Well Played, Mr. Kindergarten Teacher. Well Played.

A few days ago I posted the following on Facebook:

OK. I seriously do NOT enjoy helping with kindergarten homework. I'm probably going to some parenting hell, but omg.

There were various snarky responses, including MTL's about those darn pesky teachers and their assignments, and Heidi's about it being a Judgment From On High. We all had a hearty laugh, DramaBoy's homework finally got done, and I moved on.

Today, when I retrieved the mail, there was an envelope from DramaBoy's school waiting for me. I opened it with some trepidation, as recent contact from his school has been along the lines of Your son is hitting other children and not listening and you must be a horrible parent with no control over him. Okay, fine, I added the last bit, but you get the point.

Imagine my shock when instead I found a Valentine letter from my five-year-old son, obviously composed (and spelled) all by his own self:

Der Mom

I hop you hav a grat day thak you for all the presis You r the best mom and you r the best mom in th hol intuir wrld

love [DramaBoy]

Dang it. Just when you're ready to toss in the towel, they go and do something cuter than hell.

Guess this means I better keep helping him with that homework.

Especially the spelling.

(Anyone else have a guess on what "presis" means? Presents perhaps??? Because I'm pretty sure he's not thanking me for a misspelled summary of an argument. Even if we've had a few recently.)

I Think I'm Less Like A Helicopter And More Like A Bus. You Know: Get Them There. Get Them Home. Sit Down And Shut Up. THAT Kind.

I am questioning the wisdom of being a parent even more now. No really, because it's too much work. Here I thought that since DramaBoy  is growing up and I no longer have to dress him or wipe his butt or unbuckle him in the car or even bathe him (first solo shower this weekend! WOOT!!!) that somehow my parental responsibilities were going to be reduced.

And then I started getting the newsletters from his kindergarten teacher.

Maybe I should start calling them news-novelettes, because really. I swear it takes longer to read them than it does for me to write one of these posts, and I'm a ridiculously quick speed-reader, peoples.

I would also like to know when homework started requiring so much parental involvement. I don't remember my own parents being quite so involved, though maybe it doesn't fully count because my mother was my teacher for most of elementary BUT NOT KINDERGARTEN and since I don't remember (a) having that much homework and (b) my parents being involved, I feel rather ill-used at this point. I don't know what I resent more: my parents not having to help me much back then or my having to help DramaBoy so much. Probably the latter. Because it's more work.

This is also complicated by the whole split custody thing, because The Ex and I have to divide what each person does and communicate and all that fun stuff. It's a good thing we're practically friendly these days, because the whole cooperating thing works a lot better that way.

Maybe I'm a little extra resentful this week because The Ex is going on a short vacation so I have the boys an extra weekday, which isn't a big deal really because I love them and stuff, but it means that I have MORE HOMEWORK TO DO WITH DRAMABOY!!!

Also, I am already behind in grading papers both because I'm always behind in grading papers and also because my National Honors Society slave student assistant has been sick and therefore unavailable to assist me. Plus there's so much more Life to my Personal Life these days. All this to mean that I have lots of homework of my own that I should be doing and having DramaBoy's homework getting in the way is not the kind of excuse for which I am searching. Not that I don't look for excuses, you see; it's more that I want excuses that involve more Fun and less Frustration.

Because seriously, have you ever tried to get a wiggly not-quite-five-year-old sit at a table and do his homework?

Let's just say that it didn't surprise me AT ALL to read his weekly goal sheet and see that the teacher wrote DramaBoy's main goals as "paying attention and following instructions in class and finishing work assigned."

MTL may have had a sarcastic comment about it, actually. To follow mine. BECAUSE WE'RE AWESOME LIKE THAT, THAT'S WHY.

Somehow I don't think teachers need to worry about either of us being helicopter parents.

May I please get back to just handing out the homework instead of being on the receiving end?

It's going to be a looooooong fifteen years.*

------------------------------------------------
*Because The Widget will start two years after DramaBoy, that's why. I CAN COUNT. I just don't like to help my kids do it. I know. I'M SUCH AN AWESOME PARENTAL ROLE MODEL. Shut up.

While I'm Waiting

Some days are more frustrating than others. I've had a couple lately. Today I'm stuck inside waiting for a repairman who is supposed to appear sometime between the hours of nine ay-em and six pee-em. Oh yes, peoples. I was given a NINE HOUR time span in which I must roam the rooms of my (fortunately wonderful) new home and wait for someone to show up and replace a hose on the washer that was installed incorrectly a week ago. And since we're renting the appliance from some national appliance company, we don't dare make the repairs ourselves in case they then decide that we have voided the rental agreement/warranty/whatever. They're only showing up today instead of next Tuesday because I begged.

I just love those impersonal national companies that don't even have a clue where you're really located when you call them. Oh, you're in Detroit? the representative asks after pulling up your account, not even using your own phone number or address because it's kind of through the rental complex.

No; West Bloomfield, Michigan, you reply.

Oh. Well, I have a lot of S---------- Villas listed here, he says, apparently unable to figure anything out for himself. And then switches you over to Customer Service where, you hope, they train the representatives to think for themselves marginally more.

The new representative assures you that there is someone coming, but no, she can't pinpoint the time span any more than the NINE HOUR one already given.

You can always just let the leasing office know and give them permission to let us in if you need to leave, the new representative tells you in a cheerful voice.

Because you're so comfortable with letting people in while you're gone so they can do who knows what and then feed you some bullsh*t about nothing being wrong and that leak being part of the service, isn't that lovely? It's a new feature! when you call to complain that you still can't run the clothes washer without flooding the utility room.

No thank you. I guess I'm stuck here.

It's been over four hours now. And we all know perfectly well he/she/it will show up at 5:55 this evening, right?

Face it, I'm grumpy. I'm feeling a bit guilty about that, because really I shouldn't be. I have so much to be not grumpy about.

The move went well, thanks to the invaluable assistance of ten other people, including five former students, who helped us move everything on Saturday and Sunday. I've been working steadily since then to unpack and organize everything, and overall it's gone quite well. There are only a few more boxes and smaller pieces of furniture to move out of the garage and into place, and I'll wait for MTL's help this weekend for most of that.

I love our new home. It's roomy--oh so very roomy!!!--and comfortable and feels like home already. The next door neighbor is very friendly and sweet and turned out to be the mother of one of my students who graduated last year. She and I have already exchanged numbers and spent time chatting, and it's lovely to feel a friendship developing.

At the same time, however, other stressors keep raising their uncomfortable heads. MTL started a new job last week, and although he's happier there and earning a bit more money and closer to home, he's coming home exhausted because it's more physically demanding than the last one. We've been very tight financially this week due to moving costs. We have a growing list of things we need to purchase, some more urgently than others.

With my personality, not being able to finish setting up the house and the kids' rooms bothers me. The fact that I don't have picture hangers so that I can spend my copious hours stuck inside by putting photos and art on the walls bothers me. Having to wait until next week to get the kids registered in school bothers me.

And not having had Just Us time with MTL in weeks bothers me. I've become a bit spoiled, I know. A bright, shiny silver lining in having Exes is getting fairly regular time to ourselves without kidlets around. Summer alters the schedule, and the various events of the last month have further mucked up arrangements. We haven't had real time to ourselves since we went out to Saugatuck the week after the Fourth of July.

Here's my confession: as much as I really do care about The Dark One and The Padawan and KlutzGirl, I'm still adjusting to becoming the stepmom, much less monitoring five kids. And reality alert! Working with teens in the classroom is a very different thing to working with them in the home. Especially when there isn't a bell that lets you kick them out the door after an hour or so.

What makes me feel rather small and petty are the occasional feelings of jealousy I have. Jealousy at having to share MTL with so many others, jealousy that their mother shares something with him that I can't, jealousy that my boys as well as his children sometimes would rather be with their other parents rather than us (and yes, I know how paradoxical that is considering my need for Just Us time with MTL).

I know this is pretty normal and that I need to get used to it and develop a thicker skin and all that, but yesterday was just Hard. My back was hurting and my allergies were so bad I felt cotton-headed and dizzy. I had KlutzGirl, DramaBoy, and The Widget with me all day. They play together quite well, but their noise level and the occasional need to referee quarrels were wearing me down. MTL arrived home exhausted. And then a minor difference in opinion between me and MTL on the issue of late-night snacking topped it all off, and I fell apart, leading to a rare argument between us.

The reality is that blending families is hard. We have it a lot easier than many, I know: both of us are amicable with our exes, our children like each other and us, and we generally have very good communication. But no road runs smoothly, and there are and will be issues that have to be worked out. Sometimes they seem to be minor, but the solutions aren't necessarily simple.

For example: I don't give my kids sugary snacks (or really, much in the way of snacks at all) later in the evening. They both tend to get a little hyper on sugar, especially DramaBoy. MTL's children don't react the same way, and he's never worried about their snacking, especially since he doesn't usually have much junk food around. But then we come up against situations, like last night, where I gave The Widget a graham cracker, but KlutzGirl wanted something else, and MTL gave her a little packet of Fruit Snacks (you know, the gummy thingies.) What do we do in these situations? Suddenly change the way things have always been for his kids and tell them they can't have what they've been allowed to have before? Deny my boys what the other kids are having?

It also goes to deeper issues, of course--and I'm not telling you the whole story, as there are aspects that are better left between me and MTL. But overall it does come down to blending two families into one, and we each are bringing in somewhat differing practices and expectations and parenting approaches. Sometimes that means we offer each other alternatives that are better than what we've done before individually; sometimes we don't see eye to eye. Add in two strong-willed individuals who have become used to doing things their own way, and we end up having to battle our own selves to find a way to compromise.

Our overall goals and desires for our children are essentially the same. What isn't always identical is the path we take to get there, and that is what makes the road a bumpy one. There are some very strong, solid foundations, however, that make it worth the work. We want to raise strong, independent children. We love our children, biological and not. And we love each other, enough to talk through the anger and the hurt and reach for the understanding on the other side.

Just...some days are a little tougher than others.

I'm not really asking for solutions here (and definitely not asking you to take sides on the stupid snack issue), though if you have practical experience in blended families, I wouldn't mind hearing what has worked--and what hasn't. I just needed to get it out, vent, throw the words out into the universe before girding my loins to return to the task at hand.

I think I need to go find that book on Stepcoupling I've been reading. I think it's still buried in a box somewhere.

And I still have four hours of waiting on that repairman to find it.

Guilt (Mine) and Consequences (DramaBoy's)

Apparently the most votes are for details on DramaBoy's Full Day Time Out, and really I will write about that, but first I want to note that today I am in enforced idleness. No, really. I had planned to head back to the house while The Ex was at work and do what packing I can do until we have our Official Negotiations over items like CDs and DVDs and dishes and pots and pans and children's clothing and toys. Also, I was going to watch the recorded sessions of "So You Think You Can Dance" from the last couple of weeks.

Instead, I am sitting on the couch contemplating how I can make this day Useful and Productive in other ways, because this morning I received a text from The Ex requesting that I not go to the house today. I don't know why. Perhaps he's working from home today; perhaps his girlfriend will be there; perhaps it's trashed and he doesn't want me there until he cleans (though that's unlikely). It doesn't really matter. The end result is the same.

I find that, as lazy as I am and can be, I don't deal well with Doing Nothing, at least by myself. Apparently I can spend hours and days and weeks Doing Nothing (well, nothing Productive, at any rate) in company with MTL and be as content as a cat on a sunny windowsill. Find myself alone with nothing much to do for a day and the Guilt begins. I mean really, God forbid I spend a day doing nothing but relaxing.

So far I plan to fold that load of laundry that is still in the dryer, mail MTL's Jury Summons Questionnaire (he's SO EXCITED), pick up Change of Address cards, go to a couple of banks, and call my former student C. who needs a responsible adult *giggle* to chaperone her in some driving practice so she can get her license. Don't worry, you legally-minded people: she graduated, so I'm no longer in that teacher/academic legal position.

Oh, and I may also go shopping for my cousin's wedding present and perhaps even some things for my sister's baby shower.

I'm living on the edge, Peoples.

*********************************

So you want to know how this whole Full Day Time Out thing happened with DramaBoy, huh? Okay, here goes.

I mentioned a while back that DramaBoy is a mini-me in more than looks: he's also all-too-frequently full of defiance and disobedience. Don't get me wrong. He's a good kid at heart. Well, let me rephrase that. He's not a bad kid. I'm not worrying about him ending up in Juvie. Yet.

He is, however, a handful and a half. Lately MTL and I (and apparently also The Ex, when we discussed it) have been noticing a disturbing trend. DramaBoy has developed an attitude that, frankly, pisses us off. And I helped create it. You see, I've always insisted that when DramaBoy and The Widget do something wrong, they have to apologize for it. Over time, that became part of the end point of punishment. Somehow, in DramaBoy's mind, this came to mean that if he apologizes for something, then everything is over--and he started acting like that should be enough. He apparently thinks that if he says sorry, he shouldn't get punished.

Ha.

On top of that, his apologies have stopped meaning anything. They have become flippant, something that he seems to see as a joke. He's become cocky and arrogant, or as much so as a four-year-old can be. And he's stopped paying attention much to what Adults In Charge are saying.

(MTL and I spotted a t-shirt the other day that, if it had come in DB's size, I might have bought for him. It read It's Cute How You Think I'm Listening To You. We agreed that might as well be DB's motto. Enough said.)

The first day up north at Nana and Papa's (MTL's parents) place was like a dream. DB behaved perfectly. He was outside all day playing, having fun, staying out of trouble, being a wonderful big brother to The Widget and "almost brother"/playmate with KlutzGirl. He was cheerful and polite and helpful. MTL and I both praised him for it, wanting to give some positive reinforcement for such behavior.

Sunday morning went well too. Then in the afternoon things took a turn for the worse. DB started playing around the outdoor air conditioning unit, putting things like leaves and wood chips through the wire mesh. Nana told him to stop, that what he was doing was dangerous. He ignored her. Then when she called him over and lectured him about listening and obeying, out came that attitude. So off he went to Time Out in a lawn chair--and the attitude kept coming. That earned him a Gibbs. He ended up falling asleep in the chair, and we hoped that a nap would help. After he woke up, he apologized to Nana, and we let him run off and play again.

So we figured he could go along when we all went off to Dairy Queen that night. Except when we arrived (we had to take two cars), MTL came over to my car to talk to DB: The Padawan had informed him during the drive that DB had been throwing sticks at MTL's car as well as climbing on my car and had been rude and disobedient when told to stop. MTL asked DB if he had done this.

And DB said Yep. With a look on his face like So what? What you going to do? And then he said, Sorry! Again with a look like I don't give a damn, but I'll toss you an apology to keep you happy.

And the attitude kept coming, even after punishment, even after being denied ice cream, even after the long wait and then the long ride home. I told him to say sorry for real to MTL, and he said the words--but the look on his face and the tone of his voice said that it was all a joke to him. MTL refused to accept his apology. And I was fed up.

Tomorrow, I told him, you are grounded. You'll be in Time Out all day. No playing, no toys, no TV, no fun. 

But I said sorry! he protested.

It's not enough to say sorry, I replied. You have to mean it. And if you were really sorry, you wouldn't keep doing these things. You would listen. You wouldn't do what you know is wrong. And you wouldn't have this attitude. You're not getting grounded because you threw sticks. You're getting grounded because you don't care that you did something wrong and you won't listen to the Adults In Charge.

So that was that. The next day, from the time he woke up until the time he went to bed, he had to either sit in a chair next to me or, when it started raining and we went inside where there was the TV, lie on Nana and Papa's bed in the back room. With no toys, no books, nothing.

MTL and I both talked to him about the situation throughout the day, emphasizing that the problem lay with his attitude. DramaBoy protested a few times in the morning, and once again tried "apologizing" in the hopes of getting out of the punishment, but we stuck to our guns. By afternoon he was resigned to his lot and remarkably cooperative. He fell asleep for a while, and then came out to eat pizza while The Widget was put back in Nana and Papa's room for a nap. Once DB was done eating, he went back to lie down on the bed again--without even being told. He didn't try to sneak toys in, he didn't complain, nothing. He only got out of bed to go to the bathroom and then to tell me that The Widget was awake and crying for me.

We were all rather impressed, truthfully.

The next day the grounding was lifted, just in time to climb into the car and head home. And lo and behold, DB lied to MTL about something as we were getting ready to go, and then at a pit stop disobeyed me about something else--and the attitude flooded back.

So MTL slung the boy over his shoulder, dumped him back into the car, and traded keys with me so that I could drive his car while MTL drove mine--with The Widget and a screaming DramaBoy inside.

There are many reasons I love that man.

Apparently DB was quiet and obedient for the remainder of the ride. Meanwhile, I easily quelled a few incipient quarrels between KlutzGirl and The Dark One while The Padawan slept, and I drove in relative peace for the second half of the drive.

So. Did the grounding work? I think it did. I'm not naive enough to have expected it to fix the problem in one Swell Foop, but it did lay some solid groundwork. I talked with The Ex about it, and we're all going to be tackling that attitude problem.

I think DramaBoy's about to find out that he's messing with the wrong adults. He may be stubborn, but so are we. And we outnumber him.

Thank God.

Any advice from all of you Peoples? What have you done with your Strong Willed Children?

Our Eyes

Last night MTL was teasing me and I was teasing back in a faux-pouty sort of way, when he suddenly pulled back, looked at me askance, and said, Uh, hello there, DramaBoy!

Apparently I was using the exact facial expression, exact words, exact look as the sort that DramaBoy pulls out from time to time.

There's a reason I call him my mini-me. It's not just his physical appearance, though that alone causes commentary everywhere we go. Our temperaments are nearly identical (thus the fulfillment of my mother's curse) (have I apologized lately, Mom and Dad? I AM SO SORRY) and the source of many of our conflicts. Odd how two strong-willed, quick-tempered, ridiculously stubborn people will spark off each other.

I will say this: his eyes are no longer purely mine. They used to be. Now, while they're still hazel, they've become brown-hazel rather than green-grey-hazel. They've become much more like his father's over the last year or so. Still, when I look into his eyes--I see myself.

And it scares the sh*t out of me.

You see, I was broken for so very, very long. I was tormented by my dragons for nearly thirty years, and I lost the battles until I forgot how to fight. And while there were outside forces and trauma that I experienced that I pray God will never be part of DramaBoy's life, still I wonder how much of my life was simply the path I took as the person I am.

And I can't (and won't) "blame" my parents. No parents are perfect, but to this day I place no blame on mine for the broken road I traveled. They were and are amazing people, amazing parents. MTL is already starting to get a certain smile when I reference them, because I do it so very often. We don't agree on everything, my parents and I, but I respect them deeply.

So what does that mean for me? I struggle every day with parenting practice. I feel like I'm trying to catch up from years of being out of touch, correct countless bad habits (both mine and the children's), and piece together the puzzle that is parenting.  MTL helps. He's been doing this longer than I have, including the single parenting gig. But ultimately he can't and won't tell me what decisions I must make for my children.

What if it's too late? What if my son is already heading down a path similar to the one I trod? For all the love and growth and beauty that has come to me at this point in the road, I would never ever wish that journey for my son. I would never desire for him the pain and despair and brokenness I experienced.

I can't live his life for him. I can't protect him from all harm. But I cannot help but feel tremendous fear.

Because when I look into his eyes...

All I can see is that broken road.

No Escape From Reality

Single mommyhood. Rollercoaster rides. They have much in common, only single mommyhood has more screaming.

Last night was a Toggle Day, and I arrived at the boylets' school to be greeted by the news that The Widget had officially completed his transition from Early Learners (30-36 mos) to Skill Builders (3-4 years), better known as *sob* Preschool. It's official. My not-so-babyish baby is a preschooler. He proudly showed me his new cubby and the pretty picture he had drawn for me and announced, I went potty in the TOILET!!!

Imagine this said in an adorably squeaky little Widget voice and your heart will melt much as mine did.

Then we went outside to collect DramaBoy off the playground, where he bounced over to me with a treasure clutched in his fist. His fingers uncurled to present me with....

A WORM.

I heroically fought down my shudders, exclaimed appropriately over its Awesome Worminess, and suggested that perhaps he needed to put it back in the dirt where it lives. Thank the dear Lord above he didn't try to bring it home as a pet. I draw the line at...well, at pretty much anything nonmammalian, and most mammals too. I'd rather not even have the frickin' dog, but that's a story for another day.

(Dog lovers, please don't hate me. If you knew the story, you'd understand. Some of my readers already do. Trust me on this.)

So, happy and wormless, we headed home; the Widget playing happily with a Viewmaster and DramaBoy spelling words on his little toy computer, myself singing (and dancing, because that's how I roll) along with the radio.

This was the Fun Part.

Once we got home, the ride took a sinister turn. I committed the great sin of lifting The Widget out of the car rather than letting him get out by himself, and the resulting tantrum wended its way from the garage floor to the hallway floor to his bed, where I informed him he could stay until he got himself under control.

DramaBoy made snarky comments from the sidelines. Which made things SO MUCH EASIER.

And it went downhill from there. I found myself dealing with a temporarily bipolar Widget, a DramaBoy who kept changing his mind which game he wanted me to watch him play and losing his patience with my inability to focus on any of them, a phone call from a bill collector for a credit card I'd forgotten about, a dear friend who needed to vent on Facebook, and a dog demanding to be fed. I was also trying to make dinner, change out of my work clothes, counsel MTL over the phone about his daughter's school issue, and not scream at anyone.

Finally I had enough. I shut down everything. I let the oven keep heating without putting in the biscuits, put the phone on silent, and sat down (in pajama pants and my work shirt) with a kidlet on either side.

We watched this



and then this



and then this



and then I let the now happy and giggling boylets sit on the couch by themselves and watch this



while I changed my shirt, popped the cheesy biscuits in the oven, heated the soup, finished my conversation with MTL, and got dinner on the table.

Then I sat down with my boylets, put on Barenaked Ladies' Snacktime CD (my favorite children's album, because with song lyrics like these, how could I not love???) and we ate our meal while singing and dancing along.

There was a brief hiccup in the bliss when DramaBoy temporarily objected to the soup selection before he'd even taken a bite.

What kind of soup is this? he asked. I don't like green soup.

It's broccoli soup, I answered. You love broccoli.

I like BROCCOLI, he responded, but I don't like broccoli SOUP.

I'll confess right here that I lied to him. Without even a twinge of conscience.

Of course you do! I said. You liked it the last time you had it!

Oh, okay! he said, and that was that.

Keep in mind that yes, DramaBoy does love broccoli, but he has never had it in soup form before. I FEEL NO SHAME. Sometimes you just do what you have to do to survive.

After all, you never know what's coming once you crest that next hill. That drop might be a bitch.

I'll admit, they're awfully cute. I guess I'll keep them. For now.

The Numbers Say I Win Mommy of the (Yester)Day

This weekend was crazy busy. And I mean CRAZY BUSY. There are times when I get a little taste of being SuperMom again, and this was one of them. When that occurs, I feel the need to pat myself on the back. Because I survived.

Besides, it doesn't happen that often these days. I'm far more often Lazy Bad Mommy than Productive Good Mommy, to tell the truth.

Sigh.

So here's the breakdown of my weekend:

Friday--ran around to multiple locations trying to find party supplies, especially the all-important Dinosaur Stuff. Limited success. The children's blessed grandmother had more success, because she is the Queen of Dollar Stores, and I ended up meeting her to get the DS she found. Then I scooped up the kids from school, picked up Lucky Duck Pizza, and headed home. My parents called all the way from West Africa just as we were pulling in, so the boys and I had a nice long chat with them. Then it was time for the kidlets to take a bath and watch tv until they fell asleep go to bed, and then I attempted to sort out stuff for the party. Around 9:30 I realized I had no eggs for the cupcakes. And that my cell phone was nowhere to be found. MTL came to the rescue shortly after 10 with eggs delivered to my door as well as a handy cell-phone-ringing service. My phone, it turns out, was nestling in the big bed along with my kidlets, nicely camouflaged in the matching comforter.

I finished my baking and got to bed around midnight.

Saturday--The party happened, and happened well, despite the nasty weather gods. The Widget then went off with his grandma for several hours, while I cleaned up and then took DramaBoy and MTL's daughter K to meet up with MTL and his other kids to see How To Train Your Dragon. In 3D. Which was awesome. DramaBoy dealt with it pretty well, but said he didn't really like it because HIS dragon was not in the movie. Remind me to tell DreamWorks that they really need to work his personal toys into their films from now on.

Then I picked up The Widget, where we were fed thank God because I was so tired by their blessed grandma, and we went home. To collapse.

Sunday--You'd think that after all the craziness of the weekend so far I would have stayed on the couch all day as is my modus operandi. But no. We didn't go to church because The Widget's sniffles had turned into a nasty cough and misery. Instead, I accomplished mighty deeds. No training dragons and saving the village, but nevertheless. In one day, I managed to do the following:

• went grocery shopping with 2 boys in tow (thank God for the car carts at Meijer)
• washed and dried 6 loads of laundry
• folded and put away 9 loads of laundry (there were already 3 loads of kids' clothes sitting in baskets)
• washed 1 load of dishes
• decluttered and tidied the kitchen, dining room, and master bedroom
• collected 4 garbage bags of trash from around the house
• collected 1 giant garbage bag of giveaway clothes (from going through the kids' clothes and some of mine)
• monitored 2 little boys as they put away their toys
• medicated and comforted 1 little boy with a cold
• cooked chicken and dumplings for dinner for 6 people
• drove to Grosse Point Woods and back to drop off the 1 little boy with a cold with his grandpa, who is watching him today so that I can go to work
• packed for my 2 days away from the house

Oh yes. I am that awesome.

Some days.

Today? I'm planning on getting through the work day, going to physical therapy, and collapsing.

TeacherMommy out.

I'm Pretty Sure Dinosaurs Don't Like Snow. Isn't That What Killed Them Off? Perhaps I Was Tempting Fate.

I don't know which weather deity I ticked off when I moved into this house, but for the last six years about three-fourths of the parties I plan (or are planned in honor of me) have been cursed with snow. As in massive snowstorms, many of them.

You'd think a birthday party planned for April 17th would escape the curse.

You'd be wrong.

I knew the weather was supposed to be a little chilly and windy today. I did not, however, cancel my reservation for the gazebo in the park nearby, because we're Michiganders, dagnabit, and temps in the low fifties are No Big Deal.

Ha.

I was a little worried when I was loading things into the car and spotted a few particles that looked suspiciously like random snowbits. It was only ten in the morning, though, and the temp was in the mid-forties. I had to be seeing things.

The kite-making went well. DramaBoy and The Widget were joined by MTL's youngest daughter K, and they all had fun decorating their own kites. Then we put them together with little rods and string and label stickers. Flying the kites was no problem, either. The Widget dropped his on the ground shortly after getting outside, and when he tugged at it, the wind caught it and UP IT WENT!!!

For being a newb at kite flying, he was pretty dang good. Mostly I just kept an eye on him to make sure he didn't get tugged into the parking lot.

But then the wind began to blow in earnest. And along came the snow. My friend M, who was driving with her husband and daughter to join us, said the temperature dropped nine degrees in ten minutes. When The Widget began crying because he was so cold, we decided to give up and head back to the house.

Thank God for the boys' father and grandmother, who scooted through the house cleaning like mad while I waited at the park to direct stragglers in the right direction. We somehow managed to put everything together and had a great party, sudden changes in plan notwithstanding. Since it was too cold for the kids to go outside, I didn't even have to worry about the horrendous state of the yard!

It all worked out. But I think I need to figure out what propitiations need to be made in order to rid myself of this curse. I know it's Michigan, but people are starting to talk.

And I LIKE parties.

Also: WEATHERPEOPLE SUCK. No one said anything about snow.

Gratuitous photo evidence, with captions:

The Widget has a very free-form artistic approach.

Two blondes with kites

(good name for a band)

Up, up, and away!

It's a wrapper! It's a plastic bag! No...it's a kite! (No, really.)

He had on three layers and STILL ended up shivering and crying. Sigh.

Dinosaur cupcakes! Brilliant brainchild of SoccerSister (and some others, but she beat them to the punch). They almost didn't happen. I thought I had eggs and discovered at 9:30 last night that I did not. MTL came to the rescue by dropping off some eggs and calling my phone, which had managed to get lost somewhere in the house. It was a fun night, let me tell you.

Rawr.

The spread. Again, kudos to my friends and family who gave me ideas for what to get. Also HUGE thanks to the boys' grandma, who used her magical shopping skillz to track down all the dinosaur Stuff that I could not seem to find ANYWHERE.

The Widget kept rolling his eyes while we sang to him. It was very teenager. I wish I could have captured it on camera.

But then he made up for it with a huge grin. The chocolate may have helped.

PRESENTS!!!! There were many dinosaurs. We have several dozen inhabiting the house now. Also: a happy Widget. And that, my friends, makes it all worthwhile.

The Older They Get, the Tougher Planning These Things Gets. What Was I Thinking???

I've always been of the opinion that children's birthday parties should be fairly simple and low-key, especially when the children in question are quite young. I've heard about the incredible extravaganzas that some people put on for their tots, complete with petting zoos ("We come to you! Added bonus: excellent excuse to replace your whole lawn afterward!"), inflatable bouncy thingies, clowns (Ack! Really, who thinks kids LIKE those creepy things?), cakes from specialty shops...In other words, people will spend the equivalent of a small wedding budget on a birthday party for a child who may, at most, have some hazy images imprinted on his/her mind for a while.

Ridiculous.

In the past, all my kidlets' parties have been held at the house. There have been a few snacks, a cake, some balloons and festive party plates, a few inexpensive favors for the young guests. The guests themselves have been limited to family members and a few close friends who also have young children. Fun was had by all. In a very low-key, inexpensive way.

The Widget, however, is having a party this Saturday, and I'm doing things just a touch differently.

First, the party will not be at the house. I have two reasons for this: (1) I really don't feel like cleaning up the house that much and there isn't all that much room on the main floor, and (2) I'd rather have the party at a neutral location, especially because DramaBoy keeps getting confused when his father and I happen to be at the house simultaneously. He's still working through the idea of our separation being a permanent thing.

So I have rented (yes! rented!) a small gazebo at a marvelous little city park nearby, one that has a built-in farm/petting zoo for the delight of our guests as well as a very nice playground that's safely enclosed and has plenty of seating and shade for adults. In addition, the Parks Department is holding a little kite-making and -flying event that morning for kids of all ages. What perfect timing. It's supposed to be in the mid-fifties that day, but shouldn't rain. Let's keep our fingers crossed on that one!

The second big difference is that I actually invited The Widget's little classmates from his Early Learners class at daycare. I decided that since this is happening out of doors and I don't have space issues, I could manage it. Also, I kind of delayed putting this thing together, so a number of The Widget's little friends who are the children of my friends can't come. The more the merrier, right? And even though I know not all of them will be able to come, there should be enough little people running around to keep my boylet happy.

Now I just have to figure out what I'm going to serve them all for a light picnic lunch, how to decorate cupcakes to reflect a kinda-sorta dinosaur theme, and try not to break my limited budget while still decorating that gazebo so it's festive.

Suggestions, anyone?

Love Lessons

I'm learning. It's slow, it's gradual, but it's becoming more and more real and natural as each day goes on. I'll never be June Cleaver, but it's possible, just possible, that I might become a Good Mommy.

Not just a Good Mother, you see. I am that. When it comes to taking care of the necessities, making sure my children are well fed and dressed, clean and healthy, cared for in the ways that make them strong and beautiful and brilliant, I can do that. I've been doing that for years.

I'm talking about the Good Mommy aspect: not trying to just keep out of the dark, not hoping that I'm doing just enough to get by as a parent. I mean enjoying my children. I mean having far more patience with their annoying and aggravating aspects, even finding humor in the crazy moments. I mean noticing, even while getting frustrated with my DramaBoy because he's fooling around instead of getting dressed when I've asked him to do so umpteen times, that he just executed a perfect somersault. And then praising him and encouraging him to show it off a few more times, even though it means a couple minutes' delay. I mean deciding to just laugh to myself about the endless stream of poop jokes coming from the backseat rather than getting irritated and grossed out. I mean taking the time to sit with my son and watch the game he's playing on his Leapster, encouraging and praising him, rather than dismissing his request with a list of No, honey, I have to...s.

I mean perhaps, just possibly, being willing to take the risk of loving my children completely.

And that is a lesson worth learning.

PSA for Parents

You know when your kidlet decides to have a meltdown in the middle of the mall? As in full-force Mach 5 tantrum with screaming, crying, hitting, and "I hate you"s as a special bonus?

You have two choices: (1) be utterly humiliated and drag the brat kicking and screaming the entire length of the mall while uttering threats and avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone, or (2) find your sense of humor, try very hard not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, and drag the brat kicking and screaming the entire length of the mall while saying I'm sorry you feel that way. I love you! and smiling at all the gawkers.

I'll give you a hint: Choice Number Two doesn't give you a migraine and tends to result in amusement from onlookers rather than surreptitious searches for the phone number to the Department of Human Services.

Oh, and DramaBoy? I still love you.

In Which the Men in White Coats Nearly Had Their Way With Me

Around 12:35 in the wee barely-morning hours of Sunday morning, I posted on Facebook the following status:

THEY ARE STILL AWAKE. DEAR GOD HELP ME. THEY ARE STILL AWAKE.

For some reason this only seemed to elicit amusement from the general masses. Many of whom are parents themselves, and who apparently have already been initiated into the insanity that is The Sleepover. I, as a newb to its reality, was struggling to find the humor in it all.

I was, however, forced to chuckle at one former schoolmate's response: He hears you [TeacherMommy], He hears you. And He's laughing his head off.

I always knew God had a sense of humor. My students are living proof.

So how did I get into this insanity? Well, DramaBoy's best friend is a little girl about four months younger than he. Let's call her ADHDGirl. It just so happens that I taught her older sister last year when she was a junior. I am also good friends with her mother--we met at daycare and had one of those instant connections that would keep us standing in the parking lot for an hour talking. She has had a difficult life, to say the least, and recently has been having a particularly Tough Time. So when I talked to her on the phone the other day and heard that edge in her voice that I know has been in mine on far too many occasions, I told her that she was going to drop ADHDGirl off on Saturday night and could pick her up Sunday morning, and that she had no choice in the matter.

And then I stocked up on multicolored goldfish, apple juice, and Xanax.

Oh, I'm kidding. There wasn't enough time to get the apple juice.

OMG. I had no idea that adding one little four-year-old to the mix would make life so...interesting. For much of the evening I simply stayed out of the way, chatting online to friends (many of whom were laughing at me) and wishing the water I was sipping was wine and occasionally yelling a reminder that YOU ARE FRIENDS AND NEED TO TREAT EACH OTHER THAT WAY and trying not to twitch. Then I spent several hours trying to get them to STAY in the bed into which they had been tucked. Yeah right.

DramaBoy, of course, woke up way too early the next morning, but at least he stayed quiet for the one hour before the other two rioted their way down the stairs. Then chaos reigned again. I was so worn out and grumpy that a friend who lives down the road took pity on me and showed up at my doorstep with a large coffee. Which may have saved my life.

At least when my friend who owes me so frickin' badly whom I love dearly arrived to pick up ADHD girl, she looked much more sane. Which is good, because one of us should be. And which made it all worthwhile.

And if you needed more proof that I am crazy, I even told her I'll probably do it again.

But I'm going to upgrade to Prozac first.

Parenting in the Age of Bakugan

A conversation while driving home:

DramaBoy: If you are very good, I will give you a surprise!

TeacherMommy: You'll give me a surprise?

DB: Yes!

TM: If I'm good?

DB: Yes!

TM: What do you mean by being good? What do I have to do?

DB: If you wash the dishes all the time, then  I will give you a surprise!

TM: Really? Wash the dishes?

DB: Yes! But if you wash them only two times--only one time, then maybe I will give it to you right now.

TM: So if I only wash the dishes once, I'll get the surprise right away?

DB: Yep! I will find my Bakugan! I haven't found them all yet.

TM: I see. Bakugan. Hmm. I'm not so sure I would really want Bakugan, honey.

DB: You're right. You don't really like Bakugan. You only like work.

TM: ....

DB: Look! I will give you something for work!

*he picks up a travel coffee mug off the floor of the car where it must have fallen from my bag*

DB: See?

TM: Thank you, honey! I wondered where that had gone.

DB: You're welcome! Now go wash the dishes!

I May Have Missed THEM, but I Didn't Miss THAT

Ahh, kidlets. It had been just a little over a week since I saw mine, since they went down to Florida with their father for a week of kinda-sorta-warm vacation. It was a good week for me and them, in our mutually exclusive Weeks O' Fun, but I was starting to miss them. I went out bowling and to dinner on Saturday and tiny peoples were EVERYWHERE and I found  myself looking at them all awwwww and fighting the urge to squeeze them. At the bowling alley there was a birthday party (OMG the little people were everywhere and so dang cute and all the little pink coats on the little girls and pretty shoes and for a split second I ALMOST wanted another kid--i.e. small daughter to dress up--one day and then my brain kicked in and told me I'm an idiot) and a tiny boy who had to be maybe a year-and-a-half old wandered over and tried to pick up my bowling ball. Mind you, I'm a wimp, so I had a very lightweight ball, but there was no way he was going to manage it. So I got his mind off the ball and then realized he seemed a little lostish. Of course my mama self kicked in and I was all Where's your mommy, honey? and he was looking around with growing panic before a woman walked with the correlating Where's my baby? look on her face and they had a joyful reunion.

All together now: Awwwwww.

Where was I? Oh yes, MY babies. Except that when I saw them last night they weren't babies. Because apparently one week away = OMG THEY GREW UP. I swear they each sprouted an inch or two, and The Widget has made a sudden linguistic leap and is speaking in pretty dang complete sentences. As in Mama, we took pictures at Mickey Mouse's castle!!! I mean, when he left two Fridays ago, that would have been more like Mama! [DramaBoy] and me! Pictures Mickey Mouse! Castle! which I totally would have interpreted, but now he's adding in all these subjects and verbs and prepositions. He still has that totally adorable squeaky little voice of his that makes me all melty inside, but he's starting to sound like a little boy instead of a toddler. He is also stretching out and developing that little boy body. He's still all soft and cuddly, but there's hardly any chub left, and I miss my chubbers.

Le sigh.

I texted this to a friend and received back the very comforting reply, Don't blink or they'll be in college and I was all GAH! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME?!

And then DramaBoy came in during the night and peed on the carpet next to my bed because he was still mostly asleep and obviously very confused and I started looking forward to the days when I would no longer be on potty duty.

Because, peoples, when they're all big boys and stuff, I am so not cleaning their bathrooms. In fact, I may have to figure out how to have a separate bathroom entirely. I still have nightmares remember what my male college friends' bathrooms looked like. *shudder*

You think they're too young to start learning how to scrub toilets?

Different Wavelengths

DramaBoy: Are you bored? Are you having fun, just sitting at your computer and watching TV?

Me: Yes, I'm having fun.

DramaBoy: No! You are NOT having fun! It is more fun to play! Don't you want to come upstairs and watch me play my game?

Me: That doesn't make any sense. Your game is a computer game. So wouldn't I just be sitting at the computer and sort of watching TV?

Silence.

********************

Three minutes later:

DramaBoy (with a tone of great concern): Mama, are you SURE you want to watch us play Batman? Are you SURE you want to watch us play?

Me: No, I'm not sure.

DramaBoy: Okay, you can watch us play. And then when you want to work, you can take your computer with you and not watch TV.

For two people as good with words and communication as we both are, I'm not convinced we're getting our messages across.

There's a Reason I Listen to Alanis Morissette. And It's Not Because of Her Stellar Fashion Choices.

As much as I love myself (because really, who doesn't?) (love themselves, I mean) (well, or me, because I'm awesome) I also am my own harshest critic. No, really. I may not always let people know just how much I judge myself, but I do. It's far easier for me to see myself in a negative light than in a positive. Thus the self-deprecating humor. You know, make fun of myself before other people do, because then it hurts less? Yeah, I'm special like that.

(You see what I just did? Yep. Slammed myself in a joking way. Jeez, I can't help but do it even when I'm talking about how I do it.)

Sometimes the humor fails me. Then I just get angsty. Let me tell you, it's a real riot walking around with an inner teenager, especially one like mine. My inner teenager is not the bubbly cheerleader who loves trips to the mall and texting all her BFFs about the cute guy she saw at Forever 21. Oh no. Mine dresses in black with black eyeliner and mopes about in the corner and writes dark poetry about the horror of existence in a world of pain and anguish and bubbly cheerleaders.

Okay, fine, I've also been known to hang out at the mall with friends and text BFFs about guys, such as the cute policeman who totally gave me a major break this summer on not having renewed my registration for, oh, seven months; or the hot mechanic who changed my oil and replaced my sway bar links this weekend. But then my inner teenager has to hate ME, so it gets complicated.

I never said I was a simple person. I come with fine print. People just keep forgetting to read my manual.

Heck, I wish I could find my manual. Maybe then I could figure out how to run my own head.

Crap. Where was I going with this post? Oh right! Harshest critic. Angst. Too complicated for my own good. Fun stuff. Not entirely sure why I'm spewing this, but hey. Whatever. You can just stop reading if it's too emo for you.

Except now I'm panicking that you're really leaving my blog because AND THIS IS KIND OF THE WHOLE POINT OF THIS STUPID THING I have abandonment issues. And I've been realizing lately, as I've been navigating the ridiculous self-designed maze of my own mind (map not included), that I have a nasty habit of never fully giving myself to those I love. Deep down, you see, I don't really think I'm good enough to keep people around. So I have to protect myself from the inevitable. Friends, family, significant others, my own children...it doesn't seem to matter who the person is, there is always a part of my heart, a part of ME, that I hold back in reserve. There's always an unwillingness to risk myself fully in a relationship, because in the back of my mind a voice is always whispering They always end up leaving. One way or another, you will lose this person. He or she will leave you, will walk away, will break your heart if you give it all.

It's a sobering realization to have. It also explains certain behaviors. For example, my tendency to NOT write my parents much when they're overseas. Oh, they get my blog, I tell myself (which is a handy excuse these days but doesn't do much to justify the previous thirteen years). My mother will write long, lovely, newsy, satisfying letters that make me feel like she just sat down and had coffee with me. And I will, if she's lucky, write back a paragraph or two. Just the basics. A brief response to specific questions, usually. A quick update on how the boys are doing.

For another example, my ability to disconnect from friends and not even realize that two months have passed since I've seen a person or even necessarily talked to that person on the phone. I just continue to go on through my life, pushing away any sense of missing a connection. If she really wants to talk to me or see me, she'll call me, right?

I have to wonder, too, if I'm capable of loving a man in a way that means forever, 'til death do us part. I haven't done so well so far. And recently I've realized that it's one thing to say I love someone: it's another to give him my heart. Fully, completely, with all the tremendous risk that comes from placing that most delicate part of Self in someone else's hands. I don't think I've ever done that. I'm not sure what it takes to do so, or whether that strength, that willingness to risk so much, is even in me.

Most sobering is the realization that as much as I love my children, there's still a part of me I withhold from them, too. You see, they're going to grow up. And they may not like me very much some day. They may not call. They may not talk to me. They may resent me for choices I've made and have yet to make. They may move far, far away and only come home for the occasional holiday. I will lose them. One way or another, I will lose them: to jobs, to wives, to time.

So I shield a part of myself off from the world. Because if I give myself fully, then every time someone leaves, every time someone walks away or vanishes or drifts off or outright rejects me, there's a piece of my heart that goes with them. And I'm not sure there would be enough left of me to survive.

The Sad Saga of the Cake That Was Not To Be

I had planned a gorgeous cake, the brainchild of DramaBoy's request from three months ago and a brainstorming session with the ever-creative Joe. It was going to be 3-D, a masterpiece of chocolate cake and frosting and candies, a four-wheeler with cupcake wheels surging up over a rocky hill. I had all the ingredients, I had all the decorations, I had pictures printed and a plan in mind.

And then I got sick.

Enter Plan B, concocted with Joe's help over the phone, he in a deer blind and me huddled beneath the covers of my sickbed. Forget a full-force four-wheeler. Bake a sheet cake and decorate it like an off-roading race track. Run to the store in the morning (granted the antibiotics kicked in) (which they did) and get some Matchbox off-roaders. Cake and bonus gifts all in one swell foop!!

So when I did in fact feel well enough yesterday morning to rise from my bed, shower, run to the store, pick the kidlets up from their (sainted) grandmother, and head into birthday party preparations, I thought perhaps All Would Be Well. DramaBoy exhibited his egg-breaking skills while helping me mix the cake (Look! I didn't get any shells in there! Just the yellow and white stuff!) I popped it in the oven, set the timer, and collapsed on the couch with my boys to recharge my low batteries while watching The Backyardigans. Good times.

Some forty minutes later I took the baked cake and attempted to turn it out on a rack to cool.

It fractured into several pieces, a massive chunk stuck still in the pan.

Alas, sweet cake. What might have been.

So much for Plan B. I've rescued cakes before, but this was beyond the means of frosting and toothpicks.

On to Plan C. I called the boy's father and asked him to pick up a sheet cake at Meijer, one with a minimum of decoration, and bring it with him when he came to the house. The sooner, the better. DramaBoy confirmed my sad tale of caketastrophe when his father heard DB's mournful little voice over the phone saying, Mama! What happened to my cake? Why is it all broken?

Sad times.

The cake arrived with half-an-hour to spare before our first guests arrived. With the help of some licorice, a couple of suckers left over from Halloween, slivers cut from the broken cake, and the well-washed Matchbox cars I had purchased, I came up with something that, while not what I originally desired, Would Do.

The border was already there. 

We were lucky to find anything without all sorts of crap already in the center.

DramaBoy had a great party. He had three little friends over, he received all sorts of fun gifts, and the cake was deemed satisfactory.

This was, of course, the one time he decided NOT to smile.

So Plan C or no, he was happy. And therefore, so was I.

I'm Not Sure Why I'm Even Posting This, and Some of You May Never Be Able to Look at Me in the Eyes Again. Sorry, Grandma.

 How do they always know?

They'll be happily ensconced on the couch, watching The Backyardigans. Or playing with trains in their room. Or eating a yummy snack. They should be content. They should stay put.

And then, invariably, just as I'm nice and nekkid, they walk in.

It doesn't seem to matter WHY I'm clothing-free at the time. I'll be in the shower, or just getting in, or just getting out. I'll be getting dressed in the walk-in. I'll be, Mr. Hanky help me, settling down for a nice leisurely--er, um, session--on the toilet.

It's all quite innocent on my part, you see. It's not like I'm running the place like it's Hedonism II (Hey, never been--just honeymooned down the beach a ways. Stop looking at me like that!) I'm just doing the ordinary everyday things that people do in their homes, generally in the area of the bathroom. And my little nosey parkers always manage to choose that particular time to locate me, because, apparently, that is exactly when The Widget suddenly needs a hug or DramaBoy has a pressing question that Cannot Wait, Mommy!

This was all very well and good when they were small beings who could barely remember how to put one foot in front of the other without rediscovering gravity. Time passed, and I kept convincing myself they wouldn't remember much of what they saw, and it was all natural and all, right? Even when the inevitable questions started regarding the differences between my body and theirs (after all, I'm the odd female out around here), I just answered them and figured it was all a good anatomy lesson.

(I'm still not sure DramaBoy understands how my body can possibly operate with such different plumbing. He gets worried about whether or not I can actually pee without a penis. I just explain I am built differently and can indeed accomplish this important task. I decline to show him the details.)

But...DramaBoy is turning four in just over two weeks, and he has become very much Boy lately. And I cannot continue to pretend he will not remember things, because that child has a mind and memory like a steel trap (well, for the things he wants to remember.) I'm starting to wonder just how much I really want him to remember about me in all my Botticelli glory.

Especially when it involves the toilet.

I've been trying to teach them about the need for privacy, but so far that seems to result in More Privacy For Them and no discernible difference in the level of Privacy For Me. I mean, by all means I am happy not to have to wipe DramaBoy's behind all the time, but doing laundry can be a bit disconcerting these days.

The other day I decided enough was enough and dared to (gasp) lock the doors to the bathroom.

I know.

Those hypersensitive ears of theirs must have heard the tiny clicks, because within nanoseconds there was a knocking on the door.

Mama? I need to come in!

No, DramaBoy. Mama needs some privacy!

Why is the door LOCKED, Mama?

Because I want some privacy, DramaBoy!!

But MAMA, I need to go POTTY!

Go downstairs. There's a perfectly good potty down there.

But I WANT to go potty in THERE!

No, DramaBoy!

But MAMA!!! I NEED to come IN!!!!

NO, DramaBoy!!!!

And then, of course, the wailing and gnashing of teeth began. Which was then magnified tenfold by The Widget, who was attracted to the scene of the crime and went into full blown Panicked Mama's Boy mode when he realized a wooden door was thwarting him from attaching himself to my nearest body part.

(Which is disconcerting when you're trying to--ahem--process things. Just sayin'.)

So tonight when I tucked DramaBoy into my bed because he has a touch of croup and I'll need to keep an ear out for his breathing, I denied his request to sleep nekkid, as is his wont. After all, I'll be next to him all night. There are lines, people.

Truth be told, he gets that from me. I just don't sleep clothing-optional much these days.

Not sure why I even care that much about these minor points of propriety. Because at this point their future therapists are already going to have a field day.

Am I the only one who experiences all this? Because if I am, I think I might take up showering in my bathing suit.

At least that way I won't keep bashing my delicate parts with various toiletries in my desperate attempts to maintain the dignity my progeny stole from me years ago.

Notes from the Overwhelmed

There are days when I should just crawl back under the covers and shut out the world.

Today would be one of those days.

But I have these pesky things called children and students and responsibilities that mean that I crawled OUT of bed this morning, showered, dressed, comforted a weepy Widget until his whininess and clinginess drove me out of my mind, somehow got two children dressed, got in the car (remembering a can of soup on the way out the door for a fabulous lunch), drove them to daycare, pried The Widget off my legs and into the arms of the caretaker, drove to school, and started work.

All with no real voice to speak of, ha ha ha. I have been struck down by the dreaded Laryngitis Lament, which means I'm croaking and squeaking my way through everything. It would be funny if it didn't Suck.

The Widget is also coughing and sneezing a bit, but seems fine otherwise (healthwise: Mama's Boy clinginess-wise he's off the charts) and insisted he was okay for school, and I wanted to believe him because I'm already halfway through my sick days this year because of him. And we haven't even finished the first marking period. I'm crossing my fingers that I don't get a call from daycare saying he has to go home.

Yes, I am that parent. You may hate me now.

The Widget has always been a Mama's Boy, and there are times when it drives me absolutely around the bend. Of course it tends to manifest itself most strongly when I have Many Things To Do, such as get us all ready and out the door in the morning. I may have found my voice temporarily this morning when he nearly tripped me down the stairs with his compulsive grasp of my legs. I also was less than patient with DramaBoy's langorous approach to getting out of bed. I've been trying to encourage him to dress himself in the mornings, and he's been doing fairly well, but today...

It's a good thing we're not graded on our parenting based just on one day, or I'd be getting at most a D.

I am now getting Creative with Teaching because I can barely be heard by the students in the front rows, so discussion involving me is Out. Thankfully I don't have my juniors today, because they are the ones who need the most verbal squashing and/or encouragement. My sophomores are handling group discussions about The Scarlet Letter quite well, and my Myth students conveniently just finished reading the myth of Hercules, so I'm moving up my compare/contrast project: I'll show them Disney's version of Hercules and they will keep track of all the ways Disney Got It Wrong. Try it sometime. Just be ready for some writer's cramp.

Oh, and I am now a sexy redhead. My beloved stylist trimmed my overabundant hair last night and gave me my winter-time color, and my hair looks awesome. (I know, my modesty and humility astonishes even me at times.)

*

Even if I feel like a piece of warmed-over week-old fish.

Sometimes this whole Being An Adult gig blows.

------------------------------
*This gives you a vague idea of my new hair color. It's actually a little redder and more vivid, but this lighting is less than flattering. This is also the reason why I am not showing my face. Between the flourescents and my crappy cell phone camera, I LOOK like a piece of warmed-over week-old fish.

I Think She Meant These to be Humorous, But This Is What She's Getting From Me. Maybe I'm a Little TOO Scary.

Jill over at Scary Mommy has challenged all of us mommies out in the blogosphere to confess our weaknesses dysfunction fabulous scariness for her fabulous Scary Mommy contest. I won't dare presume I'd win, but in the spirit of transparency and honesty and all that crap, I'll put myself out there. After all, we all know I have an iffy background at best with my parenting, what with all the PPD and crazies and depression and other Bad Mommying, not to mention my dangerous tendency to pretend I'm perfect.

I'm not, in case you were wondering.

(Right about now there are at least a dozen friends and family members snorting their assorted beverages through their noses at that idea.)

I debated even posting this, again because of the whole ack what if they know how screwed up i really am?!?!? thing, but since this is the last day to enter the contest, decided maybe I'd take the chance. So in advance, I'd like to make the disclaimer that I really do love my children and am not (I think) an unfit mother, so please forgive me for being so very, very Scary.

Ways in Which I Am a Scary Mommy:

1. I really, really, really do NOT enjoy children's games. That whole sitting around playing with trains and simple board games and blocks and all that bores me to tears after about ten minutes. There's a reason I made sure I got out of the house and met up with people over the summer. I'm much better at supervising the fun while chatting with a friend or reading a book.
2. I let the TV babysit for me way more than I "should." Especially on a Saturday morning when I can barely open my eyes longer than it takes to shove cereal bars in the kidlets' hands and turn on Nick Jr. or the Disney channel. Or at the end of a long day when they have an hour or so before I can realistically put them to bed and all I want to do is collapse on the couch. 
3. When I pick the kidlets up from daycare at the end of the day, we are far more likely to swing through the drive-through of the closest Old MacDonald's or Burger King than head home for a nice home-cooked meal. Last night I went all out and went through the drive-through at KFC. Where I bought the kidlets mac-n-cheese because making my own at home would just be too much trouble. Oh, and I was also hoping the genuine non-altered lactose-containing milk products might help The (lactose-intolerant) Widget with his *ahem* bowel issues. As in, you know, moving them.
4. Bath time is NOT my favorite time. It's all fine until I have to actually wash them, upon which I have to contort my body into the proper positions for manipulating slippery little bodies in a low-lying tub. Yes, I know a little stool helps. But consider my back and knee issues (Lordy, I sound ancient, don't I?) and you'll realize a little stool only goes so far. I can hardly wait until my children get over the whole AHHHH! there's water running over my FACE and it might HURT me give me a TOWEL before I DIE! phase and can take showers. They might get fully clean a little more often then. I have been known to look at the latest deposit of paint/syrup/dairy product/who the heck knows in their hair, soak a washcloth, and scrub it out to the sound of vociferous complaints rather than go through the whole bathing rigamarole.
5. If the kidlets get too whiny and annoying while in the car, I have been known to crank up the music enough to drown them out and sing along at the top of my voice and pretend their noise is just part of the backup singing. And the adverb "too" is very subjective here.
6. I am constantly being caught off guard by events and fundraisers and whatnot at their school. Just this morning I saw the children had a special optional lunch for a $5 donation toward the Make A Wish Foundation. I had no clue. You think I actually LOOK at all the papers they send home? It's a good thing the teachers are willing to let me pay after the fact.
7. I have never made a Halloween costume from scratch for my boys and am not sure I ever will. Unless they want to dress up in drag, in which case they can raid my closet for fabulous shoes.
8. I lose my temper very easily. Even more easily with the boys, who somehow manage to not just push all my buttons, but jump up and down on them and smash them into pieces. I have had to apologize to them on more than one occasion for Completely Losing It.
9. Sometimes when I've been in a major hurry to get the boys to bed, I have "forgotten" to have them brush their teeth.
10. I have pinned The Widget on the floor with my legs and forced medication down his throat on multiple occasions because he's worse than a cat about taking meds. I only do this with urgent meds like antibiotics, however. And I never have to force him to eat his gummy vitamins, for some reason. (I do, however, have to keep them out of reach. I don't trust that childproof cap, because my children are far too intelligent for my peace of mind.)
11. And maybe the hardest and scariest thing to admit? Here goes. I'll preface this by saying I LOVE MY CHILDREN and I love their hugs and cuddles and kisses and whatnot after I haven't seen them for a while (well, any time, but especially then.) However. While I do miss them when I don't have them and think about them and carry pictures of them around in my purse, I don't ache the entire time we're apart and feel like I cannot wait until I see them next. I think this would be different if I didn't know they're with their father who loves them dearly and is a good father and that they're having a great time with him (and at school, where they have a blast as well). If I was forced to share custody with a man whom I could not trust with my children, I would be a mess. But honestly? I value my Me time. It's the silver lining in all this separation/divorce Stuff. I can have a guilt-free social life with a built-in babysitting service.

And maybe that will mean some of you will judge me harshly, but the reality is I've never been the type of mother who needs or wants to spend every waking hour with her children. Perhaps part of this is due to having had PPD for so long. I think it's possible that I never achieved the same level of bonding with my children that other mothers do. I think it's also possible that they are caught up in my abandonment issues. A part of me knows that one day they will leave me, and so I never quite allow myself to connect fully. There's always a small distance between us, a piece of my heart I cannot seem to hand to them.

And part of it is that I am the person I am, The Cat Who Walks Alone (Part of the Time).

I spent three years pretending I was perfect, being told I was Super Mom. The reality is that I'm more Scary than Super.

The reality is this: motherhood is HARD. Scratch that. PARENTHOOD IS HARD. And true, there are some for whom it comes quite naturally and it really is more butterflies and buttercups for them than anything else, but some of us...Well, some of us struggle to look past the poopy Diapers and the terrifying Dragons that face us in our parenting journeys.

I have to content myself with the reminder that my children adore me. They truly love me, and while they may know that I am Scary when I've been pushed too far, they do not fear me.

(Sometimes I wish they feared me a little more, truth be told.)

And so while I may be a Scary Mommy, even a Bad Mommy, I am not a scary mother. Or a bad one.

That just might have to be enough.