My face, my face, my face is on fire…

Some days it’s great to be a parent.

And some days it conjures up feelings quite like those you experience while having the “back in high school without your pants on” dream.  Yes, sweaty, red-faced, I kinda-want-to-puke feelings.  Like the time one of my children told the baby sitter that his mama told him that boys have penises and girls have “dirty chinas.” (You guessed it…she’s Asian.)  But that isn’t the story I wanted to tell you today.  Instead I would like to take you to Thing Two’s preschool for just a moment, if I could:

“Ms. ______, can I have a word with you?” asked the preschool administrator when I arrived to pick up Thing Two the other day.

Me: “Of course!” (Said in my best perky mom Fakey McFake-Fake everything’s peachy keen voice. In the meantime inner voice screams: Oh crap, what did he do, paint a fellow classmate against their will again? )

Uppity Admin: “One of our staff members overheard the kids singing a song out on the playground…one they told us was taught to them by your child. It was a tad…well, we deemed it just a bit inappropriate.”

Me: “Ohhhh…noooo…” (Inner voice says: This is B’s fault, I know it!  I wonder which lovely little ditty of his cause this debacle…I bet it was “I’m eating boogers.”  I’m seriously going to kill him…this is so embarrassing…)

Uppity Admin: “They were saying….I don’t remember the exact words, let me grab my assistant, he was with them when the incident took place.”:

Me: “Okay, no problem!” ( Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu…wait…did she actually just say “song in question?” “INCIDENT?!” Give me a bre…)

Enter sheepish shit-eating grin teenaged-assistant-creature: “Hi.  Uhhh, yeah.  Do you want me to just, like, sing it for you?”

Me: “Umm, sure.” (Inner voice: please don’t let it be the diarrhea song!)

Smiling Ass (istant): “The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…”

Me: “Oh man, I am so sorry, you can stop right there…” (Oops.  My cd. okay, I’ll repent.  No more of mommy’s music on the way to school, I’ll buy Sesame Street’s greatest hits or something, please just make this pimply faced rat stop singing at me before he gets to the cursing! )

Smiling Ass (istant): “the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…”

Me: “No, really you don’t have to go on…I apologize, I’ll talk to him…”

Smiling Ass (istant): (I am pretty sure he is ENJOYING my pain at this point…) “We don’t need no water…”

And just in time for the grand finale of my humiliation, over hops the preschooler “in question” to add (at the top of his lungs, I might add):

“Let the mother pucker burn!”

Thanks, kid.

Happy Friday everyone.  Please, make me feel better by sharing some embarrassing moments of your own.  What has a child in your life done that mortified you?  Or perhaps you are young enough to remember your own mortifying childhood behaviors.  Share!  And have an amazing embarrassment free and fun-filled weekend!

Trick-or-tart?

Tell me dear friends, when exactly Halloween stopped being about the treats…

And started being all about looking like a trick?

Back in my day we didn’t have a whole lot of options, but that was okay. Mom could glue some black triangles of felt to a headband, paint some whiskers on my face, pin a tail on my butt and bam! A happy little kitty skipped off to roam the neighborhood in search of candy.

But the simplistic homemade costumes of yesteryear don’t fly anymore; my boys want to be something scary, high-tech and sophisticated, and alas,  I am not able to create masterpieces for them. I lack the time and more importantly, the Susie homemaker gene. Yes, my complete lack of artistic craftiness sent us out to search the world– and more specifically a building that is vacant 10 months out of the year– for some spooky-ookie costume goodness.

That’s right, we turned to the professionals: the seasonal Halloween store. I was expecting ghouls, monsters, aliens, vampires - in other words, I was expecting some options for a couple of hyper-active little boys. I mean, isn’t that a rather large consumer demographic for this particular festivity? Apparently not. I came to a revelation as I stood there, mouth agape, in the doorway of the inappropriately named “Halloween Town.”

Halloween Town has become Slut City.

When exactly did Girls Gone Wild become the official sponsor for Halloween? Because it’s just asinine, and really ladies…it’s beneath us to accept it.

What I found within the store was 35 assorted hooker suits for every 1 traditional child costume. Elaborate and extensive collections of glorified underwear for women, who otherwise wouldn’t be caught dead out and about without their pants on, any other day of the week. Ohhhhh… but this one night a year, it’s whores galore, kids, whores galore! The women’s’ attire (stripperwear) looked lush and expensive, the ONE row of kids costumes were cheap and infantile.

Two choices folks, dress like a baby or a girl that’s going to make one if she’s not careful

Next year I might just have to bribe one of my craftier friends to help me. We’ll macrame some costumes…do people still macrame? No probably not, but we’ll make the damn things somehow.  Because the retail stores aren’t doing me any favors.

If only my little boys wanted to be pirate wenches for Halloween, things would be so much easier… I already have eye liner and tube tops and I could easily fashion the top of one of my bathing suits into matching eye patches….the costume would practically take care of itself. Of course grandpa may not be so thrilled about taking the salty lil’ sea dogs trick or treating this year…but I digress.

C’mon, costumes are supposed to be for the kids, not the kinks. When did we trade in bags of candy for eye candy? If you want to dress up like a naughty nurse…do what grown-ups do…and do it on a Tuesday! Do it when the sex has gotten a little blah. Do it because you already get paid to be a nurse and there’s a really hot prospect in the critical care ward that you’re trying to cozy up to.  Halloween is suppose to be tootsie rolls and candy corn…not titties hos and hand jobs. Good grief.

But apparently Halloween has become for the sexually repressed what St Patrick’s Day is for lightweight drinkers…amateur night. And the Halloween Town’s of the world are reaping the benefits. Girls are willing to drop 70 bucks a pop for a glittery piece of dental floss, some sequins and a butt ruffle, why wouldn’t the retailers take advantage?

But me, I just don’t understand this one night a year excuse to dress like a street-walking witch in search of a halfhearted broom ride. I’m comfortable dressing like a libidinous librarian any night of the week. I don’t need a stinkin’ CHILDREN’S holiday to tell me when I can and cannot let my inner-slut shine through. Don’t wait for the calendar to tell you when you can be sexually adventurous. Own your inner freak. Own it!

And let the kids have their flipping holiday back.

Thank you.

and Adieu

Happy Halloween, ladies and gents!  What do you think about my rant up there?  Did I go too far, or are you as annoyed by the take over as I am?  What was Halloween like when you were a kid? Do you think kids have it better or worse than we did?  And what are you doing tonight?!

PS: there is a riCOCKulous response to this at pointlessbanter.net Go read, you know, if you have nothing better to do.

Ridiculous Stupidity

It is not often that something grates my last nerve to the point where I want to grab the largest soap box in sight. In fact, it is rare that something crawls under my skin to such a degree that I must share it with anyone willing to listen. Who am I kidding? Occasionally, I am compelled to share the details regardless of such willingness. Every so often, I get a case of “let-me-shove-my-opinion-down-your-throat-itis.”

This past week, I have suffered (along with those around me) a massive case of the disease. Maybe it was the full moon. Maybe it was just time to balance my positive energy with back to back negativity. Our unseasonably warm October turned cold and rainy. I didn’t mind the weather as much as the sinus-ear infection it caused my daughter. When my kids aren’t feeling well, I tend to feel the same. Still, I was grateful for the shift to cooler weather.

I was not so grateful for our son’s baseball coach. I struggled immeasurably when he insisted our kids come play baseball in the rain one night. My opinions were not kept to myself. Low and behold, the opposing team did not have enough kids prepared to play in the drizzling, dark wetness. Instead of asking the parents, he made a decision to reschedule the game to a day where three of us could not be there. Oh, joy! I was just glad that I was not the only parent wishing he had taken the option of a forfeit from the other team.

Weather and moonlight aside, I allowed the negative energy to grab a hold of me. It’s like a domino effect. The minute you allow one thing to bother you, other things will quickly follow suit. I had to identify the root of my own issue. It was Mr. Mercedes Man. The only way to expel him and rid myself of “let-me-shove-my-opinion-down-your-throat-itis” is to share his evil ways. Or my own ridiculous stupidity.

On my commute home the other day, Mr. Mercedes Man decides to get *thisclose* to my economical Ford Focus. Granted, the back roads I use for my commute are picturesque and filled with luxury vehicles. Still, I don’t feel out of place or uncomfortable. Well, until you get so close to my ass that there should be a tube of Astroglide serving as your hood ornament. Yes, he was that close.

Tailgating to that degree qualifies him for asshat status in the Book of Carol. However, looking into my rear view mirror, I noticed a boy who could not have been more than five-years-old sitting in the front seat. I would peg him at maybe 45 pounds. Small kid. Despite my obvious tailgating discomfort, this absolutely sent me into a tizzy.

As a mother, I attempt to refrain from passing judgment on others. Don’t laugh. Really, I do my best to keep my opinions to myself. I won’t even venture down the path of spewing the Tennessee State Law. Okay, I will. Here are the exact specifications for young children:

• Children age one (1) through age three (3), and weighing more than twenty (20) pounds, must be secured in a child safety seat in a forward facing position in the rear seat, if available, or according to the child safety restraint system or vehicle manufacturer’s instructions.
• Children age four (4) through age eight (8), and measuring less than four feet nine inches (4′9″) in height, must be secured in a belt-positioning booster seat system, meeting federal motor vehicle safety standards in the rear seat, if available, or according to the child safety restraint system or vehicle manufacturer’s instructions.

It is not just the fact it’s a law which bothers me. Mr. Mercedes Man seems to think that his child is beyond the reach of every other bad driver on our roads. Clearly, his luxury sedan offered a back seat. Clearly, if he can afford a Mercedes, purchasing the proper booster seat should not be an issue. Instead, he chooses to defy the law, put his child in harm’s way and totally aggravate me in the process. To me, risking the safety of a child is both selfish and stupid. It was the catalyst for my bad case of “let-me-shove-my-opinion-down-your-throat-itis.” But, in the end, I know I let it happen.

Easily, this entire episode could have led me down a very different route.

Dammit, self-awareness!

Just as love begets love, perhaps ridiculous stupidity begets ridiculous stupidity.

What about you? What seemingly small thing can set your temper a-flare, or drive you crazy? Do you tend to feel irritated or sick when those close to you are not feeling their wheaties? Please, for the love of all that is ridiculous…share something that gives you a dose of what I felt this week!

And then I became pregnant…

Before I had my first son I wasn’t really a fan of children. I didn’t dislike them, but I wasn’t that girl either; you know, the one cooing and peek-a-boo-ing and pawing my friends kids at the holiday bbqs. The offspring of others were just cute little creatures that I knew very little about, and had even less to do with. This was totally okay with me.

And then I became pregnant.

I was in a panic. I knew nothing about this position I had just been nominated for! Damn, perhaps I should have spent less time playing basketball and more time babysitting as a teenager! Why had I tuned out my older cousins when they discussed breast versus bottle, stroller versus snugglie, and all that other crap I didn’t understand? I was frightened and clueless, so I turned where any library nerd would turn…to the books.

This only made my situation worse, because not even the so-called experts could agree on what was good parenting and what wasn’t. I consumed book after book during my nine months of “prep time” and grew more worried with each passing day. Then came that dreaded day; my baby joined me in the outside word…uncontained and helpless in my ill-prepared arms.

I went through several weeks of chaos and confusion. My mother gave advice that conflicted with the advice of my mother-in-law. The pediatrician told me things that conflicted with the nurse. My cousins gave advice that was completely opposite of my friends. My head was spinning like my doctor recommended black and white patterned crib mobile.

And then one night, while sitting in the tranquil darkness of 3am, having just quieted the baby with a plan of my own design, the most important parenting lesson of all hit me in the face like projectile vomit from my colicky newborn:

Parents. Know. Best.

We really, REALLY do. I mean…these are our kids. We love them with a fierceness that no one else can. So why are we driving ourselves crazy, why are we pushing aside our own instinct in favor of baby whispering, Dr. Spock and the like?

We are perfectly capable of doing this job, and well, we just have to trust ourselves. So here are my five sure-fire hints that you ARE a super parent, because you deserve the validation…

• You love your kid(s) with all your heart, quite unconditional like. Sure, there will be those moments when you may not like what they are doing all that much…but the love is ALWAYS there. That is the mark of greatness in a parent.

• You make sure they have the important things in life. I am not talking about designer clothes, or expensive video games, or an overwhelming schedule that keeps them running 16+ hours a day. I am talking about three squares in the belly. A warm, comfy bed and an appropriate bed time. Fresh air and open spaces to run in. Your attention and interest in THEIR interests and activities. These are the things that really matter.

• You approach parenting with a youthful spirit and a healthy dose of humor. How are we going to teach our kids not to let the small stuff get them down if we are taking life’s little bumps so seriously ourselves? Laugh it off, get up and go play…that is such a great example to set for your kids.

• You recognize the great value of patience. Whether you are teaching your little one how to tie their shoe or going over algebraic formulas with your teen, it is critical. There are few things as difficult as standing back and unweariedly waiting for things to click within your child, but there are also few things that make your heart soar as high as when you are rewarded for that fortitude. Letting them learn their own lessons, and allowing them to do things themselves; this is how we teach self-sufficiency. And that is our goal…right?

• In you they always find a safe harbor; whether it is from the monster in the closet, the bully at school or the fear of failure. You are their great protector; not there to stop them from stumbling, but most assuredly to lift them back up and apply band-aids and Neosporin as needed.

Being a parent is one of life’s toughest jobs, we all know this. And unlike many other jobs, the parameters that measure a job well done are not so clearly defined. Sure, there are a plethora of books, manuals and pamphlets one could read, you could take the advice of well intentioned others, or even model yourself after the parents you see on your TV screen. However, if you are a loving and dedicated parent, I don’t believe that there is anyone out there that is more qualified than you to raise your child.

Trust your trifecta of parenting power: your heart, your mind and your gut…and don’t be afraid to forge your own pathway.

Part of our beauty as humans is our diversity…so let’s keep the molds in the sandbox, hmm?

Now it’s your turn…what makes a parent great? If you are a parent, what are some of your proudest moments? If you have memories of what made your own parents great, share those too! And conversely, what are some trends today that might be taking us away from true parental excellence?

The Mom Squad

I don’t have what some would call a ‘conventional’ job. Yet, as in any job, whether it’s stuck at a cubicle, in a warehouse or driving a bus; there appears to be an ever present sub-culture that seems to go out of their way to make your day miserable. I don’t have to deal with the office suck up, catty secretary pool or even inappropriate water cooler jokes. Which, who are we kidding? I would so be the person telling inappropriate water cooler jokes!

I do have, however, the dreaded clique often referred to as The Mommy Police. I don’t have any children. I tell you this because it’s the first thought that pops into my head the second I choose to open my mouth and judge an actual parent. Being someone that works with children every day, I am keenly aware that when I leave for home at the end of the day the little ones are not held up in a sparkly crystal case until I return. That said, back to being judgmental. Yay!

Any new park or playground I visit, I make an effort to identify them immediately. They aren’t exactly an elusive bunch, or maybe my radar skills have increased over the years. They’re a tight knit group of wealthy, stay at home, neatly and permanently pressed, sweater wearing beasts. You’ll find them parked on the bench farthest away from their children, forcing them to yell and screech their child’s names at a decibel akin to a pterodactyl. They are the dark cloud over a Happy Place.

Oh, yes! The children! You know those richly dressed miserable mopes that are left to their own devices? That’s them. They could all dangle from the monkey bars by one foot as long as there is a gated fence, and they don’t interrupt the Mommies conversation about thread counts. ‘Your snack is in the bag! No, we are not going home, and you are not tired! Run off and find your sister this instant!’ Charming.

I’ve managed to avoid many a confrontation with these Mommy types all over the city. Mostly because I make them think the sun shines out of my ass. Learning how to appease their massive egos has saved me a lot of grief. I say nothing, bite my tongue, and nod my head. I mean really, they’ve been ALL over the city and they still can’t find a decent patio umbrella! Don’t get me started on the lack of proper woodworkers on The Cape…their cabinets at the beach house are practically 10 years old! Oh, the shame!

What saddens me about these women is that they truly do not enjoy their own children. It’s a very fancy form of neglect. Dress them up nice for strangers, and then treat them as such. Children seem to be the tools of their marriages. An excuse to seem terribly busy, even though they had a Baby Nurse, a Night Nurse and a part time underpaid Nanny they treat as a slave.

I’m not necessarily proud of myself for all the tongue biting. I’d really like to scold every last one of them for their bullshit attitude towards those ‘things‘ scampering around at their heels. Until then, I will smile, nod, and dream about a day where I line them all up, and give them one long Three Stooges slap across their perfectly shaped hair-dos.

Welcome to the weekend boys and girls! Is your work week over? Anyone you are looking to avoid come Monday morning? Dear, God! Am I the only one who has been subjected to the Mommy Police?

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