At ten, she was diagnosed with strep throat, nine times and was my only kid to have gone through surgery, twice, and well, did I mention she was born on a Wednesday?
“Yes, it’s positive, your son has strep throat.”
My ten-year-old son, however, is not a very good patient.
“Sorry, Mrs. Thompson, but we’re all out of lollipops!”
DAMMIT!
“That’s okay, our pediatrician is our usual supplier.”
However, her office is anywhere from a fifteen minute to half-an-hour car drive away and, well, I decided to take my son down the road to the Doctor’s Office, save myself the aggravation of dealing with Friday afternoon traffic and be back in time to pick up my youngest daughter from school.
[phone rings]
DAMMIT! I didn’t recognize the number, so I let it go to voicemail (you think that sucks, I understand) but, little did I know, my thirteen-year-old daughter and I were about to bond on a very intimate level.
“There’s an emergency!”
Aaaaand, I couldn’t be any more surprised if I woke up in the morning with my head sewn to George Clooney’s carpet, or something like that.
This is my chair. At the end of the day, when the light begins to fade and the last dish is washed (yes, stupid Bosch is STILL broken, DAMMIT) I remain patient, waiting for that final moment of release, as I breath deep, exhale and slip deep into my chair.
“Wait a minute! You paid for your house! You go to work to pay for that couch and that bed, and yet you can’t use it because it “belongs” to the dog? Something’s very wrong there. If this describes you, then it’s time to take back your own home.”
Fine. So, now what?
“You must feel in your bones that you are the pack leader in the house, and project that calm-assertive energy.”
Yeah, but, see, in my house, calm and assertive just don’t mix.
“If you assert true leadership, your dog will not be sad, or hate you, or resent you, even if you take back the place on the sofa.”
Yeah, but, see, sad eyes just kill me.
“Having a leader is hardwired into your dog’s brain – that’s what he both needs and wants.”
Yeah, but.
“Take advantage of that and go ahead, sit on your couch again!”
Okay, seeing as your the expert and all.
“But you have to really mean it.”
FINE!
“GET OFF THE COUCH!!!”
Aaaand, I NEVER saw 4 kids, move so fast, in my life.
Morale of the Story: Jerry Seinfeld is right — dogs are the leaders of the planet. If you see two life forms, one of them’s making a poop, the other one’s carrying it for him, who would you assume is in charge?
Sure, when my mother’s over, it’s a folding party and…NO!…I was NOT even invited!
Although, I gave up hope of ever “finishing” the laundry, a long time ago, I still think it’s cute how my mother comes over and gets my kids to help her fold their laundry, sort of.
“I can’t believe that this basket is full of JUST socks!”
6 pairs of feet make for a lot of socks, I guess. Still. It’s easier to holler at the kids, when they’re getting ready for soccer, field hockey, or whatever else requires some extrasensory protection against stinky sports equipment.
“DID YOU CHECK IN THE SOCK BASKET???”
Now that the cooler weather is here, we’re going to be hitting the sock basket (pretty hard) and, well, while most people would probably think that blogging about my mother, folding my laundry, with my kids, is pretty, you know, sad and a pathetic state of the blogging universe, these days, really.
“Ewww, this one still looks….crusty.”
On the surface, it’s snot.
“Like boogers, right?”
To a wigged-out, frustrated and disenchanted blogger (like me) it’s all about seizing the moment, to be able to look a little deeper, then commit all of your thoughts and feelings into a few short paragraphs, well, some folks would STILL consider this to be just a silly little story.
“Only Mama can make even folding laundry…look fun!”
I call it sublime poetry.
CLICK!
“You’re not going to blog that, are you?”
I just don’t sweat the dirty laundry, all that much, anymore.
My 3 girls argue, a lot. Sometimes, it’s over really dumb stuff, like, I don’t know, this one is copying that one, while the other one is always annoying everyone else (guess which one, go ahead, I’ll wait) but, having 3 sisters, who argue, about dumb stuff, all the time, can be awfully hard on a guy.
Still.
At our house, when push comes to shove, it’s the teens vs. the tweens and, well, guess who gets to referee? Go ahead, I’ll wait.
NOBODY!
“You are such a loser!”
Not anymore.
“Well, you are a bigger loser!”
Especially, now that they’re older.
“Nuh-uh!”
It’s a never-ending battle of the, yuh-huh’s.
“Yuh-huh!”
See what I mean?
“ENOUGH!”
Still, I’m tired; not getting any younger, either (DAMMIT!) and, well, enough is enough, right?
“I MEAN, IF I HAD A DOLLAR FOR EACH TIME I WISH I HAD A SISTER!!!”
I mean, I don’t really remember the last time I really “talked” to my kids, without hollering, first.
[blank stares]
Honestly, I’m getting really tired of reminding my kids how I don’t see my twin brother as often as I’d like and just how lucky they are to, you know, have each other to argue with, since no one ever seems to want to listen to me.
“Mom, what ARE you talking about?”
See?
“Why would you call your sister a loser, like that?”
[blank stares]
“Catch a grip, Mom; I’m just congratulating Heather for losing all that extra weight she picked up since her surgery.”
[blank stare]
“Well, I bet you can’t spit as far as Hopey can!”
Okay, so I may not be the quietest, most smartest mother in the world.
“Ready…set…go!”
But, I’m certainly not the dumbest. Guess who won? Go ahead, I’ll wait!
Earlier this month, on the first day of school, I posted this video on TheMotherhood.com and went on…and on…about how, after having recently earned my 15 year pin (okay, not really, but parenthood ain’t all sunshine and rainbows, so they really should give us something, right?) I am JUST NOW learning how to breath.
Conference call
Doctor’s appointment
Conference call
Field Hockey Game
Soccer Practice
Back-to-School Night #3
Yeah, well, I lied.
[heavy sigh]
I also remember saying something about, “not being a big fan of back-to-school nights” and how, you know, I just don’t like doing them anymore.
“Are we going tonight, Momma?”
Then, I remembered something else.
“Yep, as soon as Daddy gets here.”
My oldest kid is a sophomore in high school.
“Then, we can go.”
But, I missed her freshman orientation and, well, my parents never met any of my high school teachers, or were ever really able to play an active role in our community (with both of them working full-time and part-time jobs, I don’t blame them) so, I went.
“Are you ready, Momma?”
As ready as I’ll ever be, after:
Dropping Holly and Hope at Glen’s soccer practice
Loaning coach Glen’s social studies book (sucks to be his son, right now)
Picking up Heather from field hockey
Meeting my husband back at Glen’s soccer practice
Dropping Hope and Heather off at home
Then a quick potty stop…for me…of course.
“You used to be a lot more Zen!”
I hate it when other mothers remember stuff, like that.
“What happened?”
It’s true. I used to be real cool and calm about stuff, when my kids were little(er), while other mothers were all, like, ACK, but snow days and television ARE the devil!!!
Holly pretended not to know me, but it didn’t work.
“Hi, I’m Holly’s mom!”
See?
“Yes, well, you walked in with her, so….”
Yes, I took her with me. Hello? 4 kids in 4 different schools. 16 teachers between them. Lucky if I remember my kids’ names. Still. It was sort of fun to sit next to her and make fun of…I mean…get to know the other parents and stuff.
“You are such a child!”
See?
We got to sit all of 10 minutes, before it was time to head over to…uh…I think it was Biology…maybe, English…I forget.
“Which one is yours?”
But, I wanted to check out the biographies posted on the back wall and found Holly’s, right away. It was easy — she loves to draw anime.
Thank goodness, seeing as 3 outta 4 of my kids like sports and, well, I needed someone to stay home, or at least pretend like staying home is, you know, a good thing, too.
Then, I saw this:
My Hero: Mom
Aaaand, well, you know, I am just really, really glad I went.
“I’m hungry!”
Besides, once your kids get older, perhaps one day you will also begin to believe that back-to-school night isn’t really all that bad, after all.
Most parents would be very excited, perhaps even a little relieved, to see their child commit themselves to the rigorous mental and physical demands of competitive sports and, ultimately, make it through to the final cut.
[blank stare]
“Did you hear what I said?”
I am not one of those parents.
“Oh yeah, yeah, I’m just, like, wow!”
See what I mean?
“Congratulations, sweetie!”
Of course, I’m happy for her. Like her younger siblings, she’s played recreational soccer up until the 6th grade. However, rather than going pro (heh) and playing for the middle school, like most of her friends did, Heather had a hard time finding a comfortable place.
“Did you get a chance to speak to your coach about, you know?”
Then, she got sick and, well, being able to sit comfortably, in class, or excusing yourself, dozens of times during the day, without question, or embarrassment was a blessing.
“Yeah, she’s totally cool with it.”
I thought about writing a note, explaining the situation to her coach. Even dialed her coach’s number, before hanging up and finally deciding that this is perhaps one of those times when life should just be allowed to run its course.
“Are you okay with it?”
Honestly, um, no. Quite frankly, I am scared to death that my child is going to land flat on her ass and, you know, this time, not be able to get up.
“Oh yeah, yeah, I mean, the surgeon said it was, like, okay.”
She played her first game, yesterday. They won. 6-0. I survived it. Barely. Still. I’m not looking forward to Thursday for two reasons:
They play the meanest, nastiest field hockey team, ever.
For now, I’m keeping up appearances, like there’s absolutely nothing wrong with her playing field hockey, or my suggesting that perhaps it would be a good idea if she wore the protective gear, for the rest of her life, thankyouverymuch.
Later.
“Can I dye my hair red?”
She is the only one of my kids [knocking on wood until knuckles bleed] to have gone through surgery, twice and, as much as I feel awful saying it, it couldn’t happen to a tougher child.
“And then could you, you know, dip my ends in black?”
Until, I read Bad, Bad, Mommy Blogger Redux (written by fellow panelist Stephanie Azzarone) and, well, if you are a mom (like me) who happens to blog (no matter the reason) Stephanie is one of many public relations professionals, attempting to reach out to a community, filled with millions of diverse and colorful voices, along with about a billion misperceptions and contradictions enough to choke even the most experienced rocket scientist into smashing his slide rule against the wall, just to see if it would stick.
The only difference is, Stephanie is a mom and, well, she knows that, in my house, everything IS pretty much sticky, already and I'm okay with that.
Being called out as "review slinging money grubbers whose only concerns are freebies and paid for positive reviews of products," not so much!
My youngest daughter (she’s 8) is tired of being last. How do I know?
“It’s…[sniff]…real hard…[hiccup]…to be…[snort]…the youngest…[sniff]…all the time!”
Because, she told me, just the other day.
“I know, sweetie.”
I grew up in a generation where parents thought it would be a real good idea to, you know, start talking to their kids about stuff, while mine were, well, still learning English.
“But, it’s not easy being grown up, either.”
Besides, their parents never talked to them about stuff, and their grandparents never talked to their parents, and so on, and so on…
“Besides, you are a safety!”
What? I never said I was good at it. Talking to my kids, I mean. Besides, she was wearing her safety patrol belt. I saw it. It triggered something in my brain:
a) They didn’t have safety patrols when my oldest girls were in elementary school.
b) How upset my son was, when he didn’t get picked.
YES…that’s it…this would be Hope’s claim to fame!
“Aaaand, well, your sisters and brother didn’t get picked.”
But, in my head, all I could hear was a much younger, not to mention, more tired and less grayish, inner-voice saying how this, too, was a bad thing to say and this line of reasoning will, no doubt, one day, come back and bite me in the butt, too!
[sniff]
“Yeah, aaaand I didn’t pretend to lose my belt, like some kids did, so I could get a cool new orange one, either!”
[sound of crickets chirping]
“Um…yeah.”
What? She’s got a yellow belt. Apparently, orange is way cooler. Aaaand, it’s not like she actually went through with it, right?
“Because, being a safety means I’m responsible, right!”
Aaaand, in this house, seeing as I’m her mother, that IS a good thing.
“Right!”
Even now, after years of trying to raise my kids, to be kind and respectfully towards each other, I can’t help but think that there aren’t enough good feelings in the world, to keep any one of them from believing that, eventually, someone got more [insert tangible, or intangible item here] than they did.
“I told Mrs. So-and-So that I am the first safety in the house!”
Then, I looked at the clock.
“Just tell Mrs. So-and-So that Mommy made you late, again.”
What? She’s a mother AND she knows me.
“She’ll believe you.”
Besides, it was the best I could do, without at least my second cup of coffee, I mean, right?
My father’s school picture, taken in Hungary, during the 1950’s, when they used to call each other, “Comrade!”
My in-laws turned me onto genealogy back in the 90’s. I still remember logging into AOL, taking a shower, making a cup of coffee, putting Heather (my middle girl) down for a nap and then quickly dusting the computer screen, or wiping up sticky spots on my desk — it took THAT long to load a page.
Eventually, I added a few more kids to my family tree and, well, somehow the past took a backseat to planning for the future.
Today, I find myself unable to think passed deciding on which dropoff/pickup lane makes the most sense or, depending on what school I’m at, just what in the heck is his/her teacher’s name, anyway?
Never mind, planning the next meal, without thinking, you know, this just may be my last.
“No, Heather has field hockey and my soccer practice was yesterday!”
Because, I swear, 3 days into the school year and it’s already killing me.
“Hey, but I need another notebook!”
What?
“Oh, me too and here’s the extra stuff my teacher needs!”
Huh?
“Yeah, me too and did you remember to sign the good behavior contract?“
Are you serious?
“Yeah, me too and we HAVE to use book socks!”
I thought recycling paper bags was a good thing?
“Mom, are you okay?”
No, I’m far from being okay. In fact, I’m being held accountable for every little thing — like, each time my kid sneezes, passes gas or laughs out loud (LOL, for you kids in the back) in class — but, I realize that not everyone has 4 kids, attending 4 different schools, or is used to walking around in a perpetual state of confusion, like me.
“Yeah, yeah, fine.”
Still, I can’t help but wonder how my father’s teacher would have reacted, if she received the following email:
Dear Comrade Teacher,
When dropping little **Jimmy off at school, I was surprised to learn that all the rumors were true.
I mean, there was absolutely no place to park and the car pool lane reached all the way out onto the highway — as far as Starbucks, even!
So, I parked in the next town over and walked little **Jimmy to the door, but couldn’t get to it, because about 100 parents beat me to it.
Then, at the end of the day, the same thing happened, except, Jimmy came out a whole different door, from this morning and, well, I’m confused and **Jimmy is upset.
Yours truly,
Comrade Parent
**I don’t know anyone named Jimmy.
But, the rest of the stuff is true and I could have written to any one of the 4 schools my kids attend, really.
“My teacher said that you can pick me up at the same door that you drop me off in.”
Phew…well, okay…glad that’s over.
“What’s for dinner?”
[blank stare]
“Never mind.”
I mean, honestly, lunch is at 1:00 o’clock; how hungry can she be?
“I forgot to eat my lunch, today.”
Never mind.
[Edited to add: Recycling paper bags is okay – in fact, using old Christmas wrapping paper as book covers is okay, too – phew, glad that’s over!]
Growing up, I didn’t have a lot of friends. Girls, I mean. I guess it was around the time I entered the 2nd grade (around my youngest girl’s age) when I realized that little girls weren’t very nice.
In fact, I quickly learned that some little girls could be very, very mean, too.
“Look she’s got boobies!”
I’d like to believe that, like me, Buffy (you know, the frenemy slayer) has since grown up, gotten over the fact that she felt the need to single me out, in front of the entire 3rd grade class, for wearing a pale lemon yellow body suit, without a training bra, but is raising her children with a little more common sense and compassion.
I doubt it, though.
Then again, raising 3 girls (and 1 boy) of my own, I often times find myself fingering the scars of my youth and can’t help but wonder, you know, if it weren’t for Buffy, would I be the mother I am today?
