Holiday Letter

Christmas is down, the decorations are in boxes ready to be banished under the house for another 11 months…and I’m sitting down to reread my holiday cards one last time before tucking them away. I smile at the cheery faces of kids I know…and those I don’t (who are you people and why are you still sending us a card?!)…and I lament that another year has gone by where I didn’t include a Christmas letter of my own.

It is quite a travesty actually that my family and friends are not up to speed on the lives of Team M. If I had pulled my finger out to made it happen, our letter might have read a little something like this:

Dearest Friends and Family,

This has been another blessed year.

Zach (BMOC), our eldest at age 6, boldly finished top of his class in preschool and has started attending a prestigious Kindergarten in San Francisco’s highly-regarded public school district. Heavily recruited by several schools, Zach based his final selection upon whether he could avoid wearing a school uniform. His ability to write his name and recite his phone number suggests Zach’s on the fast track to becoming a member of Mensa.

Liam (Middle Man), age 4, showed more than just athletic prowess this year while playing club soccer. In addition to a fondness for the sport, Liam revealed that he also has superhuman ability similar to Spider Man and spent an inordinate amount of game time casting spider webs on people (rather than chasing the ball, defending his goal or generally paying attention to the game at all). We hope Liam chooses to use his powers for good rather than evil in 2011.

Samantha (the Mighty Midget) is our baby no more. This sweet little bundle of love has developed a vocabulary beyond her two wee years. She has body language and gestures to go with some of her favorite sayings, including “You don’t talk to me like that. I am a big girl and I can do what I want” as well as “Give me a break and get out of my way.” Another child prodigy, her naturally dramatic tendencies suggest she’ll be a Hollywood D-lister in no time.

Husband relentlessly endeavors to make our lives a circus…of fun. This year he’s continued to stock our house with furniture and sporting equipment from the "FREE" section of Craigslist. He’s also made several improvements to our home. When not sprucing up the house, he likes to watch football. Especially reruns of the World Cup USA/England game.

Our extended family—the children’s grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins—have also spent lots of time with us this year. It’s probably because we are just that awesome. The privilege of playing halfway house has extended to about 8 weeks out of the year. As in two months/year. As in a lot. But we love sharing space with the family-at-large. Especially the bathrooms.

As for moi? I am just the best. The end.

So, wishing you Happy Holidays. But not happier than mine.

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.

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.)

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.

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.)

****
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?

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.

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!

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.

Farm fresh

Something you should know about our family is that we are simultaneously house-proud and cheap. This unique combination makes for oft interesting approaches to home maintenance and home improvement.

Take, for example, when we had a dripping faucet in the bathroom. Most people might take inventory of the situation, acknowledge that they are not plumbing experts, and turn over the responsibility of fixing said leak to one who knows what the hell they are doing. Or, you could be like Husband and take matters into your own hands.

Once there was a gaping hole in the dining room wall, I failed to see how that would fix the leak in the bathroom. It might surprise you to learn that it didn’t. What it did do, however, was create a whole lot of dust and a mess I had the pleasure of cleaning up. It also spurred a desperate phone call to a real plumber. Money-saved: minimal. Pain-in-the-ass created: massive. (BTW, we still have not patched the wall.)

With such mindset plaguing Team M’s decision making, this weekend we decided to spruce up the yard. The weather’s been beautiful and we decided it was high time for some overdue weeding and pruning. And when you get lazy and just don’t want to weed anymore, nothing fixes up a yard like mulch.

Again, in a cost-saving measure, Husband managed to find a place in the city where you can get mulch for free. Say good bye to paying huge prices for the tidy bags from the Home Depot—just drive your jalopy up to this green waste yard and you too can get bins full of the brown gold for nothing. That you aren’t quite sure what exactly went into the chipper to produce the mulch is just part of the excitement.

Now we’ve used this place many times in the past…but something went afoul with this weekend’s mulch run. This batch boasted an odor that is 10% recycled wood and about 90% manure. I’ve got to think that compostable diapers like I use on the Mighty Midget must make up a large percentage of what was brought home.

“Mom, what is that smell? It smells like Papa’s ranch.”

“That’s the smell of nature, baby.”

“Nature smells like poo.”

“Enough potty talk. Maybe if you were being more helpful in spreading mulch around the garden you’d be less worried about what it smells like.”

Well, I’ll tell you, there is nothing more exciting to a three-year-old boy than the prospect of wielding a metal shovel twice his size (that could also serve as a weapon) while he digs in a substance smelling like cow pies. Middle Man was thrilled and tucked in, digging away like a dog with a bone. Even the Might Midget got in on the action. Now, clearly I didn’t expect her to use a shovel, so I put her little hands to work with a garden trowel and told her to get the mulch in between all the plants I didn’t want to bend down to deal with. BMoC was the only one sounding off about child labor laws and how he’d rather be playing with his friends up the street.

After a while, no one could even really smell the original offending odor. I figured that our free mulch had simply needed airing out. So once we’d successfully buried all the weeds I didn’t have the energy to unearth we headed inside, washed our labor off, and grabbed cool drinks. But when I later headed back out to admire all our hard work, that same cow-pie smell hit me like a bag of shit in the face.

“Holy... Now our house is surrounded by the smell of crap.”

This was three days ago. And quite frankly I’m surprised that the mailman is even dropping off the post. For what it’s worth, I’d recommend staying off our street for the foreseeable future.