Zen and the Art of Motherhood

Our Little Stinker's done it again.  And just when I thought that I had heard and seen everything.

To say he has an active imagination is most definitely an understatement.  Like most boys his age, he's way big into dinosaurs, tigers, lions and any other predatory beast past and present.  But, as usual, he needs to take things a step further.  Not only does he have a passion for these creatures, he now things he's one of them.

I've already told you how he growls at new people he meets.   This has caused many a problem as little kids run crying to their mommies when the mean kid roars in their faces.  Yep, that would be my kid.

The other day, I realized I've been remiss in the hygiene department.  I looked down and saw his fingernails were longer than mine.  But when I got the clippers out to remedy the situation, my efforts were met with a big, loud "NO!"

Determined to push through this I continued, "We need to trim your nails, bud.  They're way too long."

"But Mooommm.  They're not NAILS, they're my claws."  This last point was emphasized by drawing up his hands, giving a good swipe and a mean growl in the process.

What's a mommy to do?

This went back and forth a few more times like a good game of ping pong.  Would you be horribly surprised to hear that I lost?  Didn't think so.

  I know my boy and there is no way, no how I'm going to get him to do something once he has his mind set on it.

So go ahead and laugh if you will.  I might just have to sneak into his room tonight and separate him from his claws. If that doesn't work, we may be making a trip to the salon. Hey, those suckers are long and strong and, well, claw-like.  If they're here to stay for a while, might as well make them look good.  .


Keeping me on my toes,

Not really.  It's just that I've always had a certain fondness for that word and have been dying to use it in a post.  So what if it makes no sense.

What I am up for is for some healthy venting.  Ready, set, go.

With all the craziness in my household lately, my nerves a fried.  Gone are any illusions of exercising, dieting or taking care of myself.  And in the middle of everything else, the Stinker leaped over the edge of impdom today.  Not sure if impdom is actually a word, but just go with me here.

Once again, I've been remiss in my mommy duties.  I've put a few minor things off.  And because of it, the little guy's gone without a haircut for -- actually, I forget how long its been.

As a result I now have a four year old that looks like the youngest Flower Child in recorded history. A shaggy do, complete with long sideburns -- why all he needs is some round glasses, a tie dye shirt, a few beads and presto..

So this morning I set out to right this neglectful situation.  We headed into the nearest Great Clips for a cut.   Normally, this only takes a few minutes, tops, and we're on our way.

Too bad this wasn't a normal day.  As soon as the Stinker saw the chair and the cape, he bolted.  No amount of pleading or bribing could get him in the thing.  Kicking and screaming reared their ugly heads, so even though it killed me, I cut my loses and headed home.

That's when my little imp spent some quality bonding time with his room.  After some lunch and a mommy time-out, I decided to try again.  We picked up his big sis from school and went to another fine beauty establishment.  I was way too embarrassed to go back to the scene of the crime of earlier in the day.  You can call me chicken if you'd like.  Or just a sucker for punishment.

The second time around, he walked right in and hopped in the chair.  He even let the guy put some tape around his neck and fasten the big ole cape.  But as soon as the trimmer came out, all bets were off.

After a few futile efforts, the trimmer was replaced with the scissors.  Too bad the damage was already done.  He kept lurching and jumping in his little booster seat until the nice hair cutter made us leave.  Yep, we were kicked out of Super Cuts.  Of course, this happened AFTER the nice haircutter jerk made a few artful cuts.

So tonight, I am left with a half-hippy, half do-it-yourself-trim looking kid.  Can't wait to hear what the other moms at the preschool Valentine party have to say about that.  Guess we can kiss those visions of playdates from that bunch goodbye.

Gotta go.  Need to check into military schools -- FAST!


Where O where has my Zen gone?

Bet you guessed Brittany Spears.  Nope. That was a couple of years ago.  How passe.

Or maybe Brangelina.   Will they stop having kids already?

Or maybe one of those moms on Jerry Springer.  You know, the one that needs a paternity test to figure out which five guys is the father of her 3 year old love child.  She's also the one to get into a fist fight with the other two ladies trying to figure out the same thing.

And the answer is...none of the above.  As of this afternoon, its settled.  Its me.  Big time.

It all started on Wednesday when I got a call from school.  I should be used to these by now.  But the nice nurse at Pond Boy's school called to tell me he had a little accident in gym.  Seems he had a run in with a basketball and he jammed his finger.

She said he was fine, it was OK and he was coming home with some ice.  No biggie.

I promptly examined it, and yes indeed it was swollen.  But so are a number of other injuries we see around here.  So being the decisive person I am, I told him, "Let's wait till you dad gets home."

Now there's one thing about my dearest hubby.  He's a minimalist in the way he approaches problems.  Most things are fine until proven otherwise.  So when, after examining the injury, he proclaimed "nothing but a sprain"  I should have said something.

Like that happened.  I was too busy making dinner, supervising homework and after-school activities and thwarting the Little Stinker's efforts to torture the cat.   I got sidetracked, OK?

Fast forward to three days later.  I'm in the kitchen with Pond Boy when I notice something funny about his hand.  Was it always that blue?  I don't remember it looking like a balloon before?  I know my memory is a little fuzzy these days, but something was most definitely not right.

So one trip to Urgent Care and two hours later we got the verdict.  Its broken.  Its also out of place.  He was put in a splint and first thing Monday morning we'll be making a visit to the hand specialist.

So now you all know my dirty little secret.  I let my son go three days with a broken hand.  Isn't that special?  I'm the proud recipient of the Worst Mother of the Year award.  And its only January.  Can't wait to see what the rest of the year will bring.


Feeling Really, Really Stupid,

My oldest daughter happens to be totally into the Twilight series.  I know, what warm-blooded teenage girl isn't?

It was about a year ago when she would come home from school, promptly put nose in book and commence swooning over this sordid tale of love and blood. 

So, after much pleading and prodding from my oldest -- and in an effort to bond with my ever-moody child --  I decided to give the book a gander.

The first chapter:  OK, but nothing special by my standards.

The second chapter:  Mildly interesting.

Chapter three:  Getting warmer.

By chapter four I was officially reeled in, hook, line and sinker -- or fang (pun totally intended).

Yes, I know, a forty-something mom has no business crossing over the invisible generational divide to invade TeenageLand territory, but at this point I was still doing it for the kid. And my plan worked.

Mother and daughter enjoyed more frequent conversations -- ones that didn't even involve handing over cash.  She'd bound into my room, jump on my bed and tell me how I wouldn't believe what happened next.  We talk about our favorites, share our thoughts on the plot and generally have a good laugh or two. 

But somewhere along the way, my innocent bonding strategy went south.  Way, way south.

I kind of got into the whole story.  I mean really got into it. The teen that was for so long stuffed way down inside of me was mysteriously unleashed.  And that's when the war began.

"I had it first."

"No I had it first."

"Mom, give me back my book!"


Did I mention I get a little obsessed with a good read?   This went on for months, until in the end all four books were finally completed.

Even though the story ended, I'm happy to report our bond remained.  On some level I was able to enter her world -- even it it took a few vampires to pave the way.  We still argue over who are favorite undead character is.  Or whether werewolves rock or not.

But there are limits to how for a mom can go.  I learned that the hard way.

The new movie just came out.  My daughter's had the release date on her calendar for months.  And as I'd see the previews over the last few weeks, I have to admit, my interest was piqued.

That's when I made my fatal error. I asked my daughter if she wanted to go see the movie.

With me.

The corresponding laughs could be heard for miles around.  Her go see New Moon with her mom?  Was I crazy?  Well yes, but that's another story all together.

So here I sit, getting ready to drive the big girl and her BFF to see the show.  All the while I'm secretly hoping they'll ask me to go along.  Don't worry, I'm not holding my breath.  I guess my vampire fix will just have to wait until it comes out on DVD.

I woke up this morning to yet another bug -- this time the common cold. I've been getting sick almost continuously since school started. So much so that I was wondering if I had some terrible illness that was wrecking havoc with my poor, abused immune system. I even went to the doctor, who promptly put half of my blood supply into little tubes to see what was the matter.

Turns out I'm fine. Well not exactly fine, but close enough. So then I started wondering if I was just a hypochondriac and that my various ailments were all just figments of my sometimes overactive imagination.

I kept up with this line of thought until a couple of days ago. That's when I made a discovery that blew me away. One that sent millions of tiny shivers up and down my spine.

I've always taught my kids to share. Actually, I've hammered it into their little brains from when they were knee high to a grasshopper. Well it looks like I might have overdone it a bit.

Two days ago, when I asked my soccer girl where her toothbrush was, I got the infamous shoulder shrug and almost incomprehensible I dunno.  She's a teen, what can I say.

Then I started to get suspicious.  With a little prodding (OK, threats of bodily harm might have been involved) I found out that because she lost track of which one was her's, she's been using any toothbrush that was in sight. Yuk!

Turns out all my kids have gotten in on the action.  They have all been partaking in a game of toothbrush round robin for a while now.  The best part was when I found out I was an unknowing participant.  All those times I saw them lingering in my bathroom, I thought they were just using my hairbrush or make up. How could I be so blind?

Is nothing sacred?

Nope.  There are no boundaries in this house.  My kids walk in on me getting dressed on a somewhat regular basis -- there's usually an eeeww involved (Thanks kids, I needed that.).  They will hold entire conversations with me while I'm on the phone and usually want me to help them with their homework while I'm in the bathroom.

So now, I'm turning over a new leaf.  I bought new toothbrushes for everyone and spent the evening labeling each one with their respective names -- its more like wallpaper, but I want no more questions as to who's is who's.

Then, I'm going to start with the lessons.  There will be no more sharing in this house!  And anyone who even thinks about using my toothbrush again might just see these pearly whites staring them in the face.

My kids sure know how to push my buttons. They take this perverse pleasure in testing just how far they can push me before the veins in my neck heave, my nostrils flare and my head spins round on my neck like a top.

This week, I think we hit speed records in this little experiment of theirs. You see, the relative tranquility of the school day only amplified the decibel level upon their respective returns from school. Just as I became acclimated to the calm, I was rudely jolted back into the wonderful of the world of insult hurling, food flinging and tears streaming -- yes, it always seems to end with tears streaming. Or maybe its door slamming, I forget.

But anyway, back to my point. The normal chain of events goes something like this. Kids yelling. Kids rough-housing. Kids breaking objects or each other. More yelling. Repeat.

During this cycle not one dares to heed my futile attempts at keeping the peace.

"Kids, keep it down."
"Don't do that."
"Someone's going to get hurt, you know."

That is until I make the following statement...usually in an extremely forced, carefully measured tone. "If you keep this up, Mom's gonna blow."

That's when they realize the lady means business. Maybe its the calm in my voice, the strength of my convictions, or maybe its the fact they've all seen me blow like a volcano and it ain't pretty. I like to think of it as Mauna Loa. You know the one. Mighty and fierce, the majestic crater need only send a hint of black smoke into the air, thus sending everyone shaking in fear. Hey, a woman can dream, can't she?

Well so went our week. Except for the fact that more than once I screamed the above statement at the top of my lungs. So much for cool and collected. Seems my top had already popped by the time the words left my lips.

When it happened yesterday, my oldest son started running around the house, hands waving in the air, "Duck and cover, mom's gonna blow. Duck and cover, she's gonna blow." Did I mention he was laughing hysterically?

Soon his sisters joined in, along with the toddler, the dogs and the cat (held against her will by the toddler). All forming a conga line from hell, now adding leg and arm movements as they wound around the house. Thankfully, the procession finally ended at the dining room table, where they curled up underneath, feigning fright and laughing uncontrollably.

It was at this very moment I realized I have lost all semblance of order and authority. Sad as it is to say, I am Momma Loa no more.

Our Little Stinker's new favorite show is Bob the Builder. He goes around singing the songs, knows who's who, and can recite the most minute detail of every episode with amazing accuracy.

Although this may border on the obsessive, I'm basically OK with his love of all things home improvement related. What I can't deal with are the questions.

"What does Scoop do?"

"Why does Dizzy spin around?"

"Where does Lofty take all the wood?"

Don't be fooled. These are not the innocent questions of an adorable toddler. They're part of a test -- and woe to the person who answers incorrectly. For any Monty Python fans out there, the moment you are presented with one of his queries you get the eerie feeling you've just been asked what you favorite color might be. Its gotten so bad that I've been known to bolt from the room when the little guy gears up for another round.

"Mommy, who helped Dizzy fix the road"

"Was it Bob?"

"NO Mommy!"

"Lofty?"

"Mooommmmy! WHO HELPED DIZZY FIX THE ROAD?"

Finally, admitting defeat, I whimper, "I don't know bud."

"YES YOU DO. Tell me now!"

Inevitably, I just hang my head, too exhausted to go on. And that's when the Little Stinker swoops in for the kill.

"Mommy, what does Wendy do for Bob?"

Now if you've ever watched Bob and Wendy in action, you might have gotten the feeling that they're more than co-workers, so to speak. I've always thought there's probably a little something something going on behind the scenes. And I have a sneaking suspicion my youngest has figured this out on some level as well.

"Wendy works for Bob, right?"

"No Mommy, what does she do for him?"

"She helps him build things?"

"No Mommy. What does Wendy DO for Bob?"

Now I'm on the edge. I then suffer a momentary lapse of judgement brought on by mounting frustration. And before I can take the words back, I hear myself yell "Listen, kiddo, I'm not sure, but whatever it is, I'm sure she's getting a promotion!"

Welcome to my world of bad parenting moments. I guess its time for me to brush up on my home improvement episodes.

My son tried to sneak something by me yet again. I found him, his mouth full of chocolate chips, unable to speak. This was right before dinner, mind you.

"Don't have anymore," I said.

In response he tried to covertly shove just one more handful in before putting the bag away.

"You know I saw that."

"Saw what?"

To that I launched into one my famous long winded explanations on how us moms have a sort of super power ability to see and know all. He may have bought it at 5, but these days its just one of those, "blah, blah, blah, Ginger, blah, blah" moments. The glazed look in his eyes told all.

Then, feeling rather witty, I explained, "You know bud, I'm smarter than the average bear."

Clearly not getting the reference (yes, I'm dating myself WAY back here), he looked at me very seriously. "Mom, that's not saying much. Bears are pretty dumb."

And so went my evening. Once again, outwitted by a ten year old.