought we were making a cake.”

“You can call it whatever you want, but it’s what’s for dinner.”

“Smells yuck.”

“That’s because it’s marginally healthy. Now dig in.”

The Mighty Midget, bless her heart, tucked in and devoured dinner. Her brothers, however, were not sold; my attempt to get away from another night of dinosaur chicken and macaroni & cheese was failing. Yet still, I never raised my voice. (The fact that I’ve lost my voice to tonsillitis is beside the point.) Very quietly, but quite gravely, I looked each of my angels in the eye and told them they had 5 minutes to finish their dinner or else they were going straight to bed—no bath, no stories, no cuddles.

When 5 minutes passed, I tried again and told them that whatever they didn’t finish they were getting for breakfast the next day. Plus the whole straight to bed threat. Backfire! To this they jumped with glee, ran from the table, brushed their teeth and jumped into bed.

Fast-forward to this morning when I pulled out the remains of their egg-n-cheese omelets.

“What?! Are you kidding? That’s not breakfast?!”

“Yes, it is. In fact, it’s what many people have for breakfast everyday. And last night you chose to have for today’s breakfast instead. Remember…?”

“Moooooooooooom. There’s no way.”

“Way.”

Currently there is much crying and desperation in the House of M.

To be honest, I’m not too sure how long the Mexican standoff will continue. Even with focused resolution my Depression-era grandmother would be proud of, I’d rather just throw a bowl of Cheerios at them then listen to these howls of woe. Because who am I kidding—even the Meanest Mom can’t outplay, outwit or outlast her own kids.