Monthly Archives: March 2013

I am Titanium

Sometimes I forget how music can heal my soul. Ok, maybe that was a little dramatic. More like, cure all the world’s problems? Um … just prevent me from staying the whole day in bed? Yeah, that’s more accurate. And sometimes to get through these crazy mom days, I need Super Woman inspiration.

So, lately, in the mornings, I’ve been putting on the song “Titanium”.

Even when I feel like total crap, this song can get me up and moving. I find myself doing the Tom Cruise slide in Risky Business (with my mom uniform on – the standard dish cloth over the left shoulder) screaming, “I am Titaaaaaaaaaaniuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!!” Like “this stay at home mom can rule the world!!!” … until, of course I hit a well placed toy car and fall on my ass. And then it turns into a little whimper from the ground, “I am titanium?”

Throw me a kid with diarrhea, I got it!! You need to bring juice in for 23 kids today, no problem!! You just spilled syrup all over your shirt, I’m on it!! You need your report card signed, PLEASE – I will sign that bitch like nobody’s business!!

“Shoot me down, but I won’t fall!”

Then there is the song that makes me feel like my family is the epitome of coolness and “having it together”ness – an illusion I must live with in order to keep this cool mom charade thing going. It’s mildly embarrassing.  But seriously, when has that ever stopped me?  It’s the theme song to the show The Incredible Crew.

(awkward pause)

Yeah, you read that right! Don’t judge. If you haven’t seen the show yet, then you must – and you clearly can’t judge … yet. Even if you just youtube “Running Errands with My Mom” or “Science Fair” … but then again, I have a 13 year old boy’s sense of humor (and the zits to prove it).  I make no promises.

Anyway, the intro song is 21 seconds of PERFECTION. The beginning of the show introduces you to each cast member, one at a time, with some kind of batman explosion-like symbol behind them. I picture my family like that in the morning. Pow! … me with a mug of coffee and a “don’t mess with this bitch” look! … Pow! … the hubby riding his bike in the living room (that’s a post for another day)! … Pow! Munch with her book bag on, giving us the thumbs us (no tween sulkiness in sight)! … Pow! AD giving only a cursory glance at the screen as he is wildly focused on his iPod! … Pow! Guy (last but not least) jumping into a ninja like position with a growl on his face.

My crew, my crew, my crew, my crew, my crew, my crew, my crew is incredible!!

That’s us!! BAM! Suck it world! We ROCK!!

(pause) (shifty eyes)

Soooooooooooo …

… onto scrubbing toilets.

Theme song: “Toxic”

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Separated at Birth?

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Marie Osmond

Does anyone remember when Marie Osmond ran away? Sometimes, I swear, I’m the only one that ever read that story. She was so overwhelmed, she walked out the door without her kids, got in her car and off she went. She drove for hours and hours and finally ended up at some hotel. Crazy, right?

Um, yeah.

I mean, I have never locked myself in a bathroom with a good book or waited in my car in the driveway with the babysitter inside for an extra 5 minutes of peace (who am I kidding, we all know it was more like 30 minutes) before entering the war zone or wandered around Target for hours without kids, aimlessly throwing stuff in my cart as a way to close the hole in my soul (I am not the least bit dramatic) or went to a bar and drank all day … wait, I’m not sure that last one happened. More a thought … a dream perhaps … and less reality.

I’ve never hid in the house from my kids or walked out the door and sat on the curb in front of my house with my head in my hands or drove my kids to the Hubby’s office and pronounced “I’M DONE!”.

I most DEFINITELY have not asked the kids to make dinner because I “wasn’t in the mood” or laid on the couch all day and stared at the wall or let a baby cry a little too long in the crib because I couldn’t face one more shitty diaper.

Even with the kids getting older and dealing less with baby and toddler issues, I still find myself telling people that I may or may not pull a “Marie Osmond” that day.

The Hubby and I use the phrase “there’s always one” quite often. Because, frankly, there is ALWAYS one. One melting down. One having an issue. One sick. One angry. One sad. One stuck upside down on a swing. Whatever. But the days I want to “Marie Osmond” it, well, those are the days it’s all three. I seriously go into survival mode. It’s like fight or flight here. And I’m ashamed to admit it, but I usually flee.

So maybe I should get one of Marie Osmond’s creepy QVC dolls and place it prominently in my house as a reminder that, worse case, I can go check into a hotel.

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Family Game Night (Otherwise Known as Hell on Earth)

Are anyone else’s attempts at “Family Game Night” as fun as ours?! And by fun, I mean DISASTROUS.

Don’t get me wrong – I throw it out there all the time to make us look good. (There’s so little we can brag about as it is). I just leave out a few key details. I find that if you keep things really vague and avoid eye contact you can get away with it … sometimes.

Me (feeling smug, but nervous … I could be found out at any moment!): “Yeah – we had a Family Game night Friday.”

Friend who doesn’t know me very well (obviously): “Wow – that is so great! You guys are so good. You’re like the perfect little family.”

Me: (blushing) “Well, yes. We like to take time as a family and really bond.”

Mmmm HMMMM. Yep. That’s us. Perfect.

Now, the truth …

Me: “Let’s have a family game night!!”

Kids: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”

Me: *sigh* “What if I include candy?”

Kids: “Ok. But it better be the good shit” – (just kidding, they don’t curse. They don’t curse! THEY DO NOT CURSE … fyi, sometimes I catch them cursing.)

Now in an attempt to be Super Mom, I ask them what game they’d like to play. This is the first mistake of Super Mom. SMART Mom gives them 3 options or, actually, come to think of it, no options at all. But Super Mom wants the children to be “heard” and have their opinions “matter” … blah, blah, blah.

This now develops into a full blown whining session about which game to play until I scream at the Hubby (who has been hiding in the kitchen with his iPhone … and his soul) to solve this problem.

In a grand proclamation, he announces that we will play Monopoly! Everyone is in agreement! There will be peace in the land!!

WTF!? I suggested Monopoly 20 minutes ago!!
Anyway …

Now the decision of who goes first. This becomes like a high school moot court competition.

12 year old: “May it please the court, I would like to present my reasonings as to why I, the eldest child, should start the game. Number one … ” (fyi, she says this all in a British accent … Harry Potter style)

Down to the 7 year old.

“It’s MY TURN!!! Me, me, me!!” … sobbing/wailing/thrashing … “why do THEY always get to go first?!”

Honestly, we need to keep a chart for who goes first when. But I just really don’t care that much.

Once that decision has been made we already have 2 out of the 3 sulking. We are now threatening the kids left and right and the game hasn’t even started.

“If you don’t stop staring at your brother that way …”
“Please stop rubbing it in that you are going first …”
“Stop whining!”
“Stop making that growling noise”
“Do NOT fart on your sister!!”
“Where are you going?” (as one of them storms off)

Don’t even get me started on who gets the thimble!! (Spoiler alert: no one wants the thimble but me)

And has anyone ever REALLY sat down and played Monopoly. To the end? The bitter, bitter, BIIIIIITTTTTTEEEEERRRR depressing end? Like, two days later and you’re eyes are all blurry and you’ve been subsisting on chips and M&M’s alone and you have no money (just like in real life) and you just want it all to end … including your own life.

All 3 are pissed because we’ve had to end early – and by “had to” I mean we couldn’t take it anymore. (seriously, we only played for 5 minutes when we announced “bed time!!”).

Jesus, that was exhausting. I wonder what sadistic imbecile came up with this exercise in frustration … oh yeah, it was me.

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My Precious

So I made an observation a couple weeks ago and it’s definitely scaring the living daylights out of me. I’m starting to resemble Gollum from the Lord of the Rings trilogy. (I know! That came out of the blackhole of nowhere!) And while I do resemble him physically in the morning before coffee, it’s more his obsession that I relate to.

No, I don’t have a gold ring that I talk to (although we all have those days! Am I right, ladies? Lol. Wait, am I? Uh oh.), I do obsess over my free time. OBSESS.

Look, I was home with my crazies for many, many, MANY years with very little free time to myself. I did what everyone does – prayed for naps, pleaded desperately with my husband to come home from work early, went to the gym merely because they had childcare, begged my friends to invite me to dinner and attempted to stay up as late as I could at night to enjoy those little snippets of “free time”. Which, let’s face it, is never REALLY free time – because at any moment it could all go to shit. One vomiting child and you’re free time is shot for a week, along with your brand new yoga pants.

But once all three of my kids were in school full time it was really SO beyond bizarre … I mean in a good way. Like it’s “so bizarre” that you bought me those diamond earrings, honey! (hint, hint)

I remember staring at the day before me and becoming giddy. No, this wasn’t the preschool 3 hours of free time – which, as you know, is basically 1 hour because of the driving to and from and the doing the one errand you need to get done. No. This was 7 whole hours. Holy. Shit. I actually told myself I was going to take the first month and do nothing. Absolutely NOTHING. I laid around and read books and watched TV … all the things I used to do. I put on 10 pounds and it was like the “Freshman 15” – like I was in college again. PJ’s all day, eating ice cream for breakfast, watching soaps and reading smut books. It was heaven on earth.

Then I realized that I probably needed to do the laundry. And maybe I should clean a toilet or two. And from there it all went downhill.

So anyway, back to my Gollum analogy. I still can’t get out of the mindset that anything I have scheduled on a certain weekday is “eating into my free time”. A half hour doctor’s appt at 1pm is “ruining my day”. And I find myself telling people I can’t do anything that day. Why?? I have the whole freaking morning? But I hold time in my wrinkly, crusty, tiny hands and stare at it. It’s MY time. Don’t touch it!! My precious … (as I creepily stroke it)

I guess I will get over this at some point? Maybe when the kids are in college? Oh, wait … that’s when I sob for 2 years that they are all gone. Sometimes, honestly, this parenting thing makes my brain hurt.

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Braless

So I’ve finally become “that” mom. I’ve started walking up to the bus stop without a bra on.

Now, first, I must tell you, that I have luckily (???) not been blessed with a large set. I have heard first hand from my more well endowed friends that this is not even an option for them. But my B cups are easily hidden under a sweatshirt and a winter coat. I, obviously, cannot do this come the warm days of spring … bras and shaving legs will back on the to do list, but I’m enjoying it while I can.

Well, that’s not completely true.

Each morning, as I walk out of the house, properly covered, I imagine there being some extenuating circumstance that would force me to expose my “secret”. It usually involves some sort of horrible accident with gushing blood.

I can’t think of any other reason why I would need to take my clothes off at the bus stop.  Clearly my imagination leaves a lot to be desired.

I imagine throwing my coat off, ripping my sweatshirt off my body and using it as a tourniquet on some poor child that’s bleeding to death. Apparently, the only way to save him is to use my sweatshirt. I imagine all the moms staring at my braless chest (under my tshirt of course … I would never go as far as to imagine that I’d be naked … gah!) and gasping in horror. “Did you see she wasn’t wearing a bra?” is, I’m SURE, the first thing that would come to their minds. Not the bleeding boy on the ground. Even in emergency situations there is proper etiquette. Everyone knows this.

What’s ridiculous about this whole scenario (I’m sorry, did you think there was more than one reason why this scenario is ridiculous?), is that the moms at my bus stop are so cool, that, provided the boy made it out alive and well (of course I saved him!!!), we’d probably all sit around drinking that night, laughing about my cow-sagging boobs.

Only a couple more weeks of this semi-irrational fear (yes, SEMI!!) and then I’ll be back to holding the ladies in place. I promise.

Flush the Toilet

(Warning: Do not read this post while eating)

Ok, there are some things I talk about and write about where I wonder if I’m the only one feeling or thinking a certain way. I know for a FACT that this is NOT the case with this subject. I’m gonna write about it anyway, because it makes me so damn crazy.

Somebody PLEASE FLUSH THE GODDAMN TOILET!!!

No, really. Go flush it. Now.

Did you not hear me?

Go!

NOW!

These animals living in my house (otherwise known as the boys) NEVER flush the toilet. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked in to a pile of crap floating in, clogging, or “some other gross term”-ing the toilet.

Look, people, I wiped shit off of your baby butts for years! YEARS! Up the back, down the leg, on my shirt, on my hands, on your hands, on your heads (how??), and even your feet. I am DONE looking at crap. I don’t even look at my own crap. By the way, you should always look at your crap – according to Dr. Oz – so you know if you’re healthy. I already know I’m not, so I bypass this.

Why, why, WHY?! It just feels like the epitome of uncleanliness. And god knows this house is not clean. So when I see that, I go into a shame spiral that’s disguised by anger and violence. And by violence, I mean viciously taking my index finger and hard core flushing that toilet myself!!! Cause that always shows that you mean business. To the toilet, anyway.

All I can come up with is an incentive system to get them to flush. Should I give them an M&M every time they flush? I know when I give the dog a biscuit he listens to me. Or a point system? Where they can earn something. I’m sorry but this is just so ridiculous I can’t even believe I’m writing it. Just FLUSH THE TOILET. There should be no need for a “reward chart”.

I’m not even going to go into the disgustingness of cleaning the toilet. I’ll save that for another post you can’t read while eating either. Something to look forward to perhaps?

I know people say you need to “pick your battles” and maybe some would say this isn’t one to worry about. But I’m going to war. I’m putting my battle gear on and going rogue! Watch out, boys, Mommy’s on the war path!!!

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