The ugly details...

You are reading this post because you are obviously:

1. Bored;
2. Enjoy reading about other people suffering;
3. Trying to figure out what I'm whining about;
4. You saw a lady standing in the grocery store, giving a death glare to a texting, gum-chomping cow that was blocking the entire aisle in the frozen food section and you're trying to figure out if it was really me (Yes, it was.); or, most likely it's because...
5. You are nice.

5:32am... I woke up, eight minutes before my alarm clock goes off. Or, more accurately, I woke up for the 6th time in the last two hours, but this time it wasn't worth trying to go back to sleep. And of course the first thing I thought of was "I'm tired as fuck," which was immediately followed by "No, really. Fuck. Tired as fuck." I pulled on my mom uniform (running shorts, long sleeve shirt, ponytail) and headed downstairs to dishwasher emptying/newspaper fetching/coffee making/dog feeding/breakfast making bliss.

6:00... Because I'm lame and would feel a little bit guilty if I were to sleep in while my oldest kids found their own breakfast and got themselves to the bus stop, I made something to eat for kid #1: scrambled eggs, bacon and toast with jelly. Upon seeing this hot, well-balanced first meal of the day, he said "Oh, well, there's no way I'm going to eat all this. If I eat those eggs I'll just feel uuuugggghgh." Because I hadn't ingested much caffeine yet, I only had enough energy to say "Fine. Eat whatever" instead of "Fine. Eat whatever and then I'll shove the rest of it up your nose." Note to self: Frosted Lucky Charms are magically delicious, and a bowl of cold cereal is a nutritious part of a well-balanced breakfast.

6:50... After kid #1 glared at me a few times and then stumbled out the door in time to catch the bus, kid #2 appeared for breakfast. Upon seeing his plate of freshly made scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, he muttered something like "I hope this doesn't make me sick" before taking a few very unenthusiastic bites. Note to self: A smack in the face is a nutritious part of a well-balanced breakfast.

7:45... After kid #2 left for the bus, kid #3 appeared for breakfast. Upon seeing her plate of freshly made scrambled eggs, bacon and a muffin, she declared the eggs as "too hot to eat" and proceeded to eat the muffin. Note to self: Aruba is very nice this time of year.

9:10... Several hours (well, technically only an hour or so, but it felt like several) later, and after a couple dozen pleas of "get dressed, brush your teeth, practice piano, pack your backpack, brush your teeth, where are your socks," I dropped kid #3 off at school and headed to the grocery store, still wearing my running shorts, shirt, ponytail plus two additional items: a fancy lip balm called Carmex and a baseball hat.

9:30... Do you have any lettuce that doesn't look like it's been sitting in a monsoon? Oh, ha ha, I know it looks that way but no, I haven't worked out this morning. You seem to be out of the mild Italian sausage that is on sale, so can I substitute a different brand? Oh, hi, wow, yes, you do sound very busy! I don't care if that's the coupon item, that ham tastes like cardboard. Excuse me, but can I get past your cart? No, I need the 10.5 oz box of Cheez-Its because that's what's listed on your stupid coupon. Do you have a gallon of 1% milk that doesn't expire in two days? No, ma'am, I'm not that Chinese lady that taught your daughter how to ice skate. Gawd, do I ever love grocery shopping, especially with coupons!

10:30... Because I'm lame, I went to a second grocery store (yes, Byerly's) where they have the most amazing chicken tenders, which happened to be BOGO, and since I have to bring dinner to tennis for the boys on Wednesdays I thought I'd be nice and make sandwiches with these chicken tenders. And of course I also made sure to get fresh buns for these sandwiches. Because I'm lame. Oh, and also according to more than a couple people, now that the kids are in school I have ALL KINDS OF TIME TO MYSELF SO I CAN SHOP ALL THE TIME!

11:15... Finally home, just in time to finish the laundry, clean part of the house, put the groceries away, walk the dog and inhale some lunch. And then I need to brush and floss my teeth so that I can get to my dentist appointment! It's really super important to be on time to the dentist! So I'm sure to be punctual and get there five minutes early because, in addition to being lame, I just loooove going to the dentist! Mmm, gotta love that dentist office smell!

1:35... Twenty minutes after my appointment was scheduled -- after I was assured that the hygienist was running on time -- I'm sitting in the waiting room, thinking about the 142 things I still need to get done. So I did what I've always wanted to do: told them to cancel my appointment and then walked out. And anyway, I had just flossed and brushed in the middle of the day, so my teeth already felt cleaner than usual.

2:30... Kid #1 walks in the door, followed by... his friend? The friend who wasn't supposed to ride the bus to our house and is instead supposed to be at his own house, waiting for his mom to pick him up. So now I have an extra kid (who happens to have the loudest voice ever given to a teenage boy) in my house for the next hour, and he's hungry. Like, really hungry. And really loud.

3:10... Kid #2 walks in the door, gets ready for tennis, and then immediately walks out the door. Their ride arrived... over ten minutes early. Goodbye, loud talker!

3:45... I walk out the door carrying a cooler packed with dinner (yum, chicken sandwiches!), kid #3's tennis bag and my tote bag so that I can pick the youngest kid up at the elementary school, aka Parking Lot of Torture. Today is no different, and I somehow resist honking and/or gesturing toward five different people, including one dude that nearly ran over a child because he should have the right to go the wrong way on a one-way.

5:30... After arriving at the club, quickly feeding kid #3, sending her to her tennis lesson and then (because I still have my running shorts on) hammering out a three mile walk/run, the boys wrap up their tennis lesson and appear for dinner. I pull out the sandwiches and, five minutes into eating them, kid #1 declares them "a pain in the butt to eat because the bread is too chewy." Note to self: Stop feeding children anything besides gruel and knuckle sandwiches.

Add to all of this the smooshing of my child, the fact that no one else in my family has the ability to recognize when the recycling bin is full, children that are still genuinely shocked that bedtime arrives each and every night, a dog that wants in when he's out and out when he's in, a school I.D. that was distributed to a child and lost by the child on the same day and finally, the worst part of all: I was supposed to go out with friends. But by 9:00, I really didn't have the energy to be all high maintenance and get myself dressed in anything besides pajamas, so I skipped out on the cathartic fun and stayed home. I know this makes me sound even lamer, but at that moment, just having enough energy to brush my teeth was doubtful. I figured that would be okay, though, because after all, I had already brushed them twice.

The Christmas Countdown

I know I'm not alone here (right, Nancy!?) when I say...enough with the countdowns. I'm tired of hearing "Are you done with your Christmas shopping? Did you get your cards out yet? What are your plans for winter break?" and "Only a few more days to get it all done!" Every time I see a festive sweater or hear yet another version of Rudolph or the words "Doorbuster, Santariffic" or "Wrap the Holidays in Fun," it doesn't make me want to go a'caroling or a'wassailing or a'shopping. It does, however, put me in the mood to go a'drinking and a'swearing while I a'watch a little a'football.

The good news is that yes, I am done with the shopping, the wrapping, the mailing and, despite wanting to skip this year, I even sent out Christmas cards. The fake tree is decorated, the Santa gifts are hidden and each kid has a bag of crap that's just waiting to be jammed into their always-too-small stocking. But, sadly, I'm not done. Not even close.

According to my calendar, what I've been told, and what I overheard while eavesdropping on those two women at Target, these are a few of the statistics:

• There is one week left until Christmas.
• Two weeks left until we say adios to 2010.
• Three school days before winter break.
• Or for some kids, zero days until winter break.
• Three trips to the grocery store that need to be made.
• Actually, it's six trips if you count the two different stores because it wouldn't make sense for one store to carry everything that I need.
• Two trips to the liquor store.
• Or, for the insane, zero trips to the liquor store.
• Or, if you're me, five trips.
• $250 of express shipping fees that someone (but not me) needs to spend because a couple out-of-town recipients were "forgotten."
• $0 of shipping fees because I paid attention when I got an email that said "Perfect gift for the mother-in-law" and "FREE SHIPPING!"
• Twenty dozen cookies that will be baked in the next 36 hours.
• Which sounds almost as nauseating as saying "three pounds of butter."
• Seven days left to play the Santa card.
• Eight gifts that "might" be returned to the store before Christmas if someone doesn't change their attitude NOW!
• Two parents that had the nerve to plan a kid's birthday party the week before Christmas.
• One more choir concert to get through.
• One piano recital to get through. And oh how I hope that woman that has a Bump-It permanently implanted in her skull sits in front of me again.
• Two more tennis lessons. Oh, and two tournaments before 2011.
• Four more trips to the junior high, which will bring the number of trips in one week to a grand total of Ee-Lev-En.
• Three bags of ice that I'm planning on purchasing in the next week.
• Four bags if things go well.
• Six bags if things go really well.
• Oh wait, I forgot about New Year's weekend. So then, let's just say a lot of bags of ice.
• Two classes that a kid missed last Friday, but it's okay because it was a planned absence and I was assured that the kid had everything turned in.
• Four things that weren't turned in, completed, accounted for or were just forgotten about.
• Ten minutes that I yelled about those four things.
• Four limbs on a kid that resembled a dried up reptile because, after all, there are only three different things of lotion in the bathroom to choose from so how could I be so unrealistic as to expect the lotion to actually be applied to the scaly skin?
• Really, though, how could I expect him to use lotion? After all, I've only reminded him 472 times.
• Three times within fifteen minutes that I said "You need to get up at 6."
• Which explains why, within one minute, a kid asked "So what time should I get up?"
• Ten minutes that I yelled about that.
• Twelve minutes that I wasted, standing in line at the self-service kiosk at the post office, waiting for the technologically retarded (I know that term isn't politically correct, but I think that in this case she was sort of retarded) woman to figure out how to ship a manila envelope to St. Louis and also purchase one sheet of Forever stamps, all within one transaction. She failed. Miserably. Instead of one transaction, it was actually more like seven. Seriously. The machine would not stop beeping at her.
• Zero inches of snow in the weather forecast for the next two weeks. You hear that, bitch-face Mother Nature? I want ZERO!
• Six scaly spots on Zoe's face that need to heal so that people can stop asking me "What's on her face? What's wrong with your daughter? Does she have the chicken pox?" and I have to repeatedly say: No, she doesn't have a disease. It's because they had Clifford (you know, the big red sweetly retarded {sorry} dog) day at school a few days ago and they used face paint to put these black dots on my kid's face. But unfortunately they used some funky face paint that contained arsenic and lye and cyanide and was probably made in Tanzania and had been recalled in 1983, which left these angry red spots on my daughter's cheeks. No, she doesn't have chicken pox because even though I'm anal and organized, I don't have the power to make sure that chicken-pox-induced red sores appear perfectly symmetrical and in only one highly visible location. And if you think the spots look freaky now, you should have seen her right after I washed the face paint off:

Oh, and yesterday she got a haircut and her bangs are so cute. But they're really short which, for some reason, accentuates the fact that there is also a scaly spot on the end of her nose. Cuz, ya know, Clifford's nose is black.

Now, where is that first bag of ice?

The Brown Stain, Vol. 3

Everywhere I go, I hear people rejoicing about the fact that Thanksgiving creates a short week, and oh yeah man! A three-day week! This is going to kick ass only having to work for three days! Woo hoo! And while I know of several school districts that, in addition to Thursday and Friday, also have Wednesday (or, in some cases, the entire freaking week) off, my kids only have two days off. Some people might think this is a great situation, since kids in school means kids not at home. But unfortunately, all this means for us is that five days of school concerts, science projects, class parties and chaos have been crammed into three. Very. Busy. Days.

And it all started with first grade.

I don't know exactly when or how it happened, but a few weeks ago a note came home informing me that the first graders were going to be having a Fall Festival! and Oh boy is it ever going to be fun! I remember seeing a place for me to sign my name and thinking hmm, maybe this piece of paper shouldn't go directly into the recycling bin. Maybe I should sign it and send it back. Because maybe aliens are invading my body and I've lost all ability to think clearly and rationally and holy shit! I just volunteered to help out at the Fall Festival!

As the day approached, I was pretty sure I felt a scratchy throat, raspy cough, nasal congestion, Ebola virus, super ouchie paper cut, shin splints, or a combination of these and was thinking I had a good reason to cancel. And even if I did manage to make a miraculous recovery from my plague in time for the Fall Festival! I was sure that my presence wouldn't be missed. After all, tons of other parents were probably volunteering for the fun-filled Fall Festival! and I would just be standing around with nothing to do but point and smirk. Yeah, that's it. I just won't show up. Just as long as Zoe doesn't know that I was supposed to be there, because that would really suck if she walks around yelling "Where's my mom? Has anyone seen my mom? She was supposed to be here and she said that all of her compound fractures had healed up, so where is she?" But she hasn't mentioned anything, so I'm sure it's fine if I...

"Here mom! This note is for you! We have a party tomorrow and you get to come help! See, your name is right here next to the 'Thanks for offering to help out at the First Grade Fall Festival! See you tomorrow morning!' So you're coming, right?"

Seriously, how do I say no to that face? (cough...cough...sniffle)

So Tuesday morning arrives and I figure okay. I can do this. I'll just show up earlier than scheduled, snag the easiest game (because there is no way in hell I'm going to get stuck with Turkey Bowling), boss some kids around and at the same time, accumulate some major good mom points with my kid. No problem.

Well, there wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for the fact that, much to my surprise, a Fall Festival! Leader Mom had stepped forward weeks ago, and she took it upon herself to pre-assign everyone to a game. I had to check "the list" to find out; A) which game I was in charge of and, B) the name of the other parent also assigned to my game. I broke into a panicy sweat. What if I had to hang out with Fanny for an hour? Or the Halloween Party mom? And what if I had to hang out with either of these women while face painting!? Oh my fucking hell! What have I gotten my control freak-self into?

As I walked up to check the list, I started having flashbacks of my college days. I felt like I was checking for my calculus grade after I had taken a test while completely hungover, and this just made me sweat more. And holy shit did I breathe a sigh of relief when I saw that I was assigned to Penny Toss with a mom that is super nice. This was good because in addition to the sweat, I was starting to feel nauseous.

So, Penny Toss -- easy enough. Toss a penny toward a piece of poster board that has "Toy, Sticker, Candy, Play-Doh" written on it and win a prize. I quickly drew a couple neanderthal-size feet on a piece of purple construction paper (see, this is why I will never be a good candidate for face-painting) and taped it to the floor so that the kids would know where to stand and, while chatting with the other mom, waited for the first kids to show up. And that's when it occurred to me: 120+ kids were going to be playing this game, and we had eight pennies. Count them...EIGHT.

While quickly making a mental note to not allow my hands to come within 20 inches of my face for the next hour no matter how much my nose itched, the game began and went a little something like this:

1. Hand penny to child
2. Pick penny up off of the floor
3. Hand penny to child, which child grabs after pulling finger out of their nose
4. Child tosses penny
5. Penny rolls near garbage can before I pick it up off of the floor
6. Hand penny to child
7. Child tosses penny four feet further than necessary
8. Pick penny up off of the floor
9. Child puts penny in mouth, then tosses it onto board
10. I gag a little bit, then pick the penny up off of the floor

And on and on this went, with me adding little variations here and there to keep things interesting. Small things like "Hey, if you land exactly right on this corner here, you win an Xbox" and then the kid would miss and I'd just shrug my shoulders. Or if a kid bitched about landing on the Play-Doh square (because honestly, they all just wanted the damn candy), I'd say "Well, you can take the Play-Doh or you can have a kick in the shin." They all thought I was pretty much insane, and now feel sorry for Zoe.

Even though it felt like the Fall Festival! was never going to end, I was finally able to make a break for it, decontaminate my hands and continue with my day. My very over-scheduled, chaotic, barely time to pee let alone make dinner and get everyone where they need to be day. Oh yeah, dinner. I guess I can't totally complain about making dinner, since I had a little help in that department. Or, at least, I thought I did.

Since I knew I would have exactly 23.7 minutes from the time I walked in the door from one kid's tennis lesson until we had to walk back out the door for the same kid's orchestra concert, I put the oldest kid in charge of turning a burner on in order to save time and get a pot of water boiling. I called him from the car, said "turn the burner on HIGH" and thought he'd be able to take things from there. After all, everyone can boil water, right? Or, maybe not right. As soon as I walked in the door, I sniffed the air and immediately knew that there was a hot burner in the house, but sadly it wasn't the burner that was directly under the pot of water. It was the one behind it. And did you know that rotini takes less time to cook than linguini? Just in case you were wondering.

And now you're probably wondering why this blog post is called "The Brown Stain, Vol. 3." There was "The Brown Stain" and "The Brown Stain, Vol 2.", so get to the brown stain already!

Okay, so while I was waiting for the water to boil, I noticed a brown smudge on the carpet. It wasn't a big spot, like the puppy had taken a dump in the house, it was small like someone had dropped a hunk of chocolate chip granola bar on the floor and then stood on it for a few minutes. I reached down, touched the still-sticky spot, smelled my fingers - and was about to ask who had been eating chocolate on the carpet - and then realized that I had just stuck my finger in a smear of dog shit. Yes, that's my life. My wonderful, glamorous, shitty finger life.

I tried to figure out how the hell it got there if the dog didn't crap in the house. Did he step in his own feces while he was outside? And if so, wouldn't that mean that there are little shitty footprints all over the house? And if that's the case, wouldn't it just be easier to burn the house down and start all over? Seriously, Oh! My! Gawd! Zach was all "No, no, see, I let him out and saw him take like the biggest crap ever. This is not my fault!" And I was all "I don't care if you saw him shit! Dude! I have shit on my finger!"

At this point, the dog ran away from me because he doesn't like it when I yell, and as I watched him run that's when I saw where the brown stain came from. Because it's pretty hard to miss a hunk of brown shit stuck to the ass of a cream-colored dog.

And I'll give you exactly one guess as to who was lucky enough to wipe the dog's ass.

I've Heard Enough

All moms have the same complaint -- the kids never listen. After repeating ourselves over and over again, saying the same things time and time again, it always ends in the same result: the garbage doesn't get taken out, items get left behind, the shoes aren't on the feet on time and bedtime always arrives with a surprise.

I know my kids get sick of hearing me repeat myself, yell, nag, sigh with exasperation and stomp around the house and the truth is, I'm tired of hearing them say a lot of things too.

Things I'd Be Happy

To Never Hear Come Out

Of My Kids' Mouths

Ever Again

• You never bring me anything good to drink/buy me cool stuff/let me stay up late/say yes.
• What are you talking about?
• I don't want to right now. Maybe later.
• I said okay, okay? OKAY!
• Yeah, sure. Wait, what? I wasn't listening.
• I don't need you.
• Oops, I forgot the ____ at home/at the club/at school.
• What's the big deal anyway?
• Have a spaz, why don't you!
• I want some/buy me this/can I have it/I need this.
• It's not fair.
• Hey, did you know that when you waved at Jenna's mom your arm kind of shook like an old lady arm? Weird.
• I forgot to tell you about the science project due tomorrow/crappy grade on my math test/that I broke a string on my tennis racquet.
• I know I know I know I know I know I know. I KNOW!
• That really wasn't that funny.
• Oh, so that's what's for dinner...

So here's the deal, if they stop saying even a few of these phrases, then I'll make an effort to stop ranting and raving about the full garbage can, the homework, the failure to wake up on time and the inability to remember what time we leave for piano lessons on Mondays.

Actually, on second thought, scratch that last one, because after enough weeks and years of piano lessons, even a complete moron should be able to remember what time we leave.

Mobile Multitasking

A few fun facts:

1. My kids play tennis. Clarification, Zoe plays tennis, but my boys play a lot of tennis.
2. We live in a northwest suburb of Minneapolis.
3. Apparently, the Tennis Court Construction Guys feel that indoor courts are an unnecessary luxury for those of us in the northwest suburbs.
4. After a hop, skip, jump, leap, dos-y-dos and gallop, along with jamming my foot down on the accelerator and cursing at a few other drivers for 17 miles three times a week, we safely arrive at indoor courts.
5. Don't even get me started on how far we drive for weekend tournaments like, for example, I did this past weekend.

When I made the conscious decision to sign my kids up for extracurricular activities, I knew that I would be spending more time in the car than if they were to just sit at home all day with an Xbox controller in their hands and a bag of Chex Mix wedged next to them on the couch. What I wasn't prepared for, though, was how much time I spend in the car. Between the tennis lessons and tournaments, orthodontist appointments, piano lessons, errands, elementary school pick-up and drop-off, more errands and more tennis lessons, it gets to the point where I don't even want to get in my car to go to the bar on a Saturday night. And that's wrong. So very, very wrong.

Most mornings, I try to be organized before I head out the door. This usually means a grocery list, an errand list, a to-do list, maybe a tennis bag or two thrown in the back and a bag of snacks in case someone is absolutely starving after they get picked up. Also, if there are any calls I need to make or emails I need to return, I bring a list of numbers. Then when I'm singing along to the radio and waiting for a kid to appear, I can get something done besides just feeling like an idiot, waiting. And waiting. And getting angry because I'm waiting. This way, when the kid finally appears, I feel productive and angry.

There are times, though, when I find myself sitting behind the wheel with nothing to do. And it's moments like these that make me wonder: what else could I be getting done? I mean, I know I can't cook a pot roast or shake up a martini, and I could always pass the time spying on what the other moms are doing in the school parking lot, (Like last year when, I shit you not, I saw a woman trimming her nose hair.) but there has to be some sort of task that could be completed to make me feel like I'm not wasting decades of my life in the car. And then I found these ideas in the newspaper:

Do menu planning. I think this means I should plan nutritious meals for the entire week that are to be cooked in my home, with ingredients that I have written down and will have time to purchase, and then served at a reasonable time. What this fails to take into consideration is the fact that during the week, when we walk in the door at 6:30 or later, there isn't a lot of time for chopping, braising, saucing and serving. It's more like nuking, yelling, scarfing and homework-ing. At least I can get my grocery list done: hot dogs, buns, noodles, jar of sauce, limes, tonic.

Make doctors' appointments. This suggestion would work for someone that hauls around a ginormous planner with their entire life etched out in ballpoint pen. And although I have a color-coded wall calendar at home (stop laughing), most people I know, including myself, have switched to electronic calendars for when we're on-the-go. Which means that in order to schedule an appointment from my iPhone I'd have to keep saying "Hold on a second, I'll see if that day would work" and then hope like hell that I don't accidentally drop the call while I'm seeing if I can wedge the time between an ortho appointment and a tennis match. Luckily, I don't have to schedule very many doctor appointments. On the other hand, vet appointments for a puppy? Don't even get me started.

Plan date night. For me, hearing the term "date night" churns up the same nausea that the term "play date" manages to trigger. And everyone knows that if you plan anything that requires reservations of any kind, advance tickets, the booking of a babysitter and the purchase of a new piece of apparel, the babysitter will cancel and/or a kid will get sick, probably all over that new piece of apparel. If Doug and I happen to find ourselves with a free Friday night and we're extra thirsty, we go to the bar for beer, onion rings, more beer and hopefully a live band where people are dancing so that we can laugh at them. And we don't call it "date night," we call it "having fun" or "getting drunk."

Pay bills. I won't be doing this in the car, since the sounds of my screaming and crying might make other people worry.

Read. The article says I'm supposed to rip out newspaper and magazine articles and throw them in a tote bag for moments just like these, and this tip makes me laugh. One of my most vivid memories from my childhood is riding around on Sunday mornings in the back of my parents' Buick. The sun was blinding, I was tired and my brothers were on either side of me, still reeking of whatever party they were at the night before. Worst of all, my parents always brought a thermos of coffee and a couple sections of the Sunday paper. The amalgam of all those smells, paired together with the sloshy suspension of a Buick sedan, always resulted in the same thing for me: carsick. So now, even though I can tolerate the smell of my brothers and even like the smell of coffee, one whiff of a newspaper in a car makes my stomach turn. And I'm pretty sure no one needs to see me barfing in the school parking lot.

Catch up with a friend with a phone call. I try to limit the amount of time I spend talking on the phone when I'm actually driving, but because I'd like my conversations to consist of more than "Green means go, Moron!" I admit that I will never not answer my phone. Unless it's that one person. You know who you are. Anyway, for those times that I find myself sitting in a parking lot for the 18th time in a week, this tip is actually useful. But it only works if I'm waiting by myself, because even though it seems like my kids never hear a word I say at home, they hear everything I say when I'm on the phone.

Write birthday cards. Since most people I know would rather receive a phone call or email on their birthday, I don't waste $4.00 (or more) to send birthday cards anymore. I suppose, though, if all birthday cards were like this one, I might reconsider...

Positive Reinforcement

Last year, when Zoe was in kindergarten, having a couple hours of freedom each morning seemed like the ultimate luxury. I would hurriedly run errands, put groceries away and occasionally get a workout in without having to worry about the shortest member of the family getting bored, hungry, thirsty, angry, lost or having to pee, and I loved it. Now that she is in first grade, though, this means that, for the first time ever, all of my kids are in school full-time, and I can't stop smiling. And even though my days of solitude aren't as long as I thought they'd be -- the boys start and end their school day an hour and a half before Zoe's school -- life is good.

Now, after having a week to adjust to this newfound freedom, there are a couple things I've noticed:

1. For the first time in fourteen years, I'm not responsible for getting lunch for anyone besides myself. Well, not responsible after I have made sure that whoever is planning on bringing home lunch on the day that a fish sandwich is on the school menu remembers to actually bring the lunch that I have made. Or making sure that there is money in the lunch accounts. And usually making a lunch for Doug. After all of that, I'm not responsible.
2. Everyone, and I mean everyone, asks me "So what are you doing with all your free time?" and "When are you going back to work?"
3. I've never in the past, and I never will, drink beer with the people that have the balls to ask me these questions.
4. Being able to pee without someone talking to me through the door isn't as luxurious as I thought it would be.
5. The volume on my stereo can be turned up pretty high.
6. For a person that has spent the last few months having kids around them all the time, an hour of solitude is the equivalent of one month in therapy.

So now that I'm not spending my days being constantly pestered with questions or breaking up arguments or hearing pleas of "can I have a ride to ___?", I'm hoping that, when the kids walk in the door after school, I'm a more patient, empathetic and nurturing parent, ready to listen and offer up supportive, nonjudgmental words instead of the usual "what the hell were you thinking?"

As if on cue, I came across a list of phrases that could be used to praise and encourage a child. After all, every kid likes to hear how awesome they are but overworked, stressed out parents don't always know how to express themselves without rolling their eyes, throwing their hands in the air and/or yelling. Now I just need to figure out when to use them:

Scenario: Kid returns home and announces that they forgot a lunchbox at school.

Phrase: Hurray for you!

Scenario: It's 9:30pm, and kid realizes that four pages of homework aren't completed, because they were left at school.

Phrase: Outstanding performance!

Scenario: It's a relaxing Sunday night, until kid pulls a note out of their backpack that says "please send a can of frosting, three pieces of blue felt and a bag of gumdrops to school, by Monday morning."

Phrase: You're on top of it!

Scenario: On the way to piano lessons, kid realizes that they forgot to do three pages of theory.

Phrase: Hip, hip hooray!

Scenario: After walking in the door from tennis, kid puts everything away, except their water bottle, because it's still at the club.

Phrase: I'm glad you are my kid!

Scenario: Enjoying a couple hours of free time by playing Xbox, kid becomes so relaxed that they don't realize it when the phone rings/UPS man arrives/mom is talking to them.

Phrase: You're a real trooper!

Scenario: After being asked to take out the garbage, kid slowly gets up, goes to the bathroom, and promptly forgets to take out the garbage.

Phrase: I appreciate your help! Magnificent!

Scenario: Kid oversleeps after failing to turn on an alarm clock. Again.

Phrase: I'm impressed! Outstanding!

Scenario: On Friday afternoon, husband says "It's been a long week and we're both about to go insane. Let's go to the bar."

Phrase: Wow, you're smart! I like you!

I would have said "Hell yeah I'll go to the bar, even though it's a little too late because I'm already insane," but that phrase wasn't on the list.

Thanks, Mom

(Originally posted on November 23, 2009)

One question that a stay-at-home mom deals with all the time is, "So what exactly do you do all day anyway?" In addition to sitting on the couch with a bag of chips watching a Meredith Baxter Birney marathon on Lifetime, there are times when I find it necessary to mutate into more than a few dozen other people in order to create an efficient, happy household. Several of these roles are often overlooked and taken for granted in the chaos of our day-to-day lives. With the craziness of the holidays quickly approaching, I always carve out some time to reflect on the past and give thanks to these people, just in case my kids get too busy asking for stuff and forget to.

Cleaning Lady. In addition to the monotonous vacuuming/dusting/ de-gunking/scrubbing/sweeping, this kind lady also wipes up sticky spills that mysteriously appear, gets dog barf out of the carpet, unclogs toilets, organizes closets, kills bugs, does endless loads of laundry, and has even been known to iron.

Human Resources. Thank you for encouraging cooperation and empathy, teaching the five-year-old how to use words instead of her clenched fists, solving the famous "Who Touched Who First" dilemma, and managing to get the teenager to say something besides, "Maybe you could be lamer, Charlie."

Landscape Contractor. The lawn is always a welcome place for a picnic or a game of baseball, thanks to the person that weeds, mows, trims, and picks up the dog crap. And contrary to popular belief, I know that this person does not appreciate hearing, "Gross Mom, you missed a pile over here."

Hospitality Manager. After making sure that the bar fridge is stocked with an assortment of beverages and always having snacks on hand, I appreciate this individual's willingness to host science project get-togethers, video game marathons, and the occasional sleepover, no matter how weird the other kids might smell.

Dog Groomer. After brushing the dog, washing the dog, clipping the nails, and drying the dog, the dog seems a little less revolting for at least five hours, unless the stupid dog runs into the backyard and promptly rolls in goose shit. And since the dog groomer isn't insane, expressing the anal glands is not in the job description.

Anesthesiologist. Thank you, Benadryl.

Nurse. An extra-hearty thank you for never giving the 32-pound child an overdose of Motrin, knowing all the tricks to reduce a fever, never doing the dreaded "gasp loudly and make giant eyes" reaction when a kid falls down, spotting a phony, dishing out just the right amount of sympathy when necessary, and making soup.

Psychologist. Somehow, this person is almost always able to win a battle and doesn't care if the kids get mad about the result. She can also tell the difference between when a kid is about to lose it and needs a break, and when the kid needs to suck it up and push himself. The psychologist also knows that the oldest kid doesn't talk very much; but when he finally does, she bakes some pre-made cookie dough and actually listens.

Chauffeur. How do I thank this person enough? Constantly getting kids, sports equipment and backpacks in and out of the car, sometimes passing herself on the freeway, rarely being late, never relinqishing power over the radio, and somehow always having a granola bar and a bottle of water available for a hungry/thirsty kid. How she manages to not scream obscenities at all of the stupid, horrible, texting drivers out there is beyond me.

Activities Coordinator. Scheduling dentist, doctor, and eye appointments, violin, piano, and tennis lessons, haircuts, tennis tournaments, and piano recitals in coordination with the school calendar is no easy feat. At least this person is smart enough to also make time for happy hours and vacations.

Nutritionist. Thank you for having the backbone to say, "No. You cannot have a Sour Patch Kids sandwich for lunch," always having fresh fruit in the house, making dinner every night, and even remembering to feed the dog. Creating a meal that isn't too cheesy, spicy, fatty, gooey, meaty, vegetabley, or squishy is not the easiest thing to do.

There are so many things that moms do everyday, and it's easy to feel like no one notices that the house is clean, there's food in the fridge, the school projects are completed on time, and the beds are made. Some people will try to make you feel better by saying: "It's a thankless job, get used to it," "But the kids are so sweet, treasure every moment," "It's such a privilege that you should appreciate," or some other pointless cliche. I know it's a privilege to not have to drive to work, I wouldn't trade being a mom for anything, and while most days are great, some are the absolute opposite of great. At some point every year, I think every mom should be able to say... "SOMETIMES THIS SUCKS! SAY THANK YOU! And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make a drink. Or three."

Good Morning Is An Oxymoron

I have watched movies about the destruction of the world, zombie attacks, shrinking children, hobbits, hit men, time travel and people switching bodies. But by far the most fictional part of any movie is a scene that shows all of the children sitting together around the kitchen table in the morning, smiling, and the mom is serving up breakfast, smiling.

While next year might be a little easier, right now feels like I'm suffering from a revolving door syndrome because I have three school-age kids getting up at three different times. Most mornings it seems that my primary function is to be a combination of back-up alarm clock and Julie the Cruise Director. Once each person has joined the land of the upright, is actually conscious and muttering understandable words, I then make sure that they eat something for breakfast that won't cause a stomach ache, mid-morning sugar crash or be too filling/not filling enough before they head out the door on time with their teeth brushed, without forgetting anything and hopefully not wearing a non-sucky outfit.

Occasionally things go off without a hitch, but most of the time there's at least a little bit of chaos. Sometimes Zach has to get up earlier than normal so he has to reset his alarm clock, and in the process manages to change the time from a.m. to p.m. There have been several times when Charlie's alarm goes off but the volume is so low that it doesn't actually wake him up. Moments like these don't say "Hey look at me mom, I'm an independent person and even though I can't remember to turn lights off, at least I can get up at a designated time all by myself." They say "Hey, I'm kind of a moron, and even though I can remember what each button does on an Xbox controller, I can't figure out how to use three buttons and a volume knob on a simple $9.99 clock radio."

Fortunately, Zoe wakes up around 8:00 without the need for an alarm. This might be due to the fact that when she was younger we put a clock radio in her room and told her "Don't even think about putting a foot on the floor and getting out of this bed until you see an 8 on that clock." At least once-a-week, though, she lays buried under her down comforter like a 16-year-old and shows no desire to be awake. This is when I have to chant "Zoe get up. Zoe get up. Zoe you have to get up. Zoe you have to go to school. Zoe you're going to be late." The strangest thing is that "I'll just call the teacher and tell her 'Zoe won't be at school today because she wouldn't get out of bed.'" is the threat that always manages to get her up. Once she's finally awake, I switch my chanting to "Zoe eat your breakfast. Zoe eat your breakfast. Zoe you need to eat your breakfast or you're going to be late."

And don't even get me started on how daylight savings has fucked things up.

I realize that I am extremely lucky in that I only have to make sure that three people are up, fed, clothed and out the door on time. I have resigned myself to the fact that unless I have a morning appointment to get to or would like to run errands in something other than a baseball hat and yoga pants, my being showered and presentable is not a priority before 9 a.m. How people that work full-time and also have to get kids to daycare or school without morning breath and in something other than pajamas five-days-a-week pull it off is, to say the least, impressive.

Our spring break is a little over a week away and I am really looking forward to having a week of relaxing mornings to maybe sleep in a little bit, let the kids eat cold cereal straight from the box and sit around in their pajamas. After all, it's not just a week off from school and homework: it's a week off from violin, piano and club tennis.

And then I found out that during spring break Zach has high school tennis practices two times a day, every day, with the first one starting at 8 a.m. DAMMIT!

Minor Miracles

Over the weekend a few things happened that not only amazed me but actually made me think that gee, my kids are actually all right sometimes. Of course there were a couple disagreements and a few snarky remarks, but I was never enraged to the point where I was thinking about running away from home or, at the very least, writing a blog post about it.

In fact, maybe all this bitching, moaning, complaining, alcohol consuming, eye-rolling, nagging, ranting, smacking and yelling is finally paying off. And then it occurred to me that Easter is coming up and they're probably hoping that a short stint of good behavior will make something besides a book and jelly beans appear in their baskets. Either way, I'll take it.

It all started when the kids had the day off from school on Friday. Despite the fact that we left the house at 10:15 a.m., drove a total of 150+ miles, waited for two appointments, watched Zach win a nighttime tennis match and our day didn't end until we walked in the door at 11:00 p.m. no one, not even Zoe, complained.

On Saturday morning, the boys had to get up early and put on dress clothes to play in a piano competition. Again, no complaints and they got in the car on time, to drive another 50 miles.

Zach had a really tough tennis match on Saturday night and Charlie watched the entire thing from beginning to end. Not only did he support his big brother, but he completely sympathized with Zach because of his opponent's playing style. (A note to those of you that know junior tennis: even in 16's, some kids still play moonball.) What impressed me the most was that even though Zach ended up losing, he played hard from beginning to end, never showed any sign of wanting to quit or give up and left the match with as much confidence as he had going into it.

I was worried about how Zoe would handle being up late two nights in a row. Somehow, even though the match didn't start until 8:15 and lasted an hour and a half she sat on the bleachers, played her DS and colored without ever complaining, yelling or having an exhaustion-induced meltdown.

While heading home at almost 10:00, I was hoping that Zoe wouldn't fall asleep. Zach, after having just played a couple hours of tennis, sat by her in the van and quietly sang songs with her for half-an-hour, letting her request songs that he had sang at his Disney-themed choir concert a week ago. It was one honestly of the coolest things I've ever heard.

While I was trying to get caught up with laundry and cleaning on Sunday, I heard four magical words: "Can I help you?"

When I put a bowl of Cheetos/kettle chips/pretzels on the table before friends came over on Sunday night, Zoe looked at it and said "Oh, well where are the carrots?"

Now that all the snow has finally melted off the bushes and the last of the Christmas lights and extension cords are accessible, Charlie not only offered to pull them off and put them away but actually managed to do the job with minimal assistance.

Since I was hardly home this weekend and drove over 300 miles, the bottle of vodka sat mostly untouched. Shockingly enough, I survived this deprivation and am even able to talk about it. Did I survive it and remain sane, though? Well, that's debatable. And as much as I've enjoyed the last few days I'm sure my real kids will be returning on Monday. Oh, and now I have to iron two dress shirts and in case you didn't know, I hate ironing.

Yes, They Practice

When people find out that Zach and Charlie take piano lessons, one of the first questions they ask is, "How old were they when they started lessons," and then they always ask, "How do you get them to practice?" Zach started lessons when he was four, Charlie was six, Zoe will start this fall and as far as practicing, it depends on the day.

Thanks to the monotony of Monday through Friday I never have to remind them to practice during the week because it's something that has become as automatic as brushing their teeth or being a smart ass. But any time there is a change to our schedule, like a day off from school or a weekend, I usually have to remind at least one of them that the piano isn't in our house for decorative purposes.

Did their practicing schedule fall into place the instant they started lessons? No way. After the initial excitement wore off, they discovered that learning how to play the piano is hard. It took at least three or four years before they actually wanted to practice and wanted to get better without being reminded by me, in a very loud voice, to put their ass on the piano bench five times a week.

Fortunately for me, the boys are both really competitive and don't like to publicly suck at the things that they have put time into. They've both seen other students show up at recitals unprepared and have watched them cry on stage, make huge errors, and sometimes even forget how to play their song. Neither of them ever wants to go through this embarrassing experience and they know that the only way to be prepared is to practice.

Since I took several years of piano lessons while growing up and still try to play when I have time, I think that a big motivator for them is that they want to be better than me. After all, they can kick my ass at tennis, they're better at video games than me, so eventually being able to play more difficult piano pieces is bound to happen. I figured since Zach's been taking lessons for about 10 years, I still have a slight advantage over him. And then I took a look at what he's currently learning:

Hmm...maybe I'll start encouraging him to not practice and I should be putting my ass on that piano bench more often.

P.S. Happy birthday, dad. Thanks for paying for all my piano lessons.

It's Tempting, But...

There are times when I feel kind of bad about how much time Zoe spends in the car, but that's what happens when two out of three after-school activities take place 20 miles away from our house. Even though I have a DVD player in the minivan, I only use it if we're going to be driving for an hour or longer because I don't want to have a daily battle about which movie she's going to watch, spend a couple extra minutes before I back out of the garage getting the movie started and then have to wait a few extra minutes when we arrive at our destination because she doesn't want to turn it off yet.

Since she isn't allowed to watch movies and (since I'm not a big fan of having my windows smashed out while horrible people steal things) I don't let her bring her Nintendo DS in the car, she has a couple books, a small Magna Doodle and a calculator to play with. Because of these spectacular diversions she usually doesn't mind getting in the car at least twice a day to run off to whatever activity is on the schedule that she doesn't get to participate in. Judging by her reaction on Monday, though, I should probably put some new toys in the van.

Zach had to stay after school for an extra choir practice (by the way, this school year cannot come to an end soon enough because I am going insane), so instead of riding the bus home, I had to pick him up at 3:50 and then race back to the elementary school because Charlie had to be picked up at 4:00.

After telling her two times to get her shoes on because we had to go go go and getting no response except moaning, I told her a third time with just a hint of anger in my voice. Okay, I yelled. She suggested that I just leave her home by herself and she would watch a movie, have a snack and promised that she wouldn't get scared. Or in her words, "Come on mom. Just go. I'll be fine."

"That's tempting, Zoe, but I can't do that. There's no one here to watch you, and if I leave a five-year-old home alone then the cops will come and they'll put me in jail and I don't want to go to jail." Plus, I would hope that she didn't want me to go to jail, either.

"Oh, well when you go to jail then dad can watch me, cuz he's not in jail yet."

Ha. She said yet. "What do you mean by yet? You think he'll eventually go to jail, but just hasn't been caught?"

"Right. But he won't get caught cuz he drives fast and has a faster car, so the cop won't catch him and put him in jail. So he can watch me when you're at jail. So are you going to go, and I can get a snack and watch a movie?"

Note to self: In addition to basking in the glow of my daughter's love and putting new toys and books in the car to make riding in the minivan more pleasurable for her, put the new toys and books in a new, faster car that can't get caught because then I won't get thrown in jail, which wouldn't matter to Zoe anyway because after all, dad's not in jail. Yet.

What? No More Baseball?

Even though it is only the second day of February, I received an email notifying me that baseball registration has begun, and that clinics would be held throughout the month before tryouts for the traveling team are held in March.

My boys have always played summer baseball but, with the exception of one year, have never tried out for the traveling team. They probably should be trying out, but as Zach says: "I want to be able to do more with my summer than just play baseball. Driving to a tournament every weekend and playing three games a week sounds horrible. Plus, it's more fun to be on a team with my friends." Sometimes, he surprises me by managing to say things that are actually intelligent and not drenched with sarcasm.

Spending summer evenings at a little league field watching a bunch of boys play baseball can be pretty fun, so I hear. Since Zach and Charlie are two years apart in age, they are always on different teams, so game nights for us have usually included more than one game, often overlapping by an hour, and always on the opposite sides of town. As a result, instead of an idyllic evening of sitting in a lawn chair chewing on sunflower seeds, I spend a couple hours driving back and forth, making sure a glove isn't left at the field, eating dinner out of a cooler, and maybe being at a game long enough to see one or two at-bats.

Last year was the first year that Zach didn't play baseball because it overlapped with his tennis season, and I don't think he, or I, missed it. It was great to be able to watch Charlie's games from beginning to end, with the only interruption being Zoe occasionally getting pelted by rocks on the playground. This year, when the registration information came out, I asked Charlie if he wanted to try out for a team since, with only one kid playing, we'd have time. His response was: "I don't think so. In fact, I think I'm done with baseball. I just want to play tennis this summer. Batting messes up my forehand."

I knew this day would eventually arrive, but I wasn't really ready for it to happen this year. On the bright side, I won't have to deal with a stupid snack/drink schedule. Also, having an entire summer of unscheduled evenings will be a great, albeit surreal, experience. And I probably won't miss having to say, "Go get your cleats on and grab your glove because you have practice in fifteen minutes." But to be honest, the thought of no more baseball made me a little sad. I played softball throughout my childhood, into high school, and even played on a couple adult leagues until my boys' schedules took over my life. To think that I will never be able to yell, "Run! Stop looking at the ball and get your butt to second!" or "Throw it to the shortstop! Haven't you ever heard of a cutoff?" again kind of got me choked up.

And that's when I remembered that Zoe is five, which means she is finally old enough to play tee-ball two nights a week. Now all I need is for the damn snow to melt.

But On The Bright Side...

I woke up on Monday morning wondering what I was going to do with all my free time since the kids didn't have school. I originally thought that maybe I could take them out to lunch, or even have Zach babysit so I could get a pedicure. And then I realized that those thoughts were delusional. Zach had a science project to finish and a test to study for, there was a piano lesson and a tennis lesson to get to, and I was hoping to get to the grocery store. Though this was busier than what I would have wanted for a day off from school, I was hoping that with a little bit of advance planning, I could find the time to do something fun. By 9am, I realized those hopes were as fictional as my pedicure.

Good News: No school, so I didn't have to do school drop-off.

Bad News: No school, so the kids are home.

Bad News: The error message "Remove packing material, clear carriage jam" popped up on our two-month-new printer, even though the packing material was removed two months ago.

Good News: After recovering from the shock of talking to an HP customer service rep that was actually knowledgeable, helpful, and understanding, I was told that the printer was a piece of shit, but under warranty, and would be replaced free of charge.

Bad News: The new printer would take five to seven business days to arrive.

More Bad News: Zach had a science project that needed to be printed.

Good News: Somehow managed to get old printer working, but only in black, so hopefully colorful pie charts aren't an integral component of Zach's science project.

Good News: Managed to get to the grocery store during the piano lesson.

Bad News: Forgot bananas.

Random News: In an attempt to be "helpful," Zoe put the hamburger buns on the conveyor belt, after she pulled them through one of the leg holes on the cart. Now they look more like hot dog buns.

Good News: Decided to stop at Target to pick up a prescription and bananas on my way to tennis lessons. Figured I'd better call and make sure that my "take once a day at the same time every day so I don't get knocked up again" drugs had been refilled.

Bad News: Was told that the prescription wouldn't be ready. So, after I dropped Charlie off at tennis, I stopped at grocery store #2 to pick up bananas.

Of-Course-It-Is News: After I got home, I received an automated phone call from Target telling me that "my prescription has automatically been refilled, and is now available for pickup."

Bad News: After dinner, Zach printed his colorless science project report, which also ended up being blackless due to a lack of toner in the backup printer.

Good News: After saving the report on his flash drive, my best friend/ kindred spirit/fellow vodka lover/Mac owner said, "Come on over and print it at my house."

Bad News: Best friend's printer is out of magenta toner, which shouldn't make a difference since we're only printing in black, but printer doesn't understand logic.

Funny News: Best friend shared a disgusting "you won't believe what my dog ate" story. The feminine hygiene item that the dog ate is really, really gross, which is why it made me laugh.

Worst News: This story wasn't told over a couple martinis.

Not Surprising News: I got home, without a printed science project, to find that the 11-year-old had suddenly lost the ability to tell time and doesn't realize it's past his bedtime.

Good News: Zach tells me that he can print the project at school.

Bad News: I will have to bring Zach to school early on Tuesday morning.

Good News: Wave of energy and overwhelming motivation to avoid driving kid to school at 7am hits me, and I decide to get back in the car and go pick up toner, along with my prescription.

Bad News: What the hell am I thinking? The pharmacy is closed. I might as well go to WalMart, which is closer.

Icky News: I went to WalMart. But at least I picked up my friend's magenta toner while I was there.

About Fucking Time News: Science project printed, and the stapler didn't break.

Annoying News: I don't have house plants because I never water them, and sometimes the dog's water dish is empty, but the yellow light on the piano humidifier started flashing, which silently tells me: "THE PIANO NEEDS WATER! THE PIANO NEEDS WATER! THE DAMN PIANO NEEDS WATER!"

Good News: I ignore it until the morning. After all, I'll have time since I don't have to drive Zach to school at 7am.

Good News: After completing his project and studying for a test, Zach went to bed at 10:30. Finally, all the kids are in bed!

Bad News: His door opened 12 seconds later so that he could tell me that the lightbulb in his reading lamp just burned out.

Good News: I have a lightbulb.

Best News: I know that my prescription has been refilled.

Bad News: I discovered I was out of tequila.

Great News: I always have vodka.

The Digital Morning

I've noticed that for a couple hours every weekday morning, I say the same shit over and over again at exactly the same times. Sometimes there are slight variations, but for the most part it's pretty predictable. In order to save my sanity, I've decided to put these phrases on a digital voice recorder. From now on, all I'll have to do is push play and then I'll be able to spend my mornings sucking down coffee, reading the paper, working out, and maybe even indulging in a conversation-free shower.

6:30 No, stupid dog. Go back outside and pee for real this time.

6:50 Zach, you have to cut a few minutes off of your shower.

7:05 Zach, please go brush your teeth.

7:08 Please finish getting ready and then you can read the paper.

7:10 Go brush your teeth, NOW!

7:12 GIVE ME THE SPORTS SECTION!

7:23 Get your shoes on, the bus is coming soon.

7:25 If you miss the bus, I will be the unhappiest person alive.

7:26 GET GOING! THE BUS IS COMING! And zip your coat up.

7:30 Oh, hi Charlie. What's that? Grumble, grumble?

7:45 Get out of bed, Zoe. Yes, now. No, not in five minutes. Now.

7:50 Your waffle is ready, Zoe. Get out of bed!

8:00 Zoe, please eat your breakfast, and go practice piano, Charlie.

8:05 Goodbye, Doug. Have a lovely day.

8:15 Zoe, finish your breakfast. You need to get dressed.

8:17 No, you cannot have more whipped cream.

8:20 You're done? Okay, brush your teeth and get dressed.

8:24 Quit dancing in your underwear and get dressed!

8:28 Yes, we need to brush your hair. No, it won't hurt.

8:30 Don't play anything that will make her cry or get all sweaty.

8:31 I'm going to go take a shower/workout/smoke a joint.

8:36 (while showering) Don't scream over a game of Uno!

8:40 No, you can't have chocolate. It's 8:40. Let me get ready.

8:48 No, you can't have gum. Let me dry my hair.

8:55 No, you can't build a fort. We're leaving in 7 minutes.

8:58 Why must every morning include an argument?

9:02 Please get your boots on. Do you have a snack?

9:03 Yes, you need a hat and mittens. Get your backpack.

9:04 STOP FIGHTING AND GET IN THE CAR!

9:12 Bye! And Zoe, don't hit anyone with your backpack today.

(Sharpie) Face Painting

When my day goes smoothly, I try to claim some credit and optimistically think: "Maybe all my nagging and bitching is finally paying off. Things are definitely getting easier. Yes, I'm a good mom."

Yesterday was one of those days. The house was clean, the laundry started, dinner was in a Crock Pot, I found time to workout, and Zoe was behaving. When Zach got home from school, he practiced piano, and then immediately got started on homework. At 4:30, before I walked out the door to take Charlie to his violin lesson, I told him to move the laundry from the washer to the dryer, start a new load, turn the oven on at 5:50, and keep an eye on Zoe. I know, I was potentially setting myself up for disaster by giving multi-step instructions, but I am at the point where I will risk a few articles of my own clothing in order to teach the kid some self-sufficiency and responsibility.

Instead of walking aimlessly around Walgreens to kill the half-hour that Charlie's lesson takes, I decided to test my luck and get my salt-covered, anxiety-inducing dirty car washed. Bracing myself for a long line at the carwash, I was ecstatic to discover only one car in line ahead of me. Now I was starting to get freaked out. How did my spectacular parenting skills have an impact on the carwash line?

Since I still had a few minutes to spare, I called Zach to make sure that the laundry had been moved and that Zoe was behaving, and was assured by him that: "Yes, everything is fine. I did the laundry and I'm still doing homework. Zoe is playing by herself and not bothering me."

We managed to get home five minutes early because there wasn't any traffic to deal with, and I walked in the door, relaxed as can be and ready to throw breadsticks into the preheated oven. That's when I noticed Zoe's beloved Rubbermaid step stool, positioned so she could reach the pen drawer.

There was a blue Sharpie pen lying on the counter, but where was Zoe? Had she been messing with my grocery list again, writing down things like "monkey butts" and "500 boxes of animal crackers?"

Suddenly, she jumped out from behind a corner and yelled: "Hi mom! Surprise!"

And that's when I saw what the blue pen was used for, and realized that amidst all of my nagging and bitching, I never specifically said, "Don't be an idiot by drawing on your own face."

"Umm, what is that? Why did you draw on your face? With a Sharpie!"

"What? I drew on what? My face? That's crazy. I didn't draw on my face." She was actually convinced that there was nothing on her face.

"Go look in the mirror, and then tell me why your cheek is blue. Unless a blind, psycho clown stopped by to face paint while I was gone, I'm pretty sure you drew on your own face. Plus, you left your step stool out again."

After she smiled at herself in the bathroom mirror and admired her artwork, and saw the step stool, she finally admitted guilt. "Well, I think it's pretty. It's blue!"

Lucky for her, the Sharpie was a non-bleeding, and non-permanent, fine point pen, so with a little bit of scrubbing, the evidence was gone. If it had been the King Size Sharpie, she would have had to go to school looking like she was a member of The Blue Man Group. Fortunately, I'm a fabulous parent and not a moron, so I don't keep King Size Sharpie's in the house, because the temptation to sniff them would be overwhelming.