K.o.S

There are a few things that people do not tell you about motherhood. One of the biggest kept secrets is that your job title becomes the official K.o.S (Keeper of Shit). And it's not an honorable title.

Everyone will look to you when they can't find their own stuff.

And it's not just your kids.

I think a long time ago, when people had less shit, this was a much more desirable title. And then they built castles and it all went to hell.

I've been accused of stealing and secretively hiding away:

• remote controls



• fireworks



• rocket engines



• men's size small underwear



• bike locks



• keys to a car I rarely drive



• the checkbook



• the other checkbook



• an iPhone



• a game case for an Xbox game (even though my thumbs haven't evolved enough to use a controller like that)



• a set of screwdrivers



• a tape measure (that actually is MINE)



• a boys size xl swimsuit



• beach towels



• the camera



• the video camera



• our passports



• sunglasses



• fishing gear



• some sort of tool that I couldn't identify even if my life depended upon it

all for my own personal enjoyment and satisfaction.

The K.o.S title has even prompted me to only own purses that can hold just my shit.

We had my mom over for dinner and blowing up stuff for the Fourth. Panicked and stricken, Sam came bursting into the room with a dire emergency. He couldn't recharge his phone. "I've looked everywhere."* Darren and I were unfazed by the emergency phone cord loss. It happens almost every day. Mom wanted to call out the National Guard. But, I held strongly to the beliefs that

a. It's not my phone and if he wants the perk of having a phone he has to be responsible for said phone and all it's cords, attachments, do-dads and deelie-boppers (Those were all extra and were paid for out of said owner's allowance.)

b. Responsibility training is a difficult, but essential part of my job.

c. Never treat an only child as if they're the complete center of the universe if you don't have to.

I have to wonder if they ever ask themselves why I never ask them where my shit is.

*This phrase is a prerequisite when approaching the K.o.S. The speaker must convey the extreme peril of the situation and his already thorough searching.

Making Choices

It hits me smack dab in the soul when I hear or receive the snide comment of one woman to another. Apparently, mean girls do grow up, and they don't change a bit. It's all about choices and if you're secure in yours than you really shouldn't have to cut down someone else to make you feel better.

I've been on both sides of the Mom Wars, working vs. stay at home, and they're both equally hard. Just in different ways. And it's all about choices.

When Sam was little and I was home full time, we definitely lived on less. I didn't want to miss a minute in exchange for a bigger house payment or more stuff. So, our living room was empty for a while (great for a toddler on the go!). He still remembers playing elephant cage behind the hand me down love seat that was the sole piece of furniture in the room.

When I worked 24/7 for my business, I didn't have weekends, but I had the fulfillment of something that was my very own and a lot of challenges to face head on and solve. Great for me, but not so great for my family. Sam got lost in the shuffle and it took a year or so after we sold it to get him back.

But, this is what works for me. If you're a full time, work outside the home mom, and you're ok with daycare and weekends filled with errands and laundry, then go. Do. Be. But, if you feel tremendously guilty about all this, sell your stuff, make the sacrifices, and stay with your kids. It's a pretty simple choice.

Wandering around Facebook, linking from one person that I know to one that I used to know to one that I barely knew, to someone that person knows... I came across a snarky comment that precipitated this rant.

It saddens me that we're still fighting over this dumb issue. What a waste of time when we could be ruling the world!

Excuse Me While I Pull My Heart out of My Mouth

The big adventures of childhood, independent journeys that help one grow and learn.

Hmmm.

It all sounds good in theory, but when you're out adventuring, I'm holding my heart in my mouth and doing Lamaze breathing. I knew that technique would come in handy some day. It certainly didn't do anything but give D something to do while I labored away!

Baby steps. They just keep getting bigger.

But, Don't you Want to Hold Hands and Talk About Your Feelings?

The title pretty much sums up my daily meet and greet of Sam as he gets off the bus. He's happy to see me, he usually has something to show me or say to me, he gives me the update of how much homework he has, and then it's off to XBox Live to be "with" his friends.

And then I jokingly say, sometimes to him and sometimes to the basement door, "But, don't you want to hold hands and talk about your feelings?"

I love this fierce independence and friendships that are true and tightly bound. I love watching him become the man he will be in baby steps and independent flights. I love knowing that, when tested, he sticks to what is right. I love that he's strong and tender and really funny. I love that he can make his own meals, operate the lawn mower, travel to the park with friends, and make good decisions. I love that he opens doors for me and still likes to hang with me at least for a short part of the day. I love that he's obsessed with the History Channel, but will still delve into SpongeBob Squarepants, "just for" me.

Almost 13, I can't believe it.

Bully!

I cried my eyes out at church Sunday morning listening to the adult education speaker, Anne Gettis. Anne's son, tormented by bullies throughout his school years, killed himself at the age of 21. She barely made it through her talk for a number of reasons. Her grief was the first reason, but the parents in the audience wanting to chime in and share their experiences was another. Obviously this is a very relevant subject for many parents and we'd like to see Anne return.

It was amazing to listen to the stories from many of the parents in the audience.

• One who's kids are now in their thirties, talked about how being bullied resulted in terrible depression in her kids.
• One who is now homeschooling her 5th grader because her son's bully harassed him to the point that he would no longer attend school, nor did they want him to.
• One who sided with the bullies stressing compassion and sympathy.

I've always said, the naughty kids have more rights than the good kids. Young One had been bullied by a kid several times. This kid choked him, scratched him, and punched him in the nose. The school's response? Sam had to go to the discipline office which made him feel like he was in trouble and at fault. I was told this was just so that Sam could tell his side of the story, but this experience was more traumatizing than the bullying itself. He thought he was in trouble and he was treated as such. All the other kids thought he was too. The "ooooohs" as he left the classroom were almost unbearable to him. When he cried when interviewed by the school discipline administrator, they suggested he see the school psychologist. He was scared and scarred and in second grade. I politely told everyone involved to go to hell (not quite, but I was a mad mother bear) and then said that they should never speak to Sam again without one or both of his parents present. We haven't had an issue since. Sam still remembers this as an extremely traumatic event in his life.

And the bully? Well, I caught him stealing lunch money from kids while on an orchestra field trip two years ago. He hasn't changed and obviously, nothing much is sinking in with this kid. I should have reported him to the police, but once again, when I brought this to the school's attention, it was swept under a rug. "Let's not make too big a deal of this" I was told

As a parent, with the very limited conversations I've had with school administration about their policies, I've been made to feel that they feel helpless too. Schools are so afraid of law suits that I think they're afraid to make a stand. So, they write policy after policy, establish discipline plans, create "friendship circles" and none of it works. Policies are rarely followed to completion because they rarely get parental involvement from the bully's side. Bullying rarely happens in front of teachers or administration and kids are afraid to tell because it often makes the abuse increase.

I mentioned to the class at church that all seven of my Confirmation kids had been bullied at one time by one individual at their school. I told them how I got to meet that particular child face to face. Sam needed to bring his bass in to school for one of his teachers to look at. While I was waiting, a young man repeatedly raced down the halls laughing, cursing, and shooting rubber bands at other kids. None of the teachers I spoke with paid any attention to him. Sam came out, bass fixed, and I asked him, "Who's that kid, " and he named him as the very kid that all of my Confirmands had complained about. One of the Deans was in the hall and I asked him why such behavior was tolerated. "Oh him, " he said, "We can't do anything with him." He shrugged his shoulders and then quipped, "He's supposed to be in detention."

I find myself starting sentences like this all the time and I hate myself for it, BUT....

When I was a kid, this behavior wouldn't have been tolerated. I'm not advocating the paddle that Mr. Emerson used on kids when they misbehaved. I'm asking for accountability, though. And I'm asking for the district to take a stand on behavior. Why should kids who behave well have less of a right to an education than those that don't?

We do a disservice to the bullies for allowing them to keep getting what they want through this behavior. Either they bully their way through life unsuccessfully or they hit huge brick walls when they find out this doesn't cut it in the real world. Imagine what would happen if the kid who choked Sam in second grade tried the same behavior in a business meeting? Imagine what would happen if parents of the victims called the police and reported assault rather than letting the schools continue with their politically correct policies.

It's a complicated issue. I was approached after I spoke at church about joining a task force to try to figure out if we can play a role in assisting our young members who are challenged with this issue. There has to be something we can do. Our kids face bullying on a completely different level than we did. Cyberbullying has become rampant and commonplace. And it's even worse than anything we can imagine.

I hope I can make a difference. I remember being bullied by the Mean Girls when I was a kid. The teasing, the exclusion, the downright cruelty, it was very difficult. If I could help just one kid it would be worth the extra time.

Cold Fronts, Warm Reads

One of my not so much a New Year's Resolution, but something I've been meaning to make more time for and not put the label resolution on, is reading. Not just my usual hour or more before bed (or the many nights when it's two sentences before I pass out!), but actually taking time to take a break wherever I am and read.



So, I've been carrying around my copy of My Life in France by Julia Child and every so often, I've made time to read. Ten minutes in the car waiting for the library to open. Ten minutes before Sam gets off the bus. Fifteen minutes with my morning coffee.



It's something that I've felt guilty about in the past. Reading, when I should be doing something productive, measurable. D's out working, I should be too. Always. Incessantly. Constantly.



And then I had a talk with my wise, mentor neighbor and she said, "Oh, if you think those guys work all day long then you're in for a big surprise. They chat and goof around. Why shouldn't you? Sometimes when N____ comes home I tell him I did a big fat NOTHING all day." Oh L, you inspire me so much! Thank God for friends at all places in their lives, older, younger, wiser, they're all so precious to me.



So, it got me thinking, when do I get my coffee break? Every once in a while with a friend isn't enough. What can I do to recharge? Because honestly, in a lot of ways, my job has longer (and sometimes shittier) hours. What do I do on the weekend that I don't do every day during the week? And when do I get to clock out? Can you say NEVER?



It was me late last night that was flipping the laundry from the washer to the dryer while simultaneously filling out a rebate form and having a conversation with Young One about the latest video games. It was me that worked the midnight and the daytime shifts for three nights while Young One was sick. It's me that sometimes does the same job over and over and over again until I want to smash something.



Stereotypically, stay at home moms are seen as sweat pants wearing, bon-bon eating, kept women. I used to think that, before I had kids. Then I got some pretty quick on the job training enlightenment. All that time that we used to fill with selfish pursuits suddenly is taken up by caring for another human. All that time that we used to have to focus on ME ME ME is gone. Even now, twelve years after becoming "Mom" I can't imagine what it would be like to just have to think about me and D. I suppose I would fill it with something.



D has NEVER made me feel like I've had to justify my time because he knows I'll either feed him Ex lax brownies (kidding) or stuff his pillow full of his dirty socks (long, but true story). Not really. He knows it would cost him a great deal of his salary to pay a cook, maid, laundress, nanny, accountant, errand runner, mess cleaner upper, yard worker, personal assistant, homework Nazi, pet groomer, insurance advocate, scheduler, seamstress.... you get the picture. One of the nicest thank yous I ever received was from him. "Thank you for working so hard so I can work so hard without worrying about what's going on at home."

That about sums it up, I guess.

All this about reading? I do go on, don't I? Very simply put, my point is that it's OK to recharge. And, sometimes it's an occupational hazard of stay at home moms not to. Nope, scratch that, I think it's a hazard that we ALL are prone to. We get so busy I think we sometimes forget to say yes to ourselves.

Reading more this year is simply saying yes to me.

I'm on Goodreads.com where I've found a community of other book lovers. Come find me. My reviews will all be there from now on. My latest reviews: Year of the Flood, World War Z, and The Hunger Games are all there.

Boys to Men

Had to do a little shopping for clothes over the weekend. Not fun with a kid who hates to shop for clothes, but what can you do? Capri pants on a preteen boy is not a good look.

We attempted to purchase a few things at Old Navy, but wound up leaving with one pair of pajamas and one shirt. "The colors are too weird here."

I knew it was best we found things that he would actually wear, but my patience was running thin. My, "You don't see anything here that you like," sounded strained even to my ears.

We're entering uncharted territory on this adventure called parenthood. Gone are the days when I could bring home a shirt with the latest superhero from a movie or video game. We went through a stage where nothing with stripes could cross our threshold. That ruled out almost 99.4% of all boys shirts made on this planet. Rules also dictated that while PJ's could be irreverent and funny, shirts worn to school could not. For this, I am thankful. The thought of backing up a kid who feels he being unfairly treated by a teacher when he's known to wear a shirt that says My Sister Barfed on My Homework still strikes fear in my heart.

He's not into skater boy style, thank God. I have an unspoken rule against skulls on clothing, but he seems to have picked up on that and agrees with me. He's somewhere between skater boy and Ralph Lauren. No skulls, no sagging pants, and definitely no sweater vests or plaid shirts. I think his style could be titled "Don't notice me, no scratchy bits, plain-but-the-color-has-to-be-right, and comfortable."

So, that's what we went looking for. Nothing that could possibly be "made fun of" was purchased. Think middle school camouflage. Nor did we bring home anything that was uncomfortable or itchy. One striped shirt made it home, so that phase must be over. D commented that my poker face reaction to this purchase was Oscar worthy.

But, all of this, relatively boring, right? I mean, what mom doesn't go out shopping with their kid? What mom doesn't go through the style dictations of their twelve year old? What mom doesn't make the transition from being able to purchase clothes FOR her child to purchasing WITH her child?

We all do, but that's not what stopped me in my tracks this weekend.

What could possibly make me hide behind a clearance rack for a little longer than a bargain shopper usually does? What could have me contemplating wiping my tears with a polo shirt the size of a five year old?

We're leaving boys department. He's too big! And the difference between a boy's XL and a men's S is not that great. Mostly men's size small came home with us and he doesn't need to grow into them.

I had to have a moment in the boy's department. We're not completely saying goodbye. He still has a few inches to grow before he can fit into man pants, but I doubt that will take long. He's tall and skinny. He's my eye to eye guy now and will soon pass me up. I think he may be taller than his dad's six feet someday.

I sent Young One and D off to peruse the few toys and video games that the store carries just for this purpose. I know somewhere in a security office hidden away in the dismal depths of the store a security guard was muttering, "We have another one." I took a walk down memory lane. I wandered through the little boy section that bordered the big boy clothes. I stroked a little suit complete with bow tie and held up a sweat suit the size of my mom purse. I crossed the border into Baby Land and got weak in my knees near the Onesies.

The time goes by so quickly and most of it is lost in diaper changes, sleepless nights, play dates, permission slips, and school supply lists. And these moments, those that slam into your chest and have you gasping, are few, but potent.

Growing up is inevitable, so is growing older. I weave my aging throughout his growing and together, we're creating this tight bonded fabric of love. Schmaltzy, I know, but it's where I am right now. I'm standing back and standing with him. He needs me less, and more.

Bittersweet is the only word I can think of to describe this time in our lives. I love it and hate it all at the same time.

I got to hold a baby the other day and I was more than happy to hand him back to his mother. I wouldn't want to go back in time for anything. We're where we've grown together to be. But, I have a feeling, there are going to be lots of Mommy tears in my future.

Next time, I'll have Kleenex.

And to Top it All Off, there's an Ed, Edd, and Eddy Marathon TiVoedI Demand Hazard Pay

I've come to the realization that I would not be a good single mother. Not only are my math skills terrible (more later), but I couldn't open a bottle of maple syrup without becoming a complete ninny AND I burned the pancakes I muddled together for dinner.

I bow down to all you single moms who hit the ground running from the early am and are able to keep it up all day without kicking a puppy.

Normally, I revel in the travels of D, but he was gone all weekend and headed out Monday morning to San Fran and I'm lonely. To top it all off, Young One has large math assignment that involves fractions and I "do them wrong." Apparently, there is a method involving a grid, an automatic pencil, and an extra hamster to run in the wheel that powers my brain.

Deep breath.

And, on we go.

We're experiencing 60 degree temps here in Mighty Minnesota, weather we should have experienced last month, but it was snowing then. I noticed on the way home from picking up the latest release of blood and gore in video game form, that my festive fall arrangements on the porch are rotting. Lovely.

It appeared that someone kicked in one of the pumpkins I had jauntily arranged by the front porch. On closer inspection, it was revealed that it was, literally, crumbling in upon itself. Learn from my mistakes. Never pick up an old pumpkin. Use a shovel or backhoe or other farm equipment. Said pumpkin oozed through my hands. I swear I'll be off pumpkin pie for ages.

I'm a mess without you, babe. Come home soon. (And please, don't tell me all about Fisherman's Wharf or the sad state of your room service breakfast--you might find an oozing gourd stuffed in your pillow case).

Emergency chocolate is required. I may have already posted this recipe or a variation of it, but I'm too pissy and tired to look for myself. Deal with it. (Oh, and enjoy.)

Ten Second Emergency Chocolate Needed Brownies

A package of low to no fat brownie mix, No Pudge is good

Vanilla yogurt, fat free

Mix brownie mix with as much yogurt as it takes to make a thick batter. You know what brownie batter should look like. Google it if you don't, I have no patience right now. Bake at 350 until done (knife inserted comes out clean). These are relatively (cough cough) healthy and taste great. Lick the bowl while they're baking.

Connecting Over a Cup

A long time ago, I had a conversation with a dear one about coffee. I have a deep love affair with my morning Joe. I cheat on my husband with him daily. I sometimes think about him as I fall asleep. Freshly ground, deep, dark, rich coffee. It's my morning ritual and my day is not complete without several cups.

Hot in the morning, iced in the afternoon. Or a hot mug, always present, Joe never lets me down.

My dear one, whom I mentioned earlier, couldn't imagine paying close to $5 for a cup of coffee. "Heck," he said, "I don't even pay that for a pot of coffee." "I hardly pay that for a pound," he went on.

Now, as I've also mentioned, I'm a coffee lover. I made a pilgrimage to Kona just to see the beans on their native hillside. I almost didn't leave the island because of it.

"You're not paying for the coffee," I said in an instant of inspiration. "You're paying for a meeting place, the ability to park at a table and read, write, work, or connect."

And, you know what? I was right.

I spent four hours recently connecting with two other moms across the table, while holding steaming cups of almost $5 coffee. We more than profited from the investment. We bought time. Time away from our daily grind, time to share joys and challenges. Time to laugh and support, commiserate and bond.

Worth every penny.

I'm a bit of a cheapskate. I invest only in things that really mean something to me. I don't cruise the mall, I frequent thrift stores, I cut coupons, and I pinch pennies until they scream. Pay $5 for a cup of coffee? No way. Pay $5 to park at a table and connect with other moms?

You bet your bottom dollar.

Grab and Go

Notice how I demonstrated the proper technique of not overmixing the muffins. It is not a unmixed bit of flour you see, but superior muffin technology.

It's been a busy week. Lots of meetings and activities and play dates. It's end of the quarter for school, so there are last minute projects, assignments, and tests to study for. I said yes way too many times and now I'm paying the price.

Turns out I wasn't the only mom last night that was spread thin. Most of the friends and acquaintances I saw last night, all arrived the same way I did. Out of breath, sweating, scattered, and cursing the fact that all activities like this seem to be planned for right around dinner time.

Last night was Young One's first middle school orchestra concert. He's been so excited to start playing the upright bass after two years of playing the cello. This big, bad instrument has been his goal since starting orchestra.

I know that part of it has to do with the fact that it's the biggest instrument in the orchestra. You know, a kind of, "mine is bigger than yours" mentality. He walked around in his almost a tux uniform, parading the big bad thing in front of as many of his classmates as he could. I overheard him telling a bunch of kids that it weighs, "more than I do."

I was lucky enough to chat with a more experienced parent of a bass player. She gave me some helpful hints on how to navigate life with an instrument that has it's own zip code. I had volunteered to rally some sixth grade Mom Troops to chaperon the kids before the concert. Orchestra kids are really great kids, so really, there wasn't much to do. Of course, I found someone to chat with!

One of the things I learned when I was working full time plus on our business was to have a lot of grab and go things in the freezer. Muffins or banana bread can round out a cheese stick and a glass of milk to make a quick meal. It's also portable, as in, "GrabamuffinIfilledyourwaterbottlealreadyIknowyou'resickofstringcheesegetsomeanywayandgetinthecar."

Last night was the concert, today is the Pumpkin Run at school, tonight is a meeting for Confirmation guides, and tomorrow I'm participating in a math placement focus group for school. Friday is a dance at school and Young One is going to a friend's house. Saturday is Halloween and Sunday church and then I'm going to fall on the floor. Monday morning it starts again.

Apple "Clean out the Cereal Cupboard" Muffins

1 cup flour

1/3 cup brown sugar

2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/4 tsp nutmeg--freshly grated is best

1 large apple, peeled, cored and chopped fine

1 cup skim milk

1/4 cup vegetable oil--you could sub applesauce, I did and they turned out great

1 egg or the equivalent of egg substitute

2 cups Raisin Bran or high fiber cereal with fruit--I used Kashi something or other with cranberries-- you could use all the leftover cereal you have, you know those bottom of the bag amounts that aren't enough to fill up a husband or kid with, but end up in your cupboard languishing until you either throw them out or feed them to the birds. I wouldn't recommend the cereals that are really just big bags of sugar because not only do they look frightening in muffins (trust me), but they don't taste very good either.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line muffin tins with paper liners or spray with nonstick cooking spray. Set aside. Mix flour, brown sugar, baking powder, cinnamon and nutmeg in a large bowl. Set aside. Peel, core, and chop apple. Mix milk, vegetable oil OR apple sauce, and egg, whisking well. Add wet ingredients, apple, and cereal to dry ingredients and stir just until combined. Do not over mix. Place in equal amounts in muffin tins and bake for about 15 minutes. Muffins are done when a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

If you want to freeze and bake later, freeze in paper liners in the muffin tins overnight and pop out into freezer zip bags. You can pull them out and bake from frozen (increase baking time). Or bake and freeze, defrost in the microwave for quick grab and go breakfast, in the car "meals, or snacks.

Experimental Kitchen Adventures or Cooking without a Net

Every once in a while you've got to just turn your kids loose in the kitchen. My recipe for Graham Cracker pie will go down in history as the single best recipe developed and conceived by a four year old. I kid you not. Mom was busy, I managed to get the oven on thanks to the creative use of a couple of phone books and a step stool, and I was just getting ready to place said pie in the oven when mom realized I had been quiet long enough to be dangerous.

Oh, I'll share the recipe with you if you insist. I believe it was smashed graham crackers, water, and a couple of shakes of cinnamon sugar. I couldn't reach the chocolate chips that mom had stashed away for emergencies like PMS and kids baking.

Our 1970s oven was chocolate brown. I can still see it as my little hands reached for the dial. I wonder what setting I was planning to bake it on? Perhaps nuclear broil and that's actually what alerted mom to my presence in the kitchen.

Oh, but I'm wandering.

I'm a strong believer in learning to cook by feel. I once cooked with someone who followed a recipe for garlic mashed potatoes. She actually measured the five pound bag of potatoes she had purchased to see if they were really five pounds as the recipe dictated. I know that my cooking style would have made better potatoes in less time and with less kitchen utensil use. (Boil them, mash them, throw in some cream cheese if you've got it, sour cream if you don't, a little milk, and roasted garlic or fresh minced, or whatever, sprinkle with fresh chives, or not...Garlic Mashers for Six with Leftovers and no Kitchen Scale Use)

Mom taught me how to cook without recipes. Unless you're baking, it's not that hard. Baking requires a certain amount of measuring, but I still get experimental.

Young One loves to peel apples with our handy dandy apple peeler corer slicer (HDAPCS for short). He was bored. He needed something to do. I challenged him to make apple crisp, but do so without a recipe. "Impossible," my follow the rules, color inside the lines, guy says.

I was up for the challenge and feeling particularly patient, two things required of one if you wish to be in the kitchen with kids. I also was willing to put up with a moderate amount of mess.

So, I walked him through making crisp.

Apples-peeled, cored, and sliced-- he was all over this one.

"Now, they need to be sweet and a little flavored, what are you going to do?"

"Cinnamon and sugar?"

"We have a BINGO."

"How are you going to keep them from sticking in the pan?"

"Nonstick spray." Another task he loves, although I'm still wiping it off the back splash, thank you very much.

On to the topping. And we went back and forth on how to make it, what to put in it, how to mix it, etc. It was a fun time. And the result was pretty darn good. I encouraged him to put in some pears that were making the still life of our fruit bowl a little less attractive. He doubted this would work, but went along with my spirit of creativity. He added a dash of vanilla to the filling just because, and it was a delightful addition.

Basically, I told him that if you have courage and smarts, you can cook. And since he has both, he was downright successful.

The crisp was good. He now can impress his future bride with his talents someday and we'll move on to learning other recipes.

When we were done, he said, "Hey mom, this is like cooking without a net."

Why yes, it is.

Hey, it's your Self, Remember Me?

A long time ago we promised never to call each other Mom or Dad. I find that so weird and kind of incestuous. I watched the Duggar family the other day and her simpering, "Oh, Daddy!" made me throw up in my mouth just a little.



You get this title, Mom, once you get pregnant. Nurses in your prenatal clinic call you that. The Target checkout guy calls you Mom when you're buying a stroller or car seat. Strangers who have personal space issues call you mommy and touch your stomach, despite the maternity shirt that says "Back away from the Belly Button".



The name tag doesn't really get tattooed on, though, until you're holding that little squirming bit of joy in the hospital. And it's cemented forever, once you realize in the car on the way home that people are actually entrusting you with another human being. "Wait, wait, do you realize we're clueless?" I shouted as we pulled away from the curb of the hospital.



I've been a mom now for twelve years. I've had every version of the name thrust upon me, from the first babbled "Ma Ma Ma Ma" to the whiny, eye-rolling "Muhhhhhuooooooooooooooooooom" of middle school. The other day, though, this name slammed into me so furiously that I got weak and nearly lost my breath completely. Tired after dealing with the flu and no sleep and while picking up Young One's homework at school, I introduced myself as, "Mom."



Thud. Stare. Blinking eyes.



And then, thankfully...laughter. Through laughter induced tears, I reintroduced myself to the school secretary, Keeper of the Gate, Knower of all Things Academic and Not, Lord of the Hall Pass, Protector or the Phone Lines, and Shield to the Inner Sanctum of Deans and Principals.



She's "Mom" too and totally understood. Thank God it wasn't Dr. Principal. She probably would have been obligated to call child protective services.



I think I'm a late bloomer when it comes to carving out me time. My neighbors, who have two delightful adult children, have been going out on dates every Friday night for 37 years. I have friends who knit (and actually like it), take classes, and schedule massages. I know people who fit in work outs, book clubs, and volunteer work that has nothing to do with a PTA. I know a couple of stay at home moms that have cleaning ladies--go girl!



I have the same twenty four hours that they do? Why can't I fit me in? Because, wearing this mom name tag, taking care of the house, and being selfless has a price. You don't get weekends (think about it, what jobs do you do on the weekends that you don't do during the week). You work mostly fourteen hour days with no overtime, no lunch break, and no pay. Most of what you do goes unnoticed. It's yawn inducing, repetitive, go postal kind of work many days.



Looking at some old pictures the other day, I saw me again for the first time in a long time. And it felt like a door opened. Screaming, demanding, or just taking, I'm going to get time for me somehow.



Want to join me?

"Unspecific Flu Symptoms"

"If your child has unspecific flu symptoms, please report it to the health office."

Um.

What child doesn't?

Young One is home sick today. Supposedly if he has a cough, sore throat, or fever of 100 or above, we're supposed to report it to the health office. Oh, and if he has "unspecific flu symptoms".

What the hell are those?

Cough? Check

Sore throat? Check

Fever of 100? Nope, it's 99.9 So, technically, I don't have to report it, right?

Here's the deal. If they have those symptoms, they need a doctor's note to go back to school. If they have those symptoms, the doctor's office won't see them. They want you to just stay home. So, how do you get a doctor's note?

Talk to each other people.

He probably picked up whatever he has AT school. It's too late to try to contain whatever is going around. It's already there. The last time I talked to the school nurse, they were dropping like flies and her cots were full.

Video games, rest on the couch, juice, chicken soup, Popsicles, maybe a nap, read a little, cuddle with the dogs, Ibuprofen, warm blanket, cool wash cloth, hugs from mom, dumb movie, cartoons, and early to bed.

That's just what Dr. Mom ordered.

Pissy Hissy Fit

"Oh, I do everything you do, I just do it and work a full time job too."

The next time I hear this, honestly, I'm going to bitch slap the speaker.

Life is about choices. I choose to drive a cheaper car, cut coupons so we can save for vacations, and make our home a happy one. Other moms may choose to work outside the home. I've done that too. Both are equally guilt ridden jobs. Seriously, though, gals, it's time to just let it go.

This fight. Well, it's over as far as I'm concerned. Every time a woman opens her mouth to bash another one, well we all lose.

I'm happy and content with my life and if you're not, then that's your problem, not mine. So, go fix it.

I heard the above quote in the grocery check out line. I must have been wearing my stay at home mom uniform for the speaker quickly summed me up and attempted to cut me off at the knees. I just laughed and said, my life is simpler and happier since I sold my business. I'm really happy just making our house a home. She didn't need to know that I'm not well enough to work. She didn't need to hear all the reasons that I don't. She didn't have to hear that just a few short years ago I worked twelve hour days and seven day weeks.

I did have some parting words for her. "Boy, I did the math when my son was young. I figured out that my salary would have gone for disposable diapers (as I noted in her cart), daycare, and convenience food (frozen lasagna peeking from a bag). Didn't seem worth it to me to be so tired and stressed out over so little."

OK, maybe I did contribute to the fight a little. I guess maybe I did verbally bitch slap her. Forgive me Lord, but my mouth got the better of me and maybe, just maybe, I saved her.

Or not.

She glared at me and I simply smiled and flashed her the peace sign. Turned my cart around and walked my mom jeans right out the door.

Have a nice day.

My Little Guy

You get these glimpses of the grown up in your kid from time to time. Sometimes, it hits me hard. I'll be watching him when he's not watching me and, slam, I flash forward to driving, graduation, dating, college, marriage...

Hold on. Step back. Take it one moment at a time.

When I took this picture, I was quickly flash forwarded to graduation pictures. I don't know why. Perhaps I'm "psycho" as Young One once said when he was trying to figure out my mother sees all abilities. (He was three, I could see the gears turning in his mind as he contemplated finger painting the dog.)

Maybe I am psycho? Maybe one day we will take a picture framed by the branches of this tree. In the meantime, though, I'm going to continually remind myself to enjoy the ride.

The First Dance

No, this is not what he's wearing tonight.



Seriously. I'm not ready for this.

First, while waiting in the pick up line for Young One on Monday, I witnessed girls with cleavage and cell phones. Some had both, more were texting than slouching if you know what I mean. Apparently, there's been a lot of growing up going on in the sixth grade girls over the summer or these girls were much older. Like as in two years older. The dreaded EIGHTH GRADERS.

Second, there's been discussion of manly man shower gel and volunteer showering. I repeat volunteer showering.

Third, there's a dance this Friday. A dance. Suddenly, I'm picturing my own Junior High dances which consisted of giggling girls constantly reapplying Bonnie Bell lip gloss and traveling in herds. There were sweaty palms, slow dancing to Journey's Open Arms with much shorter boys, and rushed trips to the bathroom to discuss who liked who. Relationships were made and broken the same evening and much drama ensued.

I seem to also remember screaming You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC with all my friends. I was thirty years old before I knew what it meant. Good times.

How did we get this far so fast?

The middle school years were topsy turvy for me. I don't want to put that on him, so I won't share unless the time is right. I think girls are probably meaner, so perhaps his experiences won't be so bad. Speaking with my friends and their husbands, though, we've all been cringing with the memories and the awkwardness of it all.

The dances are from 2:45 until 4:30, which really cracked me up. The thought of a DJ and a glitterball at that hour seems harmless enough.

Newsflash, I've just been informed that there will be inflatable bouncing things and a climbing wall as well as a DJ. Guess where he'll be? Emergency averted for another day.

I'm Not a Twit

So, I twied to Twitter, but it just didn't work for me. I mean, really, shouldn't you just be living your life and not sending little blurbs out to the world? Like we care if you're getting coffee or using the bathroom. Also, there's something about the word that could be utilized to describe the past tense of to twit that I just know would slip into my vocabulary at some inopportune time. Like say, at church. (Think hard, think really hard, and then if you still don't get it, slip an a where the i should be in twit. And then thank me if you had a little laugh.)

So, if I was a Twit, this is what you would have seen scrolling past my screen:

• Buying school shoes for someone who just doesn't want to go back to school





• Standing outside the barber shop while the boys get their hair cut. I am not allowed in the man cave. Apparently, the high levels of testosterone made apparent by all the male patterned baldness present, would knock me into oblivion. That and they couldn't scratch themselves, talk about killing animals, or contemplate the perfection of a field goal in front of me. Man rules, who knew?





• Last minute emergency back to school laundry.





• Cleaning, yet another, closet for our garage sale.





• Cleaning out the attic, but not really. D is cleaning out the attic, I'm catching the refuge and refusing to climb the rickety stairs.





• Marking stuff for the garage sale while counseling Young One about the realities of home school ("If you want to be home schooled, your first project would be cleaning out the attic. That would be gym, health, and history.")





• Chasing various 11 year old boys as they go through the revolving door that is now my home.





• Answering the phone, it rings endlessly these days.





• Contemplating just why I'm having a garage sale around back to school time.





• Avoiding having to chaperone a middle school dance.





• Trying to hide the items that my generous mother has given me amongst the garage sale stuff without her seeing them. Sorry mom. Love ya to death, have too much stuff.





• Inhaling permanent marker while making signs.





• Celebratory back to school girl's brunch. Ahh. Adult conversation.





• Neighbor chat in the street while the kids are playing.





• Waiting for the first day of school bus, which came only after we got in the car to self deliver our new middle schooler! (25 minutes late, come on!)





• Trying to convince said bus driver that he could deviate from the middle of the block drop off when the two kids he drops off on our street live at the end of the block. grrr. Maybe cookies will help tomorrow.





• Listening to new school lingo like, "Chip"(slang for the school's name), "Deans", "Locker combo", "I had a pass."





• Realizing that I am completely and utterly embarrassing no matter what I do, say, or look like to my child. Realizing that at one point, this too shall pass.





• Chasing a sleepwalker. For the love of God, this child has never slept through the night.

I could go on and on, but this is such a busy time. It is for every mom.

Garage Sale tomorrow through Saturday. Hope all the work was worth it.

Happy Back to School Parents!

Back to School Blues

He's got em bad this year. Not only is it back to school time, but it's back to a NEW school.

The back to school blues. There's no way around it. The countdown is pounding through his head nonstop, I can see it. 8 days to go. Pull all you can from them. Trying to stop time just seems to make it go faster.

I don't like it either. In fact, I'm finding, the older he gets the less I see him. I can feel already the pull of independence that's unavoidable. That drive that they all have to make life their own. Who am I to get in the way?

One day, he will be leaving this house and striking out on his own. And that day is getting closer and closer.

This step into middle school is just one more step away.

I love watching him stretch his wings and fly, don't get me wrong. But, a part of me misses his toddler hand in mine as we navigated the dangers of the grocery store parking lot. I want to stop strangers as they wander with little ones firmly in hand and say, "Freeze this moment. It's so fleeting."

If I'm doing my job right I will be giving him roots and wings and that's such a bittersweet balance.

When the bus leaves next Tuesday and I close the front door and will be fully alone for a few minutes, I'm sure I'll shed a few mixed tears. Missing him a bit, yes, but also happy for the independence and the happy newness that he'll find at his new school. Worried tears (will he remember his locker combination?) mixed with nostalgia for my own sixth grade year of reading romance novels and discovering Bonnie Bell lip gloss (Lord, help me if he does the same.)

Then I'll wipe my eyes and go celebrate with the girls. Back to school brunch to toast surviving another summer will be most welcome. None of us will admit it, but we don't want to be alone that day.

I'm finding that he needs me in some ways even more than when he was tiny. The needs are stronger, bigger, more emotional than the mere physical needs of babyhood. Sometimes the amount of patience that I must summon forth are so deep that I cry a bit for the effort. They grow bigger and so do their problems. The sting of rude teachers or classmates, the confusion of navigating this complicated age of starting to notice girls, but at the same time not noticing them. And the bumps and curves of the roads of friendships. I sometimes wish I had a script to follow so that my words would come out right and healing.

This is a new chapter and the pages are clean, for now. Twelve years old in just a few days. How did we get this far so fast?

Thinking the Worst and Finding the Best

My how time flies.

Our baby cardinals have left the nest. When we saw the empty nest we were terrified that a predator had eaten them for a quick snack.

How pessimistic we were! Time for an attitude change.

Optimism is the required attitude for life. It is much easier to delve into darkness, isn't it? We humans seem to have a high aptitude for complaining.

I recently read an article about a family that took a pledge to be complaint free. Needless to say, this was a difficult task. Ultimately, what they found out through the experiment was that some complaining was OK, a life of negativity, not so great.

On closer inspection, our baby cardinals were now perched on branches next to the nest. How funny they look, wobbling and bobbing, trying to be big. Momma and Daddy cardinal were not so happy with our close inspection, but I risked blindness by beak to take a few shots. I couldn't resist.

Soon, they will fly away and I'll be sad, I'm sure. It's only been five days since we discovered the nest. So much has happened between then and now. Look how far they've come.

I can't help but see the parallel of this small family with my own. Young One is leaving the nest, wobbling and bobbing and trying to be big. He's driven, by nature, just as our feathered friends are. Who am I to hold him back? It's bittersweet, but fly baby bird. Fly.

I'm Hiding

I can't be the only mom that hides.

I just know it.

But, right now, I'm sitting in our dark family room, hiding.

Hiding from the nightly shower negotiation and the go back and brush them again. Hiding from the yes you can read for just 5 more minutes and the, "OK, you had your five minutes, now sure, go ahead and finish the chapter" and the "I know what that's like to want to finish the book, just not too too late. Wow, that must be a great book. Oh, it's only ten more pages. You can do ten more pages..." (It's summer and he's reading, that's enough of an excuse for me.)

I'm avoiding a little responsibility and taking just a minute to exhale.