Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Sick and tired

I’m sick and tired of the house being a mess.
I’m sick and tired of being the only one who cares.
I’m sick and tired of making meals that no one eats.
I’m sick and tired of being told “I’m still hungry.”
I’m sick and tired of schlepping kids from school to practice to play dates.
I’m sick and tired of hearing “I’m bored. What are we going to do that’s fun?”
I’m sick and tired of the bickering, teasing, fighting and whining.
I’m sick and tired of this unpredictable, lame ass San Francisco weather. (Is it spring or not, dammit?!)

And today, I’m just—literally—sick and tired. But I think you guys are the only ones who care. Sigh.

(With a heavy combination of Dayquil, TheraFlu and a Nyquil double tonight, I hope to be back to my more upbeat-yet-snarky self tomorrow! TTFN :)

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Liar, liar

All siblings fight. And, typically all parents try to stop said fighting. Because I’m an exemplary mother, I too like to step in and try to teach my children how to work through their conflicts and frustration in a constructive way. It usually goes a little something like this:

“Goddammit! What the hell is the matter with you people?”

Very effective for stopping current fights. Less so for modeling positive vocabulary development.

What is interesting is how each child will handle the opportunity to come clean and explain why there is an all-out brawl taking place. BMoC (Big Man on Campus)* is my Honest Abe. He immediately coughs up the details, albeit with a so-what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it tone. The Mighty Midget* will also start in with her version of the story, although since she does not speak in intelligible words yet, her story only serves to be more confusing than helpful. Middle Man* is my crafty liar. He’s never at fault. Sometimes he’s not even involved. It doesn’t matter that I’ve caught him with a fistful of someone’s shirt whilst holding up the other arm to get a final blow in.

Today I’d had just about enough. And once again Middle Man dispensed the same sad line with a boredom that annoyed me more than the lie itself.

“What is going on here?”

“She fell down.”

“Really? It looks like you pushed your sister. What really happened?”

“She fell down. All by herself.” His crazy big Pokemon eyes giving nothing away.


“Listen, buddy, if you are going to lie to me, can you at least mix it up and use a little creativity? This repetition of the same unimaginative tale is beneath you. I think you can do better.”

“OK, Mommy.”

Po Bronson would not be impressed.

####
*For sake of their privacy, these are the names I'll use going forward for my kids. Should make it harder for them to come after me with accusations of libel later on.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Farm fresh

Something you should know about our family is that we are simultaneously house-proud and cheap. This unique combination makes for oft interesting approaches to home maintenance and home improvement.

Take, for example, when we had a dripping faucet in the bathroom. Most people might take inventory of the situation, acknowledge that they are not plumbing experts, and turn over the responsibility of fixing said leak to one who knows what the hell they are doing. Or, you could be like Husband and take matters into your own hands.


Once there was a gaping hole in the dining room wall, I failed to see how that would fix the leak in the bathroom. It might surprise you to learn that it didn’t. What it did do, however, was create a whole lot of dust and a mess I had the pleasure of cleaning up. It also spurred a desperate phone call to a real plumber. Money-saved: minimal. Pain-in-the-ass created: massive. (BTW, we still have not patched the wall.)

With such mindset plaguing Team M’s decision making, this weekend we decided to spruce up the yard. The weather’s been beautiful and we decided it was high time for some overdue weeding and pruning. And when you get lazy and just don’t want to weed anymore, nothing fixes up a yard like mulch.

Again, in a cost-saving measure, Husband managed to find a place in the city where you can get mulch for free. Say good bye to paying huge prices for the tidy bags from the Home Depot—just drive your jalopy up to this green waste yard and you too can get bins full of the brown gold for nothing. That you aren’t quite sure what exactly went into the chipper to produce the mulch is just part of the excitement.

Now we’ve used this place many times in the past…but something went afoul with this weekend’s mulch run. This batch boasted an odor that is 10% recycled wood and about 90% manure. I’ve got to think that compostable diapers like I use on the Mighty Midget must make up a large percentage of what was brought home.

“Mom, what is that smell? It smells like Papa’s ranch.”

“That’s the smell of nature, baby.”

“Nature smells like poo.”

“Enough potty talk. Maybe if you were being more helpful in spreading mulch around the garden you’d be less worried about what it smells like.”

Well, I’ll tell you, there is nothing more exciting to a three-year-old boy than the prospect of wielding a metal shovel twice his size (that could also serve as a weapon) while he digs in a substance smelling like cow pies. Middle Man was thrilled and tucked in, digging away like a dog with a bone. Even the Might Midget got in on the action. Now, clearly I didn’t expect her to use a shovel, so I put her little hands to work with a garden trowel and told her to get the mulch in between all the plants I didn’t want to bend down to deal with. BMoC was the only one sounding off about child labor laws and how he’d rather be playing with his friends up the street.

After a while, no one could even really smell the original offending odor. I figured that our free mulch had simply needed airing out. So once we’d successfully buried all the weeds I didn’t have the energy to unearth we headed inside, washed our labor off, and grabbed cool drinks. But when I later headed back out to admire all our hard work, that same cow-pie smell hit me like a bag of shit in the face.

“Holy... Now our house is surrounded by the smell of crap.”

This was three days ago. And quite frankly I’m surprised that the mailman is even dropping off the post. For what it’s worth, I’d recommend staying off our street for the foreseeable future.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Spring is in the air

Spring has officially arrived at our house. Know how I know? It’s not because of any date on the calendar, what groundhogs do with their shadows, that my tulips actually bloomed this year (four whole flowers, baby, count ‘em), or any of the other typical signs of the imminent season. I know spring has sprung because the water guns came out.


And what says “Happy Spring” more than two boys madly squirting unsuspecting neighbors as they enjoy the sunshine, walking down your street.

“Ugh, what are you doing?” I ask my young commandos as they crouch behind bushes in the front yard.

“We are protecting our house.”

“Really? Does it seem under attack? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like it’s that lady with the cane walking her dog who’s under attack.”

“Mom, quiet. You’ll give away our hiding spot.”

No child is left out of the fun, or the draft, it seems.


“Husband, oh husband? Are you aware of what the kids are doing? I don’t think that,” as I point in the general direction of water war, “seems like a good idea. How did they even find those guns? I thought they were cleverly buried with all our summer and lake toys.”

“I gave them to ‘em.”

Oh. Of course. Fabulous.

With that, I decided to give up early and partake in one of my favorite spring pastimes: leaving the house for an hour and getting a pedicure. I couldn’t beat ‘em, but didn’t have the energy—or aresenal—to join them either.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Play date or pain the ass

The play date. How many of these things have I attended or hosted over the past five freakin’ years? Don’t get me wrong, they can be fun—really. Especially if your host has read The Three-Martini Playdate cover to cover and accepted its message as gospel we should live by. But up until recently “play date” has largely meant mothers accompanying their young to a certain locale and still being responsible for their own children during said soiree. It’s like, “hey this job I’m doing will be a whole lot more fun if I’ve got a running buddy.” Maybe there’s also a “little misery loves company” going on? Or not…just sayin’.

But anyway, now we’re switching it up. My kids’ friends’ moms and me somehow started hosting these play dates sans the other parents. As in, “I no longer have drinking buddies while the kids try to burn the house down.” More like, “I’ll bring your kids home from school with me today as long as you are willing to take my demons tomorrow.” Believe it or not, it’s not all bad—the lovely little additions on these magical afternoons almost work in the same way a new toy might: my own kids are so infatuated with having their friends over they forget to fight with each other. So really, what might be disguised as altruistic babysitting, the play date now satisfies a mother’s need to keep her children from fighting with each other (or bugging her).

Well, today Middle Man is enjoying a last minute, after school play date at the home of one of his friends. Hazzah! I’m down a child! Middle Man gets to play with his friend! Other Mom gets some peace while the boys beat on each other! We all win! And as I’m almost giggling on my way home from school with one less child in the car, it hits me: Crap! now I get to be BMoC’s play mate for the afternoon. So, while Middle Man and his buddy play superheroes, BMoC kicks rocks outside, pissed that he doesn’t have anyone to play with. While Other Mom relaxes and lets Middle Man and friend entertain each other, I field requests to be a pirate, dinosaur, alien, play army and answer never-ending questions simply because BMoC can’t stand silence for more than 10 seconds.

Painful lesson learned: the play date swap only works when I have a balance in the home—I get rid of one kid, but still need to bring a new one in to keep the other one happy. Kind of like when you take your car into the shop, you need a loaner. That’s me with my boys.

So next week I guess I’m inviting my kids’ friends over to our house. That’ll teach those other moms to try and give me the afternoon off.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Apples don't fall far from trees

OK, how awesome is it that now I’m going to lay the blame for my bad parenting habits on my parents. Seriously, that is some gratitude for ya. But it is a wise mother who openly accepts that whatever her parents did and said to her, she will unavoidably repeat doing and saying those same things to her children. The good, the bad and the ugly.

Now I want to quickly backpedal a bit. It must be understood that my mom is a GREAT mom. She had the opportunity to stay home and raise me and my sisters, and she did it with gusto. She was actively involved at our schools, in our sports and club activities. Drove us when we had field trips; sometimes hours away for competitions. Threw us birthday parties and hosted innumerable afternoons when our friends just came over to hang out. Ours was that house, and though we enjoyed it, I’m pretty sure my sisters and I just took it all for granted while growing up.

But neither my mom nor my dad take shit from anyone, least of all their kids. My mom was a real hard ass when raising us three, so is it any wonder that I’m crazy military with my kids now? (Ironically, my sisters have somehow avoided falling into this legacy of tough love with their own children. How, I don’t know, but I digress…) With my mom it was—and always has been—all “I love you with all my heart, but you’d better tow the line, because that’s the way we do it in this family.”

So now fast forward to today. It’s only lunchtime and I’ve heard myself use popular family vernacular such as “you are cruisin’ for a bruisin’” and “you want to cry? I’ll give you a reason to cry.” Real nice. Idle threats, but fun to spout none-the-less. And while I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure these are not phrases endorsed by modern parenting authorities.

But also like my mom, I’m trying hard to find those moments when I can take each child aside, resist the urge to throttle them into submissive and acceptable behavior, and instead make sure that they are heard, OK, and feeling generally good about being part of Team M. Because that’s how we do it in this family.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Airing my dirty laundry

I am the meanest mom on the block. It's sad, but true. And it's not that hard to be because:

A) I live in an amazing neighborhood in San Francisco where my mommy friends volunteer to host play dates, willingly baby sit other neighbors' kids, make homemade baby food with organic ingredients grown in their urban gardens, attend child development talks by local social/psychology gurus... The list goes on.

And
B) I have three children (ages 2, 3, and 5), none of who are in school full time (yet), and all of who hit at my every nerve with a talent that is stunning. Sometimes I swear they must be the secret spawn of Satan. Sometimes.

Anyway, I decided to keep this blog in an effort to catalog my most unfortunate moments as a mom. The moments when I just lose my shit. The moments in which I wish I could muster the extra strength or peace or whatever is needed to be that elusive, better mom. But alas, I am human and fail at a staggering rate, and hope that maybe documenting my blunders will be actually be educational for me. Maybe I'll see a pattern and figure out how to get out of this 5-year cycle of hysteria. If nothing else, after publicly airing my dirty laundry I should be humiliated into getting my act together, right?

And even if all that still fails, maybe it'll give other moms like you a little peace of mind, knowing that YOU are not the meanest mom out there. I am.