Tag Archives: moms

May 11, 2010 · 11:54 am

June is Calling

June is calling. I know this much is true. Not because the calendar tells me so or because the sun lingers deliciously at the close of each day, but because I’ve been formally reinstated as the resident Flip-flop Finder (i.e. the fool who routinely scours the earth at dusk, rescuing forsaken footwear from an untimely demise). More specifically, I traipse around in the dark and dewy grass with flashlight-in-hand, grousing about someone’s less than responsible behavior—searching interminably for evidence of my children’s beloved shoe-like entities that in all likelihood will be consumed by the mean and horrible lawn mower should I fail to deliver in a timely manner.

Needless to say, there is a great deal of pressure in this job.

For the record, I have also been restored to my thankless post as Returner-of-Sand-to-the-Sandbox as well as Ball Retriever Extraordinaire, Gatherer of Guns, Steward of Swords, Harvester of Wayward Bicycles, Birdies and Bats, Hula Hoop Picker-Upper, Band-aid Putter-On-er, Sunscreen Slatherer, Ant “Stompler,” Bee Chaser and let us not forget the illustrious One Who Fetches Things (read: the idiot who willingly and expeditiously delivers those gotta-have-it-or-we’ll-surely-die items—like magnifying glasses, dirt digging spoons and Zip-loc baggies teeming with Cheerios). Thankfully however, my services as Squirt Gun Refiller are no longer required as I’ve since been promoted to Bathroom Floor Sopper-Upper.

Indeed, June is calling. The end-of-school-year countdown has officially begun—a reality with which one of my second grade progenies is exceedingly delighted, while her slightly miserable sidekick wallows in grief over the impending death of all-things-schoolish. Woe is me. That said, in the months to come I will assuredly be charged with an impossibly challenging task: making each and every day of the summer vacation abundantly exciting while at the same time painting next fall’s return to academia as something akin to unadulterated bliss. Ugh.

Yea, the sixth month of the year is surely nigh as evidenced by my children’s incessant and oh-so-theatrical pleas for a trip (or ten!) to Knoebels Amusement Park—an attraction I love and loathe with equal intensity. The heat, the din, the swarming masses and schmutzy ice cream! Oy! And yet, there is something curiously alluring about the wretched place. Disturbingly so, methinks.

“I wanna go on the roller coaster and the Flume and the Sklooosh, too, Mom—because the Sklooosh is splashier!” Case in point: My charges have begun to make up words to describe said mecca of amusement—which can’t be a good thing. What’s more, they’ve resorted to employing guilt tactics—which is SOnot nice.

“Yeah, Mom, So-and-So already went to Knoebels! Why can’t we go? It’s almost June, you know—I’m so bored I could just die.”

Without a doubt, I will cave. Soon I’ll be marking our calendar with a scheduled day of bedlam—filling up an entire square (or several) with the word KNOEBELS in big, fat letters and a crude rendering of roller coasters and whatnot. It is almost June after all. Time to drag my sorry self to that celebrated park and feast on fun, adventure and the possibility of heatstroke. Oh well, it beats January—that intolerable collection of 31 days during which I longed for even the suggestion of warmth.

Ah yes, June certainly is whispering in my ear these days, not simply because we’re on the cusp of a new season poised to transition (ready or not) into summer, but because we, personally, are about to embark upon a new chapter in life. My husband will retire come June. After great deliberation, reflecting upon his 35 years in Pennsylvania’s public school system where he served in a variety of capacities from educator to administrator, athletic director to advisor, mentor to coach, he is ready to embrace what the next phase of his career may hold. His biggest lament, however, is leaving behind a community of students who trust, believe and so desperately need the support of a principal they have come to know.

But June is calling. And we must listen.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (looking for flip-flops among other things).

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Rantings & Ravings, School Schmool

Tagged as end-of-school, family, humor, June, kids, madness, Mommie Dearest, moms, parenting, school, summertime

May 8, 2010 · 9:54 am

What Mom Really Wants…

Mother’s Day is coming. One day and counting. I’ve marked the Almighty Calendar that hangs on our fridge with a big, fat sticker, proclaiming to one and all, “This day is IMPORTANT! Don’t you daaaaaare forget it!” And I’m sure no one will. My family loves me dearly and they’ll undoubtedly stumble over one another to shower me with adoration and gifts galore. Gifts to die for—like decadent chocolates, gorgeous, sweet-smelling bouquets of roses or something lily-ish, syrupy cards that remind me just how much I am loved and appreciated. To top it all off, they’ll probably treat me to a scrumptious meal at a fancy-schmancy restaurant—where all five of us will dine together.

Sadly, however, I’m afraid a degree of disappointment lurks just around the bend.

But don’t think for a moment that I would ever condemn my family’s attempts to make me feel extra special on Mother’s Day, because they do—and I do as a result. Each year they wow me in some remarkable way and I am eternally grateful for their well-meaning efforts. However, they often miss the mark when it comes to having a fine-tuned awareness of my innermost desires as a mom. Time and again, my motley crew fails to recognize my signals, let alone interpret them correctly. It’s sort of like watching archaeologists decipher hieroglyphics on a cave wall in order to learn what the skywriter above has written.

So I am left with but few options this Mother’s Day. I could attempt to convey my true wishes through telepathy, employing my standard-issue female mind powers to transmit messages to my brood. I could drop subtle hints by pasting colorful little notes everywhere from the dust-covered television screen to the empty milk jug, still sitting in the fridge. Or perhaps I could present my self-indulgent list of wants and needs here in a public venue, hopeful that it will be well-received and acted upon accordingly.

With any luck, the following suggestions will also be of value to other families who are eager to please Mom this Mother’s Day.

1) For starters, let Mom take a real live NAP once in a while. Not one of those namby-pamby dozing sessions on the couch that lasts for 15 minutes, rife with interruptions of the non-urgent variety. Set some hard and fast ground rules, too. No one is to disturb Mom unless the sky is falling or someone’s hair is on fire.

2) Pick up after each other. That’s what Mom does 24/7. Give her a break for Pete’s sake! That means no sneakers, underwear or sweat socks lying around for all to “enjoy,” no barbed toys lying in wait for her on the stairs and no decomposing apple cores on the coffee table or empty Cheetos bags stuffed under the sofa pillows. Muster the strength, somehow, to make it to the hamper, toy box and trash can. She manages to do it, even when she’s dead tired.

3) Relinquish the remote control for a day. Just one day. Honestly, how tough can it be? Let her choose the programming for once and don’t have a cow if she sticks with one station for more than ten minutes. The world won’t stop revolving if one less viewer tunes in to primetime rubbish geared to teens and young adults. Even Donald Trump doesn’t wield that much power and influence.

4) Remember to close things: The refrigerator door, the toilet seat and lid, the Wonder bread wrapper, the Jiff jar (‘cause your mom is a choosy mom), your dresser drawers, the back door and your mouth—to curb the spillage of all that less-than-endearing commentary that tends to flow like a river from time to time.

5) Make a concerted effort to get along with your siblings. Mom is sick and tired of blowing the whistle on all of your shenanigans. Not to mention, her wardrobe has suffered greatly since the addition of referee stripes. At all costs, refrain from causing anyone to bleed—especially on the good carpeting.

When that special day finally arrives, strive to think of Mom above all else—putting her wants and needs above your own. Really tune in to what she holds dear and what would prove to be the most meaningful to her when all is said and done.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under Holiday Hokum, Me Myself and I, Rantings & Ravings

Tagged as family, humor, kids, madness, Mommie Dearest, moms, Mother's Day, parenting

May 7, 2010 · 7:00 am

Dining with Heathens (Continued)…

(Please recall, if you will, that my motley crew and I happened to be dining in a rather swank establishment, where I was appalled YET AGAIN by the uncouth nature of mealtime discussions). That said, shock value rules…

“Mom, Taylor needs you in the bathroom.”

“Whatdaya mean she needs me?”

“You know, Mom. She neeeeeeeeds you. Plus she said the toilet might overflow.”

Of course my mind played worst case scenario (as it does so capably), racing forward to the hideous spectacle we’d become should such a foul catastrophe actually occur. I pictured the crowd, agape and aghast, their satiny napkins clutched in horror, silverware and China clinking and clanking as patrons pushed and shoved to escape the river of repulsiveness snaking its way across the floor where we dined.

Fortunately, it wasn’t our day to be a spectacle. I mumbled a small prayer of thanks into the folds of my napkin upon my return from the restroom. Yet another crisis averted. But the boorish banter at the dinner table continued.

“Dad, Mom took us to see the coolest thing this morning before we got on the bus! It was a DEAD BIRD! A DEAD BABY BIRD! I wanted to touch it, but she wouldn’t let me so I just poked it with a piece of grass. I even blew it a kiss! I could see its little beak and grayish feathers and everything! It was SO cool! Jack tried to eat it, you know. Mom said he rolled around in it later—which is just plain gross. Why do dogs do that anyway?”

Of course, this handily surpassed another mealtime discussion we had had about dog poo in recent months. “Dad, Jack made a little sculpture with his poop today! I call it the Leaning Tower of Poop! I told my art teacher what he did and she laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. It was SO funny! Mom should really take you to see it before it tips over. It’s like a real tower you know.”

Prior to that, the worm discourse had comfortably held the top spot. “Dad, I’m saving every little wormy I find outside,” one of my weirdish children announced with pride as she delved into a bowl of spaghetti. (Gag me!)

“They’re part of my special collection,” she added. “Just like my rocks (Lord, how could we forget her dear rocks?!). So I’ve started putting my wormies in a big bucket in the garage. It’s their worm bed, Dad.”

“And guess what,” her partner in weirdness chimed in. “One of those guys pooped in my hand and it was DIARRHEA! Ewwwww!”

Like I said, I’m often appalled by that which is deemed newsworthy at the dinner table. Indeed, shock value rules—now and forever.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Kid-Speak, Meat & Potatoes, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as dysfunction, family, humor, kidisms, kids, moms, parenting, tactless children

May 5, 2010 · 8:13 am

Dining with Heathens…

As a general rule, I am appalled by the uncouth nature of the discussions that waft over our dinner table each evening, filling our house with the familiar stench of gaucheness. Last Thursday was no exception. Mind you, my husband and I were dining at a rather swank establishment, living in abject fear that one or both of our heathens would say or do something that would mortify us beyond comprehension.

Not that we’d be surprised.

“Mom, these carrots taste like the inside of a shoe.” Oy! Thank God the waitress had already flitted back to her lair by the time that snippet of speech tumbled forth for the whole fricking world to hear. Out of earshot, as it were. Ostensibly, anyway. I surmised that Grandma and Grandpa, who were also present at said grand and glorious soiree, would then call into question what we had been teaching our dear charges for the past nine years, specifically with regard to table manners (or the lack thereof). But apparently, they remembered well what it was like to be embarrassed by a brood of tactless children—one of whom happened to be me.

“Honey, is that a nice thing to say?! How on earth would you know what the inside of a shoe tastes like anyway?” I scolded, swallowing a melon-sized chortle and glancing around to see if anyone had heard the carrot comment or, worse yet, had detected my shameful amusement with the whole affair.

“I licked Daddy’s shoe once and that’s EXACTLY what these carrots taste like,” she spat, unleashing her inner-food critic upon us all.

Needless to say, at this point in the discussion I fell silent—both stunned and disturbed by the information I had been supplied, as well as indescribably mortified by its implications. I mean, what do you say to a child who has admitted to having tasted a shoe?! Much less, the INSIDE of a shoe?!

I’ve got nothing for that. Zilch. Nada. No pat little responses exist in my repertoire of snappy parental comebacks for such an inane remark.

So we moved on—to the next set of things for which I was unprepared.

To be continued…

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Kid-Speak, Meat & Potatoes, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as dysfunction, family, humor, kidisms, kids, moms, parenting, tactless children

May 3, 2010 · 11:31 am

The Allure of Roadkill

I’ve suffered the wrath of my children for a plethora of reasons—probably for more asinine things than I can possibly count. And most of the time, it has been because I missed something simple along the way—some crucial bit of insight and/or communiqué that might have taken much of the frustration and complexity out of childrearing. Something that would have made me less of an ogre and more of a compatriot.

That being said, I once made the dreadful mistake of trashing someone’s beloved “collection” that was lurking about in a despicable corner of our despicably organized garage. Said Shrine-to-Mother-Nature consisted of a hideous clump of wilted dandelions, a handful of slime-ridden leafy matter, a smattering of pebbles and a bunch of twigs I assumed had been left for dead. Silly me.

When my crime was subsequently discovered, it was as if I had slaughtered Sponge Bob and his moronic sidekick, Patrick (not that I haven’t entertained that delicious little notion). At any rate, I was practically deported for having violated one of the tenets of Motherhood: “Thou shalt not dispose of foolish tripe without first obtaining the express written consent of all interested parties (i.e. the resident heathens).” Since then, our mother-daughter relationship has improved somewhat, but I doubt I’ll ever be entirely forgiven for such an atrocity.

Then there was the cardinal sin I committed just last month when I insisted the toad must go. The toad who lived on my coffee table for three days running, who drove me completely berserk with his relentless pawing and clawing of the wretched cage-like home to which he had been so unwillingly assigned. The toad who had been worshiped and glorified for his many talents (being warty, for one). The fist-sized blob of repugnance whom my little girls felt compelled to kiss and cuddle (till I became visibly ill—Gak!) during a teary-eyed and interminable farewell which will live in my guilt-ridden soul forever and ever. Amen.

Of course, I’m certain it was not unlike the dramatic performance of a lifetime I myself delivered in Disney World back in 1974—when I became thoroughly and hopelessly obsessed with the idea of obtaining a certain toy rifle I had seen; one that stole my heart from the moment I ogled its silken stock and genuine metal barrel. The fact that it came with a real ramrod and shot corks merely made me want it that much more. My mission: to convince my grandparents that I couldn’t possibly continue living without it. That I would surely shrivel up and die right then and there with Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck as witnesses unless and until they journeyed to the ends of the earth (read: the entire length of the theme park) and bought it for me. I still have that beloved prize, but sadly, not one cork.

As a parent, my popularity also waned the day I refused to let my dear charges wear their Crocs to Knoebel’s Amusement Park. Naturally, they grumbled and groused each time we happened upon a kid wearing those stupid shoes—the ones that ought to come with a box of Band-aids and a waiver. Waiting in line for the bumper cars, spinning around in those monstrous tea cups, crammed and jammed impossibly inside a bevy of bathroom stalls—where our worm’s-eye view spoke volumes. “See, that kid’s Mom let her wear Crocs.” Everywhere, it seemed, I was reminded of what a horrible mother I was.

Likewise, there was the time I rearranged the refrigerator magnets. Oh, the horror! The time I forgot to tell the landscaping people not to disturb the “eagle’s nest” in our front yard (i.e. the massive heap of sticks that begged to be flung into oblivion). The time I insisted the bug cage must either be chucked out entirely or purged of the unsightly display of caterpillar carnage contained within. Or more recently, when I had the audacity to wash their bedding without first consulting she-who-would-freak (read: she who would be instantly launched into a stomping, shrieking fit of rage upon learning her stuffed animals had been moved). Next time (she demanded of me) I would photograph said animals properly, so they could more easily be returned to their rightful place in the Universe. It’s poetic justice, I suppose, for having lied about bedbugs in order to convince her that laundering was necessary at all.

Like I said—I’ve suffered plenty of wrath at the hands of my children. But the rage-inspired idiocy I am about to describe is beyond all imagining.

While ferrying my brood over hill and dale, we passed what appeared to be a dead skunk along the roadside. The pungent aroma that filled our Jeep shortly thereafter, confirmed my astute suspicions. Ridiculously keen on witnessing dead things (as always), both kids craned their necks to see the furry beast who had met an untimely demise. But alas, they had no such luck—even after three tries and lots of helpful reminders like, “WE’RE ABOUT TO PASS THE SKUUUUUUUNK…WE’RE PASSING THE SKUUUUUUUNK…WE JUST PASSED THE SKUUUUUUUNK….” For a fleeting moment, I entertained the notion of pulling over to let them eyeball the ludicrous thing once and for all; but thankfully, that little gem of an idea went away.

Well upon learning that we wouldn’t be returning home over the same well-traveled path (where the unfortunate skunk lay), one of my charges decided to stage a protest. First, she whined and flopped about in her seat, eventually feigning death. Naturally, I ignored such nonsense and kept driving to our 437^th destination of the day. By the time we finished our errands and pulled into the garage, the silent treatment had begun in earnest—in fact, she wouldn’t even get out of the car. She just sat there, stewing over my latest transgression, searing holes in the back of my seat, arms crossed in defiance, jaw and furrowed brow cast in stone.

“Lovely,” I thought. “Just lovely!” It’s NINE THOUSAND DEGREES and my kid (who ostensibly hates me) refuses to get out of a sweltering car that’s sitting inside a sweltering garage—thanks to a stupid skunk who couldn’t cross a stupid road to save himself!” How completely ironic.

Then again it was ironic to think that carrion could possess the least bit of charm.

Ultimately, my rebel child conceded defeat and dragged her sorry self inside. But her sullen mood continued for quite some time—punctuated with commentary like, “I just wanted to see the stupid skunk, Mom. I never actually saw a dead one before,” as if it were some sort of exotic thrill.

Apparently, I failed to grasp the simplicity of the situation yet again. What’s more, I hadn’t, in the least, considered the allure of roadkill.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with abundantly disturbed children).