THE TALK or For Once, I'm Speechless

I knew this day was coming. I had just hoped it would come later versus sooner. I'm talking about THE TALK.

When I was in college (and was the ripe old age of 20), I took Human Sexuality, which preached teaching sexual health at all ages. I whole heartedly agreed - We Should Teach Our Children About Something So Natural! Oh, the days of being young and naive.  Little did I realize how difficult explaining this stuff would be when confronted with questions at 5:30 in the morning.  And what better time to bring up this subject I ask? Actually, I did ask. Why the heck does my eldest son ask me this crap at the crack of dawn? But I digress...

It all started when I was pregnant with Rocco. I knew the question was coming because Max was 5 and inquisitive. "How is that baby coming out??" I knew what he was feeling because I asked myself that very question in terror when I was pregnant with Max.  But the difficulty with having a son comes down to a physical issue. In case you didn't know this yet, penises are very obvious and vaginas...well, they aren't. Hmmm...how to approach this? For some reason Max always would ask this question early in the morning when I was getting ready for work and always caught me unprepared. It took 5 months, but I finally figured out what to tell him. I didn't want to go the easy route and say that babies come out of the tummy, because 1) that's not true and 2) I heard this would freak him out. I went with "Mommies have special places under their underwear and that's where babies come out of." Max of course followed up with confusion and wanted more details. After 2 more months of figuring out my next response, I went with "Well, you have private parts and so do Mommies and that's where babies come out." I thought that cleared things up, since I basically said the same thing twice. Of course Rocco ended up being an unplanned c-section, so I went through all this pain for nothing - I could have gone with "Babies come out of tummies." Ugh.

I thought the first "sex" conversation went relatively well. And I also thought it was done for another 10 years. Ha!  It all came back up when taking our new kitten to the vet to be neutered. First, I think I've mentioned before that my children are geniuses so I should have seen this coming, but I was totally blindsided. Max asked why we were taking Skippy the Kitten to be neutered. Summoning up my best Bob Barker, I gave a brief summary why we don't want to overpopulate the world with homeless kittens. And Max follows up with "Then why do we neuter boy cats? Girl cats are the ones that have the babies." Oh, he is so smart. Crap! What I wanted to say is that "It's both the boy's and girl's responsibility when it comes to babies!" Instead I stammered and said something about how it takes boys AND girls to make babies. Stop talking - Stop! But too late. Max asks "Why does it take a boy and a girl? How do you make babies?" I cowardly responded "Um, you are almost at school and I just won't have time to explain it right now." And I've been holding my breath that he doesn't bring this up again for 8 more years.

Where is my 20 year old self that thought that educating my kids about sexuality would be easy? One of my four cardinal rules for my boys is that they always practice safe sex - and now I don't even know how to explain body parts to them!  How stupid! Instead I'm speechless. What to say and how to say it appropriately? Because he should have some kind of concept of how babies are made. On a 7 year old level though?  Go with the "It's a special hug between Mommies and Daddies"? Or maybe "It's like two lego pieces that fit together"? Or do I just set a bowl of condoms on the kitchen counter when he turns 16 and hope he figures it out?  I'm pretty sure the last option is totally lame and negligent - because I don't want a lot of homeless kittens (or children) roaming around. So for now I've bought some time simply by stalling, knowing that my time is short and I'll need to come up with a decent response really soon. I'm hoping whatever I do next, it doesn't mean therapy for Max later. Unfortunately he's the guinea pig - I'll have this all figured out when Rocco surprises me with these questions as I'm putting on my mascara, first thing in the morning. That is unless Rocco gets all of his education from Max, which means I'm back to making sure I really don't screw this up any more than I already have.

Wish me luck. 

Tonight's Lesson: Cups Don't Poo or My Boys Will Always Be Single

What is it about the dinner meal that we hold sacred? We all make a point of sitting down together, serving a majority of the food groups and holding our conversations to a higher standard.  I accept that I live in a house of three boys, which brings with it a lower level of conversation topics. I can sort of deal with that. But I try to keep the conversation at the dinner table a little more respectable. But tonight's meal was like Charlie Sheen after his Goddesses left - an epic fail.

It all started with a Winnie the Pooh cup. This cup has been used a total of one time and was hidden deep in the recesses of the cupboard. Somehow Rocco remembered this glass which proves that toddlers are scary smart. He asked for the Pooh cup and after a few moments of asking for clarification, I got him the said goblet, unknowingly destroying any chances of having a dignified dinner.

We are sitting at the table, eating and discussing our days. Rocco looks up and says "Pooh poos!"
Me: "What?"
Rocco: "Pooh poos!" giggle giggle
Me: "Did he just say Pooh poos??"
Rest of the table: giggle giggle
Me: "Who taught him that?" *looking at Peter and Max*
Rest of table: stronger giggles as they share glances
Rocco: "Pooh Cup Poos!"
Rest of table: total laughter
Me: "Rocco, cups don't poo."
Rocco: belches
Me: "Rocco, say excuse me!"
Rocco: "I burped!"
Rest of table: belly laughing
Me: "We are starting a rule - no burping at the table!"
Max: "The same as the farting rule?"

I am not the only adult in this house, but I am the only one with estrogen. It would appear that proper dinner conversation is something only girls are taught. Why do I even need to have a rule about farting at the table? And because you are smart readers, you can surely figure out what circumstances brought about the no farting rule.

What is going on when I am not at home? I walk in to find Curious George on TV, not some Two and a Half Men rerun. Is this type of humor taught or something that is ingrained in boys? Nature versus nurture?  I am at a loss. All I know is that it would seem I need to add burping to my no farting rule. That and my boys are not going to have serious girlfriends until they are 30. Stop. Considering that my husband is 34 and still finds this stuff hilarious, let's push that back to 37. We need a bodily function intervention.

No Shoes, No Pants, It Must Be Thanksgiving

At the end of Thanksgiving today, I was without shoes and wearing someone else's pants.  Did I have a momentary relapse into my college days?  Nope. While this story does not show me in the best light, since I fully disclose everything about my children, it is with total transparency that I share my less-than-shining moment with you now.

The day started out fine. A quick workout and then we packed up the car to head to the first Thanksgiving meal of the day at my parents' house. The dinner was great and enjoyable. The biggest event was convincing my mom to use the "good wine" for her wine-drinking guests, ie me and my little brother.
Me: "Should we get out some wine?"
Mom: "Sure, I have some in the fridge. We can have the cheap wine or the good wine."
Me: "Pretty sure I want the good wine Mom."
Mom: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Yeah, why would I want to drink crappy wine? Who are you saving it for?"
Mom: No response
Me: Wondering who the heck this better wine is supposed to be for!?
For the record, the wine was really good. And the cheap wine ended up being really cheap so I'm glad we skipped it. But this wine is not the reason for my wardrobe malfunction (before you start jumping to conclusions.)

After an epic fail at putting Rocco down for a nap, we pack up again and head to house number two, aka Pete's folks. As I am still too full to eat, I take the first shift of chasing/entertaining Rocco while Pete eats. We wander around the farm, checking for cats and tractors, and finally decide to watch the cows.

I sit down on the ground and reach for Rocco so we can watch the cows better. And that's when I see it. Dog poo.
Me: "Um, Rocco, let's be sure you sit on a dry patch of grass here buddy."
Then I look around again. Dog poo is EVERYWHERE. This seems to be the main potty area for the dogs. Uh oh. Surely it's on Rocco's shoes at this point. And then it hits me. I didn't check where I was sitting down either. I quickly stand up and sure enough, somehow I managed to perfectly position myself over a pile of dog poo and now it was all over the back of my jeans. Oh, and also on my running shoes. You know the shoes I'm talking about - the ones with really good traction, aka lots of little grooves for dog poo to get permanently stuck in.

I holler to Max to get his dad to bring me paper towels and wet wipes. Being a 7 year old, it was imperative for him to know WHY, and after some giggling, he promptly told his dad what I needed and why. Pete comes out quickly while I am doing my best not to panic. He tries to clean me up, but there's no totally cleaning this off.

I slink into the house and my very considerate in-laws try to find me something else to wear. After much searching, my MIL finds me a pair of jeans.  I change clothes and stink less thankfully (something to be thankful for! bring on the turkey!).

The rest of the day is uneventful compared to basically rolling in dog poo. As the day comes to a close, I thank my MIL one more time for the jeans. She then tells me that they are Great-Grandma's jeans. I walk to the Jeep in my socked feet (those shoes are horrible!). And as we drive away, I couldn't stop laughing at the fact my day ended with me in socks wearing Great Grandma's jeans.

I told Peter I don't know the last time I felt less sexy. I thought maybe in maternity clothes. He looks at me and says "Oh no. You were much sexier in maternity clothes." Keep in mind this means I was sexier in huge tent-like clothes, 40 pounds heavier. (Side note, I actually gained 60 pounds with each pregnancy, but I still have 20 left to lose.)

And just so you know, as I am writing, I am still wearing those jeans. Meow!

Pin the Guilt on the Mommy

Just when I think I've accepted my limits as a mom, my inadequacies are pointed out yet again - this time by the website Pinterest. When I saw everyone posting about Pinterest, I thought it was either a book or a TV show and I was just out of the loop. Turns out Pinterest is where everyone posts these great ideas, from crafts to recipes to hairstyles - basically all things that I have given up on as a mom. See, I love looking at Parents magazine and reading about how these moms discovered a way to make their pasta from scratch or came up with really innovative ways to keep their kids clean when painting by using milk jugs - and feel a bit of resentment.  And I get daily emails with crafts and recipes for busy moms - which I am too busy to read and promptly delete instead (time management skills - yes!) Actually, if I'm being honest, I am a bit jealous of these moms' time, creativity and patience. These are three characteristics that I often lack.  In fact, I hide my children's play dough because I don't want to deal with the mess it creates.

So now I hear about Pinterest and see what all these other Super Moms do, making food from scratch and making neat Thanksgiving Day decorations from yarn. And I really want to be like these moms. But I'm tired at the end of the day after working and think I'm having a pretty good night if I make a dinner that doesn't involve deli turkey, much less a diorama of the first Thanksgiving feast out of macaroni. I think back to one of my all time favorite childhood memories of walking through the park with my mom, finding the prettiest leaves and taking them home to press in between the encyclopedia pages. My kids won't even know what an encyclopedia is, much less use it to press red and orange leaves.

I hear you have to be accepted into Pinterest and think, well, let's skip the guilt and just act like I've never heard of it. I feel successful if my house is clean for 5 minutes during the week or if I serve a fruit AND a vegetable at dinner. But I really do want to be the mom that does crafts everyday and makes homemade cookies each week out of carrot juice instead of actual sugar. But then I ask why reinvent the Oreo when it already is perfect? And before my Pinterest friends say it's about more than just crafts and recipes, I know it's about fashion and hair too. And I respond by saying most days I don't take the time to blow dry my hair because even that takes too long and fashion to me right now means that my clothes are clean.

I'm working on accepting what I have the time and energy to do every day and to maximize the weekend. There's only so much I can do as a working mom, and if I can make a few childhood memories for the boys, then I will have been successful. And I know someday I'll have the time to sit down and be the crafty, Martha Stewart-type mom I want to be. I just hope my boys, who will probably be 23 and 18 by then, will still want to make pilgrim hats out of thimbles and twine. As for now, I'll just read my friends' posts about the cool mom things they do and feel admiration...and jealous.

A New Recipe for the Next Potluck

I dedicate this post to my mom, who couldn't stop laughing when I told her this story. And to all the other moms out there finding themselves doing things they never thought they'd do, all for their children.

It was 9 p.m. on Wednesday night and I was just starting to mix up my new recipe. As I added ingredients, the concoction got smellier and thicker. What was I doing? Making a late notice treat for Max's class? Nope. Working on a science project? Nope. I was making magic butt cream.

Let's rewind 3 hours.

A little background information: whenever the Rock is on an antibiotic, he has HORRIBLE diaper rashes. The kind that blister regardless of creams, potions and rapid diaper changes. As if nothing could make changing a poopy diaper worse, a toddler screaming in pain as you clean him actually makes the experience even crappier (ooh! a pun!). So in desperation, I call the nurse. Now I've seen my fair share of diaper rashes and I consider myself to be a relatively level-headed mom. So for me to call the nurse means this was a Code Red diaper rash. She finally calls me back around 6 p.m.

Me: "I've got this awful diaper rash that I can't get rid of. We've used vasoline, Butt Paste, anti-fungal cream, and hydrocortizone cream, but nothing works. What can we do?"
Nurse: *speaks confidentially as though she is telling me the world's largest secret* "Do you have a piece of paper and a pen? I have a recipe for you that one of the doctors is giving out. It should work."
Me: "Shoot anytime you are ready."
Nurse: "Mix together half a tube of Desitin, half a tube of A&D ointment, add 1 big tablespoon of Bacitracin and 1 tablespoon of Malox."
Me: "Did you say Malox?" *how dare I question the secret recipe!*
Nurse: *laughs at my naive question* "Yes, Malox. It soothes. Call if that doesn't work, but I think it will."

I take the Moose to religious education class and run to Walgreens afterwards with my recipe in hand. I fill my basket with the ingredients, double checking my notes as I shop. Max looks questioningly at me but at this point, I am willing to try anything and am blindly trusting this nurse and her secret magic butt cream. It was not lost on me that when I was younger, my late night trips to the store did not involve getting things for butt cream. But then again, when I was younger, 8:30 p.m. wasn't late.

Twenty-six dollars later I drive home and gather up the tupperware and measuring spoons. I'm pretty sure the people who invented Tupperware never thought their expensive containers would be used for butt cream. I start mixing together the foul smelling stuff, with Pete looking over my shoulder with a questioning expression. It doesn't take long to mix it up and now we wait to use it the next morning. I make a few comments that this is the most expensive butt cream I've ever bought and I had to mix it all together to boot. Please understand that I am the type of person who is more than willing to buy something pre-made than make it myself so mixing up butt cream is not something I signed up to do.

The next morning is the moment of truth. We slather on this noxious cream and wait. And what do you know. The stuff actually works. And I am ecstatic. And here's a bit of truth about motherhood. When it comes to your kid, you will do anything for them and try anything to make them feel better. I've held a puking boy just to comfort him while he feels awful. And I will make a late night shopping trip to buy a bunch of random stuff and mix up a crazy recipe just because a nurse I've never met tells me it will work. And I feel like I am on top of the world to have found something that actually works against the Diaper Rash from Hell. I am as excited about this as I would be if I found a cream that REALLY did take away cellulite.

This Secret Magic Butt Paste recipe is posted on my fridge now so I can whip up a batch whenever I need it. And the next time you ask me for a recipe to include in a cookbook, I'm going to consider this one. And you know what? Chances are you'll want the butt paste recipe rather than another chocolate cake recipe. Because you are a mom. 

Mommy Quiet Time

I'm supposed to be checking my bank account online right now but somehow stumbled onto this page instead. See, I'm currently having "Mommy Quiet Time." It's a typical Sunday. We skipped church since Rocco barfed last night and that was a place we didn't want to be if we discovered his stomach bug was still visiting. Instead we decided we needed to run to about 4 different stores to do some last minute shopping before an afternoon birthday party. Oh, and we decided to pick up a sofa too (I know I just blogged about never replacing my crappy furniture, but I did finally find a sofa that I liked that came with a 5 year warrant against stains and tears - ha! I'm testing that one...). Pete took off to work after the furniture store and I took the little boys on the rest of the trips, getting home in time for lunch and a quick nap for Rocco before the party.

Well, that was the plan. Rocco has decided that he doesn't need naps anymore and was giving me hell for having the audacity of putting him in his crib. Basically he screamed and cried at me for 45 minutes while I (being a good mom) worked on Max's spelling words from hell and read to him, all the while ignoring Rocco's tantrum. Pete called to check in and I gave him the status report of what we were doing and how a nap didn't look like it was going to happen...again. Pete swung home to take Max to the party, hoping that Rocco would have given up the fight by then - fat chance! So Pete goes upstairs and rocks Rocco. And then quiet. Seriously? I'm on my second weekend of Rocco refusing to nap and Pete goes up there for 5 minutes and the kid is out. But I am just grateful for the peace. Pete drives Max to the party and tells me that the hosts will drive Max home - the magic words every parent wants to hear! And then Pete says "Now you can have a little quiet time."  The thing is, and moms, you probably know what I'm talking about, there is a tone. A tone that implies I need quiet time. That I can't hack it and it's showing. He sounds like Mick Jagger singing "Mother's Little Helper."

I'm not sure what Pete pictures when he says I now have quiet time. Maybe he thinks I sit around painting my nails or maybe I'm taking a bath. Instead my mind instantly jumps to The List. That list you always have in the back of your head of crap you need to do but never have time to get done. The list of things that you can't do with the kids around or that would go faster without them around. I run upstairs and put laundry away. Rocco stays asleep. I put on a pot of water to make noodles for lasagna. Rocco is still quiet. I iron that stack of clothes that's been sitting in my room for 4 weeks. Quiet. I actually make the lasagna for Tuesday night. Quiet. I fold towels AND put them away - all in the same time frame. Quiet. And now here I sit, about to pay bills but hesitant because my time is fleeting. Any minute that kid is going to wake up and we will be going from 0 - 60 mph in 3 seconds. But I am refreshed, despite not sitting down this whole "quiet time." Because I actually got stuff done that needed doing. I now have the energy to make Thanksgiving decorations with Max when he comes home and will be able to run after Rocco again.

I'm not sure what Pete thinks I do during quiet time, but I'm pretty sure this isn't what he intended. Either way, I'm relatively satisfied. And maybe I'll wait to pay the bills until tonight and enjoy just a few minutes of peace and quiet.

Shock and Awe or "MOM!"

I understand that I am not the center of the universe. But my children seem to think I am. And yet, they are trying to bring me down. We have psychological warfare going on in our house and I am losing. With one kid, I had a fighting chance, but with two, I don't have a prayer. No, my children are good at what they do - Shock and Awe.

Remember Shock and Awe?  Where the US attacked and attacked until our enemy gave up? Well, this is the technique my children are using against me. But instead of missiles, it's a verbal war. From what I can tell, it works like this:
1. One child starts to tell me something. Finishing the thought is not a necessary step.
2. The other child starts to tell me something or demand my attention verbally by shouting "MOM!" Again, finishing the thought is not necessary.
3. Repeat until infinity.
The beauty of the verbal Shock and Awe assault is that it has no stopping point - at least not until bedtime. The important key to this type of attack is high frequency. Each child MUST speak within 7 seconds from the other - when the attack is going well, they could speak at the same time, yet expect me to know what the heck they are talking about.

Now the fun thing about this with a 7 year old and a 2 year old is that their strategies are different. Each begins with the customary "MOM!" - it is important to speak this with urgency, whether it is about the toilet overflowing or if you want to tell me that you like the color red. This makes sure that your victim can never let down their guard - they never know if they need to run for the plunger or simply concur that yes, red is an excellent color.

With the 7 year old, I find that not only do I 1)have to know EVERYTHING but I also 2) need to be able to remember every moment of his life in detail and 3) be able to know what he is talking about when the sentence only has a vague noun and verb. Max likes to do his talking either across the house or right under my shoulder.

The 2 year old presents some of the same strategies as the 7 year old in terms of frequency and urgency, but instead of deciphering the message, I am interpreting 2 year old language. To do this you must think of everything in the house and piece the sound of the word with the object. Life gets way more fun when the 2 year old adds verbs to his vocabulary. Rocco is always at my feet with his demands, unless he is running away from getting a time out.

What does Shock and Awe look like in my house?  Here is an example:
Max: "MOM! Guess what happened in school today?"
Rocco: "MOM!"
Me: "What Max? Yes Rocco?"
Max: "MOM! So Mrs. W was reading that book about the boy - you know, the one you haven't read."
Me: "Honey, what book is that?"
Rocco: "MOM!"
Me: "What honey?"
Max: "You know, the one about the boy? Anyway, we had two choices for lunch today. Ham sandwich or salad."
Rocco: "MOM! I see Dukey!"
Me: "Rocco, don't hit the cat. Max, what did you have?"
Max: "What?"
Me: "Max, you just said you had two choices for lunch.  What did you have?"
Rocco: "MOM! Dukey!"
Rocco: "MOM! UP!"
Max: "MOM! What are you talking about?"
Rocco: "MOM! UP!"
Me: "Rocco, hold on. Max! You just were talking about lunch."
Max:"Oh, I don't remember. Mom, you know that thing I told you about?"
Me: "What thing?"
Rocco: "UP!!! NOW!!!"
Max: "You know, the thing."
Me: "The book?"
Rocco: "MOM! I poopy!"
Max: "MOM! No, the other thing. I told you in the car going to CCD."
Me: "Rocco, let's change your diaper. Max, CCD was last week. You are going to have to give me a hint about what thing you are talking about."
Max: "Nevermind."

This NEVER ends, until it's bedtime. I actually think they just like to hear themselves talk sometimes. You might be thinking to yourself, "She is exaggerating. Peter is around. Surely the kids don't follow her around the house talking to her non-stop for hours." But they do! Peter could be in the same room as I am and the conversation never includes him. He changes rooms and the kids just keep on going.

Usually after about 30 minutes, I get that crazed look in my face. And Peter will say "Do you need a break from the kids?" Honestly, I don't. I miss the little yahoos whenever I'm not near them. But I do need a break from the non-stop conversation in my house, directed at me. If I could just get a little quiet or have a conversation at a normal pace, I would be fine. But the kids have perfected their game, understanding that the rapid succession of questions and statements means I don't have time to actually form a response to their question in my head, much less spit it out. I think they know that the more they work on this now when they are young, the greater the chances are I'll mess up when they are older and it really matters. I can see myself agreeing to a co-ed party or a new car when I was just trying to sort my way through one of these conversations. Of course, this is assuming they still talk to me when they are pre-teens and teenagers.

Please don't get me wrong. There is nothing more I love than to talk to my kids. But one at a time and please wait your turn.

Kiddie Crack or Made with "Real" Fruit Juice

Folks, we are in the middle of a drug war. This coming from the Just-Say-No-To-Drugs generation. And I must say I am ashamed of us. Myself included because I too have succumbed to temptation. Parents, you know what I am talking about. Fruit Snacks. Or as I like to call them "Kiddie Crack."

Oh sure, we all start out with the best of intentions. Even I kept them out of my house until Max was 3. Of course, all of his friends were doing it and he wanted in on the action. And some of his friends' parents would give him a bag. I'd let it slide, let him experiment with the Thomas the Train, Nemo and Trucks gummies. But I had VALUES people and kept that kind of crap out of my house, like a "good" mom. I offered real fruit snacks, like apples and raisins instead. Then things started to slide. A box of Cars fruit snacks here as a special treat, a bag of fruit snacks for Halloween.

And that's how it starts my friends.  Our little junkies, I mean darlings, start to beg for them every time we go to the grocery store or Target. At only $2.50 a box, it's a cheap high, like meth. Little dime bags of joy. Just like an addict, they'll do anything for a fix. And as a dealer, I found for a bag of sugar ("real fruit juice!") I could get my kid to sit through a 90 minute Easter mass or stop crying after a shot. Public good behavior is better than money! Next thing you know, you'll find your husband offering fruit snacks to your 2 year old just to watch him do what we call "The Fruit Snack Dance" (this is true).

I knew the moment we sunk to a new low.  We had family pictures the other weekend and used Kiddie Crack to bribe Rocco (also the fruit snack dancer) to smile, pose, follow us around. Even Max wanted in on the action. Perhaps we even shook the bag at him to get him to cooperate - you could almost hear him salivating to get his next fix of cheap corn syrup.

By now we are completely immersed in the drug culture of fruit snacks. I've tried weaning my kids from their habit and going cold turkey, but to no avail. Where is the methadone for fruit snacks I ask??  What have we done? We've lectured about smoking, safe sex, drugs and drinking, but have overlooked our new epidemic - Barbie and Friends in a bag!

As a parent, I wish I was better. But I'm not. And I will be handing out fruit snacks for Halloween this year...AGAIN.

Welcome to Animal House or Parenting 101 for 3 Credits

Today I realized that I live no better than I did in college. And I don't think my living situation will improve soon either. Let me explain.

The Sofa: Remember that really crappy hand-me-down sofa that you got from your friend that finally got married, that they got from their older brother?  To class it up, you covered it with a sheet because it was so gross? I have a couch like that now (minus the sheet - I haven't stooped that low yet, although I did use a slip cover for a year).  It didn't start that way, but my kids have destroyed it.  If by some random chance a strawberry is laying on the floor, my child will step on it and track it on to the sofa. They will spill milk on the sofa. They will vomit and bleed on my sofa. No amount of flipping the cushions will bring back the dignity of my sofa. Pete and I have talked for a few years now about how we need to replace this sofa.  But every time I think of spending money on a new sofa, I shudder to think of how quickly my children will take its value from $1000 to $0 (2 weeks top).

The "Family" Table: In college we had the piece of crap table that had mysterious stains and warps. When Pete and I moved into our house and had space and money for a new table and set of chairs, we felt very responsible and forward-thinking for purchasing the table and chair set toted to be "family friendly." Look at us, we thought, acting like mature adults, buying a table designed to withstand the rigors of children. No glass tops for us or bar stools. No, we chose a respectable table and chair set. One built to last. Now that we actually have kids, I would like to make a few recommendations to all table makers out there, claiming their tables are "family friendly":
1. Do not put any grooves in your tables. Food just gets stuck there and calcifies into the grooves that only a power sander could remove.  Gross, but I believe in transparency.
2. Please make rounded corners with bumper pads. I think every parent knows why I am asking for this.  And while you are at it, put pads underneath the table.  Hell, just make the whole damned thing padded and save us some ice and tears.
3. Cover the table in a big roll of paper that we could just rip off when we are done with a meal (or art project) - like the tables at the doctor's office or at an Italian restaurant. My table now looks like a modern art display because washable markers are a case for false advertising.
Now I know where my college table came from - some family out there finally had their kids move out and they recycled their table with the first poor college student they could find and bought a nice new table with a glass top.

The "Carpet": Once a new house, our carpet was a thing of wonder - much nicer than the flattened down, stained carpet from our previous apartments. Of course the first spill was painful, but quickly treated, it didn't show. Now that I have children, my carpet could better be described as leopard print instead of beige (a stupid color for anyone with kids anyway - should have gone with a shade of Kool Aid). If I spot treated every spot on my carpet, I would never be done - and trust me, on ambitious moments, I have tried. Occasionally we hire carpet cleaners and things look good for about a month, and then reality sets in again and I'm back to animal prints. At this point, I'm waiting until after the holidays to schedule my next carpet cleaning because there just isn't a point in doing it before we haul in a Christmas tree and spill some holiday cheer on the carpet.  I'm waiting to get my money's worth because I know clean carpet with kids is like a clean car when you live on a gravel road - fleeting.

The Meals: In college, I ate out literally every night. Pizza was the food of choice most nights, but I did like to mix it up by ordering it from different places. After I grew a little older, I found it novel to cook a meal and vary my cultural cuisine when dining out (Mexican and Chinese baby!) Since I've had kids, I've found my meal experiences have reverted back to the college days. Now chicken nuggets and pizza are the two most requested foods in my house, and when given the choice of restaurants, my kids ALWAYS choose the Golden Arches (gag!)

While I admit that there are times I miss college - skipping class on nice days, skipping class on crappy days, skipping class because my soap is on, skipping class because I was up all night not studying - I don't miss living like a college student. Yet here I am. When I invite you to dinner, you may find my table disgusting, but at least it won't matter if you spill something on the floor.  Pass the chicken nuggets and don't get me started on my roommates. They are always late with the rent.

Sometimes Being a Mom Sucks or Thank Goodness for Insurance

I usually like to keep things light.  But this week was anything but. It started with me finally taking Max to the doctor for his knee.  It has caused him pain off and on for the last 6 weeks, and being the good mom that I am, I waited to take him to get it checked out.  Really, what can't a little ice and dirt heal, right? The doctor orders x-rays, which I considered to be a major waste of time, but obliged anyway. And lo and behold, "something" is showing up on the x-rays - nothing like vague details. Trying very hard not to jump to conclusions, I scheduled an appointment with the orthopedic doctor for the next day.

Enter the next day. Max's pediatrician calls the house and says, "What's going on with Max? Do you know about his x-rays? When's he going to the orthopedic doctor?" After a longer conversation with Max's actual doctor, it turns out he thinks Max's x-ray indicates a "good sized" soft spot in his bone, either a cyst or an infection in the bone.  Good morning Panic. Nice to see you. Oh, and it's Rocco's 2nd birthday so this call puts a little damper on the Elmo guitar and new vacuum.

We take Max to the specialist, already prepped for a cancer diagnosis, when he tells us that it is a different issue entirely. After much questioning, we take a collective sigh of relief. Sum total of doctor's appointments or trips for x-rays?  3 as of Thursday morning.

To begin Friday, I actually made a point of making it a goal not to go to the doctor. As I start my commute to work I get a call from Pete that he gave Rocco milk (he's allergic to dairy, and not that cute kind of allergic that you can ignore, but the stop-breathing kind of allergic). I turn right around and run through epi-pen procedure as I speed home, praying that it really isn't THAT bad. Oh, but it is. I get home to find a very quiet, lethargic, falling "asleep", wheezing Rocco. I give him the shot of epi-pen in his leg and call 911, thinking, "Are you freaking (edited for those opposed to harder language) kidding me??!!" I have taught first aid and CPR for 8 years and still felt so at a loss. This is my baby and we almost lost him exactly 2 years ago and here we are again, going to Blank.

Fortunately, the epi-pen worked.  Well, not like Pulp Fiction - no Uma Thurman gasping, sitting bolt right up with a needle in the heart, but he started to get color back in his cheeks. And as I rode to the ER with Rocco in the ambulance, I searched my brain for SOMETHING funny about all this only to come up with nothing. Instead I focused my efforts on how to talk to my husband when I saw him next in the ER and keeping Rocco alert. Success on both fronts, by the way, through Herculean strength and compassion. Doctor/x-ray/ER count now up to 4  from Monday - Friday.

This brings us to Saturday. I am emotionally exhausted and physically shot. I really just need one normal, decent day. Instead Saturday night I was up half the night with a crying Rocco - for no apparent reason - choosing to sleep on the floor of his room instead of wearing a path in the carpet from my room to his and since I am no longer 7, destroyed my back in the process of my impromptu camp out. Instead of an ambitious Sunday of running 7 miles and packing the kids up for church, I crawled (literally) out of Rocco's room and made my way downstairs where Peter had thankfully made me a pot of coffee.

Which brings me to two clear conclusions to wrap up the week. One, sometimes being a mom just sucks. Sometimes there really isn't anything good in having your entire being wrapped up in the well-being of someone else, so that when there is bad news it is more personal than if it actually happened to you. And moms, I know you know what I mean. When your kids are in pain or suffering, there really isn't anything more devastating. And when I can't find something funny about the situation, you know it's one of those moments where you just have to pull through, suck it up, and hope to be able to live to tell the story the next day. And it was one of those weeks. A Mom Marathon. Oh, and let's not forget that work, after-school activities, and the like keep on going, regardless of your crappy hour/day/week. But tonight (Sunday), both boys jumped into my chair and snuggled up to me and I thought, "This is why I am a mom." Oh, and conclusion number two? Thank goodness for health insurance!

Here's hoping I get a full night of sleep in my own room!

A Fun Family Tradition, Even If It Kills Me or Smile Dammit! or Stupid Parenting 101

Today was going to be a great day. We were going to my favorite apple orchard for the Fall Festival - something we do every year. We were going to buy apples, eat treats, pet the animals, ride on a haywagon, make a candle, go through the straw maze and take the annual picture in front of the pumpkins. The weather was great. The only other thing we had to do today was have Max at scouts to sell popcorn at 3 p.m. Easy Peasy - I can fit more activities into half this time and I had a whole leisurely day for these two commitments. I couldn't wait.

And it turns out I didn't have to wait for the day to begin.  Because at 4:30 a.m. I woke up to the sound every parent hates to hear, second only to puking, The Cough. From 4:30 - 5:30 a.m. I listened to Rocco cough in his sleep.  He gave up at 5:30 a.m. and beckoned (screamed) for me. Now as a seasoned parent, coughs shouldn't bother me.  You can ignore it because there's not much you can do at this stage in the game - it will either get better or worse but at this point, you wait.  Except that one of the fun things about having a kid with food allergies is that eczema and asthma come along as side orders. So when Rocky coughs, we get to break out the nebulizer and run for the steroids.

"No biggie" I think. Pete and I give him a breathing treatment and wait for the cough to go away. I even take a (crappy) run. I get back and lo and behold, the cough is worse. Way worse. "Cool" I think "I've still got this under control." I go for the predinosone. I start squirting the medicine into Rocco's mouth and watch him gag. Then I watch him barf. Over and over. Pete looks at me and asks if he should call the clinic. I'm going to zip through this part of the story because it involves puke flying, Pete not knowing what number to call and us getting into a yelling match.  The details will be funny, but not quite yet. So that's a story for another time. In the end, we make a typical Saturday morning doctor's appointment.  I say typical because my kids are never sick on a M-F from 8 a.m. - 4:30 p.m. They are only sick after 5 p.m. and on weekends.

By now, my vision of the apple orchard has pretty much gone up in smoke. We all drag to the doctor, get a new script for a different type of steroid, do another breathing treatment and then head to the pharmacy. Everyone is pretty bummed at the turn of events. And then Peter says what will alter the course of the day completely "You know, I bet we can still make it to the orchard and back in time for Max to be at scouts at 3 p.m."

For once, my common sense takes control and screams "No! It can't be done! The orchard is over an hour away. It's 11 a.m. We'd be there for 15 minutes and have to go home. Rocco is sick and has been up since 5:30 a.m. Hell, I've been up since 4:30 a.m. We don't have lunch yet and we'd have to eat before we go. It's too tight. For the love of God, use some self control for once and don't try to do the impossible." And then I think of The Picture. The one I get of the kids in front of the pumpkins EVERY YEAR. This Fall Festival is a fall family tradition, with photo documentation. If we miss it, we will completely mess up the order of the pictures. And this one small detail is what sets me over the edge and makes me agree to the Worst. Decision. Ever.  We decide to go for it.

We call my folks and say the orchard is back on. We think we can do it. We hit McDonald's, encourage the kids to inhale their food (two great things for kids when you are trying to instill healthy eating habits), give Rocco his new medicine, which he doesn't puke up.  I take this as a sign that this day will be successful after all. We load into the car, make a quick stop at the grandparents' house to get them and head to the orchard.

We get to the orchard a little before 1 p.m. We speed through a few of the activities, skipping things that would require sitting down. Everything is packed into bags instead of eaten on site. We scramble through making an "experience" in 30 minutes.  Then we load into the car and head for home. A little behind schedule.  Crap. Oh, and then there's the sick toddler who is now far behind his nap routine. Hmm...a recipe for disaster?  Surely not! Pete reassures me that Rocco will quit crying within a few minutes of the drive home. Nope! We hear about our stupid parenting decision (in not so many words) for the entire 70 minute drive home. We get home with 7 minutes to 1) find Max's scout shirt, 2) get him to put it on and 3) rebutton all of the buttons because he never lines the buttons up correctly the first time.  Pete deals with the shirt dilemma while I convince a now hysterical toddler that it is time for a nap, a late nap, but one nonetheless.

I sit here now, mulling over my choices for the day. If we had stayed home, Rocco and Max would have had some down time, naps would have been on the agenda, and we wouldn't have had to rush and listen to screaming for over an hour. I'm asking myself, maybe we should have skipped the tradition this year for sanity's sake. However, I did get The Picture. And my scrapbook (the one in my head because I don't have time to make one) will be complete.

Church Night Sailor Style

A few things you should know about me. 1. I'm Catholic. 2. As such, I usually carry around guilt about one thing or another. 3. I swear like a sailor. I'd like to give my mom credit for at least 2 of the three.  Because of her, I'm Catholic, born and raised. Not super devout mind you, but I did my time in CCD (religious education) classes and graduated as full-fledged Catholic.  Because of my mom, I also swear like a sailor.  What's awesome about my mom is that she doesn't even know when she swears.  A "shit" will fly out and as I give her a look for saying it around my kids, she really doesn't even know she's said it. 

Back to the guilt...Max has religious education now until he is a sophomore in high school (sorry buddy!). And every year I feel bad about not signing up to be his teacher. Somehow one of the things about being Catholic that I have embraced is the ability to feel guilty about everything. So this year, I decided I would volunteer to teach his second grade class and give myself a little peace of mind.  If it makes me a better person because of it, well, I'll just have to bear that burden (ha!).

Tonight is the first night I lead Max's class and I'm a bit nervous.  I'm not super "churchy". I've got a belief system that's probably a blend of many things and I'm a bit private about it.  So religious education teacher is the perfect role for me (note dripping sarcasm). Other than being completely out of my element, there is one other small concern I have. I tend to swear like my mom, meaning that some of my favorite phrases might contain a few choice words, like hell, dammit and balls.

I have debated with Peter whether these are actually cuss words. He seems to think "Whatthehell!" might count as swearing. I'm trying to curb it (sort of). Every year at Lent, I try to give up swearing - I'm just not successful. No joke, one year during Lent, I stepped in a puddle and said "God Dammit! I just stepped into a Goddamn fucking puddle!" Then Pete gave me that knowing look and I said "SHIT! I totally swore! Goddamn it!" I believe I am a lost cause. I think it's genetic.

So tonight I am a bit nervous that as I am teaching these young minds, I might accidentally pop out a reliable "What The Hell?" And you'd think that being in church would help remind me to keep my tongue in check. But maybe I'm the only parent out there where church brings it out in her more. Because when I take my kids to church, I'm hard pressed to have a day that I don't say "if you don't sit up straight and pay attention, I'm taking your Goddamn ds away for the next week!" And that's just slips out - I can't even tell you what I say in my head.

Welcome to Church Night - Sailor Style. Ahoy Mates! Wish me luck.

My Adult "Choices" or Bring the Gerbil a Damn Donut Already

I try to be a cool mom.  For example, when I have to run tons of errands and get to have two little "helpers" with me, I always try to mix in a few fun things with the real stops.  So we'll go for a haircut (with suckers DURING the cut, not after), Target (with a stop in the Pokemon and vacuum aisles), the pet store just for fun (where I use silly voices running commentary about how the gerbils really wish someone would just bring them a freakin' donut for once because gerbil food sucks), the grocery store, and finally the park for a picnic.  And inevitably I will hear at the end of the day, "All we did today were things that were YOUR choice, and nothing that was MY choice." My attempts of being a cool mom erased for the day by needing to stop for a gallon of milk.

And I stop for reflection when I hear that the whole day has been my choice.  Even at the ripe age of 34, I have never considered going to the grocery store, dry cleaners, another grocery store for the one thing the first one didn't have, the vet, and the bank as things that I actually want to do.  What I would really like to do is lay in bed (while my clone works out simultaneously so I get the benefits of exercise without the effort), reading a book, while people constantly refill my coffee cup with the correct proportion of coffee to milk.  I'd watch movies, talk to my friends, nap, sleep, nap again, then maybe get out of bed to go shopping for fun things, not food.  Then I'd eat pizza EVERY NIGHT because 1) it is easy and 2) I like pizza.  These are the choices I would make if I were actually making choices.  And I would implement a rule where the word "mom" could only be uttered once every 10 minutes (current rate is once every 3 minutes - seriously, you could time it).  But the last time I checked, nothing gets done if I sit around in bed all day (not that I've tested this because I've never had the chance).  And feeding your family pizza every night is close to child abuse.  Or at least worthy of a serious guilt trip.  Like the time I complained to Rocco's doctor about how much he loves to eat Poptarts.  And the doctor told me then (with a TONE) that the only one to be blamed was the person buying the Poptarts.  Ugh - I KNOW! - another example of my "choice" gone wrong.

So for now, it appears my "choices" include cleaning, shopping trips where I only come home with food, paying bills I don't want to, and cooking somewhat nutritious foods.  Things have certainly changed since I was 20.  But then again I occasionally get the guilty pleasures of watching Disney movies again and talking in silly squeaky voices in public as I narrate the life of a gerbil without feeling too stupid.  And if it really was my choice, I'd bring that gerbil a donut.  He's been asking for one forever.

Testosterone Vs Estrogen Or No Wonder Mars Is A Gaseous Planet No One Can Live On

It's been awhile since I posted.  Why?  Because my children are sucking the life blood out of me slowly - but that's another story for another time.

Tonight's topic?  Yet again, bathroom humor.  I realized tonight with a sense of hopelessness that I will ALWAYS be outnumbered in my house and ALWAYS find bathroom humor to be tasteless.  But I am surrounded by testosterone and my life will consist of fart jokes and potty comments.  A few examples these past few days really hit this home.

1. Unfortunately this weekend the Rockstar had a bout of the stomach bug that presented itself as diarrhea.  There was a point on Saturday that Rock's newest deposits were announced by such trumpeting that you would have thought a whole horn section entered my living room.  Seriously, Rock is a tiny thing and even I had to admit, this was impressive (although gross).  The Moose of course found this to be the funniest thing he had ever seen (heard!) and was doubled over.  The Rock, who is taking a course called "Max 101", started laughing right along with him - complete with slapping pillows at the hilarity.  Okay, this was a little funny on the respect that I love to hear my kids laugh, but it also meant I was grabbing a new diaper and pair of pants.  To top this off, Rock's little stomach bug prevented me from going out with my girlfriend for her bachelorette party that night (Pete was out of town). Now before you go all sarcastic "poor Jenny" on me, please note that the last time I went out for dinner with girlfriends was April 2.  For real.  Needless to say, I needed a night out and not 6 blow outs instead, but once a Mom always a Mom.  But I digress...

2. My children inherit their "noisiness" from their father.  Tonight while showering the kids, perhaps Peter was a little "loud."  And my kids (both of them) cracked up like they were at a comedy club.  Locker room and frat party scenarios flashed through my mind like they say your life does in near-death moments.  And I realized that I do not have enough estrogen to carry this house. 

3. Finally, our pediatrician's office has this awesome program where they give the kids books at their well-child appointments.  The last one Rock got is called "Have you seen my potty?" - appropriate, if not optimistic, that an 18-month old would be thinking about potty training, but I'm on board.  Turns out Rock LOVES this book.  Please, let me quote it for you (these lines are no joke):
"It's a thing for pooing in. Hey I need to poo!  Me too!"
"Hurry up with the poo-pot, we're desperate here."
"Always poo with a poo-pot under your bottom!"
Sigh.  How does a toddler decide that this book is the one he needs to hear multiple times a night?  Really?  And who the heck thinks up this crap (pardon the pun)? 

To summarize...I am outnumbered and my mothering goals have changed.  No longer am I shooting for Ivy League schools and raising Pro Athletes who become doctors who volunteer for Doctors Without Borders.  No, now my goals are to teach my children to not laugh at farting and actually show manners, at least around their dates.  And in the mean time, I also need to improve their choice in literature - I'm not giving up on the Ivy League thing yet.  

One Step Forward, Poo Steps Back

Warning: This post is not for the weak hearted.

It is important that you understand that I hate everything and anything that resembles bathroom humor or bodily functions.  I don't talk about it, I don't want to hear about it.  But unfortunately I have found the past two nights have had highs and lows all surrounding one thing: poo.

First, I want to start on a very high note.  Although Rocky is not quite two, he is very verbal about his potty habits.  The books always say that if your child can tell you that he is poopy, etc., then he is ready to potty train.  Well I've found that to be a bit of crap (pardon the pun).  Max never told us anything and he potty trained just fine.  And it was fine with me because I really didn't want to talk about his potty needs.  I don't want to hear about size, shape, smell.  Peter, well, he is more than willing to discuss these details with Max.  I typically leave the room.  Anyway, last night Rocco looked at us and said "I poop on potty!" and then ran for the bathroom.  We obliged and took off his diaper and put him on the potty.  And sure enough, he actually pooped.  Despite my aversion to bathroom stuff, I did a full dance with clapping.  Everyone was singing, I texted the world and called my parents. I was so happy about this first positive potty experience for Roc.  It literally made my night.

So tonight we are still riding the potty high, but have heard nothing from Rock about needing to use the potty.  No matter, I was happy that it happened once - obviously my child is gifted, which I have always known.  Peter and I were busy - very busy - in the kitchen doing important parent things like talking to Pete's mom on the phone and doing dishes.  This is a crucial detail so you don't think we are just lazy parents that let our kids run amuck.  Max hollers out "I think someone has a poopy diaper in here."  I go to inspect and something definitely is not right.  I look over and there on the floor is poo.  And more poo.  I look over at Rocco, who of course has it all over his hands, just in time to see he has developed an itch on his nose.  And he of course scratches - I'm not going to give you the graphic details because 1) I don't like talking about this stuff and 2) I've already said too much.

It's funny that in a moment of poo crisis, while Pete and I are looking frantically around, waiting for people in hazmat suits to come sweeping in, Max only looked up briefly from his dsi to survey the scene and kept on playing.  Long story short, it took two of us to wipe the exterior poo issues enough to take care of the interior poo issues and Rocco ended up in the bathtub with a strong warning that poo is never a toy. 

And as I sit here typing, still recovering from this traumatic night, it is not lost on me that poo brought me total elation last night and complete panic tonight.  And Rocco has found two "fun" ways to get attention.  Let's hope from now on he chooses the former rather than the latter.  But knowing him and his little personality, I'm just going to be grateful for the nights that I don't find a bathroom in the living room.  And I'm going to keep the box of wet wipes within an arm's reach at all times.

I Am Mom, Hear Me Roar

Something inside me changed the day we drove Max home from the hospital after giving birth.  Yes, I felt that amazing warm fuzzy genuine unconditional love that comes with having a child.  But I also felt a deep gutteral "Don't F with my baby or I will rip you limb from limb" instinct that can be only be attributed to our animalistic nature.  Which brings us to today's subject: messing with my kid

I have NO tolerance for bullying.  Today I heard a sad story about one of Moose's friends getting picked on at recess.  And a sense of sadness and anger came over me simultaneously. It seems that second graders have dropped that "everyone is your friend" mantra we have been drilling into them since they could walk over and bite their friends at daycare.  Max is not the only one to mention kids this year being a little feistier than last year (I think feistier is a better word than the one I'd really like to use).  Moose has been upset more than once by a particular kid calling out all of Max's faults, whether it was a bad kick in soccer or a bad pass in football.  Now, please don't think I'm one of those parents who only praises.  I'm not.  When Max told me that someone shouted "bad pass" to him at football the other day, I said in my best mom moment "Well, yeah.  It was a bad pass.  When the other team catches it, that's not a good pass."  But I'm his mom and feel as though these moments of truth come best from me than some kid that will remind Max of his mistake everytime he throws a crappy pass.  And for the record, it wasn't a good pass...

And here is my moment of true inner struggle.  It's when you feel kind of happy about something bad.  I'm not alone here - Pete admits to feeling the same way.  So we are just bad parents together and if you don't want my kid to playdate with your kid anymore, please know that we feel just as protective of Max's friends as we do our own kid so maybe we aren't really all that awful.  But this boy that likes to point out Moose's mistakes was playing football against Moose yesterday.  And Pete said Max totally plowed him over during a play.  It could be chalked up to good defense on Max's part.  But we kind of wonder if Max was a little more aggressive than usual because of his pent up resentment against this kid.  And we kind of feel a little bad that we are glad Max was able to get back just a little bit for the harassment, even though we don't advocate extreme roughness during kids' sports - it was noted between Pete and I that Max did say he was sorry for knocking the kid down.  But maybe if you run your mouth off to my kid and he outweighs you by 20 pounds, perhaps sometimes you might find yourself on your butt during a football play.  And as a parent, I know I shouldn't, but I feel a little better knowing Max got his due.  I'm blaming my reaction to those animalistic instincts.  Just call me Mama Bear. 

If I Only Had a Brain....

I guess I should be honored that my son Maximus thinks I know everything.  He comes to me with every question he can think of and is always surprised if I don't know the answer.  I'm sure this trend will reverse and he will eventually get to the point where he is positive I don't know anything and am perhaps the dumbest person around.  Sadly, his little brother Rocky already gives me that look that screams "you are so dumb!" but for now, Max still thinks I am a genius.

Which brings us to a little problem.  I am not a boy.  Now, never before has this been an issue for me.  I've not met many limitations of being a woman other than long lines at restrooms, which is stupid because we are also the same gender that gets stuck with public bathroom duty when it comes to the kids too and we all know that kids can't wait to use the bathroom like we can.  But I digress...

No, the issue is that I don't have a penis.  Or testicles.  Again, I was fine with this, but it has become a problem lately because I am also supposed to know everything, according to Max.  I am so glad that Max still feels open to ask us everything and this is something we encourage him to do.  Unfortunately though, instead of choosing who to ask based on subject, he always comes to me first with his questions.  And lately, I've been stumped because they are about penises (peni? - what's plural here?).  I don't want to get into too many details here, but let's just say I have had my lack of penis knowledge pointed out to me on more than one occasion.  Here is a brief list of things I don't know:
1.  Why it tingles on a roller coaster.
2. Why testicles hurt sometimes.
3. What the insides of testicles look like.
4. Why they are called nuts or balls (I try to stress using just anatomical language...unsuccessfully.)

I've had to refer Max to the "expert" in our house, Peter.  This designation is based purely on anatomy.  Turns out Pete doesn't know all the answers either.  At least I'm not alone.  Just unqualified.

Oh Yeah? Well My Kid Is So Smart, He's Dumb!

I know we all think that WE have the smartest kids.  But my kids really are really smart.  Moose is a wiz at math and he's mature beyond his 7 years.  Rocky is not quite two, but showing signs of being scary smart.  And thus the topic of the night.  My kids are so smart, they are dumb.

That doesn't sound good.  Of course my kids aren't dumb.  I just said they are smart.  But they are so smart that they are dumb in their own special ways, sometimes edging towards the level of stupid.  Before you think I'm a bad mom (maybe you are already there), hear me out.

Max is now at the age where sarcasm, active ignoring (as opposed to active listening), and sass have entered our lives and invaded at a rapid speed.  Max is smart enough to know what it means to do just the request at hand, and not a step further.  For example, tonight we asked him to find his pjs.  He KNOWS this is followed by taking a shower.  Yet, I found him downstairs milling around. 
"What are you doing?" I asked. 
"Nothing," says Moose.  
"Aren't you supposed to be taking a shower?"
"Dad just told me to find my pjs.  So I did."
Max knows that I can't really argue with this.  We did just ask him to find his pjs.  But he's smart enough to know that he should be jumping in the shower too, but since we didn't specifically tell him to, he could get away with wandering aimlessly through the house.  This is purposeful stupidity.  He's not stupid, quite the contrary.  But he's acting stupid on purpose to prove a point.  I don't know if you can understand what I'm trying to explain here, but I think if you have had a 7 year old living in your house, you probably know exactly what I'm talking about.  It makes me crazy.  I swear by the time he's 18, he will be thinking independently, as well as wanting to take a shower without being asked. 

Now Rocco is a different matter.  Rocco is scary smart.  It actually frightens me.  But he's so smart that he does really dumb things because he's figured out ways to be super dangerous.  Like turning on the fireplace by standing on the toy bus with wheels.  Or prying off the outlet covers so he can plug in the vacuum.  Or standing on the chair that is already put up on top of the table so he can jump higher.  You get the point.  He's brilliant but like any scientist, has to test every theory before he stumbles on the right one.  Unfortunately, his experiments are on himself and lead to really dumb consequences. 

So while my children are very smart, this leads them to dumb behavior.  One acts dumb on purpose while the other takes my breath away with his stupid "tricks."  Harvard, here we come!

A Sober Disappointment or Everyone Knows a Good Mom Drinks More

Tonight I managed to disappoint my oldest son without even trying.  I'm used to being a let down because I don't let him play his DSi until he develops a tic or because I question the 27th piece of candy he's eating or because I make him go to bed before I do.  But tonight I seemed to have sunk to a new low.  The problem?  I don't drink more.  Not water, milk, or juice.  Wine.  Maximus thinks I don't drink enough wine. 

How did I come to this conclusion?  Pete came upstairs while I was putting the Rockstar to bed and said Moose was upset and only wanted to talk to me.  Apparently Moose was in tears and Pete was grinning so I knew I was going to be hit with a doozy.   Thankfully Pete gave me warning because I would have laughed out loud at Max if I hadn't been prepared.  About a month ago Max brought me home a wine opener from his vacation with my folks.  This wine opener has sat, mostly unused, in my kitchen drawer, out of sight.  Somehow, completely out of the blue, Max remembered it and was beside himself that I hadn't used it much yet. 

What a funny situation.  When we were younger, we disappointed our parents with our poor judgment with drinking - heck, I've even disappointed myself sometimes!  But this was the first time I've disappointed my son because I don't drink enough.  So the next time I pop open a bottle of wine, I will be doing it so my son can be pleased with me.  Because everyone knows a glass of wine makes Mom a little happier, and I guess it makes her son happier too.  That's what I call taking one for the team.

She's Not Homeless, She's Just a Mom

I don't think I've worn clean clothes in 7 years.  I always start the day wearing something fresh mind you, but somehow by the end of the day, one of my kids has managed to "mark his territory" on my pants or shirt.  It all started with Maximus.  For awhile on maternity leave, I wouldn't even second glance when he would pee on my shirt during a diaper change (can we say post-postpartum???).  When I went back to work, I would go dressed to work unscathed, but when I would visit him at the daycare, I would walk away with a big blob of spit up running down my leg.  Usually I didn't see this until I had greeted about 7 people first. 

Tonight I narrowly missed getting caught by the flying purple Kool-Aid right before dinner (note to self, no more purple Kool Aid).   

And I don't know how, but I seem to have drawn the short straw when it comes to sitting next to the youngest kid at the dinner table.  Right now I sit next to Rocco.  I thought I was in the clear as we finished up dinner.  But then I looked down and noticed I had salsa down the front of my shirt and on my sleeve.  That was just before he grabbed my pants (black of course) and left something all over my leg.  I'm not even sure what it is but it shows up on black.

What's the most sad is that the state of my clothes doesn't even phase me anymore when I run over to the neighbor's or to the grocery story.  So folks, next time you see a woman walking around with unrecognizable stains on her shirt and a glob of fruit snack in her hair (hard to get out by the way), know that she doesn't lack the basics in hygiene, she's just a mom.

Toddlers Are Sponges or Why 7 Year Olds Aren't Teachers

Toddlers are amazing little beings.  They learn so much in the first few years and I've always had my suspicions that they are way smarter than they initially let on (this is a smart thing to do in and of itself.)  Rocco is closing in on the 2-year mark and his vocabulary has really taken off.  He repeats everything he hears, which, as Peter has found out, means that we really have to start watching what we say (or Peter really needs to start watching what he says).  I try teaching Rocco words like "watermelon," and "tractor."  Peter tries to avoid making him sound like a sailor.
Yesterday I took the kids for a trip to Target.  First, it's important to note that since Max is a 7-year old boy, all he thinks about is Pokemon.  I suppose I will fondly wish to get back to this stage when he is 17 and is thinking about something quite different, but for right now, the Pokemon thing is a bit annoying. Anyway, I use this little car trip as a learning opportunity for Rocco, pointing out and naming things along the route.  He seems mostly uninterested.  Then Max starts to "help" by trying to get Rocco to repeat Pokemon names.  And sure enough, in seconds Rocco is saying "Oshawott" which if you don't have a 7-year old boy, is a Pokemon.  Really?  This is what we are soaking into Rocco's moldable sponge-like little brain?  Pokemon names?  What if we reach Rocco's brain capacity and all he has in it is Pokemon names and swear words?  I am instantly flashing ahead to 7 more years of Pokemon as Rocco goes through the phase.  Freaking Pokemon!

Unlimited Characters

I hate Twitter.  140 characters is hardly enough for me to even start telling a story.  I know there are very talented people out there that are good at summing up all of their thoughts in 140 characters.  I am not one of them.  As it is I talk too much and could be described as "wordy" on a good day.  Facebook is fun, but (no surprise) sometimes even 420 characters is too little for what I want to say.  Enter the blog.

I used to think blogging was stupid too.  But it does feed my ego and people have commented that I should write a book about my Facebook posts.  Let's be real.  No one would want to read a whole book from me and I'm too busy to sit down and write one.  So enter the blog.

As for the name "Unlimited Characters," I think my rant about Twitter above explains why I chose the title.  That and the fact I don't want to be limited on what I write about.  I have many interesting people in my life, the most interesting ones happen to be under 5 feet tall.  I happen to think they are pretty funny.  Maybe you will too.