Truth In Advertising

I reconfirmed the appropriateness of the title of this Blog today.  That is, Teetering on the Edge.

For those of you who (have read this blog at all and still) think that I've got it together here's one for ya.

Mark's home this week, which is good news.  Up until last night, there was a possibility of him being gone at least 2 -3 days.  Since he was in town, and working at home, he was kind enough to let Nora stay home while I went to pick up Brennan and Brady from school.  AJ was in the back seat, munching happily on Sunchips and soaking in another (repeat) episode of Elmo.  It's his crack (Elmo, not the Sunchips, but those might be a distant second).  And I am in complete violation of my no-tv-unless-we're-on-a-road-trip rule since aquiring this Elmo DVD (all of our other Elmo videos are on VHS).

I wait in the carpool line, notice Brennan and Brady exiting the buildings and line up in the queue.  There are five construction cones that act as stations lining the sidewalk for the children to stand and be let into their car.  Deep in thought about my agenda for the afternoon, how I am going to fit a decent nap in for the baby, and also thinking about the family who owns the car ahead of me (and how Brady and her son should really get together again and play soon).  I see that she is starting to pull away, so I pull up, following her car (she was at the last station).  I should be stopping at the first cone, where my children are anxiously waiting for me to end their school day and take them back home for a much anticipated snack.

So deep in thought am I however, that I continue right past my children.  Not only did I not stop, I didn't even notice them standing at the curb.  I made it through the round about, and almost onto the bypass that leads to the highway...and home.  All the while I am thinking, "gosh, I really have to stop playing this Elmo video in the car...even the big kids are so sucked in that they don't even talk..............." 

Well no kidding. 

They weren't talking because:

 a) they were not in the car and
 b) they were slack jaw on the curb having just watched their mother drive right past without so much as a passing glance.

I turn around on the first road I could find, circle back through the round about and park on the street.  Since I just threw AJ in the car without a coat, shoes or socks, I left him, locked in the car and sprinted down the hill and around the corner.  It was only about 42 degrees, and quickly weighing my options, I figured it was better to leave him than to freeze him.  For those of you who are alarmists, it was for a total of 30 seconds, and I could see the car the whole time, so don't go calling CPS.  The kids, still hanging out by their assigned cone see me and are now laughing at me. 

Thankfully they are not upset. 

The teacher that was supposed to help them load into the car is laughing as well.  Hysterically.  Catching her breath, she tells me that the kids were convinced that they saw me drive by to which she responded, "Oh, that couldn't have been your Mother...she didn't stop!"

All I could do was hang my head in shame, laugh and acknowledge that I am a complete and total dingbat and tell the kids to sprint back to the car with me because I had left the baby. 

Teetering on the edge.  Yup, that about sums it up.

Desperately Seeking Madonna

So Brennan, my soon-to-be-9 year old, asked me the other day who Taylor Swift, Lady Gaga, and Britney Spears were.  I was wondering when this was going to come up.  We are fortunate enough to have XM in our truck (my Mom taxi) and per the kids request, we almost always have "Kids Place Live" on.  It's a great station with lots of kid indie rock (think Michael Buble doing "Spiderman" or the Bare Naked Ladies singing the "Crazy ABCs").  So, recalling my early love of music - the GoGo's, Joan Jett, and Madonna - I sat down with her and downloaded a bunch of songs from itunes. 

Little did I know that she'd be putting Britney's "3" on replay so she can figure out what all the lyrics are. 

I can now completely empathize with my own Mom, as I recall her pause, (and cringe) when I asked her what Madonna was saying in "Like A Virgin." Who knew that Madonna would someday be considered tame by comparison?

In case you aren't familiar, "3" is song with a great beat and catchy chorus, but unfortunately for us parents out there, is all about having a threesome.  I'm thinkin' that it's not the kind of threesome you inadvertantly get caught up in on the dance floor either (sandwiched by two incredibly creepy, greasy, and short men). 

Not that you really want to have to explain what any type of threesome is to you children.

I have tried my best, and mostly successfully, to give her lots of suggestions on what the words might be, and make sure that none of them are PG or R rated.  I also told her that songwriters frequently write lyrics just to make them rhyme or sound good in a song, and that the lyrics don't always make sense.  She bought it.

Then, before bedtime tonight, we are having a little "Family Time" and Brennan, excited to be playing her new music for all of us, is cranking out the tunes.  Fortunately, she skips right past "3" after announcing to me that she's figured out all the words. 

Thankfully, they are all wrong and make absolutely no sense. 

As I was breathing a sigh of relief about her botching of "3s" lyrics, I began plotting how and when to retrieve her ipod shuffle and delete the song. Just then, she proceeds to play a fun little ditty, also by Britney Spears, called "If You Seek Amy."  Now, I had listened to the little soundbyte on itunes, and thought it was harmless enough...only to see Mark's eyes about fall out of his head as he hears it, and asks me, "what the hell is that doing on her ipod????"

Clearly the song must have come out while I was in some sort of post-pregnancy (which pregnancy I am not sure) hibernation.  I had NO idea that there was any sort of (not-so-hidden) meaning in the song.  Mark proceeds to explain the brou-ha-ha that surrounded the release of the song and exactly what "If You Seek Amy" really means......

If = F
You = U
Seek =  C
Amy = well, you can pretty much figure the rest of it out on your own. 
Completely appalled at my own ignorance, I am now apparantly so completely out of touch and un-hip that I am letting my 8 year old listen to the pop music equivelent of soft porn.  And I thought being called a cougar was embarassing.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go find that ipod.  I have some deleting to do...

Just Because You Can...

Doesn't mean you should.

I wrestled with that a lot around Christmas. Even more so as the effects of the economic crisis loom large and the profound poverty and despair that has been exposed in Haiti since the earthquake last week. As I listened to my own kids and their friends, I just couldn't get over the insanity of the annual Christmas lists. I-phones, ipods, cell phones, Nintendo DS or DSi (I still don't know the difference), Barbie Townhouse (if that sounds innocuous, it comes with a $170 price tag) or the Barbie Glamour Camper for a mere $75. I heard of a Mom lamenting she had gotten her 14 year old daughter a nicer phone than she had. Seriously?

Let me be candid, my kids don't want for anything. Sure, there may be lots of things that that want, but their basic needs of shelter, food, and clothing are more than covered. And that doesn't even touch on the plethora of Webkinz, Wii games, American Girl Dolls, Littlest Pet Shop, MP3 players, etc. that they own.

Just because you can...

I am not trying to be holier than thou here. We have provided lots of niceties for our kids. We are blessed in many ways, we can provide for our kids well over and beyond the necessities. I'd like to think that we try to keep in reined in, but it's all a matter of perspective.

Doesn't mean you should.

While it would be fun, really fun, to get them the latest cool toy or the cutest outfit from Mini Boden or CrewCuts, sign them up for each new activity they express an interest in, what does that teach them? If I start introducing and placing value on labels or brands at age 7 or 8, where will that put me (us) at 16 or 17? If I give in to the ipod now, will I be that Mom who is whining about her daughter having a better phone than I do in 10 years? If I sign them up with each whim, will they learn how to persevere in a difficult comittment?

What kind of adults am I trying to create as I raise my kids?

It's no wonder kids today have such a prolific sense of entitlement and lack self-discipline. We give them everything without asking (much of) anything.

The last time I checked, that's not how life works. At least not as an adult.

A friend sent me an article citing a study from the 1960's about children and marshmallows. If you have a minute, read it. It's well worth your time, and it's brief.

http://www.msgen.com/downloads/Marshmallow.pdf

The upshot is that if a four year old could wait a few minutes for an extra marshmallow, this restraint translated into better marriages, better paying-jobs, and having higher levels of career satisfaction later on in life. And as parents, when we say "no" to our kids requests for the latest and greatest thing or demand, we are helping them prepare for life as an adult. The results demonstrate that teaching children how to wait, how to delay gratification and the art of self-discipline, are skills every bit as valuable as teaching them how to read or write.

Cool. Now I have scientific back up for when I am the Mean Mom who "always" says "NO".

Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. Something to think about.

You're A Mean One, Mrs. Grinch

We have an Elf on the Shelf. His name is Alex. He comes around the 1st of December through Christmas Eve to keep an exta watchful eye on the kids. Theorectically, his presence will reinforce good behavior and decision making by the kids, thus ensuring they'll be rewarded by Santa.

That didn't work exactly. For some reason, my four little angels (well, 3/4) have been crazy and out of control since Friday. Friday was the last day of school for 3 weeks for the older two. That may have played a part. Christmas is fast approaching, which adds a tremendous amount of nervous, anxious energy. Brennan has been sick, so her patience and self control are low. Nora, who is usually the kindest, most eager to please, threw a couple of fits that rivaled her worst during the terrible twos. Excuses, excuses.

I hate excuses.

I reminded them that Alex was watching and reporting back to Santa. I told them that Santa was watching too. I reminded them that it wasn't too late to take presents back to the store, the North Pole or wherever they come from. It didn't work.

The last straw was when their Grandfather, his friend Kate, and an Uncle came over Sunday for cookie decorating and dinner. Since we won't be seeing them on Christmas Day, they brought gifts. My kids, who normally are good but certainly not perfect, were crazy. Their manners went missing. Gone. Completely gone.

Later, after letting them all know how inappropriate their behavior was and sending them off to bed, I had a chat with Alex, the Elf. I instructed him to take the presents that were already under the tree up to the North Pole (temporarily). He agreed to it.

The kids woke up Monday morning, and searched for Alex (he is in a different spot every night). They found him on the mantel with a letter. Not a present was under the tree. I came downstairs to a very solemn and quiet Brennan and Brady. Strangely, they were not terribly upset, as I had thought they might be. They realized that they'd acted out of control, and upon reading the letter, knew that this was the consequence. Brennan said that she felt ashamed, and helped pen a note (with Brady and Nora's input) apologizing to Santa and promising to try harder the rest of the week.

Now before you too, call me Mrs. Grinch, know that Alex returned some of the gifts after 2 days. The kids have reined in their behavior and have tried very hard to do what has been asked of them.

Sure there are still fights, and multiple, multiple, requests (by me) to put their (insert article of clothing, toy, or other item here) away. They're kids, and they're not perfect. But I do think they'll remember this Christmas for a long time to come.

You Called Me a WHAT?

I was fortunate enough to get away for a Girls Weekend recently. We went to Asheville, NC - if you ever have the chance to go, you should. It's a great little mountain town, with an artsy, crunchy vibe to it.

Friday night, we were very lame. After the drive, some shopping, dinner and a couple of drinks, I think we all fell asleep around 11:30.

Well rested, we attacked Saturday like a bunch of starving vultures. We shopped, we ate, we stopped in for a bit of "The Truth," a local micro-brewery's latest creation, and hit the stores again.

Saturday night, we ate a great tapas style dinner, and on our way out, began talking to a nice young girl who is from Durham and works as a nanny when she's not in school at UNC-A. She was with a date and his friend, (both much closer to my age than hers). We ran into them again later at a bar and played a round of darts (we also managed to snag a business card of hers, since she's going to be in the triangle over Christmas break). Stacy Jo, you can expect a call from me this week, by the way...

In between the round of darts, I was waiting on a pitcher of beer at the bar and started chatting with a couple of boys. I'll strike up a conversation with anybody. I love talking to people. Well, to be specific, I love starting up conversations and just listening to people. It can be fascinating. But these people were young. Little boys. And by little, I mean it was someones 21st birthday type little boys, and I'd bet my pitcher of beer that several of the other ones had fake IDs. They were fairly uninteresting to listen to, so once I got my pitcher, I went back to darts.

A little while later, we were discussing the youths (who had now begun playing darts next to us). We decided that one of them had hair like my friend's 5 year old (but a 21 year old fraternity boy version). Her son has these loose, tousled, angelic little curls that you hate to cut because they might just decide to go away forever. So someone suggested that I take a picture. So I walked over, and asked if I could take his picture.

He asked me if I was a Cougar.

A COUGAR??????


I laughed, told him not to flatter himself, took the picture and walked away. Mortified.


While I recognized that they were a lot younger than I am, what I failed to recognize was that when you are 21 anything over 30 is ancient. Seeing as young men tend not to think from their cerebral cortex, in their eyes, there was only ONE reason I could have wanted to talk with them. To them, I was Mrs. Robinson.

coo coo cuh choo.

I am having a little trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that someone even thinks I am old enough to even be called a cougar. Here's my visual of a cougar: a chain smoking, bejewelled sweatsuit wearing, fake tanned, raspy voiced, white zinfandel drinking, sex-starved, divorcee.

I suppose that perhaps I should be flattered. Courtney Cox might be giving cougars a new image with her sitcom, Cougartown (I haven't seen it yet). But frankly, I just felt like a dirty old woman. I went back to my beer and thanked God that I don't have to deal with 21 year old boys anymore. I don't even think I liked them when I was 21.

I Give Up...

As you can see from my Christmas card (2007), I really try to maintain my sense of humor when it comes to balancing the demands and obligations of the holidays with managing a family.

Yes, this really was the picture I sent out that year. Yes, that was the best one out of about 50 shots.

I also am a typical first born type A who likes to (at least) have everybody think I have everything pulled together. I think I am slowly starting to lose that battle.

By no means have I ever been confused with Martha Stewart. Particularly when it comes to decorating. That being said, historically, I have taken some small amount of pride in decorating the house for Christmas. I may not have all the coordinating color ornaments and ribbons, and I often regret chintzing out and buying two small sized "things" (angels, santas, trees, you name it, I've got it) instead of ponying up and buying the large ("item") so you can actually see it sitting on my mantel. Generally though, I can pull it all together so that it looks, well, alright.

This year, I pulled down the boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic. Unfortunately, the kids got to them before I could. Let's just say that any glimmer of an organized decorating event went out the window.

There are paper Santas and reindeer hanging from curling ribbon from our upstairs railing to greet you as you walk through our front door. Every home made craft, ornament, and odd collection of Christmas collectibles (none of which I recall every buying) is proudly on display on every ledge, shelf, and table. Everyone's bedroom door is adorned with some type of classroom Frosty or Santa (you know, the kind with the moveable arms and legs?). That burgundy curling ribbon that Santa and his reindeer are hanging from? There are a few strategically placed pieces of that hanging around, mixed with some green ribbon they found. Yup, just random strings of ribbon hanging from things...because "it looks like a party." Now how can I argue with that?

It's Jesus's birthday, Mom. That's a good enough reason for a party, right?

Basically, Christmas has thrown up all over our house. In all of it's tacky, technicolor, sparkly, shiny, homemade and store bought glory.

So, instead of getting annoyed, after a number of deep, very deep, cleansing breaths, I gave up. Actually, that's wrong. I didn't give up. I gave in. After all, how can you argue with a child's pure enthusiasm for and spirit of the season?

There will be years and years of picture perfect (well, "perfect" would be a stretch for me) Christmases ahead of us. But with all of that pretty, matching, coordinating Christmas decor comes the silent recognition that the magic of hanging Santa and his reindeer by red ribbons from our railings has slipped away.

So I will try and smile back at Frosty and Santa as I pass into the kids rooms to put away (another) load of laundry...and be thankful for the four little creatures that scotch taped them there.

Now I Know Where the Expression Comes From....

I've never had a baby become interested in the toilet. Until A.J. came along. On more than one occasion since he's become mobile, we've found him happily splashing in the frequently "yellow so it can mellow" water (although I'd love to claim a fanatical love of the environment as the reason, it's more my kids forgetting to flush). Thankfully, more often than not, it has been clean toilet water.

Right. As if toilet water is ever really "clean."

Knowing that he fancies an occasional splish-splash, I try to keep the toilet lid down or the bathroom door closed. As I mentioned though, it's hard for the bigger kids to remember to flush half the time. Getting them to put the lid down, well, that would take a small act of God.

This afternoon, I came in from getting the mail to hear Nora announce, "Mom, I'm going to go poop now." She always announces the impending arrival of her bowel movements to us. It's nice to be in the poop-loop, I suppose. A special privilege given to only a select few...

So off she goes, and apparently A.J. follows because I hear her yell, "Mom, A.J.'s in the bathroom with me."

I holler that I am on my way and make a bee-line down the hall. Not three strides in and Nora very calmly announces, "MOM. A.J. IS EATING MY POOP."

Shit.

Literally.

I sprint the remaining 10 feet to find Nora mid-wipe and A.J. laughing and grinning with not one, but two hands full and a definite and distinct smudge across him mouth.

No he didn't.

Yes, he did.

As I said, you just can't make this mothering stuff up.

And now I know exactly what a "shit eating grin" looks like.