It All Goes Downhill From Here....

I got one of "those" phone calls today from Padawan's school.  You know, one of the "Your kid bleeped up" calls.  It sort of took me by surprise because Padawan usually doesn't trend toward the criminal element. Nevertheless...today he got caught red handed.


"And Mrs. Drug," the secretary informed me, "this is the second offense....we had to confiscate..."

DUN DUN DUNNNNNN....

A better mom than me would have no idea what is being pictured here.

At this point I braced myself, mentally running through a list of interventions.   Where do we go from here? His Youth Pastor?  Military school? Maury?

What exactly did he do?  I asked the secretary, preparing myself for the worst.

"He was listening to MUSIC," she told me.  "On his PHONE."

Oh Dear Lord, soon he'll be moving his HIPS to the beat!

Now, don't think that I'm implying the school's rules are insignificant   On the contrary, I fully understand the need to curtail cell phone use during school hours. Further, I would even support a rule banning ALL cell phone use during school hours (which is stricter than the school's current policy, actually), however, this story is less about the rules, and more about what happened AFTER the phone was confiscated.

"Mrs Drug?" the secretary continued, "you or your husband will have to come to the school office to pick it up. On the second offense we will only release the confiscated property to the student's parents."

So off to the school we drove.

When we arrived in the office the secretary eyed Mr. Drug warily.  It was actually sort of, well, bizarre.  He's a very tall man, and sometimes he scares people. This sometimes comes in handy in his line of work.. still, Mrs. Secretary's glare was bordering on....contempt?  Hmm.

Once we'd procured the confiscated property and were safely back in the car, I flipped the cell phone on.  I did this mostly with the intention of snooping through Padawan's text messages.  I thought maybe there'd be some scintillating middle school drama in there. But what greeted me was a notification that said

12 MISSED CALLS.

Wow, Padawan must be some kind of sugar daddy.  Twelve missed calls?  In one morning?  Really?

"What do you think about this Mr. Drug?" I asked.  "Why so many calls during school hours?"

"I'm guessing his friends were calling his phone to annoy the office staff," Mr Drug casually replied.  "That's what I'd do if they took my phone away."

I suppose the fact that Mr. Drug's mind works like that of a 13 year old boy shouldn't surprise me.  But I still  wasn't following the reasoning.  And additionally, I wondered how effective the middle school discipline policies were if students were using cell phones during school hours, to call cell phones that had been confiscated.

So, I sat there contemplating and contemplating, and then I decided to call Padawan's phone myself.  Call it a mom instinct...

AHA!!

Now, I'm sure working in a middle school office can be...challenging.  I'm also sure that most schools aren't bastions of conservative leaning politics.  Also, the fact that Mr. Drug sauntered in wearing this jacket, probably didn't help Mrs. Secretary's mood any:

Hey we voted for the last bond issue!

Obviously Padawan is going to need to think about what he did, and why it was wrong to A) Listen to music on his phone at school, and then B). Annoy the office staff by having his friends spam call the phone triggering an intensely provocative and obnoxious ring tone.

Still, I can't help but think all the better moms out there wouldn't have laughed just a teeny bit.

Or maybe that's why Mr. Drug and I get along so well....sometimes you just find the right match maturity wise, ya know?

Hey, I never claimed to be the better mom.

Someday We'll Call Them Slacks

We’re transplants to the city we live in.  In some ways it’s really liberating.  For one thing, no one knows about all the dumb crap I did in my younger years. They don’t know about the walks of shame, the 80’s nights at the college bar, or that really bad haircut my mom subjected me to in fourth grade.  Starting over in a new place sort of lets you re-invent yourself. 

On the other hand, there is something exceedingly lonely about being a transplant.  It’s hard when there’s no inside jokes, no reminders of the time ‘so and so did that’, or crazy memories from initiation nights back in the sorority.  Also, no one  knows how awesomely cool I was back in school….

Such a shame.

You can almost get a sense of how awesome I was from this picture...almost...

When you are a transplant, it’s important to make friends.  There’s a lot of blah blah blah psychology at play here.  Yeah, it’s important to have friends who can lift you up when you’re down, or help carry the burden when life slings crap your way, but beyond that you have to consider the fact that you’re going to need someone you can call to pick your kids up from school when you’re puking into the toilet and can’t pull yourself up off the floor from eating bad sushi.

Finding mom friends is more complicated than it sounds.  There are many points to consider.  I like to find friends who are slightly (or majorly) more organized than me.  This is because I suck at remembering when things like school programs fall, or field trips that require a sack lunch.  It’s even better if those friends recognize their superior organizational skills and take pity on me with text messages or emails to subtly remind of the junk they know I won’t remember.

But the reality is, a lot of moms I meet just aren’t friend material. Sometimes things look SO promising, and then she’ll say something so intensely shallow that I want to stab myself in the head with the nearest designer stiletto.

Not that there isn’t a place in the world for those kind of people….I mean, hey all God’s children right?  But let’s be honest, if you’re that type of mom you probably won’t be standing in line to make cake pops with me anyway.

Mostly I’ve realized that you can’t go looking for them.  You’ll find them when you’re supposed to.  And they won’t look the way you expect, and if you’re not careful you might judge them too quickly.  They’ll be totally different than your friends from high school and college, and in fact, if you’d met 15 years before, you might have despised each other. 

These aren’t the friends who knew you first, or who remember your 8^th birthday party, but that’s okay.  These are the friends who know you for the person you’ve become, and who help guide you through a phase of life that is frankly, sometimes pretty messy and chaotic. Most importantly, these are the friends who will someday cackle at a waffle house table with you, while you admire each other’s new slacks. 

Those are some slick slacks

 One thing is certain…. my mom friends are all better moms than me…and they make me want to be better too.

BLEEP on the Walls

A preschooler can reduce your bathroom to ^^ this^^  faster than  can you read this caption.

There comes a point in the life of every preschooler when you let them loose in the bathroom.  They’ve got potty training down, they understand the mechanics of the toilet flushing mechanism, and you’ve supervised them wiping their butts enough times that you’re ready to let them fly.  It’s a great moment.  

And it lasts all of 2 hours, or, until the next time you use the bathroom.

I think it’s safe to say that every mom has walked into a bathroom, discovered new horrors that she never before contemplated, and thinks, “That’s it, I’m supervising ‘dump taking’ from now until they are 18…the mess isn’t worth it.”

For some, the mess comes in the form of clogged toilets.  I’ve watched my kids wad up half the roll of toilet paper, only to gingerly touch the very outside of their butt, and accomplish nothing.  Take this times two or three per dump, and you suddenly have a real clog problem on your hands.

“Hey Little P,” I said a few weeks ago, “Let’s talk about moderation.”

“What’s that?”

“Moderation is when we try to not overdo something, like, not using half the roll of toilet paper when we go poop. “

At this point I showed him how about 4 or 5 sheets of toilet paper was very effective at getting the job done.

“But what if I touch my butt?” He asked with a worried look in his eye.

“That’s okay, that’s why we wash our hands.”

Now, let me delve further into the psyche of a preschooler.  Perhaps a large wad of toilet paper gives them the impression that they need not ‘work for it’ to get themselves clean.  Perhaps a more moderate amount of TP, ie, 4-5 sheets, gets them thinking something like this;

“Well, since I don’t have quantity on my side, my hands are going to have to do more of the work.”

I present to you, Exhbit A

I don't normally photograph BLEEP on the walls, but I had to text a picture to Mr. Drug.  I enjoy shocking him throughout the day.

“Hey Little P, What’s this on the wall?”

“Oh, well, I guess I’m not sure.”

“Could it be poop?”

“It could be.”

“Why is it on the wall?”

“Because my fingers get in the way.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I have too many fingers and not enough toilet paper.”

Do you think she has ever scrubbed BLEEP off the walls?

Have you seen moms in commercials who laugh when their kid spills purple grape juice on the white carpet, and just wink at the camera while they scrub the stain into oblivion?  What are those creative people smoking?  If you think I’m going to cheerfully scrub BLEEP off the wall while my kid plays with a ball in the background, then you must be a better mom than me.  You suck.  

“No more moderation,” I told him, “use as much toilet paper as you want.  I’ve got a better idea anyway.”

“What’s your idea mommy?”

“I’m going to teach you how to unclog a toilet.”

Beta Tester

This is Goldie.  He is neither gold nor a gold fish.

Last night, Little P, who is a four, decided his fish needed clean water.  His fish is a blue and reddish purplish beta named Goldie, ( they were out of goldfish at the pet store that day).   Goldie is the pet that I sometimes forget about.  The cat and the dog are not so easy to overlook because they, like the kids and Mr. Drug, are good at inserting themselves in front of me to remind me that they have needs and such.  But dang, Goldie just hasn’t figured out how to make some sort of visible or audible signal to me when he requires something.  Obviously Goldie doesn’t realize that I am THE PROVIDER OF CLEAN WATER AND FOOD, which is probably because, I sometimes forget to provide those things.

At any rate, Little P decided to take matters into his own hands.  He somehow managed to get Goldie out of the tank and into a cup.  I’m not sure how he did this because Goldie is a fast little &h*t, and it usually takes me nine or ten tries to grab him; maybe little P knows a trick I don’t.  I didn’t realize this was even happening until p started hollering down the stairs to me, asking if he should wash Goldie’s rocks with soap.  Wait, what?!

Animals lovers everywhere are probably worried about Goldie’s well-being at this point in the story, but rest assured, he was, (and is) fine.  I took control and made sure everything was washed according to the health standards of a fish and what not. 

Later when Goldie was in a clean tank, and little P and Penelope were getting ready for bed, I remembered the cup.  Because… dang... it was the princess cup….you know the one that Penelope must take three sips from every night before bed… …….

“Eww, I have a rock in my mouth!”

 Because who doesn’t just take a drink of water out of a cup that is sitting next to a pile of slimy rock pebbles and fish poop?  I mean, that’s perfectly reasonable.

I’m googling it now. MYCOBATERIUM MARINUM...crap. Web MD says to watch for yellow pustules on her skin and hands. I’ll text Dr. F or Dr. S or maybe both, if that happens.

A better mom than me might be panicking, but I’m not saying anything if you don’t.

Magic Ad Nauseum

If you like watching your kids do magic then something is wrong with you

I’m not a totally terrible mother…if one of my kids wants to sing a song they made up or show me a puppet play where the lead characters are the tv remote and a tampon, I’ll give them my undivided attention until my ears or eyes bleed.  But for some reason, the phrase, “Hey mom watch me do some magic tricks” is enough to send me to the looney bin. 

Maybe it’s because when I was a kid, I bought this trick at a magic store.  It was a disappearing ball trick that was supposed to be “so easy anyone could do it”, but the directions were in Chinese and I never figured it out.  Talk about frustrating. Honestly though, even with legible directions I’m reasonably sure my kids wouldn’t be good at magic …in fact I’m  pretty sure they suck.  Their tricks involve lots of complex steps and I have to close and open my eyes on command…something that seems suspicious to me.  Maybe watching my kids do magic makes me feel put on the spot, because they routinely test my understanding of object permanence and ability to follow directions:

“Mom which hand do you think the ball is in now?”  or “Mom  you’re supposed to say, “WHERE DID PENELOPE GO?” 

A better mom than me would laugh and pick the wrong hand, or say, “Oh my, I have NO IDEA where Penelope went,” but I’m not that mom.  What I’m really thinking, is,

“If you aren’t going to go Criss Angel on me, swallow a quarter and then cut it out of your arm... I ain’t interested.”




Don't bother me until you can do THIS.....

Rest assured better moms, I don’t REALLY say that.  What I REALLY say is this:

“Go show daddy that trick, he LOVES magic.

Sometimes the art of making something disappear is a skill that improves with age.

Mr. Blondie's Secret Tool

I think everyone needs a secret tool

With Penelope and Padawan, some conversations naturally happened.  Padawan was 5 when I was pregnant with Penelope and Penelope was 2 when I was pregnant with little P…so they saw my belly grow, knew there was a baby inside, and wondered, “Hey how did that get in there?” 

Little P, however, will never see the wonder of one of my pregnancies.  In many ways, this is a good thing, because I am not at my best when pregnant.  Even so, it puts me in a position that I was never in with the other two.

What I mean by this, is that it’s a whole lot less weird to explain to your child how their own SIBLING got inside your stomach, then to have to explain how someone else’s got in there.

Because let’s be honest…I remember this talk with my own parents.  When you finally connect the dots between their odd, halting explanation of what really occurred it’s sort of alarming.  Wait What?  Geez did you really have to tell me that?  I’d hate to put some unsuspecting friends into this position.

So lately, little P has been watching the belly of one such unsuspecting friend, slowly get bigger.  We’ll call her Blondie.  Little P sees Blondie often enough, but her belly seems to grow a lot between each encounter. Blondie has some little rugrats of her own that little P hangs out with in various settings, and it seems that the subject of her belly and the baby inside has come up on a few occasions. Before we go any further I have to also thank Handy Manny for giving Little P the idea that there is an appropriate tool for any job that needs to get done.  Let's proceed:

“Does Blondie have a baby in her tummy?” Little P asked one very uncomplicated up until that moment day.

“Yes, she does!  Isn’t that exciting?”

“yeah, but hey, how did her baby get inside her tummy?”

Hmm.  Let me make this even more complicated and throw this little wrench into the story. Mrs. Blondie’s husband, Mr. Blondie, is not only a friend, but he’s also one of little P’s medical providers.  He sees him about every three months for a certain ongoing issue he has.  (Nothing serious, he’s totally fine, we just have to keep an ‘eye’ on things),  hehe.  In any case, here’s the scenario I envision if I tell little P the specifics on just how Blondie’s baby got inside her tummy.

MR. BLONDIE: “Well hello Little P, how is that issue of yours doing?”

LITTLE P: “Oh Hi Mr. Blondie, my issue is fine thanks for asking.  Hey guess what, I know what you did to Mrs. Blondie to put that baby in there.  Want me to describe it in microscopic detail so that you will be horrified and embarrassed and the rest of this appointment you won’t look my mom or me in the eye?  How bout that?!”

Because this thing works so well with no eye contact

The parenting books say to only give the information they ask for.  The parenting books say that they will stop asking questions at the point where they are satisfied.  What a bunch of BS…

“Well Little P, a baby grows in a mommy’s tummy when a mommy and daddy decide they’d like to have a baby.”

“Yeah, but when they decide that, how does the baby get in there?”

“Oh, well, there’s a process, and they have to make sure they follow the rules to get the baby in there.”

“What are the rules?”

“They have to be married.”

“Oh, so then they put a baby in?”

“Yes.”

“How do they put it in?”

“Together.”

“Mr. Blondie helped her?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he put it?”

“In her tummy.”

“With a tool?”

“So how about we go play a game Little P?”

“Okay, but wait…”

“What?”

“Did you use a tool to put me into your tummy?”

“I can’t remember, it’s been four years.”

“Maybe you should ask Mr. Blondie, he can tell you how to do it.”

“That’s something we probably shouldn’t ask.  It’s kind of private.”

“Oh his tool is secret?”

If I knew what a better mom than me would have done, I’d have done it.  But I don’t. Would she have blogged about it?  Probably not.

I’m hoping that on the next visit to Mr. Blondie’s office Little P doesn’t ask him about his secret tool. But rest assured...if  he does, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Yes Virigina, She is Dead and Burned

I thought showing her a picture of the real Anastasia might help.  Nope, didn't help. More tears. Damn you Bolsheviks!

Penelope is a cinephile; one of those people who goes through life pretending to live in the world of whatever movie they are currently infatuated with.  Last year it was The Prince of Egypt, and 6 months ago it was Les Miserables.  She also went through a Hunchback of Notre Dame phase, and pretended to be a gypsy who was excommunicated from the Catholic church.

Recently, she discovered the late 90's animated flick, Anastasia.  It’s a cute movie; Meg Ryan gives the voice to Anastasia Romanov.  If you don’t know the story of Anastasia it goes like this:  The Romanov's were the royal family in Russia before the revolution.  The Bolsheviks revolted against them and basically slaughtered the whole family in July of 1918, including the young prince and princesses.  Sounds like a perfect plot for a kid movie right?  Well here’s the thing…for a long time people weren't sure that Anastasia, the youngest princess, had been killed.  Her body was reportedly missing from the grave. It was quite a legend in the mid 1900’s and there were lots of women who claimed later that they were the long lost princess.  So some movie exec was all,

 "Hey lets make a princess movie out of this and girls everywhere will fall in love with Anastasia all over again.”  

So they did. 

Nothing captures the spirit of the Russian Revolution like a talking bat with a genie hat.

It has lots of big songs and magic and talking animals, as well as a happy ending where Anastasia gets her title back and falls in love with  a handsome young man who just HAPPENED to be the boy from years before who helped her escape the slaughter. 

So great.

One small problem.  A few years after the movie was released some dude in Russia found a grave with a girl and a boy skeleton.  They were burned and charred and basically suffered a horrible, heinous death at the hands of blood thirsty revolutionaries.  DNA testing proved that they were a young Romanov Prince and Princess.  So now, all of them are accounted for….Anastasia was dead as a duck the whole time folks. 

Mr. Drug, who likes history and random trivia, watched the whole movie with Penelope one evening and when it was over, he turned to me and said,

“You know they found Anastasia’s burned body a few years ago right?  She was dead the whole time.”

YES I KNOW THAT MR. DRUG, THANKS FOR YOUR BIT OF HISTORY TRIVIA, but uh, Penelope has imagined herself to BE ANASTASIA, or haven’t you NOTICED her Russian accent lately?!

Penelope was just a tad upset.

“She’s dead?  And BURNED?  This never happened?  She never found her grandma and sang with her?”

A better mom than me would have said, 

“Well Daddy doesn't really KNOW that for sure, he just READ that on Wikipedia or saw it on the History Channel....those aren't necessarily vetted, scholarly sources.”

But that’s not what I said,

“Yeah she’s dead, lame huh?”

“So so sad,” Penelope sobbed.  “She’s DEAD and BURNED.”

Dead and burned is right my dear.  History sucks. Can I interest you in Pocahontas?

Holey Prayers

Don't worry, this is a modest picture..the 'hole' appeared a day after this was taken

 I think I figured out a way to keep people from knocking on my door and trying to pray with me.  It’s called, “THE SPIDERMAN SUIT”. 

                

The Spiderman suit is worn roughly four or five days out of the week around here.   It’s one of those cheap dress up costumes from China that is generally the thickness of a panty liner.  I’m not really sure what the draw is, because it’s got velcro in strange places and no real substance to speak of, but there you are; it’s little P’s most treasured piece of clothing.  Oddly, wearing the suit requires him to remove his underwear. I’m not sure why, but that’s what he tells me.

              

In any case, the panty liner costume isn’t really meant for the washing machine, but if you think I’m motivated enough to wash that thing by hand, than you are obviously a better mom than me.  Nope, into the washer it goes, and out if comes with a couple more holes than before.  Which brings me back to my point….

                

Usually the folks who ring your doorbell and try to pray with you are rather puritan in nature.  Or at least, I assume that.  They show up at our house at least once a month and the women always wear dresses and cute little hats.  If they have children with them, (which sometimes happens), they look clean and sparkly, and you’d definitely assume they were wearing underwear.  Last night they showed up right as I was distracted by trying to find my car keys, and damn,  before I could make everybody go silent and hide in the kitchen my little Spiderman swung the door open.

                

I could tell by the look on their faces that something wasn’t right, but I didn’t get why until I glanced down and noticed that mini-spidey had a mini wardrobe malfunction happening below the waist. – His webslinger was dangling for God and everyone else to see.- I almost started laughing, but I thought it might be in poor taste to engage in penis humor when all they wanted to do was pray with for me.

As I was closing the door I muttered something about having to take my oldest to youth group, just so they’d know we weren’t complete heathens.  Still, if you ARE a better mom than me, you’ll take heed and wash that junk by hand.