8 Centimeters Deluded

'At Least My Mom Works!'

2007-07-09T22:42:00.001-07:00

Nothing new to report outside of the summertime routine -- swim lessons, baseball times two sons and hunting for paid writing gigs. And swallowing bitter pills.

Tomorrow I take the kids on our city's Pacific version of the city bus, the Aqualink. For three bucks a pop, we get a postcard view of the harbor and an hour-long float around The Queen Mary and environs. 'Should be enough eye candy to keep the kids out of each other's faces.

At night I'll escape to the cafe to "work," something a few of my friends can't believe I do. Seems they can't take me seriously as an independent contractor and mom. I have to be one or the other.

Is the stay-home mom role I've played for nearly seven years throwing the haters off? Does my long run as a stay-home mom make my search for paid work less valid? Am I a less skilled worker now than before I bred? Do my emptied breasts and stretch marked belly make me less valuable in the writer's market?

Like taking care of my children isn't "work" enough in the first place, never mind paid work.

"What? You can't talk because you have to work? What work? Are you serious?"

How about this one from The Lawyer's guy friend: "At least my mom goes to work!" Yeah, all day. And she sees you for just long enough to feed you, bathe you and kiss you good night.

Just because I don't report to a dull office to write articles doesn't mean I'm screwing off at the cafe. That I should take your kid with me so you can go see a movie.

Don't I work?

Bitching About the Beach

2007-07-06T07:59:00.000-07:00

We’re heading to a beautiful Southern California beach this morning and my kids don’t want to go. “No beach!” were the first two words Cheeks uttered this morning when I crawled up to the top bunk to wake him.

“Yeah. Me no beach too,” The Lawyer said in the God-awful baby speak he picked up from fellow kindergarten kids last school year.

“We all beach NOW,” I growled. (Suddenly I’m a baby talk accomplice. Whatever works.)

What kind of kids need to be begged to go to the beach for the day? Unappreciative spoiled ones. Overscheduled ones. Tired ones. Ones who know they’ll be dragged later today from swimming at the beach to swimming half-asleep and still sandy at the private pool where they take lessons. Ones who are still groggy from staying up late on the Fourth of July.

Will I back down and cancel my beach going plans? No way. After inhaling my trough of coffee drowned in almond-vanilla creamer I’ll pack all four of us up, tuning out the kids’ whiny butts all the while.

The first mini-wave they catch will hush their complaints anyway. Besides, are all these “play dates,” beach or not, really about them? Aren’t we moms just desperate for some adult conversation. Isn’t that what “play dates,” even the sandy ones, are all about?

Soy Burgers Suck

2007-07-04T11:40:00.000-07:00

It’s the Fourth of July, probably the biggest day for grilling of the whole year, and I don’t eat meat, at least for now.

I haven’t eaten a single animal product (outside of cheese and milk) for about four weeks. Why? Do I think it’s cruel to eat dead animals? No. Do I have a moral issue with carnivores? No. Do I have issues with cholesterol? Yes. Do I have body image issues? Absolutely. Name one woman in her thirties who doesn’t. Name a woman who doesn’t at any age, actually.

So, there you have it. The real reasons I’m going vegetarian have less to do with ethics and more to do with vanity than anything else. I admit that my sudden vegetarianism is a thin veil for weight loss, a last ditch effort not to have to take up running again, not to get off my ass several fast miles a week like I used to.

Also, my annual check-up is scheduled for later this month, my birth month (DOB 7.20.75), and I owe my doctor a lower cholesterol count from last year’s check-up. I’m expecting an earful, plus a possible prescription for cholesterol lowering meds, like the ones my mother has taken since her 30s. Something tells me my last minute vegetarian cholesterol pullout tactics won’t make my doctor’s cut. The same goes for when I admit that I’ve completely abandoned running, yoga and even walking around the block.

Party tents are popping up all along the block. Coolers are being filled with ice. My neighbor painted her fingernails red, white and blue, her annual tradition. Soon she’ll make a vodka run for her patriotic colored Jell-O shots. When’s the last time I had a Jell-O shot? I feel old.

I just got back from that same neighbor’s house. I took a break from refereeing the kids with their older friend who slept over last night. Anyway, at my neighbor’s I helped skewer marinated beef between pineapple wedges, red onions and bell peppers. Ironic. The new vegetarian dips her hands in meat on the biggest BBQ day of the year (and finds herself tempted). The teriyaki marinade smelled so good.

The Lawyer asked me why “their side of the street” looks so fun, with all of its tents, grills and American flags flying high. “Why aren’t we having people over? Why can’t we have a barbecue?”

Because we just had one last night and Daddy doesn’t feel like it today.

“Man, we’re so boring sometimes,” The Lawyer shrugged.

Yeah. I agree. I wish we were having a big party today too. And, frankly I’m bored.

… Off to the café to work on an article. Thankful to have paying work.

Later I’ll take the kids door to door along our street’s block party. We’ll walk to the stand outside the neighborhood 7-Eleven for fireworks and blow cheap stuff up for kicks.

Alarming Potty Industry Extremes

2007-06-28T23:01:00.000-07:00

I ran across an unsettling potty training/bedwetting product catalog in the "sick room" at our pediatrician's office today. (Oh yeah - All three kids are full-on boog-if-ied, and Pigtails has a double dose ear infection. That's $20 X 3 in co-pays and $90 in anitbiotics. So much for the antibody bennies' of extended breastfeeding.)

I wonder if you can read these creepy Potty MD product descriptions without feeling pity for the children who are persuaded/forced/made to use them, like I instantly felt. Whatever happened to potty training when the child exhibits signs that she's ready (like pissing on the new neighbors brand new carpet, like Pigtails, perhaps)? I feel guilty linking to Potty MD, and potentially driving business their way, but, c'mon, some of the available (and best-selling, mind you) "bladder habit" gear is unthinkable, at least to me.

Take a gander at this without cringing if you can:
Urine and Bowel Monitoring System
"Allows parents to evaluate and monitor their child's potty habits. Great for both urine and stool problems that commonly contribute to urinary frequency, holding, accidents and bedwetting. A very inexpensive way to understand your child's habits. It includes a urine collection device, bladder and bowel diary, instructions, and a school note to allow for frequent bathroom visits."

"Understand your child's habits." Hmm. How about "freakishly OBSESS on your child's elimination habits"? The only time my "stuff" was measured on the way out was when I was hospitalized at 12 for a severe flu the doctors suspected was Leukemia. Can someone explain to me how a monitoring system such as this is beneficial for potty training and/or bedwetting kids? Seriously, am I simply not getting it?

WET-STOP2 by PottyMD
"...It is a quality bedwetting alarm manufactured for the best results. Buzzer attaches near the child's ear using a unique and easy magnetic device (no safety pins or fasteners). The sensor clips into the undergarment at any specified location. No sewing and no pads required. Comfortable and lightweight design. Alarm sounds with the first few drops of urine. Remember alarms are successful, but they are even more successful when you follow PottyMD advice on working on daytime potty habits along with using an alarm."

I just about flipped. A potty alarm? You've got to be kidding? Obviously this product is designed to curb bedwetting, probably in older children, but sticking a buzzing alarm in your kid's ear and clipping a sensor to his scivvies ... Isn't that a bit extreme? Gawd. Poor kid. Think of the boundary violation and "private part" privacy "issues" he might develop.

Nite Train-R Wet Call
"A great bed wetting pad and alarm system. The bed pad avoids wiring on your child and clipping a sensor to your child's undergarment. The alarm is positioned near the child and it is loud. Works very well."

I'm sorry but a mattress pad equipped with a "loud" alarm that jars a child awake in the midst of an accident seems cruel to me. I could be totally off, though. I'm fortunate not to have any bedwetters so far, knock on wood. I wonder, though, if I did, would I resort to desperate measures like wired underwear attachments, ear buzzers and alarm equipped bed padding? Sounds more like freaky-deeky S&M gear to me.

What do you think?

I Miss Newborns (But Not Bad Enough to Have More of Them)

2007-06-27T22:21:00.000-07:00

My son held my thumb until he fell asleep tonight as though he were a newborn. He surprised me by reaching his hand up to meet mine during a rare bedtime head-to-toe relaxation exercise.

Since The Lawyer was only two, we've used the same yoga meditation CD to help him wind down. I hope the astral background music and the narrator's hypnotic voice also ease his recurrent night terrors.

My little first-born, now big enough to play baseball wearing a real uniform on a real team with real rules and real fast pitches on a real field, gripped my thumb so tight tonight, just as he did when he arrived Feb. 15, 2001, filled with epidural fluids and a lusty spirit, naturally endowed with that amazing reflex, the Plantar grasp.

Not Your Madre's Kindergarten

2007-06-26T13:50:00.001-07:00

My confidence in The Lawyer's charter elementary school is renewed. The Hubster and I hooked up with the sitter this morning to head downtown and watch The Lawyer show off his new Spanish, math, science, computer and reading skills at his SLC (student led conference). SLCs essentially replace report cards and grades at this school, the subject of a future post, a very positive one.

Kindergarten sure has changed since I learned to color inside the lines beneath the wooden pointer authority of Sister Bernadette in 1980. The Lawyer figures sums in ways I couldn't have imagined, in modes I didn't know until he showed me today, all without the monotonous drill and kill (and without the plus, minus and multiplication symbols I’ve always loathed). I wish I could explain his school’s multidisciplinary word problem-style matemáticas methodology in a way that makes perfect sense, but I'm still trying to wrap my own numbers impaired mind around it. The Lawyer’s results, most often correct, looked more like Algebra than the simple addition that I recall from first or second grade. Also, his teachers encourage him to collaborate with students he's partnered with for each problem. Where most traditional teachers might call that cheating, The Lawyer's educators call it teamwork. I love it.

Back when I was in kindergarten we went to school for two or three hours, not a full six, and we didn't even touch math. And we definietely didn’t have time for electives like computers and Web site design, organic gardening, photography, baking, etc. We were too busy singing our ABCs and memorizing the Lord's Prayer. We even confessed our “sins,” as if we'd even committed any by the tender age of five. Does calling your sister a "jerk off" before knowing what jerking off is count as a sin? If so, then send me some BBQ sauce pronto.

The Lawyer beamed with pride when we went up the three flights to the rooftop container garden where his class’ organic flowers, fruits and veggies are thriving against a sweltering urban skyline. He showed us his oil pastel garden journal, where he tracks the progress of his strawberries, corn and sunflowers. We should start a journal for our backyard garden before our pumpkin patch eclipses the entire plot and burps something creepy at the kids, like "feed me, Seymore," or "Behold the Great Pumpkin!" Talk about the stuff of nightmares. (Speaking of nightmares, expect future posts on The Lawyer's persistent night terrors.)

Did you know that a motherboard in Spanish is called a tarjeta madre? The Laywer told us. That sounds so nanner, nanner ... but I'm running out of writing juice here, so bear with me. He showed me and his proud papa around a gutted computer completely in Spanish. He also taught us about the life cycle of bees, also in mostly Spanish, and mixed us some "bee bread" made out of crumbled graham crackers and honey. Surprisingly, I didn't have to spit it in my purse. When The Lawyer wasn't looking I took a second Dixie cup of the stuff. I hope there’s not some kid crying about a missing batch of “bee bread” in that sweet smelling science classroom. Oops.

We listened patiently and in awe as our six-year-old son read us four books back to back, with minimal help. My husband suddenly erupted at one point, yelling "CHEATER!" at top volume. I was mortified. "We're supposed to be encouraging him, not criticizing," I admonished him under my breath.

"I was just kidding," The Hubster said, checking his Blackberry momentarily for an email from his boss. “It just seems like he’s memorized this stuff. That’s all. Lighten up.”

My eyes bulged. I shot him a look straight from el diablo himself. Sister Bernadette would have vomited like Linda Blair for sure.

"Put that thing away," I snapped. "This is The Lawyer's time. It's really important. And it’s called SIGHT READING! Haven’t you heard of it?! And he’s also sounding it out. I can see him doing it."

The Hubster itched his face with his middle finger. Mature. Nice. Thanks.

"This is the last time I'll come to one of these SLCs with YOU!" he whispered, thankfully out of The Lawyer’s view.

"Good!"

Nice. So our son's shining moment was dulled by his bickering parents. I don't think he caught on. Either way, by the end, when we met with each of The Lawyer's teachers to discuss his “marked” improvement from last semester and "co-create" his first-grade goals (academic and social) with him, all was kosher and calm again, minus irritating, rude Blackberry interruptions. Am I the only one who wants to step on her husband's friggin' Blackberry at least once a day? How about flushing it down the toilet or spilling coffee all over it? Dumb old-fashioned fantasies ...

So much more to “share,” as they say at The Lawyer’s school, but rushing off to swimming, then baseball practice...

A Birthday Party (Downsized)

2007-06-23T08:31:00.000-07:00

Cheeks fourth birthday party is five hours from now and the house is its usual Saturday morning disaster zone.

Today, instead of dumping 500 bucks on a cute-til-you-puke themed celebration, as I have nearly every year since multiplying, I will offer Cheeks' 13 or so pint-sized partygoers cake and refreshments, two decent-sized kid pools and a Slip 'N Slide. You can't go wrong with water and kids. They'll be entertained for hours, as long as no one really drops the kids off at the pool like the last time we broke out the inflat-a-pool for the masses.

I wish I had something witty or funny or insightful to blog this morning. But I'm dry, like my stash of freshly cleaned beach towels, at least for now. Not much to give here. Sorry. I've got to feed the masses, pack them for The Lawyer's baseball game and send them off with Daddy, snacks, sunblock coverage and all. Then I have the house to MYSELF to clean and prep for Cheeks' water play ho-down. Or maybe I'll just blow the whole thing off and get lost on the Internet.

Oh, by the way, yesterday I pretended to get hurt on The Lawyer's Razor scooter and faked Amnesia. The kids totally fell for it. Am I a jerk or what?

Not my best post but ... hey ... I'd rather be real than fabricated ...

Morning Mind Dump, Nothing More

2007-06-20T07:47:00.000-07:00

I woke up an hour too early this morning but thought I woke up an hour too late. The kids must stop messing with my alarm clock!

There’s something to be said for sipping a fresh, hot cup of coffee without kids circling me demanding milk, juice and more syrup. Instead I find myself alone, unless three wrestling kittens count, not having to incessantly remind anyone to say “please” and “thank you.”

I might as well update you on a few items other than the evil graffiti on my son’s lunch box, which I'm flat out tired of thinking about. We're “Madness of Modern Families” busy now that Little League baseball is in full swing, and my husband’s business travel is picking up when I didn’t think it could get worse.

1. Last night I graduated from Breakthrough Parenting class. Whoo hoo. Now I can tell you how to take care of your kids because I’m having a Hell of a time applying the techniques I learned at home. Yes, I’m certified to be that annoying parenting know-it-all at the park, the one who gives unsolicited advice through her nose starting with, “Well, I learned at my parenting class that you should …” and “I’m certified in how to take care of your child’s fit, m’am. Leave it to the tantrum expert, why don’tcha?” As if I’d ever do that. I’d better master the R=TLC Breakthrough Parenting formula with my own kids first.

2. I’m looking for paid work that I can accomplish from home. I wasn’t going to bring my freelance work search up on my blog but why not? I’m posting this on several freelance work exchange Web sites:

“I'm a journalist with more than 10 years of experience seeking freelance writing and copyediting work. My articles have been featured in newspapers, magazines and Internet news sources, including The Los Angeles Times, MSNBC.com, NBC.com, DrKoop.com (health Web site of former U.S. Surgeon General Dr. C. Everett Koop) and DrDrew.com (Web site of Dr. Drew Pinsky, host of the nationally syndicated talk radio show Loveline).

Although I have worked in public relations and corporate copywriting (bios, press releases, pitches, etc.), my specialties are writing, reporting and copy editing/proofreading news and lifestyle content in AP (Associated Press) Style.

I'm open to creating and copyediting a wide scope of content, whether academic, manuscript, Internet content or otherwise. I'm also available for reporting, fact checking and research assignments.

I have a Bachelor's Degree in English/Journalism from the University of New Hampshire, and two years of study at Northeastern University's (Boston) School of Journalism, where I trained with veteran journalist and former KGB captive Nicholas Daniloff.”

If you know anyone who needs a writer, reporter, copywriter, editor or proofreader, shoot me an email. My turn to pitch in on the mortgage is long overdue.

3. I’ve become that minivan mom who spends most of her time in, well, her damn minivan. Dashboard evidence: I keep a regular stash of snacks and water in the front seat at all times; Duplicates of my regular color lipstick are now fully stocked in the cubby beneath the radio; My son’s baseball cleats, bats and gloves are always at the ready in the trunk, along with spare socks; okay, this isn’t going anywhere and isn’t as funny as I’d hoped so I’ll stop listing stuff …

4. Cheeks' fourth birthday party is this Saturday and I haven’t purchased a thing yet, except for the one present he really wanted – a metallic red batting (baseball) helmet. He hasn’t had a temper tantrum for two weeks! I’ve had a few of my own anyway. Getting ready for the party should be easy, since I’m forgoing decorative themes, party favors and all the expensive bells and whistles. All I have to do is pick up a cake, finger foods (veggies, fruit and crackers/chips), juice boxes and water and a few more presents. Oh, and a Slip-n-Slide and a mini-pool since I’ve billed the party as a water fun playtime deal. I plan on slacking hard and not picking up anything until I go last-minute crash shopping with my 9-year-old niece Thursday.

That’s it for now. The house is still quiet, like I like it. Who will be the first to wake up? Just one more hour of solitude ...

Lunch Box In Hindsight

2007-06-18T08:46:00.000-07:00

It's only fair that I explain my son's lunchbox graffiti, instead of simply transcribing it. I was furious when I discovered it last Friday and blogged about it immediately after, before my breath had evened out.

The Lawyer goes to a K throught 8 school where the lunch break is broken up among grades. Simple enough, right? In an attempt to curb ant problems in the classrooms, teachers ask students to leave their lunch boxes outside. Based on the decent penmanship of the angry child or child on a dare that wrote that eery message on my son's stuff, I assume it was the work of an upper grade kid, probably from the 6-7-8 grade split.

My son briefly glanced the grafitti, enough to recognize the words "kill" and "fucker" and "fuck you." When he asked why someone would write that, I told him that teenagers don't have the best judgement, that they don't always make good choices and sometimes they are downright DUMB. I also told him that I had long washed his name out of his lunchbox from wiping it down daily, so it's likely that no one knew the lunchbox was his. I told him we'd show it to his teacher and deal with it from there.

From now on, The Lawyer is strictly a brown bag lunch kind of kid.

This doesn't have to be a massive deal unless we make it one. However, I think it's important that the lunch/recess teachers keep tabs on the lunch boxes, so no other kids, especially kindergarten kids, find four-letter word messages before their parents do. Furthermore, as my writer-mama friend said, the lunch boxes should be better supervised in case some twisted teenager decides to "put something" in someone's food (drugs, poison, etc.). Scary, I know. Possible, I'm positive.

Kindergarten Graffiti

2007-06-15T09:19:00.000-07:00

I found this written in pencil on my son's lunch box:

"I'll be back for you.

You will suffer.

I'll kill you.

Your mom is going to die.

Fuck you."

Welcome to kindergarten 2007.

The Birds and Bees (and Flowers Too)

2007-06-14T21:02:00.000-07:00

For a week the Lawyer refused to practice for his school's end-of-the-year dance performance until his teacher agreed to let him play a bee, not a flower. He stood his ground for five school days, refusing to take part with the other flowers until he got his way. Unbelievable. And this is only kindergarten. What stunts will he pull in junior high and high school?

The Lawyer's realization that perhaps being a dancing flower isn't the most macho role for a boy to play surprised me. He's only six. I suppose this is the age when gender really starts to count for something.

"Boys, they don't make good flowers," he informed me, crossing his arms for added authority. "Flowers are too girly. Bees, now that's what boys are good at being. Bees sting. They're brave."

I see. Somehow it's tougher and more boyish to play a buzzing drone who caters to the queen bee, allowing her demand him around at her beck and call, right?

"'You really want to be a flower?" I asked him on the way home from an urgent flower vs. bee meeting with his concerned teachers. "Go ahead and be a flower. Who cares what the other boys think!" Next I thoroughly bored him with my sheep vs. shepherd speech. I think he stopped listening at my first bleet.

"At first I thought I wanted to be a flower but then my guy friends laughed at me," The Lawyer said. "They said it's cooler to be a bee."

Who cares? Well, he does, that's who. And he's the one who has to perform in front of all the other kids in his school, from his fellow kindergartners all the way up to the eighth graders. Not to mention all the factulty, parents, siblings and extended family. Truth is, I would've cared at that age too. Hell, I still care too much what everyone thinks. Maybe that's where he gets it from.

All this talk about "coolness" and flora versus fauna has me pondering peer pressure, gender stereotypes and our first introductions to both.

What if we told boys it's okay to cry and girls it's okay not to be pretty? What if we told our children that other peoples' opinions of them mean nothing in the end?

I wish I had time to delve deeper into these cans of worms. This post isn't even a surface scratch but you get the idea.

Would you let your son be a dancing flower if he wanted to be one?

When and how did you first realized that boys are "supposed" to act and look a certain way, and girls another? What was your first encounter with peer pressure? How did you react?

Not Shedding My ...

2007-06-11T08:45:00.000-07:00

Spare tire.

This morning I was supposed to wake up at 6 and go for a run. Was. What a big fat joke, in more ways than one.

At 7 a.m., the first plane of 50 or so that roar from the airport in my back yard each day served as my alarm clock, as usual.

So much for my split-second motivation to lose the 15 pounds I shed running a while back, then packed on after getting lazy and quitting.

There's always tomorrow. I think I'll start with actually remembering to set the alarm.

The idea of soon donning my tankini on a SoCal beach, without the accompanying fugly mom-skirt shrouding my thunder thighs, should be motivation enough.

It's better to expose my body image issues here than in front of my daughter, who I want to feel confident no matter her shape or size.

Rope Under the Microscope

2007-06-10T02:18:00.000-07:00

Me: How was kindergarten field day today, kiddo? Did you dig the park?

The Lawyer: Oh yeah. It was off the hook! (Wow. He already knows OTH? I'm sooo old.)

Me: What was your favorite part? (Yep, I'm always trying to quantify my kids' happiness for a web of of guilt ridden reasons.)

The Laywer: Tug-o-Peace! I loved it.

Me: What, honey? I can't hear you. Let me turn down the music. Say it again ...

The Lawyer: I said Tug-o-Peace. TUG O PEACE! 'Know what I mean? You played it when you had field day in school too, right?

Me: Tug-o-Piece ... Hmmm. I don't get it. Are you trying to tell me your class ate two pieces of ... uh ... two-piece meals of some kind on field day?! Was it a two-piece chicken meal? Lucky!

The Lawyer: No, no, NO! You aren't understanding me. I said Tug-o-Peace. The other kind is too violent. The old game that old people used to play ... I think it was called Tug-o-War.

Me: Oh. I stand corrected. You're right. Tug-o-War is so yesterday.

The Lawyer: Uh huh. The teacher said we were "pulling for peace."

What other innocent children's games can we politically correct? You've got to love charter schools. Crazy.

Unabashed Bragging

2007-06-09T08:55:00.000-07:00

No coffee. Much brain cloud. Brewing not fast enough as I type.

I realized at midnight last night that I didn't drink a drop of coffee yesterday. It's a wonder I didn't die of withdrawals. Somehow I scraped by on what little caffeine lurks in a colosssal Matcha Green Tea Myst Jamba Juice smoothie, then later a homemade Trader Joe's version of the same.

But I don't want to drone on about coffee and my pot-a-day habit. Stop nodding in agreement, would you? Instead, let's talk about the fact that I NEVER HAVE TO BUY ANOTHER PACK OF DIAPERS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE, barring Depends, of course, and I'm not brave enough to broach that topic yet. To those who are thanking me for sparing you the stomach churning visuals, you're very welcome.

I've probably already announced this here, but my "mom brain" knows no limits, so I'll do it again. About a month ago Pigtails up and decided all on her own that diapers are for wussies, I mean babies. Yes, she peed on the brand new neighbors brand new carpet last week, but she's been accident free other than that one party foul.

Though diapers are a thing of the past (for the first time in SIX years! Yip-freakin'-eee!) in my parenting universe, along with breastfeeding (flopping my lactating twins over the back seat to emergency nurse on the freeway), rectal thermometers (ancient infant torture devices) and nasal aspirators (fancy name for pediatric snot suckers), I'm not yet off the hook on wiping duty. I expect to be instrumental in that department for some time. Raw deal.

Pigtails continues to emerge from a successful potty experience with her underwear and pants/shorts/skirt collapsed around her ankles, open palm and arms exteded straight up in anticipation of a well deserved "high five." Hey, if she merely wants a skin-slap reward, I'm down. At least she doesn't expect a fistful of M&Ms or a lame Sponge Bob sticker that I'll end up picking out of our kitten's fur.

Pigtails seems to think I'm potty training too now that she's mastered toileting, and so what if I still am? She waltzes into my bathroom (the kids have their own, complete with primary colors run amuck and a urine stench I can't exorcise from the linoleum once and for all - blame it on my bad-aim boys) and asks, "You did it yet, Mommy? You knee a high five?" She gushes when the job's done, "I'm so pwoud of you. You are soooo big now, Mama. Wait til I tell Daddy you made a big poop!" I know. It's so wrong.

Well, the kids are begging me to make them smoothies "weally a lot like Jah-ma Juice, pwease!" Not until I've had my third mug of sugar with coffee and cream.

All Signs Point to ...

2007-06-07T12:40:00.000-07:00

Me. Apparently I'm the one behind my son talking about sniffing glue at school. Well, maybe.

A few weekends back the kids gathered around the sticky kitchen table to dump frozen fruit into the blender for smoothies. I'm one of those people who can't do anything without background music. The only tunes on the countertop (I couldn't leave them alone with three ultra sharp blender blades, right?) were the Ramones. I slapped the CD into the player and let it rip. Who knew my six-year-old would listen so hard, especially with the blender churning away.

Here are the lyrics to the Ramones song he told his teacher "my Mommy always plays for me at home:" (Always? What the? To my knowledge he's only heard it that one time!)

"Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue"

Now I wanna sniff some glue
Now I wanna have somethin' to do
All the kids wanna sniff some glue
All the kids want somethin' to do

Bang head. Slam fist. Blend smoothies. Pay no attention to repetitive lyrics in the background. Pay hefty price by looking like an ass in front of son's homeroom teacher and other kindergarten teachers who teacher alerted, as well as the lone parent friend I told. Make bad huffing joke to teacher while trying to recover from total goof-up, then look like I know more than fair share about sniffing glue. Oops again.

Repeat: I am a fool. Duh.

At least I don't let the kids listen to some of my old N.W.A.

Yet.

Whose Got Mad Skillz (and Whose Just Mad)?

2007-06-05T23:38:00.000-07:00

I hereby present an evidential sliver (aw, shoot, I could've just said "list") of my stellar mothering abilities, as eeked out of my blaring Pixies filled head on the drive home to "Rapewood" from my Reject Parenting class at the local Exchange Club. That would be the Exchange Club Child Abuse Prevention Center, a place I've voluntarily sped late to for six Tuesdays so far, unlike my motley crue, court-ordered classmates.

Stuck on "Rapewood," are you? I would be too. Actually, I still am. Quickie explanation: In Why the F Am I Here? class tonight I overheard a bearded chick with a gang tattoo caligraphied across the nape of her neck squeal, "We keeps it real in Rape-woooood, boy-ee!"

I wish I could have said, "Fo-shee-zee. Rapewood's off the hook. Got 'dat ry-eet, bee-atch!" in response but I cleared my throat and asked this instead: "You aren't by chance referring to Fakewood, are you?"

"Shit, yeah, girl. (Gum smack.) You haven't heard people call Fakewood 'Rapewood' before? (Gaping mouth cow gum chew. Smack.) Where you 'bin?"

Unfortunately right here in Rapewood, the spot gum-smacka-lacka lady just gave a hearty shout-out to.

Confirmation of fear complete. Bearded gang mom was indeed refering to the city in which me, the Hubster and the warbly clones three have mostly happily resided in for going on three years now.

Upon further investigation (nothing back-breaking ... just the Web, an original owner neighbor and my very own internal paranoia news channel) I discovered that my home city, originally modeled after Levittown, New York, post WWII, earned this dubious moniker after a rash of bathroom rapes at the local high school and city college. Rapewood's come a long way since giving hard labor to the infamous Spur Posse. Remember those winners circa 1993?

We sure know how to pick a quality family HQ. I guess when me and the Hubster plunk roots down, we aren't afraid to get good and dirty. But what about our kids?

Back to the original point of this post. I'm dishing out five reasons I don't suck harder than a defective Dyson hocked on eBay as a mom, or why I'm decent at maternal gigging, at least when compared to the poor souls populating the conference room where Parenting for Rejects, Drunks and Criminals 101 knowledge is dropped ... and likely instantly forgotten by 75 percent of the people who somehow manage to show up straight.

California roll, please. (Wasabi chaser optional.)

Here are Five Reasons Why I'm a Great Mom (as inspired by those who brain-farted bringing his/her homework to class because pounding K dust by the pound is just too important to cut short):

1. I have all my teeth. Well, at least enough to buzz cut a corn cob. (Doh! That was just mean. I'm a low down dirty rotten snark and I, and maybe even you, like it.) Check back with me when I'm 90 and own stock in Polident adhesive creme.

2. I have a squeaky clean "attitude of gratitude." Says who? My svelte J-Lo look-alike Breakthrough Parenting instructor, that's who! She's a veteran social worker and twice a mom herself, so she should know. (At least in front the prof. I possess, never repress and freely express a grip of AOG. She doesn't hear me when I sexist shit-talk worse than Blow Me Up Tom Lykis in reverse.)

3. I don't (yet) have a probation officer. No prior convictions exist in my file. I swear. The record may show that I was hauled uncuffed down to the station for questioning (parental pick-up and ensuing grounding) after sneaking out a window with cute boys to try beer for the first time. Big deal. I wonder what mischief Britney and Linsday were brewing (other than that schwag tasting Milwaukee's Beast my tongue can't shake the memory of) when they were 15? In a line-up I'd look like a fan of underwear, oh, and skinny landing strips, next to those two.

4. I don't sell coke (like one of my classmates bragadociously told me she does. Oh, by the way, her rehab nurses release her strictly to go to class and back).

5. My husband's never filed a restraining order against me, at least that I'm aware of, even if he's secretly wished to from time to time. I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to binge inhale your flat Orangina and Trader Joe's Pound Plus chocolate almond bar, clearly two offenses that are 911 worthy, no?

Why am I taking Breakthrough Parenting again? Oh yeah. I just remembered -- to brush up on my lacking mirroring, reflective listening and parental conflict resolution skills. To be a better, more patient mom to my children. To learn how to work better with my husband toward our shared parenting/family goals. To develop coping techniques to diffuse being driven by the kids to the soft center of a sumptuous wheel of velveteen triple cream Brie at midnight.

Why am I really taking Breakthrough Parenting? So I can see the worst and feel the best because of it. Maybe not. At least that wasn't my original intention. That would be too shallow. I know. Sad but true.

After what I've seen and heard in class tonight, I know in the very marrow of my mama bones that my children already have all they'll ever need ... between worry-wart me, their doting papa, closeby aunts, uncles, close-in-age cousins and caring teachers from two progressive, open-minded schools.

I'm also positive they'll never, ever attend Rapewood High School.

Huffing 101 - Kindergarten Style

2007-06-05T09:47:00.000-07:00

My son tells me kids are "getting high" sniffing glue at school. He also told me all about sex, as eagerly explained to him by a classmate. He is in KINDERGARTEN. I guess what they say about KGOY (Kids Growing Older Younger) is true.

Time to dust off my mushy parent-kid "talk" skills. The petrified egg "This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs," probably won't cut it with my overly informed Lawyer/son. It sure didn't work on this child of the 80s.

Anyone else with kindergartners in this same predicament?

... Yet another reason to feel kinship with the Polish man who Rip Van Winkled for 19 years and woke up shocked at the state of the world.

The New Welcome Gift

2007-06-04T19:40:00.000-07:00

First impressions last forever. At least that's what the elusive "they" say, right?

So the other day we visited our new next door neighbors (and I mean next-next-next door -- We could see into our kids' bedrooms if we were creepy enough to try) for a quick handshake introduction. You know, "Nice to meet you. We'll be neighbors and we're so fricken thrilled. If you ever need anything ..." and all that obligatory nicey-nice neighborly welcoming committee stuff that lasts until YOUR DAUGHTER PISSES ON YOUR NEW NEIGHBORS BRAND NEW CARPET!

Yep. That's right. Pigtails, who recently potty trained (or so we thought) at the ripe old age of 2.5, rained down the "golden showers" on our brand spanking new neighbors' brand spanking new carpet last Saturday. What better way to introduce ourselves than to make like a dog and pee on the nearest thing. "Hi. Let me clean that stranger-kid piss, I mean MY stranger-kid's piss, off your newly unfurled berber for ya. So sorry." Way to start our neighborly friendship off on the right schmut.

At first I tried to conceal telltale Pigtails' wet patch, slipping out the new neighbors' front door (remember we're so damn close as neighbors that we could fart and hear each other) to my cleaning chemicals cupboard for my trusty Resolve carpet stain/odor remover. It wasn't long before my clean-it-up-before-they-notice-and-judge-me-and-my-leaky-daughter plan was foiled. The gorgeous new working mom next door busted me red handled, spraying a noxious substance on her daughter's princess room rug.

"Um, whatcha' doing?" she asked.

"Well, uh ... This is so embarrassing and it's never happened before ... and, uh, she's been potty trained going on three weeks now and hasn't had an accident ... and ..."

"She peed on the floor?"

"Yes. Exactly."

Luckily my new pretty neighbor didn't seem fazed. She has two young kids of her own. She refused to let me clean it up and patted Pigtails' pee spot with her own two hands, something I never would have done if the pee were on the other carpet. I have this lame thing about "other" kids' pee and pooh. I've always hated changing any diapers other than those hugging the 2-D flat butts of my three children.

I haven't talked to my new neighbors since my daughter's pissy introduction to them. I wouldn't know what to say. At least she didn't drop a deuce on 'em, like a booger-nosed kid did on our playroom berber right after we installed it two years ago.

Would I feel as bad about the whole thing if Pigtails were a dog? Somehow I think a pet dog peeing on a new neighbors' carpet would have been better.

If your kids have ever done this, feel free to piss and tell. I'm curious.

All the Name Dropping You Can('t) Stand

2007-06-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

“So, you actually let someone cum inside of you? My mom told me never to do that!” squalled a guy with neo-nerdy specs who claims to have nude photos of his “ass” on his blog. (*10 p.m. Update -- This dude got naked in the hot tub. I always miss the good crap. I left only moments before.)

This was his actual response to my answer to whether or not I have kids. What the Hell has happened to party conversation (or me at parties)? Am I just that old? Honestly, I felt like that Polish guy who just woke up from a 19-year coma and said the “world had turned upside down” while he was out cold.

“Yes, that’s what I said. I have three kids,” I repeated, not really knowing what else to say.

“What? Are you a bottom or something? You bottom-out often?” I asked, flailing to recover from my fuddy-duddy, 30-something shock at his frank reference to how I came to motherhood in the first place, weak pun intended.

Yup, Saturday night I mingled with fellow bloggers at L.A. Daddy’s L.A. Blogger Bash in the Hollywood Hills.

Among other blog-heads I met clumsily carousing at the swanky Mulholland Drive digs belonging to the guy who wrote Shrek (Why not name-drop? Isn’t that what the complimentary name tags were for?) were the faces behind Sink Into the Pacific House of Prince, Frowning of a Lifetime (Sink's best friend) Rattling the Kettle, Tara Met Blog, L.A. Mommy Childs Play x2 JustinSpace The Red Stapler and, well, I suck too hard at social networking to have snatched the cards of anyone else I spoke with.

I think the only blog-ebrity I met by the jalapeno and artichoke dip was Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, former stand-up comedian and TV writer/author of Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay. Her blog is Baby on Bored, which I only started reading after she commented on a bitchy posting I wrote about her appearance on The Today Show’s recent cocktail Playdates/mom-tini segment. So, lesson learned, I can still contract foot-in-mouth disease from the safety and distance of my laptop, tucked safely into the corner of chaos known as my kids’ playroom.

Stefanie and I briefly talked about our blip of online exchange and moved on to bigger, better, more controversial topics (that thrill overly opinionated mamas like me but might bore the childless into having distraction sex and getting knocked up) – breastfeeding woes, the family bed, to cut or not to cut, eh hem, circumcision, home birth, C-sections, breast reductions, fibroid cysts, etc. -- with the intelligent, goateed author of Rattling the Kettle and his naturally beautiful (refreshingly makeup free, I think) wife and her look-alike little sister.

I also learned at L.A. Daddy’s shindig that Tara, from Tara Met Blog, tested out some “horny juice,” with her husband for pay on her blog. How can I get my hands on some Tara-approved Brass Monkey? Motherhood’s blanched all the horny right outta’ me. Seriously, what I want to know is how Tara massaged paying deals with a swarm of retailers to blog her opinion about their products? All this product review talk has me thinking I should start a second blog that actually earns me some keep around here.

One other quirky conversational dangler from last night's L.A. Blogger Party:
A concept designer/architect named Justin went to a fun party a while back where Allie McEel sushi and Michael J. Pot brownies were served. Why can't I get invites to parties like that?

Oh, and you-know-who-you-are, when should we expect HollaBack.blogspot.com to be launched? I could be your first feed subscriber, although that's not much of an incentive.

L.A. Blogger Party

2007-06-02T13:31:00.001-07:00

Hey strangers. It's nice to be back. I like to take my re-entry into blog-dom slow and easy, like dipping my feet in the frigid Atlantic before fulling immersing myself in the waves. What the Hell am I talking about? Shoot, I'm just lazy.

Dropping off the virtual face of the Earth two weeks ago without so much as a two-sentence update on my husband's ooze-a-foot condition was a dick move. I realize that now, especially after receiving an email all the way from Kim in Austrailia expressing concern. It's so strange and amazing and flattering that Kim, whom I've never met, in Austrailia cares and worries about my family's welfare. I truly appreciate it, though.

So, yes, Kim, I should have mentioned sooner that the Hubster is on the mend. His battery acid strength antibiotic cocktail whipped his Staph infection, hopefully once and for all. Perhaps this entire event whipped his brazen, the devil-may-care lax attitude toward safety as well. (Sorry, babe, I just couldn't help it. Yes, now you know I refer to my six-foot-two-er as "babe" around our digs.)

The Hubster, at the urging of our "Was'sup my patient?" Orange County surfer primary care doctor, went to see a wound care specialist, one who happens to race BMW motorcycles at 120 miles per hour. Poor Hubster. The speed-freak doctor, his snarky nurse and I ganged up on the Hubster like we were jumping him into our safety gang Crip-style. The doctor lectured on and on ad nauseum while plucking chunk after chunk of skin from the Hubster's bloody wound. I looked away but Pigtails stared straight into the wound, as if mesmerized by the oozing center of a giant raspberry donut.

Long story still to dang long, the Hubster is up and about. He was even well enough last week to let me board a Southwest plane to Manchester, New Hampshire, for a visit to my in full bloom home state (where the kick-ass motto is "Live Free or Die," I'll have you know, even if you didn't want to). What a guy. Seriously. I owe him big time for five kid-free, responsability free days some 3,200 miles away. I even slept in (remember what that is, anyone?) ever single day until 10 or ll a.m. Many massages and home cooked favorite meals are in his future (well, at least in theory, uh ... yeah ... ).

Also, I think I divulge the second reason I'm blogging today: I'm going with my writer/mama friend to the L.A. Blogger Party tonight in the Hollywood Hills (oh, I sound so snooty and name-droppy now ... I might as well admit it). L.A. Daddy and L.A. Mommy are hosting. It's BYOB. I hope I can find it. I'm notorious for getting lost in the Hills. You'd think after living in Greater L.A. for going on 10 years now I'd my way around but ... well, I still get lost in my own neighborhood.

I should also admit that I haven't read ANY blogs in about a month, including the L.A. based blogs.

Back Without a Bang

2007-05-31T21:45:00.000-07:00

I'm fresh off of a week in New Hampshire ALONE (without the kids and moms-sibilities) and two weeks off of blogging. A (wicked) cold turkey break from blogging, checking email and being accountable to anyone for a few nano seconds was MARVELOUS but DEPRESSING.

While a gazillion feet above the Grand Canyon with no one to take care of, I was you're forced to wonder who the Hell I am without the kids, the Hubster and the house to hold down.

Staying the Antibiotic Course

2007-05-17T13:18:00.000-07:00

Not much news to report on the swollen cesspool wound front today. The Hubster still looks like he tried to feed a tiger by strapping a raw T-bone steak to his left ankle.

The kids are wild, crazy and surprisingly positive, with only one exception: The Lawyer asked me last night if a Staph infection "could kill Daddy?" I suppose a question like that could be considered more curious and suspicious than negative. After tucking The Lawyer's outer space comforter around his (healthy) feet, I answered: "No. Dad's going to be just fine. He just needs a lot of love, rest and medicine."

What I was thinking: "Technically speaking, well ... Oh, and he could lose a limb ... " and a number of other worst case scenarios that reflexively burp to the surface in my perpetually negative thinking mind.

Think positive (whatever that is), think positive.

I forgot to give an update on The Lawyer's health yesterday. His pediatrician looked him over on Tuesday. Other than minor road rash on his back, shoulders and knees, he's fine. Since the appointment was also his regularly scheduled six-year appointed (uh, super late, though ... he turned six Feb. 15), the doctor sized up his height and weight. He's a bit underweight like I was at that lanky age and he's average height. I'm still surprised at how small and average in size my children are. I'm 5' 8" and my husband's 6' 2", so what gives (and why do I care)? Does anyone else out there take those irritating growth charts and stats as (unnecessarily) seriously as I do?

Well, I'm off to do my Thursday two-school shuffle ... First I pick up Cheeks from preschool, next I zip downtown while shoving a random form of crunchy carbs in my face (and tossing some backwards to Pigtails in her car seat) to grab The Lawyer. He'll be "stoked," as he would say, to see his wounded Papa alive and mostly well. Oh, I forgot I'm stopping at a third school to pick up a friend whose kindly pitching in with the kids and chores this weekend.

Tomorrow I wrangle mean bitchface cat, Trixie, and her litter trio, into a kitty carrier I scooped up from a yard sale today. I hope I don't sustain any open wounds from strong arm-ing her furry feline ass. I don't want to catch The Hubster's nasty infection.

Oozing Pus Like a Slow-Drip Coffee Pot

2007-05-16T13:50:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's so hard not to say "I told you so." But in this case, I think I'm a gazillion times justified, just as long as I leave the juvenile "nanner, nanner" bit out of it. I feel the need to state this before informing you that my too-stubborn-to-go-to-the-doc-sooner Hubster has a friggin' Staph infection.

I predicted that he developed Staph in his biggest (gaping-est) ATV accident wound, the shark bite looking chunk of skin on his ankle that continually drips/oozes pus like a slow-drip coffee pot.

As I joked with a bunch of moms outside the gate at the Lawyer's school this morning (a place I'm getting cozy with being now that I'm on morning drive-in duty), the Hubster's left foot smacks of James Caan's inflate-o-matic feet in Stephen King's Misery movie. I'm bummed Google image search wasn't able to turn up a single image scrap of stomach churning Caan's Hollywood effects enhanced clod hoppers. You'll just have to imagine swimming in feet sick on your own.

Another image that also comes to mind when I look at the Hubster's Staphylococcus bacteria factory of an ankle are the Flintstone feet of Mike Myers' "Fat Bastard" character. Keep all this on the DL, please. The Hubster thinks his inner tube sized ankle "looks just great, honey."

On a serious note, the good doc ordered a full blood count work-up, a thorough excavating (cleansing) of the wound, a double strong antibiotic cocktail to cut the narcotic painkillers with and a Staph culture to confirm what he says he "already knows for sure."

If the infection doesn't improve within two days (that is if it goes beyond the permanent marker outline the doctor scrawled around the red swollen areas in question), the Hubster will call the hospital home until otherwise ordered by that same good doc. I can't get over how pissed I am that this never had to escalate to a Staph infection and a dangerous flirtation with Toxic Shock Syndrome (something I know of only from tampon packages).

If only the Hubster were half the hypochondriac I am, he would've had this thing in the can a few days ago, when I first told him the Hell hole wound was a pus making station that required something other than NOTHING, for Christ's sake!

So, here's my day in gore, with a little pre-crash bonus pic at the end. Notice the Hubster's imaginary protective gear. Oh, I'm such a bitch sometimes. At least I know it. I could use a quick lesson in sympathetic nursing, but for right now I'm still worried and miffed.

Yadda, yadda, yadda. Repeat to self: He's going to be just fine. He won't land up in the hospital. Staph ain't nothin' but a chicken wang' dang. Calm the heck down.

Flipped Over and Spit Out

2007-05-14T07:28:00.000-07:00

The hype about the dangers of four-wheeling might not be hype after all. Just ask my husband and 6-year-old son, who together accidentally yanked a full revolution in the air on one over the weekend.

Lucky. Relieved. Pissed. Annoyed. Guiltfully validated that "quads" are as trashy and unsafe as I always thought.

My son walked away, literally, from the quad-totalling wipe-out with scratched up knees and road rash all over his back and shoulders. He didn't even cry. My husband was knocked unconscious (our friend tried to kick him awake -- I don't think they teach that move at the Red Cross) and is now the owner of a bruised hip bone, a sprained ankle, at least a dozen road rash scrapes and a laceration on his ankle that you could fit an apricot pit into (I tried to stuff one in there to stop the blood -- and I don't think they teach that at the Red Cross either ... Just kidding). I'm pleased to report that Bounty paper towels are the "quicker picker upper" of blood, that is. Masking tape works too.

So on Mother's Day I spent the day doing what mother's do (hopefully) best, nursing my wounded pups back to health. I have some bizarre ER stories to tell when I'm not busy shuttling kids out the door to school (my husband usually drives The Lawyer to kindergarten in the a.m.) and "Itsy Bitsy" preschooler basketball practice (Cheeks' Jordan training).

For now, the Hubster seems perfectly sedate and pain free on his codeine that I scratched up ... from one of four pharmacies I hunted down after midnight last night. What happened to all the 24-hour pharmacies around here? So I can get a greasy burger after midnight in the city but not a handful of legal narcotics?

Also, wonder cat Trixie, who has now morphed in my opinion to holy high Hell bitch face cat, mauled Pigtails' face again and just missed her eye. I moved her and her litter of four kitties into the garage. Ousted. Exhiled. Kicked the Hell out. Right now she's stalking our playroom sliding glass door, meowing like a wild feline banshee. I keep on singing, "Keep on knocking but you CAN'T come in." Her fate as a member of this household is up in the air, just like a quad that unexpectedly dropped a bolt and my two biggest boys.

More later ... No time to spell check ...

Because 'Life Tastes a Little Too Good' to Some Party People

2007-05-07T14:30:00.000-07:00

Warning: I’m going to get downright raw in this post. If you don’t want to read about drugs, sex and, more specifically, gay sex, I won’t be offended if you click elsewhere.

First off, I’m not that cool. I’m a big dork mom of three who drives a crumb-filled minivan. Perhaps you think simply because of my proximity to Hollywood, I’m connected to the “industry” scene or have had my lips plumped with botox. For the record, my boobs are real, even if they are real deflated, and my lips are naturally plumped. Truth be told, I’ve always liked my pout-y mouth, especially the bow tie top that looks extra Ferg-i-licious when I wear stoplight red lipstick. As far as the entertainment "industry" goes, I'm good friends with a successful CGI artist-art director couple and that's about it. I'm so not plugged in. (Where was I and I how did I lose track of all the sordid bits of salacious, first-hand content I’m suppose to bring to your eyes?)

Moving on now, and quickly, this weekend a friend of ours helped us out by babysitting the minis three so I could forge ahead on several writing projects (nothing that cool, I assure you, unless you consider school newsletters and corporate conduct handbooks glamorous) and go to a birthday party in Studio City with my husband and our former neighbor/longtime close friend. My babysitting friend also seeded my veggie garden for me while I rapped away on the keyboard and my children stomped the dance steps of Michael Flatley, or tried to, firmly into the parched soil.

My husband was the D.O.D. all weekend, except for when our babysitting friend took over while we ventured north to the birthday shindig. He makes me look like a slacker when he watches the kids. Not only does he play with them like a champ but somehow also balances meals and post-meal-blowout cleanup, mops the floors, dusts better than Merry Maid and folds six loads of laundry into neatly stacked towers (that I haven’t put away yet).

Yes, yes. Onto the sex and drugs already. I don’t have much time to really clue you in on a sundae-sized, hot-fudge greased, cherry-popped scoop, but I can spoon you a taste of bullet points about the posh party:

· I’m willing to estimate that 99 percent of the people at the party were gay. I’m an admitted fag hag, always have been, so why am I pointing this out? Why should it matter? Who cares? Why am I so un-politically correct? I think this is a notable fact even if you don’t. I don’t really have any compelling reasons for that … so scratch your head and call me Mary.
· My husband got hit on by dudes at least half a dozen times. He handled this extremely well, except for when he placed his massive open palm on the chest of a super drunk Abercombie model look-alike 34-year-old named John, I think. Never before had I seen my husband push someone other than my kids when they play wrestle. And, let me tell you, he wasn’t playing. “C’mon, you’re so tall, gorgeous and bald,” John cooed (drunk-slurred). Lemme’ see if you’re a bear or not.” Bear is apparently what hairy guys are called in the “family” community (correct me if I'm wrong because I really don't know for sure). Sorry, John boy, but the Hubster doesn’t swing his door that way, even if his two best male friends are gay. Low-rise, acid-washed jean guy, Mark, a lanky bottle blonde who proudly served his signature “way-too-f-ing-strong, bitch” (that's seriously what he called them) marguerita lime Jell-O shots, closed in on the Hubster. Meanwhile I reminisced about my college days in Boston with a gay attorney couple who met and fell in love in law school at Boston University when I caught the Hubster desperately eyeballing me from across the patio while trying to create a wall of smoke between himself and come-on-strong Mark. (I totally forgot this is supposed to be bullet style. Oops.)
· A jet black haired bone of a stripper arrived late to the party, though thankfully not to strip. Her sole purpose, apparently, was to convince a bunch of wasters to follow her to the bathroom and sniff coke off of an expensive, heavily veined granite counter. She lied to me and told me she was a bartender, but, c’mon, she so isn’t. I was fooled for a while until her roommate, who affectionately called her his “wife,” revealed the truth. I believe she’s his “Mary” or his wife on paper for insurance reasons. Isn’t same-sex marriage insurance legal in California, though? I don’t know. My friend kicked her out of the bathroom for me so I could use it for what it's really meant for. She left a sprinkling "dust" on the counter, which I swabbed away with a wad of toilet paper. I'd never seen that stuff in my life and think I'm all set until the next life. No thanks.
· A swarm of dancing drunken men crowded the huge flat screen TV to watch the De La Jolla-Mayweather match. I’m sure I annoyed Mark to no end with a constant stream of small-talky questions about boxing basics, Mayweather’s hyper cut pectorals and star audience sightings (Leonardo DiCaprio, J-Lo, Tommy Lasorda, etc).
· A cluster of partygoers thought that De La Jolla had gotten “fat and old.” Fat and old? I think I’m the same age as him and I can show you some serious “muffin top” fat. Jeez. Their physique standards are stacked a little too high if you ask me.
· The bartender rented for $45/hour from beautifulbartender.com was BEAUTIFUL. Everyone guessed that he was straight but he confessed that he’s bi-curious. Yeah, I’d say that too if it would fill my tip jar. Smart hottie. Very, very smart hottie.
· I found it extremely culturally insensitive that Mayweather wore the colors of the Mexican flag and had his team don shirts that read, “Mexico loves Mayweather.” What a rude jerk. I suppose the best man wins according to strength and skill, not the contents of his character.
· I think my husband and I were the only parents of young children at the party, except for one perfectly coifed set designer who said he got a girl pregnant a decade ago while he was “trying hard not to be gay.”
· Sex, didn’t I promise some sexy stuff? Well, I think I’ll keep all that to myself for now.
· I had a great time and don’t regret the 50 bucks we laid down for babysitting. Seeing how people party in the Studio City hills was worth every cent.

The Music Was My Special Friend

2007-05-05T02:17:00.000-07:00

"I want roses in my garden bower, dig?"

Listening to the Doors in my garage surrounded by plumes of clove smoke tonight I thought my life drab and wanting for some deep thoughts.

Maybe I'll coax a some shiny yellow squash and juicy, plump tomatoes from my garden bower this Spring. I'm supposed to plant tomorrow, but, then again, I'm supposed to do so much that I continually fail to do.

Jim Morrison should see the state of the environment now, I thought, sipping my cheap, 7-Eleven bought white zin.

"What have they done to the earth?
What have they done to our fair sister?
Ravaged and plundered and ripped her and bit her
Stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn
And tied her with fences and dragged her down."

I'm turning out the light now because the music's over ... and, well, it's 2:20 in the morning and there are children who expect homeade French crepes just after dawn.

When Meddling Moms Attack ... Dads

2007-05-02T20:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I can't help but interfere when my husband plays D.O.D., the "dad on duty," as he puts it. I'm forcing myself not to right now.

He's in charge of the three B's tonight, Bath, Books and Bed, our usual bed time routine. So far, it's going disastrously. I'm supposed to be diligently working on a paid writing project but I can't go on because there's so much shouting and stomping in the boys' bedroom. If I'm alarmed, what do my neighbors think?

Did I mention how freaking hard it is not to go in there right now and put my pushy size 10 mama foot (ski) down?! My heart rate soars with every defiant "NO!" shouted in my husband's direction. Why are the boys refusing to get dressed?

Walk away. Block it out. Don't go in there and be a bitchy bitch. Don't be a control freak mama. Let Daddy do the job. Block the "wild rumpus" out. Be the master of ignoring, like The Lawyer. Must get into the zone-out Zen zone.

"STOP IT RIGHT NOW! YOU ARE BROTHERS! STOP BEATING ON EACH OTHER!" my husband just boomed in the back end of the house. That's like asking brothers not to trip each other. I feel for the Hubster in the heat of the on-edge parenting moment, enough to rescue him when he doesn't need rescuing.

"I want Mommy to do bedtime," my daughter tearfully protests, whining every so irritatingly through her little nose.

Again, bedtime is for shit tonight. Would it be better if I were in charge? I don't know. Probably not, since I allow all three kids to manipulate the Hell out of me whenever and wherever.

I want to go kiss each and every one of my crying babes goodnight but don't want to spark an hour-long begging-for-mommy fest.

"Don't undermine me in front of the kids," my husband continually tells me. Do I listen? Hell no. Should I? Of course. So, tonight, right now, I'm going to stuff my overgrown talon tipped fingers in my ears, bite my freshly lipsticked for nothing lip and butt the heck out. Burying myself in the work just might work. Or not.

Wait. He's asked me to kiss them goodnight. The white flag has been raised. I'm no longer on deck ...

Maybe I should have stayed at the Internet cafe after all.

*Update -- Per norm, my goodnight kisses threw Daddy bedtime way off kilter for more than an hour. There. I proved myself guilty.

Mind Dump No. 2 (Lip Synch Swearing, All Nighters & Farm Workers' Rights)

2007-05-02T13:48:00.000-07:00

I'm too friggin' busy supposedly generating extra cash for the family to create a thoughtful, well fleshed out entry today. That's right. That's how cool I am? Well, okay, not at all. I'm just terrible at managing my time. So, instead of blogging on a specific topic, I offer you yet another uncensored, un-spell-checked mind-dump.

My daughter just woke up from her nap. Yes, her NAP! How thrilling that both of my wee ones crashed out for a full hour while their big brother is at kindergarten. I woke up next to Cheeks on the bottom bunk shellacked to his pillow in my own puddle of drool. You'd think I'd take advantage of a sleeping house and make headway on several writing projects and overdue chores. But no. What do I do? I sleep.

Sleep from the fallout of pulling a true all-nighter on Sunday-Monday. I don't suggest staying up all night. I didn't log one wink of sleep, at the age of 31 and three quarters, for the very first time in my life. I felt drunk all the next day, singing random commercial jingles (zoom, zoom, friggin' zoom) and tossing burnt Eggos in the air like a speed freak juggling clown. Caught in a vortex, I sat mesmerized in the glow of my flatscreen monitor, bouncing between writing and Google-ing old friends from high school and long lost flames. I found out that a spurned college crush now owns a successful gourmet ravioli bistro in upstate New York and that several of my old "newsy" articles still exist out there in the cyber-sphere.

I also discovered that I'm still embarrassed of those old over-written articles. Time has changed nothing about my shame of my own published writing. Basically, I wish it were better, not so adjective heavy, without so many lame cliches and metaphors. Can you say TRYING TOO HARD? That's my life in a nutshell -- trying too damn hard. If everyone walked around with their biggest weakness clearly stamped on their foreheads, mine would say "Tries Too Hard to Impress," "Cares Too Much What People Think" and "Can't Make a Decision Without Frantically Consulting a Million People," among way too many other things.

Where am I going with this? Let's see ... Let's blind ...

I tagged along to my son's kindergarten today since my husband wasn't available to bring him to school today. I'm lucky he brings him at all. I see so many mothers of multiple children, including really young children like mine, skulk to the gate with groggy babies on their hips, rushing to make it inside before they're shut out, forced to do the late walk of shame through the front office. Uh, gee, I've never done that. We pulled up, literally onto the curb (whoops), just as the teacher was rolling the chainlink fence shut.

In haste, I parked in a spot that was two seconds away from being brushed clean by the street sweeper. Yup, I made a $40 mistake. One that had me mouthing the word "shit" and raising my fists in futile protest in front of my son's kindergarten classroom. Luckily I didn't say it out loud or I don't think I'd be welcomed back inside to join in for Super Lectoro (Spanish for Super Reader time). I still can't believe I did that. Way to model inappropriate anger management, Kim.

After The Lawyer's homeroom, I followed him with his posse (his two sibs) in tow to his Language Arts class, which is taught mostly in English. We learned about the plight of a fictional farm worker child and discussed ways to help hard working people who don't make enough money to make ends meet. A poster showcasing the kids' ideas was clipped to a whiteboard. It read: "make more money," "Yes, we can!" "more schools," "better education" and "no grapes." I'm still trying to figure out the "no grapes" suggestion. Remember, they're only kindergartners.

The Lawyer's Language Arts class is reading about low-wage farm workers and unions to prepare for their Cesar Chavez assembly and parade on Friday. The Lawyer made a sign for the parade that reads "Yes, we can!" a chant often used by Chavez and his fellow protesters. On it he drew in marker a "no guns" sign, a no hurting animals sign (a real stick figure gem featuring a wound and a pool of blood!), a backwards dollar sign and a backwards cents sign and a picture of my "heart protector," a nickname he uses the bold tribal necklace I'm wearing right now over my dorky Wal-mart bought "Hug a tree" shirt.

When asked to make a sentence using the word "all," my little "no guns" man proudly said to the class, "All the F-22s are lining up on the runway for a bombing mission." A huge smile unzipped across his face. He must have felt accomplished. "What's an F-22?" the teacher's aide asked. "Well, have you heard of the Thunderbirds?" The Lawyer said. "It's a long story. You'll have to go up to the Navy base my uncle works at to see some for real." He went on and on about the historic World War II planes he's been watching with his daddy and brother from our yard. They're in town for a charity event. Our friend, Nick, flew in one the other day for a cool $400. I think it was a B25, if such a plane exists. Of course, you'd have to ask The Lawyer.

"Mama, why do some people have to pick fruit all day when other people are rich and could just share their money?" Tough question. "Are we gonna' have World War III, mommy?" Worse question.

Mind dump complete.

Washed Up Jellyfish or Breast Implants?

2007-04-29T16:29:00.000-07:00

Never dress your kids in long sleeves and jeans for an April day at the beach in San Diego. They'll look like a trio of displaced city folk whose mom was up all night smoking crack. What was I thinking?

We ventured an hour and a half south with the kids this weekend to take part in a luau/outrigging competition/charity event that my husband's company sponsored. While my smoker Hubster huffed, puffed and rowed his way to second place (the buff U.S. Coast Guard eye candy team snagged first-place, no brainer), I miserably failed at being in three places at once (chasing my trio of unruly children). Frankly, it was embarrassing to wield so little control over my chitlins at the somewhat high-profile, fancy-schmancy function.

Pigtails trailblazed alone, sandblown and completely out of sight toward the teriaki glazed luau food tent scrounging for a third serving of the "sticky blue stuff" (super dense factory prefab cotton candy) while her barely beginner swimming brothers flirted with an ambulance ride to the emergency room (or being peed on by the hot Coast Guard guys) while poking dead jellyfish with unidentifiable washed up sea trash and driftwood.

I wondered later if the "jellyfish" the mischief brothers maniacally impaled were the missing silicone (or was it saline?) halves of a decent C-cup rack. After all, we were at a Southern California beach and the boys' orb torture targets were round, squishy, transluscent and lacked tentacles as far as I could see from the top of the sandy beach, where I feebly schmoozed with the other corporate wives.

My schmoozing topics left much to be desired (Is there a corporate wife schmoozing 101 course I don't know about? Sign me up pronto so I can get an easy F!):

"Did you know the New Hampshire State motto is 'Live Free or Die' and one of the outrigging teams is named 'Live Free or Die ... Rowing'? What a coincidence! How clever!" Or not.

"Yeah. I love baking cupcakes with the kids too. What a joy!" What a bunch of bullshit. I hate baking with the kids because it gets too messy too fast. And I don't savor the taste nor texture of bitten off plastic spatula accidentally baked into my Jiffy popovers.

"I agree." I said these two words a ton but had no idea what I agreed to because my eyes were too busy darting willy nilly around the beach in the three directions of my children like I'd just eaten two hits of Purple Jesus in a strobe flickering rave room. I really hope I didn't unknowingly agree that the Coast Guard rowing studs would have looked more appetizing if they hadn't shave their ripped chests. (Hey, do raves even happen anymore? I'm dating myself, me thinks.)

Well, that's it for now. It's time to unpack our sandy duds and unearth the seventeen craps my cat took in the cat box while we were away. At least Trixie cat didn't eat her young (kittens) in our absence. Now that we're back, I'll leave that to my crazy curious kids.

Tomorrow brings Cheeks' second Itsy Bitsy Sports class. Basketball is the reason because it's in-season. Shee-a, not funny. There will be plenty of local yocal moms to smchmooze with there. Let's just hope I don't blow it a la San Diego. Who cares? They'll be too busy snapping proud-parent digital pics of their kids to notice my social drivel. Last week all in attendance, except yours truly, hailed the motherly merits of scrapbooking for a good ten minutes. Gag me with a 3D, acid-free photo corner.

By the way, Cheeks didn't errupt into a single tantrum in San Diego. No complaints were filed on the part of our fellow hotel guests, and he slept through the night (on the very edge of the hotel bed ... We found him dangling upside down crying on Saturday night, with the lower half of his newly tanned body anchored to the mattress. Wisps of sun-bleached hair on the top of his upside down head brushed the carpet. I couldn't stop chuckling, which really pissed him off ... He didn't like me calling him a "fruit bat boy" either. Hey don't sloths also hang upside down from trees when they sleep ... ).

What child wouldn't crash through the night after two days in the San Diego sun, poking salt water filled breast implants/jellyfish that washed up on the salty shore? Seems as if evolution has come full circle.

Forecast: A Full Night of Sleep When They Grow Up and Move Out

2007-04-27T07:16:00.000-07:00

I'm tired, I'm pissed and I said a lot of things last night that I already regret.

Cheeks had not one, not two, but three major tantrums overnight. At one point he barked like a dog. Figure that one out.

My eyes hurt. I feel like I have a newborn who wakes me turn nurse every hour, except I don't. None of my children are newbies any more. Cheeks reminds me of one, though. His emotional, sometimes violent, outbursts take me back to his nightly newborn, 8 p.m.-on-the-dot crying and kicking fits. They would last for two hours at least, sometimes as long as three.

Neighbors arrived at my front door, as they do now, all those years ago to see if "everything's okay" or to ask me "to keep it down with the baby." We're in a different neighborhood now and nearly four years have passed since Cheeks dreaded punctual colick attacks, yet the neighbors here probably wonder if we're beating him. The crashing sounds of piggy banks breaking, shoes being pelted one after the other at a flimsy bedroom door and incessant wailing and what truly sounds like barking, these are the sounds we're known for now on our block. A neighbor five houses up the street confirmed that she can hear Cheeks' tantrums. I used to worry about the embarrassment. Now I worry that a neighbor, especially the poor couple right next door, is going to call the cops or Child Services.

This has to stop.

Cheeks' older brother, The Lawyer, isn't sleeping enough because of the nightly bloodcurdling scream interruptions. He covers his ears, hides under his pillow. Eventually we send him to our bedroom, where he can at least muffle the noise with bigger pillows and a thicker door. He stays awake anyway, listening to his brother's fits escalate, then fizzle out, usually after about 45 minutes.

One of the Lawyer's teachers asked me why he seems so tired. "Is he getting enough sleep?" Apparently he's become a regular at the office and has taken to "resting" on the couch there.

I have to go wake him now for his Friday field trip. This time he's going to a dairy and produce farm twenty miles up the freeway. Maybe he'll catch some z's on the way there while I try to keep Cheeks asleep a little longer at home. I'm not ready for him to wake up just yet.

(Don't care to spell check.)

Betty Crocker Breakfast

2007-04-26T22:59:00.000-07:00

Pigtails never fails to crawl into our bed every morning at dawn, reeking of pee drenched Huggies, only slightly sour morning breath (the worst doesn't hit until four or so) and mystery baby powder (I've hardly ever sprinkled any on her bottom, not even when she was a newborn).

A newly uploaded annoying chime coming from my husband's bedside Blackberry woke all three of us up this morning.

Unlike me, Pigtails fell right back to sleep. We lucked out on the third baby with a self-soothing model. Insert thumb, twirl hair and Pigtails is knocks right back out.

Fully asleep again, Pigtails karate kicked off the covers - she never could stand being swaddled or covered up in any way, it's a wonder she keeps her clothes on at all - and frowned, at least her drooly lips appeared down-turned from behind the pulsing thumb she has perma-jammed between them. Whimpering followed.

"It's okay, baby girl," I whispered near her ear, trying to stop another way too-early wake up before it started.

"No it's not okay," she said after plucking her thumb from her pout. Her eyes were still sealed shut in slumber.

"What, honey? Whaddyou' say to Mummy just now?"

"It's not okay! I want MY OWN chocolate cake for my birffday, Mommy! I WANT CAKE!"

Sure enough, when Pigtails woke up three hours later for the day with her white-blonde hair all tangled up like a tumbleweed beehive, the first thing she asked for was the chocolate cake of her dreams.

"Where's MY birffday cake, Mommy?" she demanded, as if I'd prepared one for breakfast.

Summertime at the Lake

2007-04-26T09:05:00.000-07:00

My old journals were supposed to provide fodder for my book. So far, they haven’t been up to scratch.

5.8.97
"Used Furniture
Prescription popping on a Sunday afternoon
Watching New Hampshire public TV
Wearing an ex-boyfriend’s underwear"

See what I mean?

Here’s an exerpt I like far better from 4.14.99:

“I’m sitting in my bedroom atop my headboard-less queen-sized bed. A picture of my sister’s wedding day looks down on me from above the heating thingamajig thermostat. Tucked into the corner of the silver and gold frame is a stunning summertime picture of my sister at Camp Fatima.
We were in a swampy part of Lake Suncook in backwoods New Hampshire when I snapped the photo. Every Labor Day weekend my parents whisked me and my sister off to Camp Fatima with their fellow Knights of Columbus volunteers and friends for a long weekend of camp fires, singed hot dogs and Bingo games that went on and on until midnight.

My sister, Dena, and I would bundle up for the brisk night and walk down to the docks to meet our once-a-year-every-year for as far back as we could remember friends. We hid in the bushes to smoke cigarettes and played pass-out near the lake’s moonlit edge.

Dena’s honey-wheat hair is long in the photo, long enough to kiss her deep tanned shoulders. Her infectious smile opens across her face like a birthday present. There, in a slow going canoe on Lake Suncook, Dena is the most beautiful girl in the world. I can’t remember but I think she was 17 or 18 at the time. The wild, silly spirit passed down from our wonderfully-young-at-heart mom frozen on photo paper.

The cool blue lake water reflects off her salmon blush dusted cheeks and she is alive in that moment once again.

I miss the densely packed forests of New Hampshire. Out here in L.A. it’s suffocating. Miles of concrete spill out to form a rigid grid street layout beneath the smog and all its carcinogenic particulate matter.
There’s a painting of cottage on the calendar on my wall. It’s the month of April and I want that damn cottage for my own right now. I want to be in its small kitchen, frying bacon and tossing crepes in a heavy cast iron pan like my mother’s. I like the slight chimney poking out from the cottage’s thatched roof. I don’t know what Monet meant by that roof. A great mass of dots, clumped all together to articulate what I wish for: open space but closer still to my family.

I see myself older and independent in Monet’s cottage with long salt and pepper hair pulled back into a ponytail. I want to be wise and well read, with great taste in gourmet food, especially pies, cakes and other sugary desserts. I’d like my parents to still be around when I’m old. I could grow old with my dad, sparring with him as usual over some great, big topic we would inevitably disagree on.

Living in the moment, throwing caution to the wind and smoking. That’s what I’ll like, even when I’m old. My dad and I will bicker and nudge each other with verbal barbs rolling off our tongues until someone says something hurtful that sticks like gum and won’t be pried off.

I wish I could borrow, or even keep, the house on the hill of grass in Dunbarton, New Hampshire, my aunt and uncle’s house. It should be all mine for a weekend at least. My closest cousins lived there. Maybe they still do.

My eyes are getting heavy with sleep but I keep seeing my sister. A random symphony orchestra streams out of my square clock radio. A macho build up in the song winds down to weepy oboes and violins. Their cries are so faint now I can hardly hear them tip toe. The triangle’s ding distracts, brings attention to itself and steals a moment from the rest of the tune. It’s unpleasant, like the sound of ringing in my ear. Repeating itself over and over, forecasting a headache. I wish they’d leave the brass out of this symphony. I can’t help but associate the saxophone with a sexy duet between lovers or a stripper slipping out of her clothes. Who even knows if it’s a saxophone at all? What do I know about the symphony? Shoot. It’s a trumpet. Duh. Something even more wretched to my ears. Off the bed. Off with their heads.

Good night. Bonne nuit. Je t’aime beaucoup. Just like mom said when she tucked us in.”

Cali - The Land of Fruit and Truck Nuts

2007-04-25T07:02:00.000-07:00

What do a pair of low-hanging balls and a pair of missing front teeth have in common? C'mon. Try harder. You can't guess?

Well I never would have guessed either ... that both bizarre pairs would color my day yesterday. One blushed my cheeks to pink and the other whitewashed my face to an even paler shade of pale.

Let's start with the danglers. There I was sitting at a red light at a busy crosswalk on the local city college campus. Cheeks and Pigtails gazed straight ahead, out the front windshield, right along with their cold coffee-guzzling mama at the iPod plugged up 18 to 24 set. The three of us were blissfully glazed over six-feet deep into our collegiate people watching when a yacht-sized Chevy Tahoe pulled up next to us in the wake of its own Richter scale bass booms.

I rolled my eyes and rolled up my minivan windows. (I know. What a shock that a suburban mom of three drives a friggin' minivan and shudders in response to bombastic bass. Duh.) I shifted my annoyed gaze downward as the Tahoe inched forward, nearly nudging the bumper of the Toyota hybrid in front of it. Ironic.

Perhaps by now you've heard the term "deez nuts." Then again, not all moms listen to hip-hop day-in and day-out like I do. Well, as I glanced downward below the Tahoe's bumper, I noticed a stoplight red pair of "deez nuts " swinging gently to and fro in the spot where a boat hook would normally stick out. Truck balls are the new antennae ball gone plural and flipped upside down from the back end. TRUCK BALLS?

Yes, a plastic red pair of what appeared to be human testicle replicas hung low from the danged Tahoe. If they didn't suck hard enough already, they lacked authenticity for a number of reasons: they were perfectly smooth, they glinted, perfectly reflecting the Southern California sun, both balls were perfectly even in size and neither hung higher or lower than the other, and THEY dangled NOT FROM A MAN, BUT A FROM A TRUCK, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!

It's too (coffee draught) early in the morning to go into the gummy gaps that appeared instead teeth in the trucker-swearing mouths of two of my fellow parenting class students last night. After only one class out of the nine to come, I can already confidently say that I'm a far better mother than I thought. I think I was the only mother there of my own volition, not by court order. I'll share the horror stories from class when I'm on a full stomach later.

Hopefully the recent ball-dangling fad doesn't hang on. Oh, and, uh, truck squirrels, please keep your balls to your nut hoarding selves.

BALL-CENTRIC UPDATE: I Googled "truck balls" and found this lame ad copy: "Bumper nuts, bumper balls, truck nutz, truck balls, truck nuts, hitch nuts, big balls, bulls balls, bull balls, big boy nuts, bike balls, car balls and hanging nuts are not all the same thing, our imitators would like you to think so." Thanks Bulls Balls company, "home of the Big'Uns," for making my day a little nuttier.

I can rest easier at night knowing that Bulls Balls' Truck Nuts "are available in four styles, many colors including Bright Chrome, Bright Brass, Diamond Plate and Camouflage" that will "hang easily on all your rigs, in many ways. They're made to Swing™!" How appropriate that in the "How to Hang Bumper Balls" FAQ over at Bumper Nuts, the manufacturer advises against hanging truck balls from your rig with CHICKEN WIRE. What does that tell you about the type of folks they're addressing?

Maybe, just maybe, my Dodge minivan can be the first mama-mobile to sport a saggy pair of post-breastfeeding flapjack boobs. What's next? Episiotomy car-ginas? What other inanimate objects can our sex-salivating society sexualize? More importantly, when I can have balls on my blender?

No Theme, No Stress - Blow and Make a Wish

2007-04-23T13:28:00.000-07:00

My son Cheeks turns four June 24. I have almost exactly two months to (un)prepare.

Usually I'd be in a stressed out huff by now, trolling www.orientaltrading.com for themed baseball or pirate party sets, hopefully no pricier than $2.95 per guest. Of course I'd also scramble to nail down a themed, stuffed to the seams piñata, helium balloons and the crowning inflated jewel of the party - a colossal bounce house.

What about the invitations? If you know me, I'm as much of a slacker when it comes to those as I am at sending thank you cards. It's strictly Evite for me and email thank yous for you.

Next, I'd stress the party menu. Triangular gourmet paninis for the adults or cutesy cookie cutter shaped, monogrammed PB & Js for the kids. Aw, it's all so Martha Stewart I could puke. Last year my son opted for a chopper motorcycle themed party, complete with checkered racing flags, a fancy chopper piñata and an amazing finale featuring his uncle's real, unfathomably loud and awesome Harley chopper. My son was higher on happiness (or chopper exhaust fumes).

I was far less elevated, having dished out 600 smackers on the party, which only a third of those who RSVP'd yes showed up to. That's 600 bills before the cost of his presents from his siblings, myself and his papa. Not this year. No way. Perhaps not ever again.

Drag out the wet blanket and promptly place it over the birthday candles spiking out of the overpriced, in keeping with the theme frosting heap called a cake. Meet William Doherty, a University of Minnesota social sciences professor whose mission is to take the pressure out of over-the-top, extravagant themed kids' birthday parties. (I wish I'd heard of him several thousand birthday party dollars ago, when I threw my first massive, superhero steroid injected parties at the park for my first son, starting six years ago.)

"Mothers run these parties and compare notes," Doherty said in a recent interview with USA Today. "It's the one mother out of 10 or 20 who ups the ante, then the others fall into place. That's what's so insidious about this."

Doherty is a member of Birthdays Without Pressure (BWP), a St. Paul group that wants parents to subtract mucho money, themes and stress from birthday celebrations. Is there a local BWP and when can I sign up? Read more about BWP and Doherty here. Read about the biggest birthday bashes here to see how bad it's gotten.

This year we'll invite Cheeks' cousins and a neighborhood friend or two (I'm thinking eight kids tops, including his two sibs), to the local park to grub on take-out pizza and juice, where we'll play for two or three stress-free, plain and simple hours.

If I cave and make favor bags, they will be as they always have been for our celebrations -- plain paper lunch bags that my children decorate with glitter, rubber stamps and whatever sparkly mess we can dig up from the overstuffed art box in the garage. They will be filled with 99 Cent Store penny racers and bubbles, or maybe with animal shaped lint balls from the Hubster's bellybutton.

At first I wanted to host Cheeks' party at the local rock climbing gym. He loved climbing there last Winter at his friend Maggie's sixth birthday. You should have seen him beam with pride (and a smattering of brow sweat) when he climbed to the very top and scaled his way back down again. I was impressed by the letter shaped hand and foot holds. The party was simple, fun and classy. Still, renting rock gym space isn't cheap.

Instead, I'll reserve a spot at a nearby nature park. I believe the rocks there are free, and so are the trees. No theme. No breaking the bank. No competition and NO STRESS. What's not to celebrate? Cheeks will still delight in a frosting topped cake that he will help decorate (he likes scraping the batter bowl better, I think). If guests should bring presents, he will open them.

When we look back on Shutterfly at Cheeks' big day, I'm sure we won't see any children sitting at the foot of a Eucalyptus or palm tree, mopping up tears shed over not bouncing into oblivion in a Batman bounce house. I have no doubt that the kids probably won't even notice the lack of batter dipped extravagance and trademarked superhero paper cups and plates, even if their mothers do.

No Tantrums Today (No Title Necessary)

2007-04-20T23:06:00.000-07:00

Warning: This post is going to be as out of focus as the contents of my Shutterfly account. I'll be writing erractic, stream-of-momness journal style without hesitation or editing.

Begin unhinging brain onto keyboard:

Why is my husband in the garage rapping away on his laptop and why am I rapping on mine in the house? Why do we spend most of our nights of late separate and plugged in online but plugged out in-person? More dates. Must schedule more strawberries and whipped cream drive-in nights like last weekend's. Blades of Glory killed me. He wasn't moved to cackling like I was.

I finished my son's lard-laden canned frijoles negros and melted string cheese strand crisscrossed nachos for a late-night snack tonight without a Beano chaser. What the Hell was I thinking, and does this oversight have anything to do with the night's distance between my husband and myself?

Why did I insist on assisting my husband with bed time tonight when he was perfectly okay with sending me off to the movies to wash down synthetic butter drowned popcorn with pawfuls of bias cut pickled jalapeno slices? In the two hours my overtired daughter loosely rolled around in her sheets like the errant, fake plastic 99 Cent Store pearls she snapped off a gaudy dress-up bracelet with her teeth I could have been sensationally satisfied and salivating for the second half of Quentin Tarantino's "Grindhouse" double feature. But no. I insisted on helping. Then controlling. Then taking over. Then paying the long, boring hurry-up-and-wait price. No movie for mama. Mama needs a movie, damn it. Maybe mama should start having tantrums when she doesn't get what she wants. Maybe not.

Speaking of tantrums, I eccsatstically report that Cheeks had not-a-one today. Zilch! That's right. Not one ear-blasting, heart-pounding, patience atomic bombing tantrum.

On the anger extinguishing front, I didn't perform as winningly as Cheeks. I reacted like a beast mother when my children burst into the neighborhood Blockbuster Video like a trio of steroid injected rodeo bulls unleashed from a bullhorn pierced gate. They did exactly the opposite of what I asked of them in my proactive, supposedly conflict in public curbing preparatory/pep talk in the van. Yet somehow I still was stupid enough to buy them twizzlers, kettle corn and E.T. (bug eyed extraterrestrial that can still make me bawl like a professional mourner all these years after I bawled the first time, maybe 25 years ... I can't remember).

Is it too much to expect that both boys will hang on to or at least closely orbit the stroller their sister is quietly and happily strapped into, thanks to her wonderfully suckable thumbs?! Is it so much to ask that they don't swipe DVDs off the shelf and drop them like their hot right onto the carpet when they see better ones, ones with ninjas, swords and bloody eyes peering from beneath a crack in a creepy wooden door? I swear I'm still scarred from some of horror flick covers from today's movie rental misadventure.

Ghetto bird (cop chopper) just flitted by. Now flitting with more regularity. Now circling like a hawk. Saturday, April 21 update: Seven in-a-row gun shots rang out a street or two away from ours last night, close enough to echo off of the cement block wall hemming our yard. The grim din was enough to cause my husband to pack in his contract work garage laptop headquarters and head inside for safety and a quick search for police scanners on Google. My guess is we'll own one buy nightfall.

What went right today? Why not ask that more often instead of what's wrong? What went right? Again, Cheeks made no beefs. I'll be high as a college freshman on tea-bagged shrooms on that for, well, at least until his next tantrum. My husband came home from work early, despite what he called a "headache the size of Texas" to play double skateboard ramp Matchbox car race extravaganza. He is so much more fun that me. I suck. I'm serious. I'm only happy when properly (overly) caffeinated.

All of my posts should be like this. It's easier.

Not Just By Court Order

2007-04-19T15:07:00.000-07:00

Lately I haven't been the parent I want to be.

I'm impatient.

I nitpick.

I criticise.

I yell.

I threaten but don't follow through.

I swat.

I'm not even close to the mother I envisioned I'd be. I want better for my children. I don't want them to grow up in fear of me.

Last night in an effort to better understand my parental frustrations and limitations I headed for the neighborhood Borders bookstore. I bought a stack of books that nearly obscured my view of the buzz-headed female cashier who rang me up. The two books at the top of my paperback tower were The Anger Diet by Brenda Shoshanna, Ph.D. and the newly revised edition of Raising Your Spirited Child: A Guide for Parents Whose Child is More Intense, Sensitive, Perceptive, Persistent and Energetic by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka.

Today I signed up for a class at the local Exchange Club called Breakthrough Parenting, which focuses on handling tantrums, getting at the source of parent and child anger/conflict. The lady who answered the phone asked me to bring my court order. When I responded, "I'm self-appointed," she seemed confused.

"Wait ... You want to voluntarily take this class?" she asked.

"Of course. I'm the kind of person who when I see myself slipping, I search for ways to improve. I want to be the best mother to my children that I can be."

"Good for you."

She seemed shocked, just like my neighbor when I told her I wanted to brush up on my parenting skills in the wake of Cheeks' rash of thrice daily temper tantrums (throwing and breaking stuff, kicking, hitting, spitting ... horrid shit all around).

While I know it's not healthy to model perfection for my children, I know modeling healthy ways to deal with and get to the roots of anger will benefit our whole family. When I see something wrong in myself, then see it negatively affecting and manifesting in my children, I seek to remedy it. Hopefully my children will see me growing and changing for the better and their anger will subside as a result.

I'd like to write more (and more eloquently) but Pigtails just woke up crying from a nap. She has a double ear infection. Cheeks has a single. The Lawyer, along with both of his sibs, has bronchitis accompanied by a nasty wet cough.

Crazed cat update - Our new cat mama seems to have chilled a bit. No more unprovoked attacks on Pigtails or any of the children. She's still skittish but nurturing her brood just fine.

YOUR TURN
How do you deal with anger in the heat of the moment in front of the kids or otherwise?

Shoulda', Woulda', Coulda' (Meow/Hiss)

2007-04-16T15:56:00.000-07:00

First no-brainer lesson of the day: Never tamper with a postpartum pussycat.

Second no-brainer lesson of the day: Never crawl to a spaying and neutering advocate for help when your fecund feline bubble finally bursts.

Both my family learned the hard way today, but especially my daughter. The puncture wound in her right nostril and raised claw marks on both her forearms serve as sharp reminders that I should have had Trixie the wonder tiger cat spayed after all.

I can see the droves of spaying and neutering advocates already, nodding in agreement that I’m the dumbest cat owner ever. Perhaps “nodding in agreement” doesn’t scratch the surface of their outrage, forgive the kitty cliché.

“How weak to think teaching your children about de’ birds an’ de’ bees is de way with de' kitty having de’ babies!” an animal behavioralist I called in a panic admonished me over the phone. “Dees’ attacks on your doubt-er', let dat’ be lesson enough ‘dat you should spay cat NOW!” Her thick Italian accent kept time with her increasing fury and volume, intensifying every rebuke she hurled in my direction.

"I suppose I wanted to teach them about the miracle of life," I said in response, feeling the need to defend my choice not to "fix" Trixie. "Birth can be a beautiful thing."

"Well, if you don't find homes for dees kitties, well, den' you have just teach your children de miracle of DEATH at de' pound, ey!?" Maryam, the animal "feelings" expert, shouted into the phone. "You have shown your children nutt-eeng but irresponsibility." (An expert in human feelings, perhaps Maryam is not.)

Poor Trixie, nervously adjusting to new motherhood in an environment not even I – one who gave birth to two of three children at home in bed – would choose. Children are loud. I didn’t allow them at my births for several reasons, noise being the first. Perhaps my home's continual din of irritating noises, as well as this morning’s jarring screaming fit from my moodiest child, Cheeks, have driven Trixie to emerge from her darkened, towel lined corner of the hallway closet to attack my two-year-old daughter.

Poor Pigtails. Trixie’s first clawing attack on her shocked me. I shook with nerves for a good fifteen minutes afterward. Pigtails took the clawing better than me, crying only for a minute or so, only to return to her beloved thumbs for some heavy self-soothing sucking (much like the time I accidentally shut her favorite thumb in the sliding minivan door).

Trixie's second attack was worse. She leapt up onto the black arm chair Pigtails quietly watched a Happy Feet DVD from. Out of the three children, the cat seems to have a vendetta for Pigtails only, which seems unfair because Pigtails hasn’t touched or disturbed her four kittens. She's the least interested in the kittens in our family of five.

If anyone should be assaulted in defense of Trixie’s new brood it should be me. I stupidly switched her bloodied towels out for fresh, clean ones and moved the kittens in the process. Major mistake.

Trixie’s instinctively protecting her young in a relatively hostile postpartum environment -- Hostile because of kid rackets, stomping feet and temper tantrums. My young are interfering with her young. This is Mother Nature at her most primal. My children are being children and our cat is being a cat.

While Trixie defends her young, I defend mine. Fearing another unprovoked scratch attack on Pigtails, I’ve shut defensive Trixie in the closet with her sleeping kittens. A Web cam my husband set up moments before her labor points a glowing eye in her direction. I’ll be able to see her claw at the door when she needs to get out to go to the cat box and will immediately respond. I’ll have time to put my daughter in her room behind closed doors, out of Trixie’s wary eyes and dodgy reach.

This is how I’m paying for my mistakes today. “That’s what you get,” spaying and neutering activists might censure. It’s true. But I never expected my daughter to bear the brunt of it.

Third no-brainer lesson of the day (and for the coming days): There are no winners when owners don’t fix their cats.

¡Qué?!

2007-04-12T22:35:00.000-07:00

My six-year-old doesn’t have to talk behind my back. He can snow me to my face. Sure, I’ll hear him, but won’t understand a word.

He’s teaching his little brother and sister his secret code-talk too. Together, each morning over soggy, brown sugar glazed cubes of shredded wheat and OJ, they conspire in foreign tongues. Suddenly, I’m a stranger in my own house, surrounded by miniature foreigners who look quite like me but speak peculiar words that only they can comprehend.

(Depending on your perspective, you could say that English in California is a foreign tongue. If you agree with that contention, then you might also view Spanish as the state’s indigenous language, like I do. Analyzing exactly who within the Golden State is a “foreigner” and who is not is another blog topic for another day, along with Manifest Destiny, the Mexican American War and the United States’ seizure of California from Mexico, etc.)

My children might soon box me out of the family communication equation and I couldn’t be prouder. What a very dramatic and ridiculous way to allude to The Lawyer’s recent and impressive sudden acquisition of Spanish. (Hey … I’m struggling to blog tonight without complaining for once. Not complaining is something I hope to do more of in “real” life as well but don't hold your breath.)

Thanks to the bilingual curriculum at the progressive dual immersion Charter school we transferred The Lawyer to only weeks ago, he’s picking up America's second most common language far faster than I ever expected. He’s even picked up a hint of a Latin accent when he speaks English.

Yesterday I dropped in on his end-of-the-day homeroom “circle time,” as parents are encouraged to do any time without prior announcement or appointment, with my two youngest and visiting 9-year-old niece. (The kids and I hang out in his multi-grade classes once or twice a week and almost always tag along on his Friday field trips. Aren’t we so cool? Is there a way to say that without sounding like a braggart Alpha mom?)

In Spanish, the Lawyer’s homeroom teacher asked the circle huddled kindergarten, first- and second-grade kids to reflect on their school day and share a sentence or two on what they enjoyed the most. When it came time for the Lawyer to share -- after his cousin bravely quenched a fidgety boy’s curiosity about whether or not she was a newly enrolled student or just a visitor -- I expectantly set my maternal gaze on him. I thought for sure he'd speak English, like his fellow native English speakers (each individual grade is comprised of 10 native Spanish speakers and 10 native English speakers).

Don’t quote me because I can’t understand much Spanish outside of hola, adios and piso mojado, but my son began his circle time contribution something like this, “Yo gusto de él cuando…” He went on about his day in Spanish for almost a full minute. I was blown away. I couldn’t hold back a fulsome 100-watt, proud-mama-dork smile.

I whispered in his ear, “I’m so impressed with your Spanish! What did you say?” He shrugged, looked back at me as if to say, “What’s the big deal, mom?” and uttered nothing.

Later, on the bumper-to-bumper way home from school, from downtown to our suburban enclave, I beat a dead horse by asking just as his teacher did, “What did you like best about school today?”

He replied, simply, “Todo.”

“What’s ‘todo’ mean?” I asked.

“Everything, mom,” he sighed. “I liked everything, okay? Can we talk about something else now?”

Geez, you’d think he were a tormented teen already. I never fail to pepper him with 100 questions on our way home about who he ate lunch with, who he played with and what they played at recess and what he learned, etc. Maybe my routine Q & A is growing moldy for him.

I suppose it isn’t terribly remarkable that The Lawyer can speak another language. Many kids around the world can and do every single day. Perhaps his Spanish acquisition so far might not reflect much more than simple parroting and a salutation stolen here and there. Yet, I'm still in awe.

Tonight my little bilingual beginner skipped through along the kitchen slate as I flipped turkey burgers singing snippets from a song called Buenos Dias that he sings often in Spanish chorus. Earlier in the day, when we picked his little brother up from an experimental extended day at preschool, he greeted his sibling with an exuberant, “Hola, hermano!” I think that means “Hi brother!” I don’t know for sure. The pair hugged in the curt way that grown American men do, barely touching chests while rapid-firing palm pats on each other’s back. Next they raced to the swings, where together they sang a Spanish jingle they’d obviously practiced with each other unbeknownst to me, some ditty about “uno elephante mas.”

"Te amo, mama," ("I love you, mom") was the last thing The Lawyer said to me as he climbed into his daddy's car to head off for school this morning. Te quiero también, hijo.

No, maybe my little linguists aren't conspiring against me. Not just yet. At the top of this post I was simply imagining that they very well could in their coming Spanish heavy elementary school years, just as my parents spoke a sneaky French-English hybrid when they didn’t want me to hear them talk about me or people we knew in a less than favorable light. If their daddy and I don’t catch up with them and pick up Spanish soon, we might be left in the monolingual lurch.

What more could three siblings ask for in the age-old kids versus parents war than a shared secret language with which to confuse and undermine the common enemy? What more could their parents hope for than three fully fluent Spanish-speaking travel mates who could help us stumble our way through Spain once more?

Intentaré escribir más mañana. Adios y buenos noches.

The Opposite of a Zen Alarm Clock

2007-04-10T23:02:00.000-07:00

Today I ignored Cheeks, and it actually worked.

My tempestuous almost four-year-old wanted a high sentimental value ring that once belonged to my recently deceased grandmother. I wouldn’t budge. Alternative rings were offered instead. He wouldn't budge either.

The garish red plastic rose ring bought on a whim to accent an embroidered Bohemian halter-top. Nope. Wouldn’t do.

The silver band inscribed with curious Asian characters that I can’t figure out but are very much in style at Pier 1 and Cost Plus World Market. Nope. Wouldn’t do.

My own wedding bands and engagement ring. What? Are you kidding me? Homie don't play that.

I frenziedly looted my jewelry boxes like I was casing a broken glass littered L.A. corner store on April 29, 1992.

Just as I dug up a ratty old hemp necklace, the one that stinks like rotten mushrooms that I could’ve sworn I’d left at my room in the “hemp activist” house in college from beneath a clump of orphaned earrings and knotted chains, I began to wonder, “Why am I playing Best Supporting Actress in another of Cheeks’ productions? No matter what I offer him, it still won't be what he wants. Why play along? I wonder what happens when I stop.”

So I stopped. I shut my ransacked jewelry boxes and walked away.

“MOMMY, I WANNA’ RING! MOMMY, I WANNA RING!” (Repeat. Rinse brain. Wring out brain. Repeat. Repeat on auto replay until you’re on the brink of rinsing your kid in the washing machine instead of his sand peppered carpenter jeans.)

“MOMMY, I WANNA RING! I WANNA THE RED RING!”

Repeat while hardly allowing for life-giving breaths in between. Repeat from the recesses of your nose to sound as nasal and annoying as possible. Repeat for a whole 20 minutes more.

“MOMMY, YOU’RE NOT LISTENING! I WANNA RING NOW!”

Ignore child while splashing a sad one percent watery excuse for cow’s milk into your strong enough to put hair on your chest oversized mug of coffee.

Continuing ignoring child, who incessantly barks at your knees something you’re trying to tune out about some ring you’re trying desperately to have forgotten about 10 minutes ago.

Think to yourself about how this newfangled (at least newfangled to you) ignoring tantrum technique works the opposite of your notoriously difficult to wake husband’s Blackberry programmed Zen alarm clock sound – an incremental digital Tibetan bell chime that slowly dings and dongs from quiet to loud. Except Cheeks goes from loud to soft. (Who said it is better to burn out than fade away? Neil Young? Random question there … )

WHAT? Loud to soft? Is ignoring Cheeks tantrum/tirade/demand for Memere’s “heirloom” QVC jewelry actually working in my favor? Double check coffee to see that you didn’t accidentally pour Electrosol detergent into your vanishing coffee trough. Rub eyes to make sure this isn’t a dream.

Ah-ha … Perhaps negative attention IS better than no attention, as the so-called experts say. Without his big brother to dote on him and engage him all the day, Cheeks might be feeling left in the lurch, lonely, starved for attention. Any attention. Even the kind elicited by behaving like a punk.

Sneak from the black slate kitchen floor to the wooden floorboards of the living room to fold a load of ineffectively harmonized lights and darks. Hope that Cheeks won’t trail behind wailing “I WANNA RING NOW, MOMMY!” like Meatloaf with a megaphone directly in your overly sensitive ears.

Turn around and nearly fall over on your dumpy, out-of-shape junk-trunk to see that the only thing behind you is your shadow. Cheeks is no where to be seen or even heard.

Glance over to the playroom to find Cheeks appearing dejected, dumping out woven toy baskets, presumably in search of one of his sister’s gaudy plastic dress-up rings.

My first experiment with (finally, come on, I have three kids … you’d think I’d have a better tolerance for this crud) ignoring Cheeks’ negative behavior, was mostly successful, well, depending on how you look at it. Cheeks certainly wouldn’t agree.

‘Gotta go. He’s revving up for his usual nighttime terrors now. ‘Better take care of it before the dreaded domino wake-up effect has me ignoring them all.

So This Noise-Phobe Gives Birth to a Screamer ...

2007-04-05T20:17:00.000-07:00

I hate loud noises. I mean freakishly OCD hate loud noises. I also happen to be the maternal recipient of a screamer. My middle son, who is almost four, is a screamer supreme, and he's screaming loud enough for the neighbors to wonder if I'm hurting him.

Zilch patience is my M.O. when it comes to his screamfests, which is probably why I've received this loud life-lesson gift that I'm now forced to unwrap and learn to accept with grace.

As I type my scream machine is currently spastically flipping like a fish out of water, thrashing naked in his bed, howling like a wild banshee in an overdrive tantrum fit.

"So why the Hell are you blogging instead of soothing him right now?" you might ask.

Before you're tempted to assume that I'm a big, mean, neglectful mama for ignoring my audio nightmare babe at this moment, let me explain how he boiled over in the first place and how I ended up steaming and throwing my hands up in deafening defeat.

For far too many precious nighttime minutes (his high-pitched wails are keeping my other two children awake well past bedtime going on 20 minutes now), I've attempted to comfort my son, tried in vain to unearth the source of his flaming upset.

As it turns out, he wants me to dress him for bed.

Damn. You'd think a bigger beef than that would have set him off, something more dramatic to justify such dramatic behavior. Well, I'm not maternally wet behind the ears enough to buy that not wanting to slap Spiderman pajamas on, a skill my son has long mastered, is the sole culprit behind his holy felonious freak-out. Throw in a major case of the over-tireds that I'll explain later ... and here we are on scaling a slippery scream-slope ...

So, he demands full blast that I dress him. He pulls the same "negative attention" games when asked day in and day out to strap himself into his car seat. He took a swipe at me when I refused to dress him and missed. Before refusing, I offered to help a bit instead (holding his shirt open for him, etc.) but he wouldn't be baited.

"Fine. Sleep naked. Birthday suit yourself," I said, giving up.

I resolved to not pander to his fit. I even threatened him with a spanking, which is so NOT how I want to parent. EVER. Sometimes parent-child situations escalate with such intensity. I'm sure you moms of challenging, fitful three-year-old kids know exactly what I'm talking about, even though no one ever really talks about it. Desperate for a solution. Desperate for his fit to stop, as if he were a colicky newborn ... These are the only ways I can think of to describe the feelings that persist when he's in the throws of an extended limbs-akimbo tantrum.

Thursday nights never flow smooth and easy for our family, as if any really do. Thursdays are one of the two days a week my moody little mister goes to preschool for a short four-hour stretch. By the time bedtime rolls around, he's overcooked from an active day at school and agitated by a severe lack of nap. He ends up burned out on being able to cope with just about anything, even simple tasks like eating dinner, bathing and dressing himself for bed. Clearly, we need a better schedule (arrive at school earlier and pick him up early enough to squeeze in a nap that won't further sabotage bedtime ... hmmm ... I wonder if that would suit us better ... ).

Tonight was particularly challenging for him because we zipped from his school to pick his brother up from kindergarten. From there, we whisked north to my sister-in-law's well put-together Easter egg hunt/egg decorating party. Poor little guy. Our day's fast-paced adventures proved too much for him and he melted into million little smeary pieces, just like the random chunk of Lindt chocolate favor-bag bunny that landed up in my bra and left a smudge-trail all over my chest.

Believe me, I tried "dialogue-ing" to allay his upset. I did the best I could for as long as I could. But I exhausted the mirroring. I blew the reflective listening. I screwed up all my "I" statements. I'm through. He'll just have to cry it out this time, experts who disagree with my last-ditch approach be damned.

I think it would be good for my screaming one and myself if I commit to examine, grasp and improve my red-hot reactions to his recurrent screaming fits. I'm not sure if I truly want to take on such a task now that I think of it. Delving deeply into such inevitably uncomfortable ground isn't exactly how I want to spend my free time ... but here goes, at least a tiny bit.

Descriptive words (for his fits, my reactions to his fits and his counter-reaction to my reactions):
Inferno
Irrational
Pushed
Sensory overload
Overwhelming

Feelings:
Angry in reaction to his anger
Sad that I can't better handle my own child's intensity at times
Disappointed that I can't better apply non-punitive interventions/limit-setting
Rejected when my many attempts to calm him fail

Okay, that's enough. Too much.

I think I've reached the point where I am no longer able to have compassion for him when he throws tantrums. My once-reassuring reactions have lapsed into callous, abrupt and threatening snips. Why does bedtime have to be such an ongoing struggle? Why must my youngest two literally tag-team-scream beg for me nightly? Don't they know that I'm not worth all that fuss anyway?

Why can't we go back to when their daddy put them to bed one night, then me the next? We used to be interchangeable when it came to our long-established bath, books and bed routine. Why must they cling so hard to me at night, even after they haven't seen their daddy all day?

Because I'm their mother, that's why. As much as I unconditionally love them, they love me unconditionally back, even when I mother them like a fed-up jerk.

Blogging/writing/journaling calms me down better than yoga and meditation. Now if I only knew how to calm my fickle screamer.

Spoofed on YouBoob

2007-04-05T07:38:00.000-07:00

There's nothing quite like art imitating life. Then there's nothing like art imitating YOUR life.

(I wouldn't exactly call YouTube art. In the majority of cases I wouldn't call YouTube art at all. I'm tired and trying to draw an intelligible comparison but likely am failing. You'll see where I'm going with this in a second, I hope.)

Last night, right before midnight when I was ready to crash for the night, I checked my YouTube page and found a college student's video response to my mindless "yoga flatulence" video, a useless vlog I did for shits and giggles. Nothing more.

Well, this girl has me down. She does me better than me. Scary.

It's bizarre to be spoofed/under-studied. She swears she isn't making fun of me, that it's for a legitimate college class that examines human behavior. I actually believe her.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJ6mSjWLioU

Who knows?

This is what's on my mind as I wake my house up for the day ...

Words: No Returns Allowed, Not Even With a Receipt

2007-04-02T23:12:00.000-07:00

"I can't wait until I'm an adult, so I can get away from you!"

Tonight, in a vein popping rage, this was what my six-year-old son screamed at me, inches from my face.

He was in "time-out." I could have used a time-out too.

Sadly, an hour after his blowup he cried himself to sleep, wishing he could eat his words. Even after I told him I'll love him no matter what he ever says. No matter how hurtful, intentional or otherwise. He'll still be my son and I'll be his mother.

"Our love is bigger than words, especially ones spoken in the heat of anger," I assured him. He wasn't going for it and must have said sorry a dozen times.

The power of anger is immeasurable, I told him. Anger makes us say the most hurtful things at times. Things we wish we could take back but never really can.

"So you'll never forget that mean stuff I said?" he asked, wiping his tear streaked cheeks with his wrist.

"Of course, I will," I said with my forehead gently pressed to his forehead. "I already did. Don't ask me what you said because I already forgot."

We talked about ways to cool off before blowing up and speaking spitefully. Calming down and thinking our emotions out is something neither of us excel at. Our combined weaknesses could really hurt our relationship if we're not careful.

He's lucky I know better than to take such spiteful words personally from a young child. Don't get me wrong, though. In the first five to ten seconds following his angry words, I didn't handle it well at all, not even like an adult, really -- I wheeled his rolling Spiderman backpack in his direction and said, "Be my guest."

He didn't get the joke. Then again, I wasn't joking all that much. I was incensed. Perhaps I did take it a bit personally. Flawed humans.

In the end, I felt as terribly rotten as he said he did about saying it in the first place.

What a night. Thank goodness for long, meaningful mother-son talks and extended hugs.

Here's something I read (ew - in my bathroom) last night about teaching children to interpret others' behavior in order to be better prepared for kindergarten and the school years ahead: " ... If the child has learned something about moods and human frailty, if he's been taught to interpret certain types of behavior, he's not apt to be so upset by such experiences ... In addition to reading the behavior of others, a child needs to learn how to interpret his own behavior."

ABCs, 123s and mood and behavior interpretation? Obviously I missed the last part of class.

Like I always say to my husband, we are doing the best we can as parents, but we're still human. We're still flawed and mistakes will be made.

And as I always tell my children, mistakes are not to be feared. Mistakes made in anger are normal. Feelings are normal. Even the ones that feel scary when they unfold. Mistakes are merely opportunities to learn.

Did I Just Earn Myself a New Acronym?

2007-04-02T07:21:00.000-07:00

My morning mug of coffee goes down like liquid velvet. Birds chirping, the tick-tock of a wall clock and my own keyboard pecks are the only sounds I hear. My two youngest are still asleep and their big brother is already off to his first day back at kindergarten following two weeks of Spring break.

I'm mulling a few things in the finite peace and quiet. Nothing major. Some items notable. Other passing and insignificant.

Let's start with a significant realization: Mama can still bring home the bacon. Make that mama can still bring home the bacon (work) FROM HOME -- even while the kids are still young enough to BE HOME, right alongside her, attempting to steal her attention from earning that very bacon.

Yes, I'm fresh off of two contract copyrighting jobs, one big, one small. Jobs that jogged my writing/editing brain. Jobs that reminded me that I "still got it." Jobs that rebooted my dwindling intellect. Jobs that made me feel proud that I accomplished them at all with three young children afoot, only feet away from their laptop-absorbed mama.

Jobs I couldn't have done without the help of fellow working mamas (thanks so much, Amanda) and mini-mamas (babysitters Alex and Camille). Jobs that I couldn't have done without the ever-patient Hubster's battery, memory and wireless card upgrades to my laptop, and without his uncanny ability to listen to me bitch about said jobs for hours on end. Oh, and there's the hours and hours of daddy-ing (I refuse to call this "babysitting" because it's simply not when you're the father) he logged in my absence (during my exciting "alone time" work escapes to free wireless-enabled coffee house after coffee house).

Jobs that made me feel rusty and naive for a number of reasons, the key reason being NOT CHARGING HOURLY and a HELL OF A LOT MORE. Jobs that made me wish I didn't obssess over the details, didn't expect perfection from myself. Jobs that I learned too late I could have charged upwards of $120 an hour for. Major mistake. Never again will I rush into work without having properly researched the market's "going rate" for comparable work/skills. (How could I afford to be picky when hard up for cash? I couldn't. I was happy to have paying work at all.)

Jobs that made me realize that I should have been achieving this kind of rewarding, paying work all along, all through my six years as a stay-home mom. Jobs that made me feel like a slouch for not taking them on earlier, for not easing my husband's financial stress before today.

(How many sentences can I feebly start with "Jobs"? Let me see ...)

Jobs. Work. Actual career output. Creative fulfillment. Reasons to wake up and get dressed OTHER than the kids, who must always be fed, nutritionally, physically, spiritually, developmentally and in every other way possible.

Last week, while steeped in 20-something neighborhood descriptions that I somehow meticulously researched and carefully wrote in stolen half-moments between (unhealthful, rushed) meals, (7-Eleven) groceries, (where's the clean underwear around here?) laundry, (so this is how Penicillin was discovered) dishes, (Shoot. We're late for another game!) basketball practices, (Um, late again?!) school drop-offs and pick-ups, I realized that I CAN work and stay-home mom (that's right - SAHM is more than a noun, it's verb ... just go with it, okay?).

Despite three-, four- and five-hour nights of sleep, despite mounting dust I never really dusted or could be bothered with in the first place, I CAN. I DID. I WORKED. (Crap. Now that he knows I can do both mom-ing and working, my husband will no doubt expect me to take on more!)

While helping feed the family (a teeny bit financially and generously literally), I fed myself. I fed my interests. I fed my writing passions. I won't hide that I fed my writer's ego a bit too. Okay, a lot.

There's something to be said for still chasing your career dreams while at-home mothering. Even if it's a bitch to do. Even if you aren't exactly writing fulfilling, award-winning content. I will never again shelve my selfish career desires. Thanks to WAHM-ing, I realize that I can dedicate far more time than before to crafting my book. No stalling. No whining. No excuses. No inhaling a pint of Ben and Jerry's instead of writing.

'Much respect to work-at-home moms who come 'round my (blog) way. For once, I DO know how you do it.

Crystal Blue Panic Attack

2007-03-30T10:38:00.000-07:00

I nearly forgot my password. That's how long it's been since I posted.

In a suburban Southern California tract home where paid work precludes the free kind, my blog has taken a major back seat.

My parents flew into LAX yesterday from New Hampshire, my home state. Soon they'll pick up the kids and take them for a dip in their beachside hotel pool. While my reunited family wiles away the afternoon in crystal blue liquid pleasure, I'll have my nose pressed to my dull laptop screen scratching out more work.

For once I'm not whining. A shocker, I know. I'm actually okay with not joining the pool party. It's no loss for me. Not for my kids and parents either. What they gain without my presence is more fun, more relaxation, more freedom. More, all around.

I'd be a buzz kill. Whenever I'm within toe-dipping distance of a body of water with the kids three, no matter how big or small, manmade or natural, I'm a paranoid freak. Make that an ANNOYING paranoid freak. For me, "Liquid" and "relaxation" are on completely different plains. How dry I am, literally and figuratively.

My kids will likely never learn to confidently swim in their own skin with Nervous Nellie Nagging Mommy on the rim of the pool, aiming narrowed, hyperprotective eyes in their wave-bobbing direction(s). Shooting palpable rays dripping with my gripping fear of drowning death unfairly and directly at them as they try their kid-best to master what amounts to one of the most important life and survivor skills humans can possess.

Right now both boys are exitedly rifling through their drawers in search of last year's swim attire. Next, I suppose, they'll turn the garage upside down foraging desperately for their "Subskates," strange Cheetos-colored skateboard-surfboard hybrids made from a mystery substance that feels like bubblegum blended with styrofoam.

Now they have towels. Whoa - Now their towels are doubling as rat tails. They're whipping each other. I'm ignoring their fraternal whip-fest, which is probably why it's coming to a quick halt. What good is it to annoy Mommy if she doesn't react (explode)? With rat tail time officially over, they've taken to the garden with bats in fist. Who knows how this could end? I prefer not to imagine.

Just as I won't imagine them sinking to the bottom of the pool, as I often did as a childhood doggy-paddling failure. I won't imagine them later this afternoon struggling against the water, out of my parents' careful and capable field of vision. Deep enough beneath the chlorinated water to not be heard. I won't imagine the worst as I almost always do. I won't cling to the worst case scenario.

I won't be there poolside. I won't hovercraft parent in the pool. I won't be there at all, and it's for the better.

Why no post?

2007-03-23T14:00:00.000-07:00

Wow. It's been ages since I've gone this long without scratching out a post.

I don't have much time to blog at the moment. A friend is graciously taking care of my kids three so I can work on some PAYING writing gigs. It's nice to bring a little bacon home to the family.

I'm still working on the book and now a one-act play. Be careful what you ask for ... you just might get it when you don't know how to best blend it into stay-home-mom-dom.

After I meet my Mon. March 26 deadline, I'll be back with my usual rants and schtuff. It's amazing how much I miss posting. Releasing the day's madness is good for the soul.

So, with nearly an entire pot of coffee coursing through my twitching bod, I return to a gig writing neighborhood descriptions for my brother-in-law's real estate web site.

In the meantime, maybe some of you work-at-home mamas can leave me some comments containing the secrets to doing it all: kid care, house and laundry, school, sports games and practices, writing, working, blah, blah ... you know the rest because you are living it.

So, what's the secret to BALANCING work and mama-hood? Hopefully it involves a bag of mint Hershey's Kisses.

Until the next post ...

Clutter Endorsed At Last

2007-03-19T08:03:00.000-07:00

The house is eerily quiet. Everyone but me is miraculously nestled quietly in their beds. I'm guzzling sugar with coffee and cream at a dangerous clip. My burnt toast is scratchy going down but buttery enough to be do-able.

Here I am, anchoring myself for dear-life in the midst of my cluttered computer desk, when I'm scanning the day's top stories on Yahoo when - what should magically load on-screen before my eyes - a professionally packaged news story that hails, not derails, clutter queens like me.

Can this be real or did I stir the wrong powdery white stuff in my cup of Joe this misty, smog bogged Southern California morning? Was I possibly viewing another spoof story from The Onion? Nope, we're talking REAL news, people.

Spookily croon on in my head Mister Phil Collins ... "I've been waiting for this moment for all my life ..."

What better time to suggest that all y'all neat freaks fall off your perfectly dusted, primped and shined anally-perfect, hyper-mod pedestals from West Elm and EAT MY WELL-ACCUMULATED DUST!

While you're at it, all the Type A perfect pants might as well eat what's left of the suspicious, mystery elephant animal cracker that just trickled mostly in soggy crumbs from beneath a stack of accordion-ed papers that should have been neatly filed away in my imaginary filing cabinet a year or two ago AT LEAST!

Check the story out if you can see your monitor at this point, that is past your leaning tower of mess.
Clutter and Mess Trump Clean and Neat

Who am I kidding? I abhor my cluttered up junk piles. I can hardly find anything when I need it, even my precious ones' muy importante vaccination records at times. Now that's bad.

Yoga: Flowing a Tad Too Freely

2007-03-18T14:10:00.001-07:00

I can't be the only one guilty of this common, often malodorous yoga class offense. You know who you are, and you've done the walk of shame leaving the yoga studio too! Sometimes yoga causes yogis to relax a touch too much. Hey - At least this time it wasn't me. Obviously a strenuous hour and a half of Ashtanga Vinyasa Flow yoga brings out the childish inner brat in me. When will I grow up enough NOT to crack up at accidental, drive-by public toot-age?

Safari Anyone? (NWT Frumpy Shirt Dress for Sale)

2007-03-17T13:20:00.000-07:00

Pinch me: We went out last night without the clone babies.

Such a freakishly rare occasion calls for high heels and wiry, lace-up contraptions that push flesh up in areas where its sunken to new lows.

Our destination was, well, any place without the kids, but more precisely The Write Act Repertory Theater, where we would watch nearly close enough to practically smell the actors’ breath as our longtime friend Carlos made his directorial debut.

(If you are in L.A. in the next few days and enjoy theatre, go check it out and tell Carlos Kim sent you. That sounds like some snobby name-dropping shit, but hey … I want to support Carlos any way I can. He’s amazing.)

Thrilled to have an excuse to dress-up, I slipped into a rust and apricot hued shimmery Bohemian skirt with matching coppery earrings, necklace and a bold cuff bracelet. I spritzed Lancome perfume on my neck and one ankle. With scented lotion smoothed over my glaring Winter white legs and mascara carefully swept between my too-short eye lashes, I wistfully headed for the Hollywood hills with the Hubster.

I felt like an adult. I felt like a human. I felt like anything but a harried mom of three really young youngins’. And it felt awesome and surreal.

It didn't matter that my eyebrows were still swollen from the special-occasion wax job I had sprung for earlier in the day.

(BTW, Pigtails apparently thought the aesthetician was trying to rip my face off or kill me. A quick word of advice, never, ever let your 2-year-old witness a strange woman who speaks in strange tongues rip your eyebrows off with piping hot liquids, then individually pluck the leftover eyebrow hairs one tortuous yank at a time, that is unless you happen to have a few extra Starburst flopping about in your purse that you’re willing to chew in half like a bird mama and give to your fearful, fitfull kid as a peace offering and pain number.)

It didn't matter that my unnaturaly rippled forehead and Elephant Man-style swelling made me look like a lady Klingon in heat.

Why didn’t my inflated, shadow-casting eyebrows matter? Because we were dressed to the nines (whatever that means) and we had places to go and people to see, and, more importantly, none of those people required a diaper change (well, let’s hope they didn’t) or a chisel to free up their allergy induced petrified-to-the-nostrils-chartreuse booger snots (again, let’s hope no one where we were going needed a mom-grade booger jackhammer nose-picking).

I have a confession: (Nothing big. Just something you should know if you’ve suffered my boring date details and somehow braved this post up to this point. Thank you, if you did.) Getting all dolled up for our date didn't go as seamlessly as you might think. In fact, it was a disaster.

First, before donning the shimmery, fancy schmancy outfit I described earlier, I buttoned myself into a trendy olive shirt dress and squeezed myself into a pair of skinny jeans that I'm soooo not skinny enough for. I slapped on my brown leather Mary Jane high heels, greenish earrings and jingle-jangly bangles, and, voila, I was ready. It was date night. I felt svelte. The night was mine for the taking. (And my husband’s taking. Insert ban-chicka-weh-weh music here.)

Speaking of my husband, he rushed home in rush-hour freeway traffic to shower, fuss over which outfit to wear and to get downright metrosexual for our date, as he always does before we venture out without our brood in tow. Due to the anal way in which he primps and shapes his prickly beard just-so in the mirror, you'd think his name was Prince or that annoying symbol that Prince goes by now. Maybe you’d even think he wears those butt-less purple leather pants the Artist Formerly Known as Prince sports on tour. Okay, maybe not. Either way, I shouldn't complain because he's trimming for my benefit, right down to the nose hairs.

Anyway, when he caught a glimpse of me gathering up our daughter's jammies, diapers and wipes for the babysitter in my wanna-be, knock-off, modish shirt dress, he unzipped from his lips the kind of crooked, sketchy smile that says: "Shit. The wife's gonna' ask me 'So, how do I look?' and I'm going to have to lie and convincingly say, 'Damn. You're smokin' in that, um, hey, is that a dress or a shirt or a ... What the hell are you wearing and why are you wearing that thingamajig with jeans, for Christ's sake?!'"

Basically, he hated my shirt dress. For a while he was sweet, trying to fake it and stroke me with thinly veiled compliments. "Sure, that's a nice dress," and "That might be kind of nice around the house," and "You could wear it just for me sometimes, dontcha' think?"

Clearly he was tiring of hearing bullshit flow freely from his own nervously grinning lips. His ruse went down the tubes when he could no longer convince himself to ‘faux-preciate my failed attempt at dressing as an all-out MILF for our supposedly hot date.

"So you don't like it?" I snickered with a snide, bitchy, bitch-BI-ATCH tone that he knows better than to sidestep by shovelling more bullshit my way. "Admit it. You HATE this dress, right? I’m not doing it for you in this, right?"

"No, it's cute. Maybe if you took off the jeans and showed your legs. You’ve got the gams for it. C’mon, Kim. You know I hate it when women wear jeans under dresses, even if it is the 'in thing.'"

Fair enough. I vanished into our room, where I started to feel like Lucille Ball in my goofy shirt dress. I looked like a cleaning lady from Molly Maid. The only thing missing was a can of Pledge and a do-rag (head wrap).

Then I thought, "Who freakin' cares what he thinks? If I think I look decent in this, then it's cool. I can wear it even if he hates it."

But then I backpedalled. "I want him to think I'm smokin' hot. How often do we get dressed up for each other and go on a date? Maybe I should just change."

He looked disappointed but amused when I reappeared before him like a humbled wet cat, without the jeans under my dress but still wearing the damned shirt dress.

"You know, that's nice but maybe when your legs are tan it would look even nicer," he said. The hole he accidentally dug himself into was about to get a few miles deeper. (It’s amazing what upsets me about men. Stupid, really.)

"Or you could wear that dress when we go to the zoo. Yeah, THE ZOO!"

"Holy shit. I get it. You think I look like a zookeeper!"

We both burst into laughter. I DID look like a freakin' zookeeper.

"Hey, you could take me on a wild safari later. You’re lucky it’s green and not khaki. Then you’d really look like Crocodile Dundee. The kids will get a kick out of it."

"Yeah, 'My name is Kim and I'll be your jungle safari guide. First we're off to see the elephants. Feel free to take photos of their massive dung piles.'"

So, in the end I did give in and switched to a dressier outfit we both could live with. But I felt mixed about having done so. I knew my husband wanted to gawk, ogle and objectify me wrapped in a swanky outfit our entire date. I knew he prefers to see my curves. I knew he watched me swish to and from the theater’s open-bar in my shimmering skirt, clutching a clear plastic cup of white wine. He watched me sparkle in all the jewels I’d adorned myself with. I knew he liked what he saw, and I liked that he liked it too. Who am I kidding? Of course I want to make him want me. That's the age-old dance men and women do for each other, after all.

We should escape the kids and dress up for each other more often. At least I'll know what to wear if the Hubster should ever take me on an African safari. All I need now is one of those straw Col. Mustard jungle hats ... perhaps the sunscreen infused kind. Hell, if you see me donning one of those, do me a favor and poison-tip spear me between the eyes, okay?

When was the last time you vanished into the night with your partner and left the kids with the babysitter? What did you do? Where did you go? What did you wear?

A Testament to My Addiction to Comments

2007-03-14T11:02:00.000-07:00

I give you this extremely telling comment my husband left on my blog late last night when he practically resorted to smoke signals to track me down:

"To the Wife,

Since I know that you will probably read the comments on your blog before you check voicemail, cell phone or email account so I am posting my message here cause I know that you will read it.

Just wanted to wish you good luck tomorrow. I am sure that the call will go great.

The Hubster"

You know you're an industrial grade comment ho when your husband is positive he can reach you faster via your blog's comment pop-ups than on your home phone, cell phone, email, and possibly even telepathy.

Okay. Point taken. I have comment issues. Clearly they are very deep issues wrapped around validation. Who doesn't adore feedback on their self-created media? The power to delete the comments I don't like is, well, uh, intoxicating. Insert evil, maniacal villian laugh here. (For the record, I've never deleted anyone's comments thus far.)

More importantly, what does this suggest about the hierarchy of my life priorities if my husband can only get through by knocking on my comments door?

Just fodder for thought ...

Fo-She-Me

2007-03-13T23:42:00.000-07:00

She woke up just in time to wake her son up for kindergarten. They made it to school by the skin of their (possibly unbrushed?) teeth. She stayed up until 3 a.m. the night before catching up with an old friend from back East. She felt hung over all day even though she’d barely swigged to the bottom of a single lukewarm Corona (a beer she vows never to drink plain again, without so much as a lime to kill the taste).

She remembered to include rectangles of fresh honeydew, cantaloupe and watermelon in her kindergartner's lunch. She did so after her son ratted on a teacher for chewing him a new one after his bad mother sent him to school with a miniature bag of Ruffles potato chips. “At this school, we don’t do chips,” my son’s food cop informed him as she confiscated his carb-heavy contraband. She smiled an I-told-you-so smile on the inside thinking of how fiercely she nagged her husband for buying junky lunch snacks.

All day she tirelessly mollified her grumpy, insomniac of late two-and-a-half-year-old, who demanded her “fav-rit’ bubba’ gum” every hour on the hour. She stuck to her hard-ass mama guns and never produced the (choking hazard) gum, advising sternly and patiently, “When we ask Mommy nicely, then we get. I can’t give you anything until I hear a 'please,' little lady. You may not yell at your mother.” She cracked midday and screamed, “Homie don’t play ‘dat, little sister! No gum! How many times do I have to say no before you get it?!! Nooooo friggin’ gum, k?!!”

Between stoplight red lipstick reapplication and nearly swallowed whole bites of toasted, butter drenched English muffins bookending a sliver of processed cheese and a runny fried egg, she zipped across the city like Mario Andretti in a minivan.

She zigged and zagged from the top of the city to the bottom of the city than back up again. Trekked from one son’s school to the next, than back to the first son’s school and again to the other son’s school. Somehow in between she managed to pit stop at Kohl’s to return a pair of too-short carpenter-style jeans she bought her husband for his birthday the day before (yeah, boring threads, just what every guy wants for his birthday, right?). She sidetracked from her gift replacement mission and bought her baby girl a lilac Bohemian Easter dress for a slick nine smackers plus tax.

She changed ten diapers -- two of them stomach-turning blowouts -- while breathing only through her mouth. She wiped three noses, all of them equally nasty but equally cute.

She scrubbed petrified spaghetti sauce from pots and pans, Swiffered and swept, folded whites, darks, even managed to hunt down the mystery matches to solo socks she’d long given up as sacrifices to the Abominable Sock Monster.

She followed up on an old, confusing sprained kiddie neck medical bill and was pleasantly surprised that the emergency room graciously “wrote off” a daunting remaining balance. How often does that happen?! Sheer serendipity. She chalked her good fortune up to all the hours she’s recently logged “paying it forward” between babysitting for fellow mamas and hosting annoyingly high-energy play dates.

She cruised like a zombie though a record three red lights, clinging to her extra but apparently permanent appendage – a cold, congealed cup of home-brewed hazelnut coffee – like a lifeline. She interpreted the pesky yellow lights as strict orders to “step on it” with her bare foot. She noticed the kids looked a little scared and thrilled at the same time when she accidentally skimmed a curb and burned rubber on a sharp turn.

She smiled and said through her teeth “I’m great. Just great, “ when a spunky office lady at her youngest son’s preschool kindly asked “How are you today, Mrs. S?” She was cool and calm until her bubble gum-addicted daughter launched a shock and awe fist-windmilling tantrum when the sweet office lady declined to let her take her personal calculator home. She felt like a complete numb-nut when her Terrible Two twister sister baby girl sucker punched her in her deflated-by-breastfeeding-but-gallantly-still-holding-up thanks-to-Wonderbra-under-wire boob.

She resigned herself to letting go and sprawled out on her belly on the grass at her son’s preschool. She watched her children’s wispy blond hair rise and fall in the warm Spring wind. She watched her sons plan and build an obstacle course out of oversized wooden blocks. She watched two of her son’s three-year-old classmates biff hard to the point of tears on her children’s shaky invention. She felt guilty but not that guilty.

She kissed her son’s crushed-in-the-door finger. She felt a twinge of gloom when he recoiled and said he was too big for boo boo kisses in front of his friends.

She fed, bathed and clothed three kids quick enough to have time left over for a dramatic reading of one more cliffhanging Mummies in the Morning chapter of the latest The Magic Tree House installment. She laughed when her kids said they were too scared of mummies under their bunk beds to go to sleep. She remembered being the biggest scaredy cat wuss on the block as a kid. She told the kids she still leaps lightning fast up onto her bed at night because she’s still a wimp. She wasn’t lying.

She wondered how to balance motherhood and work. She wondered if she should eat the toffee almond chip candy bar she slipped on the sly into her husband’s briefcase for his birthday. She knew better.

She worked her tail off but didn’t lose a pound and never broke a sweat. She did so much in such a short amount of time. Too much to go on cataloging like a grocery list.

She received a late-night text message from her husband saying he needs attention too. She wanted to tell him to “take a number” but smartened up right quick.

She is me, and she is finally going to bed.

Pow Wow and the Big Bang Drums

2007-03-12T07:44:00.000-07:00

With his mind freshly piqued by dignified dances in honor of the Great Spirit at two-in-a-row pow wows this past weekend, my six-year-old asked me the biggest question that I have yet to find an answer for.

"Mom, so I was thinkin', who invented the first people and how were we invented?"

"Uh, whaddyou' say, honey?" I tried to clarify through the bathroom door, hoping it wasn't THAT question.

He stood on the other side of the door for a moment. "I said, you know, where did the first people on Earth come from?"

Let me think on that one a while. (I suppose I've had plenty of time. He started asking this same question when he was three.)

My trailing answer started like this, "Well, the Muslims believe in Allah ... and the Christians believe ... and the Buddhists believe ... and the Jews believe ... etc."

Hey, I did the best I could.

A Heads-Up on Pushy Parents and Sports

2007-03-09T13:02:00.000-08:00

"Yeah, boy! You ma' dog now!" a brawny parent encouraged his son, as his boy aggressively tackled my 6-year-old son to the floor, then snatched the ball from him.

I would have been cool with the parent's validating props for his athletically talented kid if the sport our sons were playing were, say, FOOTBALL.

As far as I know, and I'm far from well versed on the rulebook, tackling isn't allowed in BASKETBALL.

I'm growing weary of this parent showing up to Jr. NBA practice week after week and loudly, obnoxiously encouraging his son to whip kiddie ass in order to filch the ball and make a mad dash for the hoop.

Maybe I'm jealous that his kid's got game, whereas mine possesses none. Nope, my kid prefers to bust a move and pop and lock all around the ball, complete with freaky gang-sign style hand movements. Where does he pick this stuff up? (Certainly not from his hip hop addicted mama...)

My son's more like a raucous mascot (which is strange considering he's long suffered from mascot-a-phobia), riling up the crowd and sprucing up team morale with his robotic "Vanilla Ice, Ice Baby To Go" antics, than a real b-baller. He's more like a translucent white b-boy without a beat box.

So, back to this hyper competitive b-ball daddy I was kvetching about ... My annoyance with his aggressive parent-coach hybrid approach/stance reached an apex last Monday when he single handedly stopped the practice by storming onto the court and brandishing a pair of no-lens mystery goggles from his pocket, aiming them in the direction of his kid. He carefully lifted his son's thicket of dreadlocks and secured the Bono alien-style eye wear in place. "Okay, you can go on now," he declared as if he ran the joint.

What's the first thing his son did after his father took his seat off court? He took those fugly goggles right off and carelessly tossed them to the floorboards like a discarded candy wrapper.

"Oh, no you did-int', boy!" his father boomed across the court. "Stop! Stop! Wait up until I get them goggles back on my dog."

Yes, I lie not. Mister Competitive Dad refers to his son as "dog," or perhaps "dawg." Whatever it is, it smacks of the only judge I like on American Idol, who calls the contestants he feels "my dawg" and other equally mindless variations.

The dread locked boy, who is uncannily talented for a five-year-old at dribbling between his legs and shooting thee-pointers, looked defeated. He sighed and succumbed to his pushy father, allowing him to yank the strange empty eye-hole goggles over his head once more. "Boy, you best not be takin' those off AGAIN," his father's angry voice echoed.

"'You mind telling me what those goggles your son has on are for? They don't have any lenses, so they can't be corrective, right?" I asked him after practice, when he makes his son shoot baskets over and over until he's satisfied. Poor kid. Really.

"You better bet they're corrective," Mister Competitive Dad clucked with pride, a grin stretching across his bloated cheeks. "They correct the problem of my son looking at the floor like he does. They keep him from looking down. That's why players like him so much. He has no choice but to see who's open for a pass because he can't see down at all."

"So he can't even see his feet if he wanted to?"

"That's right!"

"How'd you find 'em?"

"You know, I see where he has weakness in his game and I Google whatever problem I want to fix. I buy him DVDs on how to be a better shooter, dribbler, all that. I also coach basketball, so I know about these things. Now he has no excuse when I tell him to keep his head up."

I couldn't even believe what I was hearing. This kid is only 5 and already his dad is all over him to be better, to play better, to be perfect. He's even limiting his child's field of vision in order to shape him as a future Kobe, Shaq or Jordan.

I'm not perfect. We all know that. I'm all about admitting my mistakes. But my kids play for fun. Not to be my retirement fund. The day it gets too serious is the day we take a break from sports and try our skills at something else.

I'll leave you with the product description of the KBA Heads-Up Dribble Aid Glasses my son's teammate reluctantly dons for his hard-driving, hopeful for a b-ball mogul in the family daddy:

"Helps develop good fundamentals in basketball handling by forcing players to dribble without looking at the ball.
Will not interfere in shooting the basketball.
Heads Up creates greater ball control, increased court awareness, more sensitive hands, focus"

By the way, these things are a steal, costing no more than $6 before taxes and shipping.

Who knows? Maybe at next week's practice my sons will sport some too. Doubtful.

Stream of Mom-ness

2007-03-08T13:16:00.000-08:00

Warning: I'm winging it with the post. All I have to offer at the moment is a sloppy stream of consciousness. Hang in there if you will.

Seventy-three balmy degrees surround me as I type in a not so tidy corner of the playroom. I'm basking in the sunlight washing over me from a tiny handprint smudged sliding glass window. The stubborn, lingering bunk-stink of a recently changed diaper (not mine, you sickos) steals a stitch of joy from the moment, but not enough to ruin it. After three kids in four years, I'm not phased much by bodily functions and their various scents.

How is it that I've only been writing for one minute and I'm already hopping down the diaper trail like Peter Poopy-tail? I really need to grow up and get my mind out of the gutter. That's not an easy task, considering the fact that I'm constantly surrounded by elbow height people who look like me, only cuter and with better skin, who break out in fits of laughter at words like "underwear," "toot" and "poopies." How long will it be before they graduate to more sophisticated humor like South Park and The Simpsons? Hmmmm. Regressive and crude sells better in these United States anyhow.

See? I warned you that I would fail to reach a point? Still, there's something indulgent and rewarding about rambling?

Without wanting to delve back into the infuriating topic of yesterday's last post, I'll take you on a brief tour of how the kids are faring, if you'll have me.

First is the Maestro of Mouth, The Lawyer, whatever else I call my 6-year-old since I can't commit to a blog nickname for him: He woke up this morning bleary eyed and not wanting to go to school. His cough makes him sound like he's smoked a pack a day since he was in utero. Bad visual. I took him to school without his sibs in tow this morning for reasons I'd rather not detail right now. He enjoyed having a little special time with mama in papa's car. Beats the dented, crumb-filled donut (minivan) any day. I kissed him on his blonde-whisp covered forehead, hugged him and told him to have the school CALL ME if his cold symptoms worsened throughout the day. I'm on the verge of buying him a kiddie cell phone that only has the capability of calling me or his father. Doing so would break the bank right now but might be worth it.

Next we have Cheeks. My little Moody Cheeks has grown impressively, both physically and behaviorly, in the past few weeks. Suddenly a bunch of pairs of pants look like high-waters on him and his trademark chipmunk cheeks are paring down. I don't want to see them go. They are so very kissable and pinch-er-ific. He's really into playing with his sister, only 15 months his junior, for the virtually for the first time ever. With his idol, his big kindergarten-going brother, gone all day, he has no choice but to forge peace with his former enemy. Strong words but I kid you not. I'm really happy with Cheeks. He's my little bud. What more can I say?

Last but not least (in birth order and otherwise) is Pigtails, who refuses to wear sport pigtails any longer (and might deserve a new nickname as a result). She reminds me of a menopausal woman in a two-year-old's body. Either she's exceedingly happy, even euphoric at times, or she's wickedly pissed. One or two major blowout fits are becoming her daily norm and mama ain't having it. (I hate the word "ain't"! Shocked that I stooped to it here but this IS stream of consciousness.) Pigtails insists on wearing tripping hazard hot pink flip flops that are a million sizes to big. She sometimes even wears them to sleep. She is a serious shoe ho. Geez. I don't know where she gets that? Um, allow me to stop worshiping my eggplant colored beaded satin flip flops right now...

Again the time has come for the two school kid shuffle, when I zip across the city from one school to the next picking up my sons and watching my daughter shove whatever "glovebox gourmet" food I toss back to her into her hungry from a long nap mouth.

Into the rush zone I dive once again.

Violated Trust, Violated Safety

2007-03-07T21:08:00.000-08:00

How would you react if a teacher at your son's school:
1. put your son in the care of a mother you've only met a handful to times and can't remember the name of without being reminded?
2. had the mother who seems nice, who you most definitely don't know pretty much at all, drive him in her car WITH NO CAR SEAT home supposedly sick from a field trip in a major city on several major freeways an hour away from your home and his school?
3. did all of this without your explicit permission and without even attempting to contact you?

Would you send him back to said school the next day not having fully resolved such a huge violation of safety and trust? Poor kid. He's been through enough already, having just switched to this school.

I'm too viciously angry to write another word about this. I can write nothing else, not even a bit of the chapters I have due to my publisher tomorrow.

I'm going to slip into my son's bed and hug him while he sleeps. Happy he is safe and home, where I can be 100 percent sure of his whereabouts and wellness.

And no, I did not meet my first-three-chapters book deadline, in part because I was dealing with this bullshit half the day.

Ps. The teacher was worried for my son's health, which hasn't exactly been top notch lately. He claims he was acting out of his heart and I believe this, but his approach was still irresponsible and out of the bounds of my trust, patience and basic rights as a parent of a school-aged child.

A Post That Bounces Around Like Wild Wingbats

2007-03-07T09:51:00.000-08:00

A drunk woman came to my door early this morning begging for money. "No, seriously," she stammered, swaying and obviously under the influence of something. "I live down the way and my husband's boss just called me. Three of his fingers were cut off and I just need some cash to get gas and bring him to the emergency room, you know? Can you help me out cuz I don't have nuttin'."

Are you kidding me? I shooed the kids away from the door, told her we were on our way to school and that I'm sorry, no help, no money. WTF? This is the second time I've heard that story in two years.

Last week someone hacked into my checking account and tried to pilfer upwards of $3,000 in wire transfers from me. 'Jokes on them.

I think my hacker robber gleaned my information when I stupidly entered beaucoup identifying facts into a "security investigation" email I received from what I truly believed was PayPal. I handed to them on a silver screen platter.

Yeah, hard lesson. DO NOT enter your precious banking information into even the most official looking PayPal emails if you didn't contact them first. Geez.

In somewhat related matters, I spoke with one of my college roommates, a very close friend, last night. She was forced to sell her Silicon Valley area home and begin renting again. Except their was a strange, fortunate twist to her story. A realtor is buying her house and renting it to her, so she and her husband and four-year-old son won't have to move after all. She said in a defeated moment, hunched over the toilet with rough bout with the flu, she threw her hands up and "gave it up to God."

This is terrible, I know. But in moments of defeat, I weakly give it up to Ben and Jerry. Preferably the deepest, darkest chocolate Ben and Jerry's flavor I can find at the 'hood 7-Eleven.

Now in completely unrelated, happier news, I took my two youngest to a park we'd never tried before and they bounced around like wild wingbats. We had a great time. We laughed, we cried. Well, we didn't cry. We just laughed, and, dang, it feels good to laugh with your children. Those gutteral laughs that bubble up to the surface for no good reason. Just because. Just because you are pretending you're pirates and they've just made you walk the plank (slide). Just because they shot their hot pink flip flops into the sky like fireworks as you pushed them higher, higher, higher on the swing. Just because a strange elderly lady (accidentally) made up like a clown shocking red lipstick and baby blue lined eyeliner is pushing her poodle like a baby in the swing next to your kid. You laugh, just because.

Because you are alive. The sun is shining. Your kids are healthy. You feel fine.

You laugh because you are over crying. Because your children think you are the richest, funniest, coolest person on the planet. You laugh because they are innocent and young and they make you feel young.

You laugh.

When the Ish Goes Down

2007-03-06T13:28:00.000-08:00

I have exactly 15 minutes to spill the contents of my heart all over this post. Then I’ll have to gather up the pieces, put my game-face back on, wake up my daughter from her nap and pick up her brothers from their schools. I apologize ahead of time if I end abruptly or without reaching an actual point here.

Begin rant:

Over the weekend a trusted, respected friend advised me to perhaps look over my blog and spot areas where I could be more balanced, less negative, perhaps less cynical about my life, my career, my children. Basically, my everything.

I agreed with him. “Yes. I’m very negative. Nary a positive post can be found. You’re right. Perhaps I should write some “up” content. Some feel-good commentary.” A positive slant 8cmdeluded makeover might do me and (all 10) of my regular readers some good. Happy, happy. Joy, joy, right? Lest I should alienate anyone who tires of my droning complaint posts.

But you know what? I don’t feel good. I don’t feel up. And I certainly don’t feel positive and perky. So, why can’t I be up-front about it?

Truly I wish I could post more positive reflections on motherhood. Maybe my current situation would feel better and perhaps actually improve if I simply adopted a better attitude. But, shit, the place I’m in right now just won’t allow me to take that leap, needed or not. Plainly put, my attitude sucks.

Just as when I launched this blog six or so months ago, I remain committed to being as brutally honest about my situation as possible, without hurting my children or my spouse. With so much in the media as of late centered around the “how much is too much information” personal and mommy blog debate, I’m beginning to feel that I should hold back more. But holding back is against everything wrapped up in the confessional nature of my blog (and my personality). I refuse to be muzzled because what I have to say sometimes makes others uncomfortable. Isn't some of the best, most compelling art confrontational, challenging to behold at times? (Not that this is bona fide art ...)

I want this blog to be about catharsis, for both myself and those of you in the trenches of mad-crazy motherhood too. Allow me to enlighten you with the dictionary.com definition of catharsis, one of my favorite words/concepts:
1. the purging of the emotions or relieving of emotional tensions, esp. through certain kinds of art, as tragedy or music.
2. Medicine/Medical. purgation.
3. Psychiatry. a. psychotherapy that encourages or permits the discharge of pent-up, socially unacceptable affects.
b. discharge of pent-up emotions so as to result in the alleviation of symptoms or the permanent relief of the condition.

If you’re still with me here, let’s get on with it and bust open a super-sized can of catharsis.

Meanwhile, if I had a soundtrack for this cathartic moment, right here right now, it would be Cypress Hill’s “When the Shit Goes Down” from their Black Sunday album, one of my favorites from back in the day. I find myself singing the lyrics a little too often when the kids are out of earshot: “When the shit goes down, you better be ready!” If there was ever a gangster anthem, this song is it. Yes, despite becoming a parent, I have an ongoing love-hate relationship with gangster rap. Blame too much childhood intake of YoMTV Raps! from the 80s and 90s and stations like 105.9 “Where Hip-Hop Lives” and 93.5, good old KDAY.

But I digress, as way too many people say these days ...

Now that you know what’s up musically for the setting of this post, here goes my hopefully cathartic rant, socially acceptable, feel-good or not:

I’m as broke as a joke. Spent the last money I had today at Target and I refuse to be embarrassed about it. Can you feel me? $28.80 on the essentials – bread, milk, eggs, cheese, canned fruit (can't afford the frest kind until pay-day), granola bars, apple and orange juice. Everything store brand or on sale. My kids think peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are a food group. A mom’s got to do what a mom’s got to do.

Again - “When the shit goes down, you better be ready!”

Well, if my shit went down, “shit” being something as minute as busting a tire or having to bare the brunt of another ER co-pay (knock on wood that I won't have to suffer either in the near future or ever), I am so NOT ready.

I’m about one flat tire away from financial collapse. One oil change away from not making mortgage.

And no, my husband does not work at 7-Eleven or McCrud. In fact, we both have our degrees. Hell, he’s on the verge of having three college diplomas. He is gainfully white-collar world employed but we choose to live in Southern California.

Some would say you made your bed … No doubt you know the rest of that saying. I agree and we’re lying it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t vent all the while in order to feel better.

“Just what are you doing to better yourselves?” you may ask. I don’t blame you if you’re wondering. Just what ARE we doing? I’m writing a book that will hopefully bring at least some grocery money in the door. Soon my blog will have yet more ads that hardly any one will click on.

(BTW, are any of you ad-incorporating mom bloggers out there making bank off your ads? If so, email me and let me know what your secret is. BlogHer seems the way to go.) Also, I’m trying to take on a couple of mundane writing and editing projects that really don’t interest me but would be irresponsible to say no to at this point.

I wonder how long my hair will get because I can’t afford a haircut. I could be the brunt of a grip of "Yo' Mama" jokes with this one.

Shit, I can’t afford my kids’ haircuts, and they’re starting to look skuzzy and unkempt. So much so that it hurts my pride. My husband cuts his own hair, thank God. I’m not too far from allowing him to buzz the kids’ heads once more. And you know that’s desperate because I nearly castrated him the last time he tried that shit.

“Why would you want people to know how broke you are? Have you no shame?” No. No, I don’t have any. Why don’t we do away with societal shame all together by writing from the insides of our hearts, right from where we are coming from, where we are living. What’s wrong with admitting the “real” stuff from your “real” reality?

Where on the Internet are the voices of the stay-home, part-time working suburban poor mothers like me? The mothers who don’t qualify for assistance because their husbands earn two or three thousand dollars too much to? Why can’t I find them?

Why is it shameful to write about falling hard times? Is it because you expect to hear this from someone who lives in the projects? Someone who never finished high school? Not someone who has her bachelor’s and graduated Magna Cum Laude like me? Someone with a different skin color perhaps?

Chew on these facts for a minute if you’re still perplexed. According to a recent Newsweek article titled “Poor Among Plenty: For the first time, poverty shifts to the U.S. suburbs,” “… for the first time in history, more of America’s poor are living in the suburbs than the cities – 1.2 million more, according to a 2005 study… “The suburban poor defy stereotypes about how and why people slip into poverty.”

Wow. My fifteen minutes are up.

All I can think of to end this is yet more depressing commentary. Even when “money’s too tight to mention” as Simply Red sang it, you smile in front of the kids, keep their young spirits high the best you can. Even if it’s eating at you on the inside. Even when you have to put back the extra pack of gum they asked nicely and politely for at the check-out because it’s $1.25 more than you have in your pocket.

Though it will be hard to click “publish” this time, I want to. I need to. Maybe some of you suburban struggling moms will be able to relate and will somehow find comfort in my situation, knowing you aren’t alone. Keep your chin up, ladies. I'll be chinning up too.

And that, my friends, is how the shit is going down at my house.

(No time to spell check or edit. Sorry.)

Sleepless City Night

2007-03-05T07:18:00.000-08:00

"What's that noise, Mommy?" Cheeks asks half-asleep from his top bunk.

He's woken up and caught me peering between the dusty slats of his white faux wood blinds at 1 in the morning.

"Whatcha' lookin' for, mama? You didn't tell me what 'dat noise is."

"Oh, little man, it's just a big helicopter that's trying to land at the airport. A really special helicopter, so it's taking a long time. There's nothing to worry about. Just go back to sleep."

"Is that police guys outside?" he asks, raising his frizzy bed-head from his pillow again.

The flashing lights of four or five police cars refact off the walls of my sons' bedroom, on and off their bunk beds again and again.

"Nope. I think someone left their lights on their car. You know the flashing ones they use when they double-park."

Cue mega-amplified booming voice from the searchlight ghetto bird circling above our street, and what seems specifically to be our home, which is now completely illuminated with overhead light.

"Drop your weapons and surrender. We know where you are. Come out before our search dogs find you. They will bite. Surrender. You are surrounded."

Repeat scary message from the sky five or ten more times until all the children in the house are awake and you send your husband to double-check that all the windows and doors are securely locked and that no one is hiding out in the garage.

Try to explain that one to your scared kid in the middle of the night.

I'm a Totally Tubular Tool

2007-03-03T10:17:00.000-08:00

I.Am.a.Clueless.Mother.My.Kids.Are.Cooler.Than.Me.It's.Happening.

(and I apparently have no regard for punctuation and proper spacing, either)

You know you are old and totally uncool when your six-year-old son says, "That's tight!" from the back of your minivan and you wonder if you should pull over and help him unscrew the cap from his apple juice drink.

Confirmation that you are a washed up has-been cool-ite arrives when, upon further investigation, your mad-wiser-than-you-about-the-latest-vernacular bright-eyed boy hand-holds mom-dork you, explaining slowly and loudly, as if you are 90-years-old that, "Tight is what the kids say when they think something is cool, mom. It's like saying, 'Wow. That really impresses me."

Well, all-righty then. Consider me schooled, Mr. Alterna-kindergarten.

"C'mon, mom. I thought you would know that."

How I wish I did. Um, I kind of did. But really I didn't. I can only think of crusty, Love's Baby Soft scented times in the 80s when my permed just-so, United Colors of Benneton clad skater-preppie hybrid friends said things like, "Totally tubular, man" and "That's Awesome, dude."

Go ahead. Sign me up for the old folks home, only if they have complimentary iPods with a constant 80s shuffle built-in.

Narcissism On Parade

2007-03-02T14:35:00.000-08:00

"As younger people reveal their private lives on the Internet, the older generation looks on with alarm and misapprehension not seen since the early days of rock and roll. The future belongs to the uninhibited." -- New York Magazine feature titled Kids, the Internet, and the End of Privacy: The Greatest Generation Gap Since Rock and Roll.

This article resonated with me as an American female writer in her 30s (maybe even a "Yippie" or a "Grup," a new, bizarre but right-on nickname that has emerged as my generation continues to evolve both on- and off-line), a mother and an extremely revealing, confessional style blogger/vlogger.

(I stumbled across the article in the middle of the night on another female blogger's site. I feel terrible that I can't remember he name or URL, otherwise I'd link to her now.)

Also from the article for your contemplation: "What happens when a person who has archived her teens grows up? Will she regret her earlier decisions, or will she love the sturdy bridge she’s built to her younger self—not to mention the access to the past lives of friends, enemies, romantic partners? On a more pragmatic level, what does this do when you apply for a job or meet the person you’re going to marry? Will employers simply accept that everyone has a few videos of themselves trying to read the Bible while stoned? Will your kids watch those stoner Bible videos when they’re 16? Is there a point in the aging process when a person will want to pull back that curtain—or will the MySpace crowd maintain these flexible, cheerfully thick-skinned personae all the way into the nursing home?"

I'm deeply considering the ramifications (concentric circle effects?) of being so open and free with the intimate details of my life and, more importantly my children's lives, as I prepare to hunker down tonight, to barricade myself behind my open laptop at a darkened, cave-like downtown hookah bar and cafe, to put the finishing touches on the first three chapters of my first memoir. Now that I'm vlogging the kids and our misadventures on the town, there's so much more to consider than before.

How much should I reveal? Who could potentially get hurt or offended in the process?

Why should I hold back? No one else does any more.

That about covers what I'm thinking about today, other than waking up my two young-ins so we can speed downtown to pick up their big bro from kindergarten. Next we'll bump around the bluff by the shore, climb a snaggle of massive tree roots and head back home to kick off our weekend of "Where the heck is Mommy?"

I'll be off and away until I produce a decent beginning to my book. But how much will I reveal this time? How much would you reveal? (And did this lame excuse for a posting make any sense any way?)

Sudden Health Attack at the Sick Visit (At Least He's 100%)

2007-03-01T17:10:00.000-08:00

Make an on-line slide show at onetruemedia.com

Good Morning Racing Mother's Mind

2007-03-01T06:55:00.000-08:00

Disappointment. That about sums up my morning so far.

'Good thing it's early.

Mouth, who I think I switched to calling The Lawyer, then to The Great Communicator (why can't I settle for a blog nickname for that boy?!), spiked a fever again last night, just when I thought he was better. He started showing symptoms of flu on Sunday, fell very ill on Monday and Tuesday, and seemed completely symptom free yesterday, except for the right-at-bedtime-surprise-I'm-baaack fever. What gives?

Now I'm really worried. You know how mothers are. We agonize everything.

Right now my agony goes a little something like this:
Shouldn't I have taken him to the doctor by now?
Why did I only call not go in?
What makes me think I can handle this on my own?
Shouldn't I take him in to have him weighed?
Why don't I ever use a thermometer when taking temperatures?
Why am I so old-fashioned, only using my cheek or the palm of my hand?
I wonder what his new school thinks of their latest arrival missing what is now four days in a row?
How is my little man under the weather feeling?
Why do I always let my husband convince me that practically no medical issue warrants medical attention?
Did he even try to convince me this time or am I buying into his beliefs on the issue? Isn't that just passing the buck? C'mon.
Isn't what he has viral and therefore not able to be cured by antibiotics, so wouldn't the doctor simply tell me to do what I'm already doing - Pedialyte, the BRAT diet and plenty of rest?
What if it is Rotavirus? My friend mentioned that, now I'm freaking out.
I hope he's not dehydrated? It's so much easier when they are still in diapers because you can count the number of "pee" diapers.
Do I need to start counting how many times he pees? Shouldn't I have done that yesterday?
Was I so caught up in writing and work yesterday that I didn't pay attention enough?

Wow, I'm friggin' neurotic. These are the nagging questions ricocheting around my cranium right now.

My gut says forgo school again in favor of the doctor. I'll drop my little Cheeks off at preschool with Pigtails and sickly The Lawyer/Mouth/The Great Communicator in tow, then head straight to the good doc, where we should have gone earlier.

See mom? You were right. Never go against your mother's intuition.

I'll keep you posted.

*BTW, I still want to follow up with Part 2 of my breastfeeding memoirs, as well as blog about leaving kids in the car while you're 5- to 10-feet away at the ATM. Is it true that we all do that or is it just me? What are the laws regarding this in your state? I always opt for the drive-thru ATM first, but sometimes I have to go for the outdoor cash machine. Something tells me that if I'm turning this topic over in my mind I must already know the answer to whether or not it's right or wrong.

Membership Has Its Priveledges - Dining on Burnt Dogs in the Sick Club

2007-02-28T09:55:00.000-08:00

Can you tell that I'm desperate to get my flu-stricken son to eat and drink?

I'm SO not above baiting him with Pedialyte in a WINE glass. Have you ever tasted that stuff? Pure salty schwag, I tell ya.

He was scrawny to start but now he's looking even more threadbare minus two fever-melted pounds. The evils (flu germs) are having their way with his lanky bod.

Mouth is ever sharp, even when he's ill. And he's milking to his advantage.

"I'm too weak to bring my plate up," he feebly whispered for added effect this morning. As long as he is as dog-sick as this, I'll let him get away with it.

Sweet bed head, mister.
This is his third day in a row missing school. Poor little trooper.

Anyone have any tricks for making the BRAT (Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, Toast) diet more palatable to picky kid eaters?

Slackstress Fires a Rant Round at Gun Toys

2007-02-27T23:23:00.001-08:00

Why are so many boy toys so violent? Here I am teetering yet again on my soap box.

Hey, I had a fake Uzi submachine gun as a kid and I'm not a serial killer. It came complete with realistic firing sounds that I proudly annoyed my parents with to no end.

Should we helicopter parent to the point of limiting our boys' toys to only nicey-nice, educational gear like Leapsters and Matchbox cars? Are modern moms caring too much? Creating a slippery Pollyanna bubble for our children that might soon pop in our overly concerned faces?

Why not give our sons (and daughters) the gun toys they want so they can work it out for themselves?

You already know where I stand. So, what do YOU think?

Here's a stellar Feb. 25 article from the opposite camp called "My Sons Like Shootouts. What's Wrong With That?" by a Washington Post writer who allows his sons to play with toy guns:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/02/23/AR2007022301749.html

Oh, and I haven't forgotten about Part 2 of It’s Only Breastfeeding in Public, People, Not a Wet T-Shirt Contest. My 6-year-old has a major case of the evils, or what we call the flu around our house. I'm way too busy picking up sick. Anyone know where I can pick up some Teflon nose clips? I promise I'll follow up with Part 2 as soon as I can.

It's All Fun and Games Until Mama Develops and Eye Twitch

2007-02-27T14:31:00.000-08:00

I was hoping it was a fluke. Just a passing phase. Like the flutter of an eye.

Nope. I'm not so lucky. It's official, people -- I have developed a permanent eye twitch.

It's as if my right eye lid is possessed, obsessed with shaking like Shakira's jellyfied ba donk a donk butt. Now I have yet more in common with Dr. Evil other than constantly asking myself "Why must I be surrounded by frickin' idiots?"

And apparently it's not going away (like my moles that recently met their fates on my dermatologist's chopping block).

This is what mothering three children born nearly back-to-back will do to you. Ex-zip-it-A: the telltale bitch twitch. Someone signed me up for this without even asking. How rude!

Great. Now I have what's called a tell. Let's call my new eye twitch a mommy tell, shall we? An obvious, dead give-away that I'm constantly trailed by three mini-me's like a ketchup stained wedding gown train with springs attached to it.

What will "they" say about my new perma-blink? (Ever wonder who the nebulous "they" are anyway? If you figure it out, send me "their" address so I can send "them" a nasty-gram via snail mail.)

I imagine what "they" say might go something like this: "Whoa. Look at that crazy chick's eye go! She must be a whacked out, stay-home mom stress case. It's like her lid's got a life of its own. That's just sad."

But wait. My new consta-flicker eye affliction isn't all bad. With my newfound on-and-off eye-cessory I can more accurately aim an even more menacing "mom face," yes, you know what I'm referring to ladies. Yup, it's "the look" I speak of. All moms naturally develop it over time and readily display with uncanny skill when they've "had enough" from the unruly kid ranks. Yes, the "evil eye" we shoot at the kids when on the verge of snapping but cannot raise our voices because we're in public. The look I fire off when I wimp out and opt out of a major freak-out, when I give in and merely dole out yet another threat of a non-effective time-out. But I digress...

... and, yes, it's true that now I can better ward off staring, brimming with bad mommy judgement strangers (you know the kind, the ones who think they can do a better job and who were never, ever antsy kids at the grocery themselves) in the check-out line when I stare back at them with my creepy twitch-o-meter. The faster the twitch, the more offended by their stares I am. So, it's even more creepy now when I ask them to "put their eyes back in their head."

If you're with me on this, twitch on mamas. Get your twitch on.

Hey, I can't be the only one out in the mommy trenches with a mommy "tell." What's yours?

When No Nap Nellies Attack - I Nanny 911 Myself to No Avail

2007-02-27T14:08:00.000-08:00

Make video montages at onetruemedia.com

MySpace Yanks "Obscene" Pics of Breastfeeding Moms

2007-02-26T21:30:00.000-08:00

How coincidental that I should write today about banning shame from breastfeeding in public on the same day that mothers in huff over the same topic launch a cyber protest of MySpace? Seriously, I had no idea or I would have joined them earlier.

Because there's nothing more offensive on MySpace than an appropriately employed lactating breast, right?

Without users' permission, the powers that be at MySpace have been removing photos of mothers nursing their children. Have you heard of this?

First Starbucks. Next the airlines. What next? Our own front yards?

Check it out. The following was excerpted from an Associated Content article written Feb. 19 by Summer Minor:

"As a virtual protest many mothers have begun changing their user pictures to that of nursing babies. The breastfeeding mothers claim that nursing is not offensive at all, and that by being more public about it they are helping to normalize something that has been hidden under a cloud of shame for years. Many feel that the sexualization of the female breast makes it difficult for many to see a difference between using the breast for sex and using the breast for its intended purpose, which is to feed a child. This is on top of an already diminished view of breastfeeding held from the early 1950s when doctors often told women that their milk was not good enough and many families felt that formula created by science was a better choice.

The debated over breastfeeding photos has sparked a fire among those who support breastfeeding in public and those who feel it is disgusting. Many mothers who have breastfeeding photos are finding themselves attacked by those who feel that the breast is a purely sexual object. Hate filled messages are being sent out to many mothers on MySpace for sharing their breastfeeding photos, some are going as far as reporting every photo that the mothers have on their account often resulting in all of the photos deleted by MySpace.

The mothers involved are furious and are not going to take it. So far MySpace has not yet commented on the issue, but breastfeeding photos are still being removed. Many women are claiming that this is discrimination. Images of partial and full nudity that includes the breasts are found on a majority of MySpace profiles, yet it is the breastfeeding photos that are being removed. As the ban on breastfeeding photos continues the firestorm continues to grow. One mother on MySpace commented 'The power of lactating women has been demonstrated often in the media lately (Delta, Pork Board, etc.). Now it's time for us to take on Myspace.'"

It’s Only Breastfeeding in Public, People, Not a Wet T-Shirt Contest

2007-02-26T16:29:00.000-08:00

(The Nursing Moms Not Gone Wild, Part 1)

Today I was hoping to write a scholarly defense of breastfeeding in public, with or without covering up the wet bar. A hopefully intellectual argument in favor of nursing mothers asserting their state right (yes! I live in nursing friendly Calfornia!) to breastfeed wherever they want, whenever they want, in public or in private.

However, (no) thanks to spiking flu-related fevers and defiant diapered nappers, ample time for this overly opinionated mama to coherently blog/vlog is now irrelevant. As irrelevant as the recent ill-educated, overly sexualized opinions of several male YouTube vloggers who are repulsed practically to the point of upchucking at the sight of a lactating pair of bare breasts aimed into the hungry mouths of babes.

So, given that I could be interrupted by kiddie complaints at any second, I’ll simply share with you my personal experiences nursing my three children. (Funny – Right here is ironically where I had to stop writing and coerce screaming Pigtails back to sleep before she started a domino wake-up effect with her brothers. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy!).

I can’t think of a place I haven’t nursed -- sometimes in hiding in seedy restrooms, from behind a downy wedding gown skirt collapsed in a heap on a dressing room floor, in full, naked chest view of shocked, ogling strangers waiting for the train in Paris and every place in between.

Hey, I’ve even nursed at Starbucks, a place where nursing used to be about as welcome as a branded to-go cup of joe from the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.

I’ve even nursed uncovered and bare chested in front of my father-in-law. Ew. Maybe even double ew. (Now that I’ve used a pair of back-to-back “ews,” I can kiss any hopes of coming off scholarly goodbye, right?)

Where was I? So, I decided to breastfeed because I really respected my sister for doing it. Also, the American Academy of Pediatrics book my obstetrician gave me highly recommended it (and I lived by that book as an insecure new mom the first year of my son’s life.)

My mother chose not to breastfeed me. “That just wasn’t the thing to do at the time,” she tells me. Really? I was born in 1975, a supposedly nature-happy time when breastfeeding was making a major post-advent of formula comeback. Chalk her choice up to personal preference, something that is entirely her right.

I suppose which nourishing liquids sustained me in my first days doesn’t matter in the long run. I turned out healthy and thriving having fed only on a factory-made mimic of nature’s best first food.

When I was a happily bottle-fed baby my mother and her French-Canadian friends and sisters nicknamed me “grosse poule,” which means “chubby chicken” or “fat chicken,” so it’s not as though I starved without mother’s milk. Later, in my tall, lanky teens, I looked more like an emaciated, starved chicken than a portly one. Now, well, I think I’m once again leaning towards the title of chubby chicken.

Let’s go back six years past, when I had my first son in the hospital, where I sloppily, feebly attempted to breastfeed him seconds after he took his first amazing breaths. Well, that is as soon as he was squeaky cleaned, suctioned and pricked by the eager nurses as well as inspected head-to-toe by my protective husband. (Why does he always get to hold our babies first? I’ll never know because, trust me, I’m soooo done having babies.)

Experts backed by tomes of lab research say infants have a better chance of learning to breastfeed if they latch on directly after birth. At the time of my first pregnancy (an emotional, touch-and-go, bed-rest mired nine months) I steeped myself in how-to first-time-mom books. Armed with facts, figures and the resolve to succeed, I wasn’t about let myself "fail" at breastfeeding. (Now I understand that there is no failing at such an act. Only trying your best and going from there.)

I was determined to avoid formula, even if it meant cracked, sore nipples and sleepless sour milk nights. As a result, I endured all three for weeks.

Have you heard of the term “breastfeeding Nazi”? Well, that was me. Breast is best and all the rest. Totally convinced that breastfeeding was a gift all mothers should and must give their deserving babies. It was judgment city for my formula feeding friends and family. Like everything else, I admit it. I was a bitch about breastfeeding. Sometimes I still am.

Flashback again to when my first son was a nursing infant .. When visitors came to have a peek at our new bundle of boy, I shyly retreated to my bedroom in the far end of the apartment when it was time to feed him. Rarely did I nurse in front of guests, outside of my mom and mother-in-law. Both were at “that end” when their first grandson crowned, so I figured they’d already seen it all. What difference would a nipple or two make? My mother-in-law nursed both of her sons and even helped me with a few pointers when I asked.

My first few attempts at “undercover” nursing my first-born son using a fancy, expensive felt breastfeeding bib manufactured by some trendy baby product company didn’t fly. It was like trying to drive in traffic with a blindfold on. Sweaty and stressful. My little muffled below baby breathed labored, gasping breaths. It almost sounded like he was suffocating. I hated it and he seemed to too. Later, I switched to lighter swaddling blankets and eventually got the hang of it without sending him into a fit of frustration.

Once I felt he was portable, which was a ridiculously long time thanks to new mom paranoia and a serious case of post partum depression, I carefully toted my son around neighborhood parks and beaches in an Over the Shoulder Baby Holder.

(I wonder if the folks who named that contraption were puffing something wacky and skunked when they named it. Hmmmm. Dorky name or not, my Over the Shoulder Baby Holder worked.) Now I could easily nurse my hungry sapphire-eyed guy in public by simply pulling a pinch of fabric over his vacuum suctioned face. No onlookers were the wiser. At least I didn't think they were.

Baby number two was a completely different story. He was nearly attached to the breast 24/7. I was a ‘round-the-clock feeding machine, and it didn’t matter where I was. He had to have it. I learned to walk and nurse. Even run after his 2-year-old big brother at the park and nurse.

The mini-troopers are restless and unruly. Sick of staring at the back of my blogging head. Part two will hopefully come as soon as I time-out them into submission!

Up Next: Fire Goddesses and Chinese Dragons

2007-02-24T08:54:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up from a bizarre dream that I was swimming in an over sized can of black olives to the sound of my boys vroooming their new Transformers in the playroom.

Instead of joining them and losing track of time playing for hours in my jammies and morning breath like I normally would, I stretched on all fours like my cat and went back to sleep.

Next, my daughter climbed into bed with me with a crumpled up bag of Wheat Thins that I left out. The bedside remnants of a midnight snack. In all, I think I ate six, yes that's six, string cheese tubes warmed up to melty in the microwave last night. I'm going to require gobs of fiber to recover. Gobs.

The kids are scrambling like Lord of the Flies scavengers for breakfast and Wheat Thins won't cut it for much longer, so I have to keep this short.

Oh gawd, Pigtails just ripped her diaper off, an over-poofed with overnight pee sagging bag. Yuck. She left it on the kitchen floor. Makes me think of a bloated corpse floating in the water. How dark is that? I just threw it away and washed my hands.

So, you might be wondering what the heck I was alluding to with a title like "Fire Goddesses and Chinese Dragons." They are the two top agenda items for me today. One with the kids and one without. Fire and kids don't mix so well, so you can probably guess which venue WILL NOT include my kids three.

Once we figure out what breakfast is and scrub ourselves to presentable, we'll climb in the cookie crumble spilled coffee stinkin' minivan and head to China Town L.A. for the 108th Annual Los Angeles Chinese Golden Dragon Parade.

It's the year of the boar. Isn't that just a fancy name for pig? In my effort to continually expose the kids to multicultural arts and eye candy, we try to do something with an arty ethnic slant at least once a month.

This is so not coming off as intelligently as I'd like it to. Blame it on my caffeine deficit. Normally by now I'm half way through the coffee pot all on my own. But I slept in and haven't gotten there yet.

Tonight I'm heading off on my own to see Sirena Serpentina at my son's charter elementary school for the arts. Now I sound like a snob, right? Well, I admitted here yesterday that I am in fact a big snobby mommy, so you might as well know that. I'm not hiding it.

Serena Serpentina is a dance troupe that practices an amazing movement art form that involves spinning fire balls tethered to metal chains all around their amazingly adorned bodies. I think each dresses like a particular goddess, demon, fairy, depending on what their theme is.

Words fail when describing them, so I'll leave you with these pics to feast your eyes on instead. Can you believe a major city unified school district would give the okay on a school grounds performance like this? Only at a progressive charter school. I'm so happy we transferred him here. And so is he. You should hear him speak Spanish now. He's teaching his little brother and sister because Spanglish is pretty normal for him now. I'll post more about this later.

I'll try to vlog from both the L.A. Chinese New Year celebration and Sirena Serpentina fire dancing tonight. Who knows what lies ahead?

This is my friend Rachel. Her kids go to school with my eldest son.

Ps. Not that anyone other than me cares, but I thought I'd share with you that Pigtails just pooped on the potty without being encouraged or asked to. Yay. No-effort potty training in full swing.

My Kids Are NOT Walking Advertisements - Dora BackPack Backlash

2007-02-23T17:31:00.001-08:00

Call me a snobby mommy. I admit it: I refuse to let my kids wear a single fake leather smelling scrap of trademarked, tacky cartoon character tattooed gear, including Lightening McQueen Cars crap, Dora drivel and Disney debris.

As Dana Carvey used to say while spoofing the first President Bush (when SNL still ruled Saturday night), "Naw gun' duh. Stay the course. Thousand Points of Light" and all the ridiculous rest.

No character apparel. No way. No how. Not ever.

To me, character TM apparel is to kiddie fashion what Kraft Squeeze Cheese is to the fromage industry. C'est domage. Yep, I'm a snoot. Calls 'em likes I see 'em, even when I am calling my own self out on an issue that makes me look like a jerk.

While you're at it, might as well call me a mean mommy. One who just says a hearty "No!" to her kids' persistent, nasal Target shopping aisle pleas for mass marketed, decal decked out clothes, light-up Velcro shoes and mini walking billboard/movie trailer junk in general. (That's right. My trademark run-on sentences are running on and on and on again. Old habits are hard to break.)

Finally, you can call me a hypocrite because I do have one faulty exception to my snooty no-character clothes rule. I do allow my character decal deprived kids to don cartoon character pajamas and underwear. Spiderman and Disney Princess ones, actually.

That way not one suspecting soul will witness them sporting Dora, Hello Kitty and The Hulk alongside snobby mama me in public. As if I'm too sexy for their shirts.

Nice or not, I purposely keep our nighttime TM merchandise marauding our very own dark, mass appeal, sell-out secret.

And I'd like to keep it that way, although now I've totally (over)exposed our nocturnal mass market conformity by admitting it here on my blog.

Then again, aren't embarrassing confessions that humanize/humble me as a real and flawed modern mama what this blog is about in the first place?

If you're Mcmerchandise sell-out happy and you know it and you really want to show it, well, good for you.

As for slightly pretentious me, I'm sticky to the plain stuff.

Take it with a grain of schmaltz, from a thrifty mom who gets most of her clothes second-hand from generous hand-me-down sources.

Dora defying Slackstress OUT.

So, which of you mamas are with me on this? If you're not, tell me about it. I'd like to hear both sides. Do tell.

*Hopefully someone out there in the blogosphere is actually reading this. Hopefully I haven't lost all five of my dedicated regular readers thanks to my embarrassing, over-the-head panty hose pull vlog. I'm still in shock that I actually hit "publish" on that one but there's no going back. My kids ran around like panty hosed robbers half the night after watching their wacky mama on YouTube. Talk abouy cheap AND fun. (more) (less)

Panty Hose on My Head for You, Mom, Love Your Strange Daughter

2007-02-22T18:33:00.001-08:00

This vlog is my gift to my mother for her birthday, which is, yes, you guessed it, TODAY.

When she watches this, two things could transpire. Make that three:

1) She will be mortifyingly embarrassed and regret ever sharing my blog URL with her friends and coworkers (if she doesn't already). Wait until my memoir hits bookshelves. What will she do then? Yikes.

2) She will outright disown me. Highly unlikely since I’m one muy importante half DNA donor to her precious blondie grandkids three, at least I'd like to think so.

Highly unlikely also because she would miss out on visiting breathtaking Southern California beaches blanketed in clouds of choking smog. What out of town visitor would diss me for good and miss out on that?

3) She will cackle hysterically (okay, mom, you don’t cackle, more like delicately chortle. I cackle and Dena guffaws and Aunt Claudette, well, she ... you know how she laughs – jolly and loud like Santa with a megaphone). Next, she'll pick up the phone and call me across the 3,000 plus miles to congratulate me on being such a zany weirdo mama. Props from one zany mama to another. I truly learned from the best!

Happy birthday, mom. I hoped you like the daisies. What kind of a cheap-ass daughter sends a tiny handful of daisies to her mother for her birthday?

Well, slackstress me. It was the best I could do. Never mind not even sending a card of gift at Christmas. As you would jokingly say, mom, “I deserve ten lashes with a wet noodle!”

Speaking of noodles, remember when cousin Ricky threw an entire boiling pot of pasta against Aunt Connie’s wall to check if the noodles were ready? I prefer the more modest version – thwacking a single strand of spaghetti against the wall to see if sticks. If it does, it’s ready.

How many of you reading this right now have moms who always kept it light, fun and easy, even during the roughest of times? Here’s to the best, my mom. Bon Fete! A votre sante! Felicitations!

I bet you’re really savoring this birthday, mom, now that your ticker is poof, presto, blam-o fixed. You deserve all that buttered up lobster you'll feast on tonight. Just don't forget to wear that funny looking tuxedo lobster bib. You, like me, can get pretty messy when it comes to eatin' stuff we love (and devour in seconds flat).

Love, Kim, SuperMan and the kids three

Ps. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!!!

Slackstress Vlog: Sticks are the New Pet Rocks

2007-02-20T21:09:00.001-08:00

Sticks rock. Stones, well, they ARE rocks already, so they don't do jack. I suppose they roll, but I digress in a really cheesy, lame brain kind of way. Deal.

Yep, I'm officially an old-fashioned mom-tool because I think plain old sticks are hotter toys than Nintendo's enormously popular Wii Play.

And nature provides a shapely, frighteningly jagged array of sticks, twigs and branches for no-attention-span, bored for no friggin' reason children at no - zip, zilch, zero - cost to their no-patience, strapped for time and play time creativity soul-sucked parents.

Today I lost my wallet (again - oh airhead snap!), so Slackstress me and the blondie kids three were up the creek with no dough for entrance to a stuffy local art museum (that might have bored them to tears anyway).

Here, out in the breezy, sunny, salty Southern California air, I learn that the value of simply throwing my wound up spawn trio a stick like little wild doggies is completely underrated.

I say, stick it to yourself when the sun IS shining. Stick with simplicity. Stick with sticks when the terrain gets sticky. Sorry for the cliche train but you're already stuck. That was bad, I know.

Any-whoo, I think you'll agree that fun is always funner (more fun?) when it's FREE (and distracts your hyper three-kid army from blitzkrieg-ing one another into oblivion for more than five whole minutes -- long enough to inhale a Venti latte without aspirating your lungs or burning your kid boo-boo all-better smooching freshly stop sign red lipstick painted lips)!!!

You can't beat the Pacific Ocean view in this quickie vlog either.

Stones are sure to top the Slackstress "it" toy list next when my brood soon outgrows stabbing each other in their beady eyes with randomly strewn by gale force wind sticks.

Stones ... hmmm ... simple ... free and DANGEROUS, even a desperate weapon of choice in, gee, well, some perpetually war-torn parts of the world.

I think I'll stick to sticks after all.

Slackstress Vlog: Grandparent Jealousy

2007-02-20T19:48:00.001-08:00

Insta-recipe for a much-needed hand with the kids: Simply add willing grandparents ... within driving distance, that is. I wish it were that simple.

Perhaps I'd trade my balmy, season-less Southern California weather paradise for closer, more convenient proximity to my children's grandparents (both sets are 3,000-plus miles away).

If I moved where they are, I'd have to suck up my inner weather wimp and endure either power black-out blizzards (New Hampshire) or having to translate into semi-sanitizedd terms just what a "Gary Glitter" is and what "Gazungas" are to my children when they're old enough (the UK). I can't get enough of strange Britishisms.

Name one burned-out mom who wouldn't kill for the kind of uber granparent help I witnessed today at my son's preschool.

Unfortunately, I think I'd dump the kids off more than would be welcome, perhaps even legal. We'd have to draw up a contract just to keep me from abusing the torrent of gushy-mushy grandparent love.

Meanwhile, as I vlog all this from my usual spot - my minivan crumb crumble donut home on wheels, my daughter begs for junk food by name. What the?

(Hard Advice) Hike to the Hollywood Sign

2007-02-19T23:43:00.003-08:00

Here I escape my three-kid circus for a brisk hike to the famous Hollywood sign, but find myself in hot water with my hike-mate cousin, who started what was supposed to be a relaxing Mt. Hollywood trek off on shaky footing by giving me some sudden, unexpected parenting advice.

For the record, said cousin has NO children. Not a one! And he’s fully aware I’m blogging about this. He even taped this video, where I jokingly threaten to throw him over the fence and onto the Hollywood Sign following his critique.

It was grueling for me to hear his fault-finding but accurate observations, the sum of what I already know to be true (and deeply loathe in my parent self) -- I yell and scream at my kids all day long with few results and often fail to follow through with heaps of threatened discipline.

Basically, I suck. Am I a bad mother?

At least that's how I felt during the first part of our “talk” (unplanned intervention?).

How do you rise above your fired up mother emotions and not take such intimate criticism personally?

The way in which you parent your children -- Is there a subject that is closer to the heart?

How well do you receive criticism re: your (flawed or not) parenting style, constructive or not?

Does it matter to you if the person critiquing your parenting style has children or not? Haven’t you heard: “It’s always the ones who have none who know the most.” Hells yeah.

In all, I know my cousin’s intentions were pure. Nothing less. He cares for my children. He loves my family. In the end, I understand where he was going and why, even if it was hell to hear. Change is hard but we our family really could use some, right away. If my cousin’s hard talk was a catalyst for that change, then I’m glad we “went there.”

But the whole thing still felt a bit like I was an alcoholic and this was my official intervention. No hard feelings, though, cousin. I’m not mad. More like sad.

Are you able to see past your personal, emotional reactions to outsiders’ parenting advice, evaluate their advice and eventually apply your new, hopefully helpful but hard-to-hear knowledge?

How have you reacted to having your shameful, embarrassing parenting realities/bad habits exposed like a raw nerve and then pushed up close to your nose for you to see in plain view?

*Please don't watch this with the kids because I swear like a trucker in it. Not one of my best vids, but hey, it's a holiday Monday and I'm moving like a snail.

Slackstress Vlog: Confessions from the Brat Race

2007-02-16T18:58:00.001-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9jPpJ695wk Follow the link to see my latest vlog:

You'll see Slackstress me, harried mom of three (3, 2 and newly 6 as of yesterday), sounding off on the manic nature of my experience of modern motherhood - crammed schedules, hours upon inactive hours logged in confining car seats, scarfing down artery hardening food scraps from random drive-thrus, always in a hyper-rush and "inconvenient truthfully" blowing minivan fumes into the warming atmosphere. Can you relate?

*As you can see by my blog postings, I'm having technical difficulties with the new version of Blogger. Can new version users delete posts? Where the heck is the "delete" button?! I'm super irritated by this. My blog is wacked now.

Repost of Slackstress Vlog: (Not) Avoiding Shopping Cart Ebola

2007-02-16T18:55:00.001-08:00

Recent studies show shopping carts are dirtier than toilets. So why is my daughter licking one? Where can I get one of those nifty quilted shopping cart seat covers? Would I really want to be seen with one, though? Talk about anal. (I just learned the hard way that if you try to edit the text of a posted YouTube video, you will lose your video. Poof gone. Please forgive my technical ineptituded.

Slackstress Vlog: Confessions from the Brat Race

2007-02-16T15:39:00.001-08:00

Here's Slackstress me, harried mom of three (3, 2 and newly 6 as of yesterday), sounding off on the manic nature of modern motherhood - crammed schedules, hours upon inactive hours logged in confining car seats, scarfing down artery hardening fast food scraps from random drive-throughs, always in a rush and "inconvenient truthfully" blowing minivan fumes into the atmosphere. Can you relate?

Slackstress Vlog: (Not) Avoiding Shopping Cart Ebola

2007-02-15T00:22:00.001-08:00

Over-booked and Over-Tired (5 is the New 30)

2007-02-12T23:17:00.000-08:00

As if you could stomach another depressing case of KGOY (Kids Getting Older Younger) ...

Suck it up, brave mamas, as I bring you yet more proof that today's children are no longer allowed to simply be children, wild and free with UNSTRUCTURED time to burn exploring the world around them.

My startling KGOY update arrived today during a real, true conversation I had a couple of hours ago at my son's Jr. NBA basketball practice:

Smolderingly Gorgeous Lebanese Dad: "Yeah, it's nice to meet you, Kim. Your son might be the next Kobe."

Me: "Likewise."

Smolderingly Gorgeous Lebanese Dad: "See you at practice next week."

Me: "Great."

Smolderingly Gorgeous Lebanese Dad: "Wait. I think we have a scheduling conflict next week. We'll have to figure it out. I think Rayne's double-booked."

Me: "What?! Double-booked?"

Smolderingly Gorgeous Lebanese Dad: "Let's see. Rayne's schedule is so busy, so confusing these days."

Smolderinly Gorgeous Lebanese Dad whips out his Palm Pilot for instant access to his uber five-year-old's double-triple-quadruple crammed extracurricular schedule.

I cannot believe what I'm seeing. Is that his kid's Palm Pilot or his?

I pull myself together and pick my eyes up off the high gloss planks of the basketball court, where our sons are spastically wrestling each other on their backs for control of the ball. Cheaters. Well, they are only five after all.

Gorgeous Lebanese Dad: "That's right. I remember now. Hmmm... Yes, Rayne has Jr. NBA on Mondays and Wednesdays, piano lessons on Tuesdays, gymnastics at this great place in Huntington Beach on Thursdays and ice hockey on Fridays. Oh, and preschool five days a week. But I think I booked a golf lesson for him during practice this coming Wednesday. What was I thinking?"

Is he serious? Does he really need a Palm Pilot to keep track of his son's over-booked, over-scheduled five-year-old world?

I won't get a chance to find out any time soon, a chance to corner Gorgeous Lebanese Dad for the answers to my burning RGOY (Rayne Getting Older Younger) questions.

Gorgeous Lebanese Dad said if his son does squeeze basketball practice in Wednesday, he won't be the one bringing him. I'll just have to ask Rayne's nanny/chauffeur.

Here's a solid article on the topic of today's over-booked children. Check it out, that is, if you have time.

Welcome to the Mom Blogularity Contest, Take a Number

2007-02-12T10:50:00.000-08:00

*Thank you, Oh The Joys for emailing me and helping me gather enough courage/gumption to re-post this for keepers:

Several commenters on my blog recently pointed out that some mom blogs are now doubling as popularity contests. Ya think?!

I feel relieved that other mom bloggers are buzzing/ranting/bitching about this at a time when blog awards bestowed upon bloggers from fellow bloggers appear to be at an all-time high. And some blog awards are getting downright ridiculous. And, yes, I'm jealous.

There's an award for everything now. While I'm all for patting each other on the blogging back, well, I think it's gone a little too far. Did I already admit that I'm jealous?

Perhaps I wouldn't be knocking some of these awards, gratuitous or not, if I'd just become the recipient of some amazing, impressive, complimentary mom blogging award. It's pretty likely I'd be basking in the glow of my accolades, not knocking the ubiquity and overall overcooked processed hot dog quality of the recent glut of blog awards.

I'm going to come out and admit the ugly, embarrassing truth right now -- I wish I were a popular mom blogger. I hate it when I (compulsively) check my Google Analytics and see that only 26 people stopped by my blog on any given day.

What ever happened to when I used to get 100 visitors a day? Doesn't sound like much for some, but those kind of numbers spell success to me. Oh yeah, that’s when I was busy broaching controversial topics like sex after kids and the freaky pedophiles that stalked my blog for weeks on end.

I abhor it even more when I log on and see that my post of the day only garnered one measly comment or perhaps none at all. Why is it so easy to become a comments addict?

Hi, my name is Kim (aka domestic slackstress) and I’m a comment-a-holic. I have been comment free for 10 days. I’m now living my life one comment at a time. From this day forward, I'm going to work the program and work the comments.

I wish I were as modern-mama-blog-a-mama cool and commercially blog-successful as Dooce, who only seems to turn on her comments capability when she feels like instantly getting 368 validating answers to basic questions about potty training and nutty fan letters. You know you want to be like her too. Admit it, honey. Why can't short hair like Heather B. Armstrong's look as sharp and edgy on me?

How can I be as naturally funny as OhTheJoys? That's right. Funny isn't learned. It just is.

I wish I could post something as simple as "I went to Trader Joe's with the kids to buy Japanese Rice crackers because we had a collective craving for MSG and seaweed," and instantly receive 32 comments saying irrelevant blibber blubber like, "I loooove Nori Maki too." and "Wow. Great post. I was moved by your simplicity. Way to list your grocery list, girl. Keep up the good work." Some of the posts that win a million comments are shockingly mundane. Shockingly terse. Shocking in their lack of content shock value. Shocking in their Lack. Of. Content. At. All.

Why do I feel the need to be a well-known, super-popular mom blogger? What drives me to be such a star-struck blogger with a blog that started as a way to pitch in a little Google Adsense (Google No-cents) money into our bad joke of a non-budget? Exactly how sick of my unending questions are you?

Let's face it. I need the money. I want the fame.

Between tackling toppling stacks of laundry and scraping dried-up jelly donut innards from the germ incubating kitchen floor, maybe I'll have time today to create my own blog award called Most Wanna-be Dooce-i-est Mom Blogger Award. I’ll even nominate myself for it straight away.

Don't hold your breath. Just be sure to click on "Comments" before you turn blue.

These are the narcissistic ramblings of my tired night mind. Of my busy digesting crab rangoon and nine sesame date balls I stashed into my purse at the buffet mind-body-belly. Stuffed like a hormone swollen turkey at Thanksgiving with Chinese food from a cheap Chinese joint.

Does a bottle of Tums count as dessert?

Ps. Someone who is royal a pain in the arse kind of good friend just now reminded me that I won a Rolling on the Floor Laughing Award (ROFL) for my Oct. 2006 toy ad satire post called "F-Bomb Cop." You didn't hear me complaining about that award, now did you? Now I can shut up and cease being a hypocrite. I even wrote a post-win post about winning the award, officially making me a willing member of the mom blogularity contest. Oops. Count me in.

This Bitch Be Stinkin' Up da Whole House

2007-02-10T23:09:00.000-08:00

Something's wrong with Trixie the cat.

This bitch is horny. She's running around the house with her ass in the air, calling all the Tom cats in the 'hood to her cat-gina. I can't take her high-pitched whining any more.

I halfway feel like I could just set her loose on the neighborhood, just to get her the hell out, away from my three kids, who she keeps waking up with her horny cat-calls.

I've punched my friends and loved ones for lesser offenses. I don't care if the four male cats waiting on my stoop with their lipstick units still fur-sheathed, at least for the moment, tear little Trixie to bits in a kitty battle royale for the gift that's impossible to Indian give.

My couch, my beloved microfiber sage colored slouchy couch, stinks like rotten cat crotch. It's not even funny. Trixie's outta' hand. Purring. Rubbing. Licking herself into feline oblivion.

We let her out for five minutes. Five hot minutes. She came back in a changed kitty. Disheveled. Confused. Dirty and fluffed.

Anyone want kittens?

Pretzel Sticks Are Too Salty to Be Cigarettes

2007-02-10T10:44:00.000-08:00

It's nearly 11 and I'm still in my jammies, which I only put on when I woke up. I was too lazy to deal with a change of clothes last night. Living up to my slackstress title is so trying.

The kids are fighting. Pigtails wants to vacuum. She thinks it's a toy. The Lawyer is playing basketball in the house with a ball that isn't Nerf but not exactly regulation. Cheeks is talking gibberish to himself while taking shots at the small mesh pockets in the tent with a mushy mini-basketball that his sister bit a chunk out of.

Oh well. I'm ignoring everyone and writing. Nothing new there. Adam is outside smoking his weekend wake-up cigarette. Nothing new there either.

... which brings me to the topic of my children knowing their father smokes. For a long time I tried to shield them from it. (Hey, didn't I chain smoke three cloves at the hookah bar last night? I was alone. It was an indulgence. An assertion that I'm still me before being a mom. Still independent enough to make stupid, unhealthful choices. Still cool enough to throw caution to the wind, along with a few fragrant plumes of smoke. Sound the hypocrite alert?)

Without going into to much explanation, eventually I relaxed my rigid rules and stop relegating my husband to the garage when he puffs on his beloved Camels. Now he leaves the garage door open when he smokes and asks the children to go inside until he's done his "break."

The kids aren't stupid, though. They may be young but they know what's going on. When they ask me where dad is and I say, "He's having a break," they know exactly what mommy's referring to.

"Oh, you mean he's outside smoking," The Lawyer clarifies.

"No, he's just having a break," I un-clarify.

"No. He's smoking. Why don't you just tell the truth? That's what you tell me to do."

Point taken.

So, if my children know their daddy is a regular, one pack a day addicted smoker, where do we draw the line with their inclusion in the circle trust (or TMIL - too much information loop)? Should they light his cigarettes for him? (I just threw that in there to incite reaction, to goad you on. Obviously I would never allow that. I'm being dramatic, something I've never, ever done before for attention. Me? Neva'.)

Should I allow them to pretend they're smoking while salty pretzel sticks jut from their pouty mouths like extra long Virginia Slims? Well, when it actually happened, when all three were on the front lawn on a picnic blanket pretending to light each other's pretzel sticks, I promptly, sternly asked them to stop. I was disgusted. My daughter often tells me she's going outside to "have a smoke." It's really gone too far. Way too far.

"Why would you want to pretend to smoke? Smoking hurts people," I said, hoping the neighbors hadn't noticed my pediatric trio of would-be smokers.

"Because Daddy does," Cheeks replied.

"Yeah, because Daddy smokes. Daddy smokes cig-wets," Pigtails confirmed.

How sad. But really, how sad? As the teachers at Cheeks progressive preschool say time and time again, "Life is not a fairy tale." In some cases, children should know the truth, even if it isn't laced with powdered sugar sprinkles and rainbow jimmies. Is this a truth they should know? All signs point to no. But I'm afraid it's too late. At least their father doesn't smoke near them or in the house. We don't want to endanger their health. I even force him to change his shirt when he holds them.

Yes, children, your parents are human. They are real people. They make mistakes. They made choices that aren't always right. They aren't the poster people for perfection.

Just last week I hid outside cloaked in darkness in the front yard with my mom friend. We sneaked cloves in front of the bushes, like a couple of kids hiding from the camp counselors, doing something bad. Something that could get us sent home from camp if we were found out. And you know what? It felt good. Really good. Really freeing. Really adventurous. Again, how sad? Maybe not so sad after all.

It felt good until my daughter peeped through the mail slot and saw me.

-- To my older and only sister: I hope your quitting experiment is a success.

Ps. What ever happened to those fake, pink-tipped candy cigarettes I used to gobble up as a kid? Did the candy industry get a conscience or did Big Tobacco cut off their funding? I wouldn't let my kids "smoke" them anyway. They have enough poor role modeling in their orbit as it is.

Luck, luck, bo buck, banana fana fo ...

2007-02-10T00:07:00.000-08:00

Today I feel lucky.

I'm lucky that I get to hang out in my son's new K-1-2 (kindergarten, 1st and 2ng multigrade split) homeroom class with his younger sibs for however long I want, whenever I want. I'm lucky none of his classmates threw up when my daughter dropped the A-bomb in her diaper and then announced to the class, "I just die-ree-a, ev-bod-ee." I was more worried about her lack of descriptive accuracy. That rock was solid. Can you say fiber alert?

I'm lucky I got to join my kindergarten wonder for a field trip to the local city college's lush garden. I'm lucky I didn't step in chicken skat when we visited the garden's grungy chicken coop.

I'm lucky my son has a warm, caring teacher named Jose, who was kind enough to offer my other children a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a shiny green apple when they looked at me grimacing because I forgot our field trip snack at home. I'm lucky they let me have the last bite.

I'm lucky my pediatric dentist will still see my children. She reminded me that my husband missed the kids' last appointment. "That's two no-shows on your record," she said in an admonishing whisper off in a dim office corner where her other, no doubt more conscientious parent customers wouldn't be able to hear.

I'm lucky my 3-year-old didn't bust his head wound open when he fell backwards out of the sit-and-stand double stroller today. I'm lucky no onlookers snapped back at me when I loudly advised them to "put your eyes back in your head" as I scooped Cheeks off the dentist's waiting room carpet and back into the stroller. Note to dangerous mom self: Fix broken backseat double-stroller straps ASAP.

I'm lucky my best childhood friend, Cyndi, cheerfully quickly replied to my Classmates.com message. She even subscribed to my blog feed. Thanks, girl. Like you said, we won't lose touch this time.

I'm lucky my husband tore my laptop apart, reloaded Windows and enabled me to get back to regularly blogging. I know he expects a little something in return, so why am I typing this right now, just after midnight while he waits for me? I'm a selfish shit.

I'm lucky my maiden name means "lucky" when translated from French to English.

I'm lucky so many wonderful people left me positive comments on yesterday's pity-party-for-me lamenting blog post. Seriously, I feel a lot better knowing someone out there enjoys this blog and might even find relief and humor in my retelling of my many maternal misadventures.

I'm lucky my husband put the kids to sleep (the boys are drooling on pillows in our 8-person tent, still set up from last weekend's sudden school switch/mom-guilt allaying sleepover bonanza) so I could steal away to the local hookah/espresso bar to work on my book. I'm lucky my writer's block fog lifted, even if only for an hour or so. I'm lucky Mike, the new cafe owner, makes such awesome homeade baklava and supple, wet feta cheese that actually bends without breaking.

I'm lucky I didn't inhale three-in-a-row clove cigarettes. I hear those things can make your lungs bleed.

I'm lucky there's still some java left in my mug. Who cares if it's past midnight? It's never too late for a caffeine buzz.

I'm lucky my daughter stopped yelling "NO WAY!" at the top of her impressive little lungs at the pediatric dentist's today when I threatened to take her favorite retired cell phone away because she flat-out refused to get into the stroller. Okay, I admit it -- I said I'd throw it away. I was desperate. Like you've never said something so unessecarily and overaly harsh to a two-year-old as onlookers judging eyes bored into your back? My kids are going to come out so warped, it's not even funny. She clammed up spit-spot and climbed right back into that stroller seat, though.

I'm lucky for mom friends who "get it." Who get me and my three-kid madness. Thanks, Amanda, for making us feel at home at the "new" school, and for staying with my snoozy little girl at the van so I didn't have to wake her to pick up her brother, then strap right back into her car seat. Am I the only mom who feels totally overwhelmed by simply transporting three young children from point A to point B. Just the five-friggin'-point straps alone are a bitch to get through. Throw in throwing food to the very last row of seats, back to my hungry sons. Aim is key. They know to be at the ready when mom yells, "Ready? Aim. Fire!" "How's that quesadilla mom just chucked into your face, little bud?" It gets scary when I hurl Aquafina bottles in their direction, but, hey - they asked for it!

I'm lucky you are reading this right now, especially when you consider that I hardly visit anyone else's blogs and seldom comment. See, I really am lucky.

What I Would Have Written in a Journal if I Still Had One

2007-02-08T23:07:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure why but so much is building up in me like a cloud heavy with precipitation.

I'm tired of writing a blog that has no focus. No point. No theme. I'm tired of not knowing what to write about. How to attract a regular audience. How to make ad money of this blog. How to write good enough material to earn links. How to turn my ideas into traffic.

Why do I blog in the first place? To connect to other mamas in the trenches. To feel that I'm being heard. To feel a part of something bigger than me. To feel like I still have "it" enough to know what the hell a blog is without having my babysitter explain it to me because she's younger, cooler and more Web savvy.

I blog to share my experiences. Nothing unique about that. I blog to make a place for myself in the madness of motherhood. A quiet place. A place just for me.

Comments. Yes, I blog for the comments. For the sheer narcissism of comments. For validation. For instant gratification. For the potential that I might have a fledgling fan base.

I blog to see where this experiment takes me. I blog because I'll implode if I don't. I'll be forced to write in plain old lined notebooks, ones that my kids might get their paws on and fill with squiggly marker lines and wiped-off boogers. I blog so I can sort the laundry piles in my mind at the end of the night. There are more darks than lights lately. Far more darks.

I want to make art. I want to write a good book. I want to have a story worthy of telling, of publishing, of selling. A story to be proud of. I want to write a book that elevates me as a writer. That showcases talent. First I have to feel that I'm talented in truth. Writing compelling articles is a very different animal than writing funny memoirs. I want to be funny. I want you to think I'm funny. I want to be exotic. Exciting. Witty. Hilarious.

But I can't fake it. The truth is, I live an average life in suburban Southern California. I have three kids and a helpful, caring husband. My life is not a train wreck. We're not rich. Far from it. Just regular folk trying to make it on one salary. Totally cliche and unoriginal. The truth is, I'm a pretend writer. A blogger without a point. A blogger without a unique skin. This green on green template will have to do until I can afford something better, something sharp.

The truth is I'm too tired at the end of the night, at the end of two school drop off and pick up days like today to write anything more than a grocery list, let alone the chapters of a book or a blog posting.

I want to be a literary genius. Critically acclaimed. But I'm hopelessly average.

Arm pits and Armani - Strange Sex Studies

2007-02-08T21:55:00.000-08:00

Have you heard about the recent Unilever study suggesting women prefer clothes over sex?

That doesn't say much about their sex lives (and/or deflated libidos). According to another recent, bizarre sex study, when our men aren't busy getting the shaft while we shop, all we need is a whiff of their sweat to get back into the mood.

"Women on average say they would be willing to give up sex for 15 months for a closet full of new apparel, with two percent ready to abstain from sex for three years in exchange for new duds, according to a new survey of about 1,000 women in 10 U.S. cities. Sixty-one percent of women polled said it would be worse to lose their favorite article of clothing than give up sex for a month. " Source: Reuters

Are women that shallow? What about having sex while wearing our favorite clothes? What then? Why does Unilever even care?

Almost half of the study participants also reported that their favorite piece of clothing makes them feel sexier than their sex partners. One thousand women from 10 U.S. cities took part in the study. One thousand women who apparently need to be getting a whole lot jiggier.

Dry Idea
"Researchers concluded women who sniffed a chemical found in male sweat experienced an elevated hormone level, along with higher sexual arousal and a faster heart rate." Source: Metro Networks Communications Inc.

And I thought I was the only deviant who liked the musky scent of my husband's sweat.

The study, conducted by the University of California at Berkeley, is published in this week's "Journal of Neuroscience."

Are the experts really cluing us into anything we didn't already know?

How I Blew as a Mom Today, Let Me Count the Ways

2007-02-06T22:48:00.000-08:00

The ways I sucked as a mother today (yet another Domestic Slackstress exercise in confession as catharsis):

- I slurped the leftover milk from my cereal bowl in front of the kids at breakfast table this morning, then drank theirs ten times more noisily while they cackled. Anything to keep their infectious, addictive belly laughs coming.

- I allowed them to gargle whatever milk I hadn’t already filched from their bowls of soggy Honey Nut Cheerios. It was a classic case of “do as I do.” Instant lesson reinforcement of a different, milkier kind.

- I brushed one out of my three kids’ teeth without toothpaste. And I use the word “brush” generously. It was more like held the electric toothbrush on the same jagged eye tooth for five seconds while taming her brother’s Billy Idol bed head. Yet again zooming to school on time trumped fighting fuzzy teeth. What can I say? At least it wasn’t my kindergartner blowing morning breath at his new classmates today.

- I raided all three kids’ piggy banks for gas money, then spent it on an overpriced latte. Thank goodness for Visa gift cards left under the couch from Christmas, then rediscovered when needed the most…

- I caved and let my daughter eat a Ziploc bag of stale Ruffles potato chips … for, um, breakfast. Maybe I should have used toothpaste on her chippy teeth after all. She refused to eat any thing else. Next time I’ll wait until she’s so hungry she’ll eat whatever I’m serving, which will hopefully have less saturated fat than even one of those ridged, deep-fried potato shaving thingys that taste so good shellacked with Ranch dip.

- I threatened my 3-year-old son with having to personally phone the ER doctor that stapled his head two weeks ago when I found him jumping on the couch yet again. “You can tell Dr. So-and-So that you want more staples in your head if you keep that up.” Mean. Just plain mean. He got right down and found something safer to do – spinning to the point of dizziness on the slate floor in the kitchen. I should just invest in my own staple gun. Wait, we have one in the garage.

- I lied to my 2-year-old daughter when she asked me to lay down in her bed to put her to sleep, a bad habit I’m desperate to break, telling her that I’d be right back after going to the bathroom. I never came back. She woke up in a sweaty panic an hour later, crying, “You still in da’ potty, mama? I’m waiting. Where aw’ you? You okay?”

- I let my kids continue to play with their fire hazard Easy Bake Oven despite today’s media blitz. I even showed them how to light the darn thing with a match. Okay, you got me … I made this one up. I swear all my other confessions are true. We don’t even have one of those dinky microwaves disguised as a sickeningly pink, tacky homemaker in the making toy … Try a real oven, people. Kids can learn to cook just as easily the old fashioned way with old-fashioned tools and machines. No one wants to teach kids how to cook without the EasyBake crutch anymore because real ovens cause real burns and demand real adult/parent supervision. Who has time to supervise anything these days?

Fellow mamas, did you do anything worth confessing today? If yes, I hope it didn't involve a crack pipe or a faulty EasyBake oven. I don't know which is worse.

Ps. I deserve not to be judged for my maternal imperfections today, the day the TV never once went on in my house. A TV-free day should nullify all of my mistakes. All my confessions are hereby expunged from my record.

Bizarre Maternal Coincidence

2007-02-06T20:25:00.000-08:00

Both my mother and mother-in-law are having surgery tomorrow. Talk about a maternal coincidence.

"You'll be just fine," I told my mom on the phone all the way from New Hampshire while tucking the boys into their bunk beds tonight. "Just don't think you're going any where on me, okay?"

Tomorrow at 8 a.m. EST a cardiologist will insert a flexible tube into her heart and destroy the spots that are to blame for her recent heart rhythm problems (a.k.a. abnormal, dramatic spikes in her heart rate).

My rational mind tells me I shouldn't worry. Catheter ablation is a relatively fast, simple procedure. Thank you WebMd. Some patients even return home within hours of its completion.

My panicky, ever pessimistic mind tells me that there's a slight risk of outcomes I can't even bear to type the letters of here and now. Outcomes that simply cannot occur. It's best to put thoughts like these out of your mind, especially when the subject is your mother. How could I not worry about her? She's my mother, my maker, for Christ's sake.

Meanwhile, in an operating room all the way across the Atlantic Ocean in England my mother-in-law will become the recipient of a brand new knee. Her long-time chronic pain will be lifted, replaced by a three-month long recovery. Hopefully, with physical therapy behind her, she should walk pain-free again, without bone scraping against bone. She might even be able to keep up with her five grandchildren (ages 6, 3, 3, 2 and 1.5) once again.

Focusing on getting all three kids out the door to get The Lawyer to his third day at his new school on time tomorrow should take my worried mind off our moms. Tomorrow I run around like an over-booked, underprepared modern mom. One who is chauffeur, chef and courtside Jr. NBA fan. When did I become such a hopelessly busy, hopelessly uncool mom dork? Fitting in time to write tomorrow is pretty much a joke. So is my one-time status as someone who had a clue about life outside of mom-dom.

Here's a quick update on The Lawyer, who attended his new school on his own for the first time today.

"I loved it," he told me when I picked him up after his full 6-hour school day. He smiled bashfully, as if admitting that he actually dug the place that he "never wanted to go to in the first place."

His bubbly math teacher, who looks like an older Maggie Gyllenhaal with shorter hair, told me The Lawyer completed all of his word problems correctly. Not bad when you consider that math is exclusively taught in Spanish. "He was enthusiastic and got along just fine," she said. "He already knows his numbers in Spanish. He breezed right through."

His only complaint wasn't about the kids or the classes. "The food stinks, mom. It's so healthy it's gross. I hope you didn't pay for a whole month of hot lunch. I won't eat it again. I can't. No way!"

It could be worse. The school's hot lunch menu makes my home cooking look like perpetual Hamburger Helper, so what's he bitching about. Students can even choose vegetarian options that actually taste like food, not like cardboard. At least that's the word on the black top.

My brain is fried. Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, on The Lawyer's hyper healthy school menu is fried.

There's a swarm of rice flecks below the kitchen table I have a date with. Someone has to clean up after the picky little fingers that flung them there on purpose.

Please put out the good thoughts for moms squared. I'll keep you updated.

Soup Rocks on the First Day of School

2007-02-05T22:35:00.000-08:00

Exhausted. Physically. Emotionally. Financially.

This morning I took The Lawyer to his new school. We met his home room teacher and new classmates.

The whole home room ordeal felt a little like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, not that I'd know first-hand. I just happen to be halfway through Dry, Augusten Burroughs' memoir about sobering up for good.

"Hi. My name is Teo (tay-oh). I'm a second grader. My favorite color is azul. What's your favorite color?"

"Uh, Hi. My name is The Lawyer (of course he doesn't refer to himself by his blog nickname, mostly because he doesn't even know it). That's spelled ... He actually spelled his whole first and last name out. My favorite color is, uh, I dunno', green. Yeah green."

"More questions for The Lawyer, anyone? Questions?" Jose, the young home room teacher asked, scanning the surprisingly calm circle of kids on the carpet for raised hands. Amazing. Every single kid had a question for the new kid.

"What's your favorite video game?"
"What's your favorite animal?" The room hushed and oohs and ahs bounced around after he said "Cheetahs ... but they're almost extinct."
"What's your favorite movie?"
"Where did you come from? What school?"
"What's your favorite toy?" "That's easy. My miniature football guys set with the felt field. It's totally like a real game except I control the players. I've had it since I was two. Never lost a piece."

The Lawyer surfed the tidal wave of attention like seasoned pro, fielding questions one after the other with increasing ease and flair. I was impressed. He'll be fine. What the hell was I so worried about?

By his second class of the completely bilingual morning (hardcore Spanish immersion .. almost all the teachers wear a bracelet on the left wrist for English and switch it to the right when they switch to Spanish ... and they switch a hell of a lot), The Lawyer was already raising his hand to answer questions and being called on often. He was confident, sure of himself and ready for more.

We only spent about an hour and a half at the school together. Tomorrow will be his first full day there on his own. He didn't even need me there today.

Tomorrow his Language Arts class will make soup from the ingredients they hand picked at the nearby downtown farmer's market on Friday. Using two crock pots, they'll make one soup the traditional way. The other soup will feature something not typically on the menu -- rocks. Have you ever heard of Stone Soup, one of those old Caldecott Award books? I'm hoping the teacher strains out the stones. After sampling stone and non-stone soups, the kids will vote on which tastes better. Either way, The Lawyer is thrilled to experiment with rocks in his food.

Iggy, the iguana that hangs out and freely wanders throughout The Lawyer's language arts program, stuck her tongue out at me today when I stroked her scaly back. She's longer than my love seat couch.

I forgot to mention that the teachers call the students either by their first names or "friend." When The Lawyer first entered his home room class, he made a b-line for the basketball sized desert tortoises in a tank at the back of the room. Teacher Jose chimed in with, "Hi friend. I know it's sometimes hard on the first day, friend. We'd like you to join us on the carpet when you're ready. We'll wait for you to let us know when that is, friend."

"Friends, it's mui importante to respect others when it's their turn to talk ... "

It's reassuring to know The Lawyer is already surrounded by so many "friends."

Oh, and by the way, apparently The Lawyer's adventurous Language Arts teacher isn't the only educator brewing sanitized rock infused soups.

Finally, to wrap up our busy day of new beginnings, The Lawyer and his little bro' Cheeks had their first Jr. NBA basketball practices at the local Jewish Community Center. I wasn't even planning on signing Cheeks up but the coach noticed him dribbling away and managing not to lose the bouncing ball, even when running full speed ahead. She asked if he could join the 4- to 5-year-old team that practices directly after his big brother's practice wraps. I said yes. Now I know how to get my little Cancer to come out of his shell - organized/team sports. What a difference.

A couple of moms whose sons were also on the b-ball teams were chatting within earshot about their hopes of passing the exam and interviews to get into The Lawyer's old school, a prestigious, very exclusive, expensive private school. One of them asked The Lawyer, "So, where do you go to kindergarten?"

He looked at her blankly and replied, "Uh, I don't really know."

He definitely will tomorrow.

Nine's So Fine

2007-02-04T23:37:00.000-08:00

I don’t even know where to start tonight. I’m procrastinating on the book again. Can’t even begin to think of what to write.

The boys are asleep and wheezing behind me in the tent. I’m a useless couch slouch.

The tent is so gi-normous that it swallows up the entire playroom. I’m comforted knowing that when it’s folded up and back in the garage the playroom will be perfectly clean for a split second, revealing a carpet free of a flurry of scattered "bad guy" toys and uncapped markers. Hardly a thing could be taken down off the shelves and played with because of the tent. You can hardly move in the playroom unless you’re inside of it.

Big tent. Big deal. Why aren’t I posting about something more interesting than our colossal tent?

I met my sister at IKEA tonight to drop off my niece. First I took my niece to Subway. We shared a 12-inch melty, mushy meatball sub.

Being with her is so easy. Almost effortless. She’s almost nine, so I don’t have to ask her “Did you use the potty, flush, wipe and wash?” 500 times before we leave the house. I didn’t have to wipe her chin between tomato saucy meatball bites (although she did lick each and every one of her fingers clean after painstakingly whittling her way through a bag of cheddar cheese dusted Sun Chips, which she ate in noisy, teeny-tiny gerbil bites).

I look forward to the time when my children are old enough to simply come along for the ride like their older cousin, without having to be strapped into the car five different ways. My niece no longer requires a booster seat. She could even ride in the front seat if she wanted to.

And she can actually get through a meal without competing like my cutthroat sons do. “I have more juice than you do. Oh yeah. Well, my juice doesn’t have as much yucky pulp in it than yours does. Let’s see who can finish their waffle first. More syrup. I want more syrup. Hey, he has more syrup than me. How come he gets his food first? I want potato chips for breakfast. How come he has that but I don’t? Ew. You burped. Betcha’ I can burp louder.”

My niece sleeps through the night. She doesn’t have to grip my brittle winter hair for dear life instead of a real, credible security object like a blankie or lovey or whatever the heck those things are called that my kids always shafted in favor of my messy mane.

Why can’t they love stuffed animals like other kids?! Why must they have me or can they substitute me for a wig, a real, live human being hair model type? Don’t they know yet that I’m a jerk? Seriously, if they really knew me, if they were old enough to grasp my many shortcomings, my controlling, bitchy nature, they wouldn’t want to be close enough to see what color the hair on my head is, let alone compulsively knead it like bread dough between their sticky fingers.

Instead of soiling them while cowering in the corner, my niece changes diapers.

Instead of demanding seven Mister Men books in a row at bedtime, my niece reads Charlotte’s Web to herself at bedtime. She’d heppily read to my kids, even put them all down to sleep if I asked her to.

Will life be easier, a little less harried around here when my children are 9, 7 and 6?

Oops. I just mentioned age. Talk about a can of sibling worms.

“I’m still older than you are. You wish you were the oldest. Nanner, nanner poo poo. You are still a baby. I’m the biggest brother. No, I’m the biggest brother….” And on and on until I arrive on-scene and serve nauseatingly ineffective time-outs according to age (about one minute per number of years alive … if I’m in a follow-through kind of mood). “Ha! You get a longer time out than me because you’re older!”

Nine’s dreamy. I want a nine year old in the house. I’ll just have to wait three years.

Parties, Tents and Sugar Make Everything Better

2007-02-04T12:08:00.000-08:00

The Lawyer was pissed until I threw him a party.

Resentful. Angry. Confused. Sad. Peeved. He was all of those until he helped his daddy erect our massive 8-person tent in the playroom. The darn thing is so big it touches every perimeter of the room.

"I should just hit you with this bat right now," he muttered under his breath, gripping an aluminum baseball bat after hitting a few Nerf balls in the front yard with me yesterday morning.

"Whaddyou' just say?"

"Nothing."

I knew what he said, but didn't press him to repeat it. He's never said anything even remotely as mean as that to me before. I chalked it up to anger and let it go. Let it bounce off.

Instead of dwelling on The Lawyer's soul sucking mood, I waved the white flag and organized a sleep over in his honor.

A party to celebrate The Lawyer's sudden switch to a new kindergarten had two basic purposes: 1) to lift his spirits, to surround him with the people who love him the most, to provide a sense of normalcy and 2) to ease my searing mom guilt over pulling the carpet out from under his feet with no warning.

So far, it's working. The Lawyer's favorite cousin came down on short-notice from Ventura with her little sister. His 9-year-old neighborhood boy hero joined the impromptu shindig as well. Of course, his younger siblings Pigtails and Cheeks were at his side, as always. Just enough super sugar injected children to make the 8-person tent feel far less spacious and more like a popcorn popper than a tent, enough to nearly give me a heart attack.

They screamed at the top of their lungs, played hide-and-seek forever, just barely watched Monster House (from behind shaking fingers that covered their eyes as it was projected drive-in style on white sheets taped to the wall), ate buckets of junk food like Doritos, Whoppers and Hostess cup cakes on the living room floor (two major coups for them -- I rarely allow them to eat candy, let alone any place other than the kitchen table).

The celebration continues with the SuperBowl kicking off at 3:30, when my husband will cart all three of our football crazy kids off to his brother's house to watch it on the flat screen.

The Lawyer's distracted and happy for now. We'll see how he feels tomorrow when we stop by his new school tomorrow to look in on his new teacher, his new class, his new world.

Yesterday I received a really sweet letter from his "old" school. The admissions officer wrote the letter presumably the day I informed her that we would be moving on. At least that's what the post mark would indicate. In it she said that she'd miss seeing Pigtails and Cheeks bounce around the office, on their way through to pick up their big brother. Very thoughtful, very touching, but also very professional.

I didn't think I would, but I too will miss our harried traipses through the office. The times the little ones dragged their feet on their way to get their brother, still groggy from nap time.

Tuesday is The Lawyer's first full day at his new school. Who do you think will be more nervous? Me or him? I think we all know the answer to that one.

A Sudden Change of Smart

2007-02-01T23:39:00.000-08:00

Today is Thursday, the day I announced to my son that he'll be attending a new kindergarten on Monday. Yes, this coming MONDAY! Tomorrow he'll say his last goodbyes to his current classmates with less than 16 hours notice.

At 10 a.m. today I received the call that a spot became available. By 11 a.m. I was tearing apart the filing cabinet in search of birth certificate copies and bright yellow immunizations cards. By 1 p.m. I'd notified the admissions director at my son's now "old" school. I discussed it with my son after he'd settled in at home after a long day at school, around 4 p.m. It all happened so fast. I'm still in disbelief. Maybe he is as well.

What a surreal sudden change. A change for the better, I hope.

I'm supposed to be thrilled about this, even ecstatic, right? After all, my little man's been on the waiting list for this school since he was merely three years old.

He drew a bad number in the raffle to get in last Fall. Since then, I've begged. Offered to scrub the floors at the school. To write dozens of press releases for free. Everything short of promising the school administrators my unborn children. (Okay, that's just going too far. And what would the folks over at the new school possibly want with my posthumous zygotes? Perhaps to study them up close in bio class? ... It's the middle of the night and I'm too tired for this to go anywhere good.)

Instead of reveling in wish fulfillment, I'm overwhelmed with bittersweet feelings, beating myself up over the suddenness of it all. Meanwhile, I'm trying not to let it show. I want to project nothing less than complete and total confidence in this change for the benefit of my son.

How would I have reacted at the age of five to my mother suddenly yanking me from a school I'd just now started fitting in at? Will The Lawyer (I think The Lawyer is a far more fitting nickname than Mouth) resent my decision? Will he have nightmares from stress? Will he stress this at all? Or am I enduring enough stress for us both at the moment?

This really isn't about me anyway. 'Lest I should forget my son in the emotional shuffle of the transitional new kid dance.

I'm not the one who has to march into an unfamiliar classroom on Monday. The one who has to forge fledgling friendships. The one who tomorrow has to say goodbye to his recess buddies, his first "real" teacher, his first "real" school.

It's fair to say that I'm a helicopter parent when it comes to my educational and social/emotional development philosophies, just one obsession in a sea of far too many other aspects of my children's lives.

I worry too much about how my children will turn out, often more about the emotional bruises they might acquire than the physical ones. When you consider that it could be the other way around -- I could be too busy to care at all -- I don't mind bearing the "smothering mother" title.

Right away, minutes after my announcement that a spot became available at my top choice school, The Lawyer asked me to take him there, to his new world outside of home.

He tried in earnest to lace up his new tan suede Skechers (he's still learning how), checked his hairdo in the mirror (he's such a California kid) and headed confidently for the front door. He threw open the minivan sliding door and strapped himself in for the ride.

"Let's go, Mom. I want to see exactly where I'll be sitting on Monday," he said, matter of factly.

Next came a flurry of questions:

"Are they gonna' make me take naps? Remember when they accidentally put me on the nap list in preschool? That's not gonna' happen again, right, because there's NO WAY I'd be okay with that!" How does he remember a same-name nap list mix-up from age two? Jeez, this guy hates to sleep. It's just like eating with him, he does just enough of it to survive. No more. No less.

"Am I going to start all over again, at the beginning of kindergarten? Are they going to want me to learn how to write my letters their way? Is the alphabet different at my new school?" His Muslim best friend moved to Qatar and writes in Arabic. Maybe that's where this question sprang from. We just got a book about Qatar out from the library and he was mesmerized and baffled by the images of veiled women.

"Do they have bathrooms? Where am I going to go to the bathroom if I have to go? Do I have to ask permission to go to the bathroom?" Way to be practical, kid. Bodily functions are important. Figuring out where to take care of business is equally crucial. Survival skills 101.

"Is it true they eat lunch on the rooftop of the school?" Note to over-protective self: buy industrial strength tether strap/bungee cord/harness if this rumor is true.

"Do you think the iguana that runs loose in my new classroom will whip me with his tail?" Um yeah, Mommy was afraid of the oversized, molting lizard too. But weird on-the-loose reptiles add character to the learning environment, no? Perhaps a lizard lashing jolt of primal fight or flight adrenaline helps keep the kids awake and alert.

So, tonight, after his baby brother and sister finally petered their inexplicable synchronized, tag team crying fest out, The Lawyer got down to the practical business of change. The sense of control that comes from organizing the mundane, every day tasks.

He carefully laid out his outfit for tomorrow, his last day of school as he knows it, which incidentally is a 1950s themed school spirit day. He tucked his new skull embossed skater shoes under his bed just-so for safe keeping, and asked one final question of me.

"They're taking a class picture of kindergarten all dressed up like 50s and stuff tomorrow. Can I still be in that picture, Mommy, even if I'm not going to be there any more?"

Talk about twisting the Mommy guilt knife. Nothing cuts deeper than mommy guilt.

I went to his bedside to watch him sleep, warm and innocent, human origami awkwardly tangled up in his outer space sheets. There, watching his chest peacefully rise and fall, listening to his stuffy nose whistle, I realized that parenting is mostly gray area. Completely murky.

There's no Magic 8 Ball for instant, definitive, no-fail answers on child rearing, on raising competent, independent, responsible, caring children. You never quite know if you're doing what's best for your child, even when you think you're sending them to the "best" schools your city has to offer.

In the end, you know you're going to screw them up somehow, in some way. How will your shortcomings as their parent(s) manifest later in their lives? Or will they manifest at all?

All a mother can do is cross her nervous fingers that her child's young, formative psyche doesn't get too jostled up and wrinkled in the spin cycle, in the fallout of his parents' decisions about what was best for him at the time, and also what was best for his lucky siblings, who automatically gained acceptance to the same school because of him.

Everyone tells me The Lawyer will be fine. That I'm worried for nothing about the sudden change. "Kids are resilient." "Children bounce back."

Others warn me to expect behavioral regression. "Don't be surprised if he lashes out in anger." "Expect him to not be himself for a few months." Months?! Oh my God. Am I ready for this? Is he?

The debate, my ambiguity, all of it is moot. There's no going back. Literally.

My husband says sea changes in childhood like these build character. He should know. He's living proof, having grown up a globe trotting Navy brat.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Were you ever suddenly pulled out of school and moved to another? If yes, how did it go and what do you suggest in terms of easing the transition?

Holding Out Hope for the Home Brew

2007-01-30T21:32:00.000-08:00

"I make food and I gotta' go work on Wezz-day. Buh-bye. Maybe you wight. On you email I have to go to email and shake when you wear Pull-ups. Where you Pull-ups is? In da store? I gotta' go get 'em. I worry you got to get 'em. I have to get 'em at da store. I HAVE to buy all da' stores, Mama. I'm not going anything. I'm just hangin' out wight here. Why you have to zip me, tell me zip it? I'm miz-able now, so I have to go. We gotta' go da store and buy noodles. Why get a job? You do this all the time."

I love talking to two year olds who are punch drunk from lack of sleep, especially my own. I don't love talking to them when they are up way past their bed time for no good reason (sniffles, bad dream, "Help! I wost my speh-shull cell phone," you know, the usual).

I should explain that Pigtails, who continues to babble espresso ripping fast at this very moment, was referring to my blogging addiction when she said I "do this all the time." At bedtime last night she busted out of bed, darted into the living room and declared between drags on her thumb, "It's free-o'clock now, mama. An' you still doing blog?!"

In unrelated news, Cheeks is on the mend. All the king's men could and did put him back together again. He's officially no longer sporting silver staple skull bling. He swapped that junk out for eye gunk care of conjunctivitis. His budding ER doc big brother, Mouth, continues to clean his two-inch long laceration with peroxide and Neosporin nightly.

Everyone in the family bears telltale red-rimmed eyes with pie crust crumbles sprinkled in our lashes. We practically need chisels to rub the sleep from our zombie bloodshot eyes in the morning. Our self-imposed quarantine (avoidance of friends, preschool and neighbor kids) is getting old. Have you ever gone stir crazy alongside hyperactive two- and three-year-olds? Those controversial cocktail playdates are starting to sound good. I provide the hard stuff, you bring the protective goggles and a can of Lysol.

Needless to say, my homemade pink eye remedy/eyewash isn't working as quickly as I'd like, although it seems to be greatly reducing itchiness and redness, as well as making me feel like a bad-ass herbal concoction queen, a trooper survival mode mama.

In case you're into home brewed health remedies, I give you the Herbal Eyewash for the treatment of conjunctivitis recipe, compliments of The Family Herbal by Rosemary Gladstar:

1 tablespoon of powdered comfrey root (I couldn't find it in the powdered form, so I used the dried flakes instead ... the same type of comfrey root flakes I used in each of my post-home birth sitz baths. It's a powerful, proven tissue healer.)

1 teaspoon of organically grown goldenseal root (Take the time to shop around for the best price - It cost a steep $299.99 per pound at Wild Oats or about $18 per ounce! I don't know whether or not the goldenseal I bought was organic. Does it really matter? Won't it still work the same? One would think ...)

I boiled one cup of water, combined that with the above ingredients in two layers of non-fancy cloth drawstring tea bags and let it cool to room temperature.

Next, I dipped a cottonball into the fragrant eyewash and dripped a few drops into the crispy eyes of my petrified-of-their-witch's-brew-master-mama kids. I'm supposed to repeat the eye blotting remedy often for four or five days.

Anyone have a good remedy for hair-lodged gum? One of my Big League Chew addicted children (Cheeks, as if you didn't already guess it was him) decided the overstuffed trash can wasn't the best final destination for his spit soaked rubber tree sap.

(Brings back bad memories from childhood, when my aunt sheared a chunk of my long golden locks off without telling my mother after giving me a gagging hunk of Bubble Yum.)

No amount of eye goop could keep me from relishing a rainy Tuesday night in Southern California (Cheeks, Pigtails and I stomped in sidewalk puddles all morning long ... Who needs umbrellas?)

Just One Scream Free Night

2007-01-29T23:15:00.000-08:00

Cheeks is crying in his sleep again. His legs are spotted with hives. I've never seen it this bad. Damn dust mites.

He doesn't want me, though. He wants his daddy, so here I am for the time being. It should be a matter of seconds before he wakes his sister up and I'm needed in her room. Yup, thar she blows.

I found Pigtails dangling asleep halfway down her bed, mid-descent. Apparently she nodded off while trying to get out of bed, presumably to come to my bed. Next I went into Cheeks room, where I craned my neck as close as possible to his upper bunk, threaded a clump of my hair between the wooden slats and let him paw at it until he fell back asleep.

Just now I was going to say that my hair is better than the sandman's magic sleep dust ... Can't finish my sentence. Both are back up and wailing in unison. Crap.

Cheeks is hysterical. I guess I'll have to tell you about the Rosemary Gladstar homemade herbal pink eye/conjunctivitis poultice/cure I whipped up for the goopy-eyed kids, the husband and myself tonight. I had a whole posting planned about how I'm resorting to home remedies for sickness for a number of unpleasant reasons. But I'm making the best of it, and it's even fun in a makeshift science lab kind of way.

I also wanted to write tonight about how Cheeks' older brother cleaned his head laceration after I could hardly stomach doing it again, especially now that he had his staples out. Seems we have a budding doctor in the house.

Screams are blasting from Cheeks' room again. Better go before he wakes his brother too.

A Letter to My Unborn Son, Flashback to 2000

2007-01-28T19:38:00.000-08:00

Like Peter Gabriel, I'm digging in the dirt. Soul searching my old journals for new book inspiration. "I'm digging in the dirt. Stay with me, I need support ..." as the song says.

In diving into the deep end of a decade of journals, I stumbled across a letter to my unborn son. He is first of my three children. Here it is, as written in my journal July 3, 2000. I think I used every maternal cliche possible. Still, I'm quite attached to it:

Dear little baby,

I want to tell you warm in my changing belly that you are a true gift, a blessing. You've chosen me as your mother, and your daddy you've chosen too.

I'm taking the best care of you that I possibly can. Resting every day and giving you the healthiest foods. I'm sticking to my decision, which I believe was decided long before I was even born.

What do you feel as you grow? Your heart beats so strong and loud. I've heard it three times now and I'm already in love with you. Your heart gives me life and hope.

I know we'll make it together, little one. We're going to be just fine.

Thank you for coming into our lives. Pure love.

Love,
Your Mommy
xxoo

Journal entry, July 9, 2000

I can talk of nothing else. This baby consumes me. My body is doing the work of a mother.

This is my fourth week at home on bed rest. The hours on my back and off my legs scatter like sprinkled pepper. The oil coating my hair gives it a new sheen that doesn't smell as fresh as it looks.

Cat food, the hard, crunchy kind, remains spilled across the tiny strip of linoleum that makes up our kitchen floor. The cat tore a hole in the bag, which I did not know when I lifted it from the counter to feed him.

Overall, our apartment is out of hand dirty. Most of our energy to do such things as clean, pay bills or remove old food from the fridge is sapped by our new fears, arguments and responsibilities.

Physically, my body is taking on new duties, duties of motherhood. And this effects me emotionally as well. I feel insane.

Britney Spears, Paula Abdul and Me

2007-01-28T03:53:00.000-08:00

See me morph into Britney Spears

Create your own Celebrity Morph™ on MyHeritage.com

Hit me, baby, one more time ... with a sledgehammer, please.

Why? Because the folks over at MyHeritage say one of the celebrities I most look like is a bleached out, skanky, pop singing mom who doesn't wear underwear when she hits tinseltown with Paris. (She might actually be nice in person, so I take that back.) But Britney Spears? Come on!

I was hoping for a more demure, classy celeb. Isabella Rosalini fits the profile but doesn't look a thing like me. Just how innacurate are these things anyway?

http://www.myheritage.com

More proof that I time manage as skillfully as a two-year-old. What the hell am I doing up at 4 a.m.?

It Takes a Real Friend to Tell You ...

2007-01-27T10:01:00.000-08:00

Head hurts. Eyes puffy. Nose stuffed. Rough morning.

I might as well warn you now that I’m posting right now as a way to wake myself up, so I’m not sure if I’ll reach a point or even entertain. Let’s see where this goes.

My friend Jay is curled up like a shrimp on the couch, where he landed last night. I stayed up in the twilight with him because we were too scared to sleep. A cop chopper (ghetto bird) patrolled the area around my house for so long that I began to think a fugitive might be hiding out in my garage, along with the Razor scooters and an avalanche of sports paraphernalia. Skinny shards of ghetto bird spotlight crept along my living room walls. I panicked and double-checked all the locks. You’d think I’d be used to this by now. How the kids could sleep through it all is a mystery to me, especially Pigtails. Event the light whoosh of bills and magazines falling through the front door mail slot wakes her sometimes.

The boys are watching Saturday morning cartoons from beneath their blankets. How funny is that we think it’s so cripplingly cold in the morning here in Southern California? We’ve become such weather wimps. Pigtails is curled up in the warmth of her daddy’s armpit in bed. She’ll need to be decontaminated upon waking.

So last night Jay and I went to a trendy seaside neighborhood in the city called Belmont Shore. My husband stayed home and put the kids to bed without incident, or so he says. I believe him. He’s far better at parenting than me. Much more patient.

Anyway, Jay took me out for a latte and to look over what I have written for my book so far. Literally seconds into the first page, he looked up and said, “Whose idea was it for you to write a book? What did they base your ability to write a memoir on – your blog?”

“Okay, I suck. You hate it, don’t you.”

“No, it’s just that you use so many 10 cent words. It’s all over the place. I’m already confused and I’m still in the first paragraph.”

This doesn’t bode well. My completed first three chapters are due on March 8. Scary.

Yeah, yeah. I can already hear people saying don’t put so much weight into one opinion. Of course I know not to. But I’ve had a really hard time liking the book so far too. The whole effort’s been a struggle. I guess I got cocky and assumed that after years of writing experience, and not that many years in reality, that the contents of my memoir would gush from me. Maybe my first stab would even be artful, literary, entertaining and cathartic all at once. So far, no dice.

Everyone who reads it says it doesn’t sound like me. That if they read the first two chapters independent of me they wouldn’t even know I’d written it.

“Why are you trying to sound so smart? I mean, you are smart but you seem like you’re trying to prove something to your readers,” Jay said, as we packed up our empty notebooks. We didn’t even take one note.

“We should at least draw a stick figure or something,” I said. “Maybe a few tally marks with a slash through them. At least make it look like we accomplished something.”

But that was not to be. We accomplished nothing. No, something happened. Jay helped me realize that I need to find my writer’s voice again. My authentic voice. Not a trumped up with a million fancy adjectives voice.

Have you ever heard of KISS – Keep It Simple, Stupid? Well, that’s what I’ll be busy doing tonight, after all the day’s birthday parties, after the kids are asleep in bed. I’ll be out at the local café trying to simplify what I’ve already written. Trying hard not to try so hard.

In an effort to motivate myself and remember that I used to be a decent writer, I dug out my dusty old journals and newspaper articles last night. Seeing my by-line next to some hard-won front-page articles really made me feel old. Rusty. Put out to writing pasture. How could I have written so much better back then? When I was only 19, 20, 21? Has becoming a mom sucked all the creative juices out of me? Turned my writing to pulp?

Even my angst ridden journal from 1995 is better than my first stab at a memoir.

How do you get back on the horse again and ride like a maniac with abandon? Without constantly worrying that you’ll fall of in front of everyone?

Ambiguous Cocktail Play Date Hangover - Why Moms Are Buzzing

2007-01-26T09:35:00.000-08:00

Just a minute ago The Today Show aired a segment on moms who drink alcohol during play dates. Isn't this non-news? Actually, I'm not sure. Right now my opinions are about as firm as Jell-o shots on the issue. Slippery at best.

Can't mothers "have a life" enough to party without dragging the kids along? Or do we all need a little fermented liquid helper to relax enough to hang out together without judging each other, without competing with each other over who has the most behaved child, which of our kids goes to the best school (Montessori, Waldorf, public, private) and which of us works out often enough?

Yes, at the risk of sounding completely processed squeeze-cheesy, this morning's report has me buzzing. (Yeah, I loves me a bad cliche.)

After a teaser for NBC's Cocktail Play Dates story, and during the commercials preceding it, I found myself asking these questions: How many more times can modern moms go under the societal microscope? How many more times can the media point the finger at stay-home and working moms for being anything less than perfect, even when they're simply trying to relax, to chill with fellow moms and have a little fun?

Surprisingly enough, and I mean a PLEASANT surprise from the media for once, The Today Show report miraculously did not lambaste or crucify moms for sipping more than just juice - fermented juice, wine and even hard alcohol laden cocktails - while corralling their mini-me's together to raise the play structure roof.

"A jungle gym, a sand box and a glass of wine," an NBC reporter dramatically announced, in the kind of overly sensational sentence fragment TV news is infamous for.(Face it, chopped up bites of sentences might be all the average American TV viewer is capable of digesting.) "It's hanging with the kids, feeling like a grown up."

Yes, Exactly. At first glance. But what happens when we go beyond the salted rim of the Marguerite glass?

I have to wonder, are we talking cocktail play dates on the weekend or a week day/work day? And why is it that we are forced to drink and socialize WITH the kids at arm's length? Where are the other halves to hopefully offer harried, often overwhelmed and overbooked moms their long overdue "me time"? Essential girls night out time. Are our partners that unsupportive that we can't go out drinking without the kids in Peg Perigo tow? Can't we count on each other to babysit, cover us for a while so we can enjoy a drink and a night on the town?

Do you think chardonnay sipping mothers in France and Sangria sipping mothers in Spain harangue each other like we do about their play date drink choices? Are American mothers really as paranoid and overly safety obsessed as the rest of the world says we are?

Personally, I've never had a drink during a play date, but I have on rare occasion ushered in the child frenzied morning in the privacy of my home with a sparkling Mimosa. Only during the holidays, in fact, when leftover champagne crowded the top shelf of my fridge. I don't think I've ever been to a child's birthday party where beer, wine or other spirits were served.

Now that I think of it, I take that back. Strong mimosas were served at a recent birthday party my eldest son was invited to. I only had one mimosa. The hostess repeatedly offered me more, despite my telling her over and over again that I had to stay sober to drive to our next birthday party of the day. I wonder how the other moms got home because many of them had far more than one.

A perky, slim, perfectly put together looking mom interviewed for Today's report with cocktail in hand said, "Sure, be sober 15, 16, 17 hours a day and watch (the kids) and I'd like to see if they're great moms."

Perhaps she went a little too far in her public boldness here, but I see where she was headed. As a fan of honesty, full disclosure and cathartic public confessions, I applaud her bravery.

We all know that sometimes staying home with the kids borders on madness. It's a daily exercise in testing our personal limits, our patience, our fortitude. So what if a touch of merlot at the end of a bitch of a day with the kids takes you places that mantras and meditation might not. Pleaes, just don't swig like a lush, dear mamas. Especially if your partner won't be home to put the kids to bed.

Who am I to preach, ladies? I got plenty tipsy on Christmas Eve when the kids were still up and dropped a cake in the washing machine. In my defense, my parents-in-law and husband were on hand to help with the kids when mommy took herself too far. Come on, it was the holidays. I was festive.

Still, I'm mixed like a stiff drink on the whole issue. How about you? Let me know where you stand? If you've attended cocktail play dates, share your story? I find that whenever moms come out, take a risk and admit to their mistakes, we all feel better. We know we're not isolated. Alone. I allow for anonymous comments here, so don't be shy.

"it's not that they need a drink, they say," but that having one is the break between boredom and loneliness that moms seek."

One of the silliest news bits that came out of this morning's report was "Juice boxes coexist with wine glasses here." Who writes this stuff?

A book called Sippy Cups are Not for Chardonnay was also featured in the report. I think I can wait for that one to come out at the library.

Mothers Don't Let Sloshed Mothers Drive Home Drunk From Play Dates (MDLSMDHDFPD or MADD? I'm sticking with MADD. It's shorter, and who can remember the other trailing acronym when seeing double?!)
One last thought, just who is driving these kids home from play dates if all the moms are tipping it back? Why wasn't the issue of designated drivers broached in The Today Show report? As a journalist, I think they really missed the boat on this one.

What does the idea of cocktail play dates shake up and stir in you?

Ps. Cheeks is at the pediatrican's with his papa, hopefully having his staples removed from his head. I'll let you know how it went.

Slackstress Reporting Here ... Under the Influence of American Idol (and Hair Gel)

2007-01-24T20:50:00.000-08:00

Reader beware. I'm writing while under the influence of American Idol, my guilty pleasure, my embarrassing mass appeal American addiction. Also, I'm writing from my husband's laptop, something I'm going to have to suck up and get used to now that my mine has terminally ended its damaging affair with the Blue Screen of Death. I can't even revive it long enough to launch its operating system.

Okay, how hot was Jenry (pronounced Ahn-rey) from Day 2? Keep on licking those lips, baby. Paula, I was pleasantly surprised too. "Easy on the eyes" is an understatement. Those dimples. Those teeth. Wait a sec ... They just said this guy's only 16. Uh, yeah ... scratch all of the above.

I'm pressed for time. Sharing the Internet with my husband is about as fun as sharing a bathroom. So, all I have to offer is a snapshot of my day with the munchkins. Truth is, I'm writing during Idol commercial breaks. Here goes with hair gel overdose visual flair:

I'll start with Pigtails. She spiked a random high fever with no warning. No prior symptoms. I wonder if she's sprouting some new Chiclets in her thumbsucking mouth. An hour into her Tylenol dose she was bouncing off the wall like the rock hard Red Sox regulation baseball her brother Cheeks dug out of his "special drawer" earlier in the morning. A freakin' (spell check suggested changing "freakin'" to foreskin, hmmm?) baseball in the house. Just what we need flying through the air at fast ball speed while Cheeks still has three metal staples firmly holding a hole in his head together. (It would have been to easy/cliche to say we needed a flying in-house baseball like a hole in the head. I think I just said it anyway.)

Cheeks, well, he wasn't what you would expect today. Calm. Well-behaved. Listening. Sharing. I think his fall might have straightened out some of his rather crooked behaviors. Is that terrible to say as a mother? Will I burn for such comments? Seriously, though. My mother always said that people can change when they crack their heads. He didn't even talk through his nose in whine-tongue-speak. Keep it up, Cheeks. Oh, and don't forget to sleep through the night for once. As usual, I'm endeared by his poofy cheeks, which he noticed in the mirror for the first time yesterday. "I look like Santa, mommy. Even my chubby cheeks are red like his!"

As for Mouth, he said kindergarten was hard. "We even skipped snack because all we did was work, work, work." He carted a stack of paperwork home to prove it. Once we settled down from pitching that same regulation baseball around the playroom INSIDE THE HOUSE for God knows why (what kind of a mom lets her kids throw a real ball in the house), Mouth took me to his room and drew me some addition and subtractions problems in yellow crayon, "Just so you aren't so bad at math anymore, mom. Dad's the math genius. You're the writing genius." Ah, to be young and clueless.

Mouth, who should really be nicknamed The Lawyer I've decided, wowed me with his progress reports (from his home room kindergarten teacher, music teacher, phys ed teacher and Spanish teacher)yesterday. As I opened the final sealed envelope, I played a little trick on him. A mean one perhaps. Definitely not an age-appropriate joke. "Oh, you'd better come here, mister. I need to have a word with you about your progress report from Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher. It's not good. Not good at all. What are we going to do about this. NOT GOOOOOOD. What I mean is, this progress report is not good, it's EXCELLENT. Outstanding. Better than good."

I should have known better. He nearly imploded with stifled tears. True Mouth style. He only cries when the Patriots lose. Now he'll have nearly a year until next season to store up the tears. ("They said at half time that Tom Brady was the 'Come Back King,' but he's not! He's sooo not. He's not a king to me anymore, mom. How could he throw an interception in the last few seconds? What was he thinkin'! It's just not fair. I hope the Bears kick the Colts butts hard in the Superbowl.")

On an Idol note, the girl with the red cowboy hat might need a taste of Valium. BTW, my husband's only comment during American Idol was, "She's got the cleavage for it." He said it about Jory Steinberg. I don't think his gaze ever made it above her necklace.

I take that back. The New Yorker who works out in frumpy sweats like Rocky "has a nice ass," according to my marital peanut gallery. Why do I watch this show with him again? Talk about a double-standard. Wasn't I just drooling over the guy with the hard to spell/pronounce name only a few paragraphs ago (Jenry)?

Sorry to random zig-zaggy write this post like Rod Stewart's hair. Hopefully I'll be able to post as often as possible in the coming days, even with a lap top slated for the graveyard.

How Has Being a SAHM Prepared You for This Job (and Why Should We Hire a Momstrocity Like You) ?

2007-01-23T21:04:00.000-08:00

I've had it up to here with the shpilkes. Call me a meshugine with a bad case of the mishigas. While I'm at it, I admit, I've got a massive pisk. Not bad Yiddish for a goyim, eh?

What I mean is, my hard drive crashed. I've been away from blogging too long. A mere 24 hours without a post has me realizing that I'm completely addicted.

There's nothing like venting, kvetching and coming clean confessional style on such a public forum. I think all bloggers agree that receiving comments is one of the most validating aspects of blogging. I loves me some comments, a mom blogger recently said during de-lurk-ness. Right on.

So, as I get back into my blog, my kindergartner who should be racking up REMs for a fresh start at school tomorrow is bouncing on my bed wearing a Power Ranger face mask. My daughter, who also should be deep into snoozeville is cramming a whore of Baby Bratz doll into a decorative Asian lock box from Pier One Imports.

Good girl, Pigtails. Ho lookin' Baby Bratz dolls with skimpy diaper covers that look more like Frederick's of Hollywood thongs than bloomers SHOULD be locked away in black cryptic boxes.

So I'm back. Hopefully my laptop won't crap out on me again. If I had the energy I'd spill my guts right now about my eldest son purposefully hitting me and kicking me in the past 48 hours. That boy needs to learn some respect.

Also, I'm reluctantly flirting with looking for a full-time newsroom job, which would mean placing my two youngest kids in full-time child care. "Placing" sounds so cold. Like placing a down-payment on a home. Or placing an ailing parent in a nursing home. The whole thing feels cold. Against every thing I want for my children.

Qualifications accrued in the nearly six years I've domestically slacked as a SAHM:
Breastfeeding while chasing children through parking lots.
Miraculously holding my breath between pushes.
Passing humans through my life giving vessel. Three in four years - not bad.
Stopping the blood flow from gaping wild boy head wounds with my bare hands.
Strapping miniature humans into five-point harness car seats with one hand.
Chucking graham crackers one by one to my sons in the third and farthest row of my minivan and actually hitting my targets, right in their hungry faces.
Managing not to have a so-called REAL job for nearly six years.

Until the next slack-i-sode, y'all.

Avalanche - Chaos - Bedroom?

2007-01-22T13:39:00.000-08:00

When did the bomb go off in the boys' room?

Maybe little Miss red Power Ranger will clean it up before someone trips and falls.

Do your messes ever mount to the point where you feel trapped, paralyzed? Where do I even begin?

There Are No Prizes in Yoga (or Motherhood)

2007-01-21T11:52:00.000-08:00

My friend Todd called me a "show off" in yoga class this morning when I decided to take my Tree Pose to lofty heights. Think arms wide open like the scales of justice with a Bangles "Walk like an Egyptian" head twist. Add in a peculiarly folded knee.

Except now visualize me smirking with embarrassment, falling over like a top, thanks to Todd's distracting but accurate editorial comment.

Todd was right. I was showing off. Trying to look cool, like a vanilla yogurt covered pretzel. Like a seasoned yoga pro. Competing. Something you're never suppose to do in your yoga practice.

"Remember, there are no prizes in yoga," our 50s-ish bleach blonde instructor Randy reminded the class mid-sun salutation. "No one wins for being the best at holding a pose or for mastering the most complex balance. Yoga isn't about judging yourself or others. If you're not able to smile during your yoga practice, then perhaps you've forgotten yoga's true nature."

As I lay outstretched beneath a Mexican wool blanket in corpse pose, I tried to clear my mind for final relaxation but couldn't stop thinking about competition, prizes and motherhood. I thought, "There are no prizes in motherhood either. There's no Number One Mom award to strive for. So why do so many moms compete with each other?"

Nothing deep. Just something to ponder on a Sunday.