Culturally Clueless

Hi, my name is Jody. After being adopted and then spending the first few years of my life in the giant metropolis of Wadena, I grew up in Forest Lake, Minnesota. I like cheeseburgers, Irish pubs, Belgian beer, reubens, some seafood, bacon, pizza and pretty much anything that involves potatoes. I do not like Greek food, uncooked meat, chocolate, large quantities of condiments and anything that involves the cooking terms "reduction" or "foam."

And although, technically speaking, I am from South Korea, I hate - as in loathe, despise, detest, abhor, recoil and run away from - Korean food. (except for maybe those beef things on a stick that are saturated in some sort of super sweet sticky sauce stuff. I mean, I've never actually consumed one, but at least the smell doesn't make me want to hurl.) I also don't speak Korean, don't know the names of any major Korean streets, am not familiar with the type of currency used in the country and couldn't give you the names of any political leaders.

When I see someone sitting near me that I have no idea who they are or where they're from or where they live, I have never ever considered striking up a conversation with the opening line of "So, what is your background? What is your culture? Do you eat the native food? Can you speak the language?" So maybe this may come across as being overly sensitive but seriously, why is it that, in this diverse generation when there are ASIANS EVERYWHERE, some people feel the need to strike up this kind of conversation with me? And why can't they immediately figure out that maybe they should just shut the fuck up and go sit far, far away from me and maybe ask that other dude why he's wearing lederhosen?

I am accustomed to always getting mistaken for someone else (coincidentally, it's always an Asian girl that they swear looks just like me), but there are some times when I kind of get caught off guard. Like when that one dude asked me if my daughter could sing in Chinese, or if my boys are good at math, and hey I MUST know a great recipe for Asian lettuce wraps and, while I was grocery shopping, "do I know where the egg roll wrappers are?" One guy actually said "Hey, let me guess where you're from because I've spent some time overseas and am pretty good at telling you guys apart now. So, hmmm, you're... Japanese!"

Yesterday, though, was one of the most bizarre conversations I've ever had to tolerate and since I admit that I was kind of rude in answering this moron's whole "where are you from" line of questioning, all I can say is... DUDE, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Setting: The health club, where I am trying to get Zoe switched from school clothes/shoes to tennis clothes/shoes in a matter of minutes. Moron piped up when Zoe was sitting on the floor, digging through her tennis bag for her water bottle and shoes.

Moron: I just have to ask, where are you from?

Me: Forest Lake

Moron: No, like, where are you from? Culturally?

Me: Forest Lake, but currently in the suburb of Maple Grove

Moron: No, like, where are you fffrrrruuuuuuum.

Me: (trying not to laugh) Oh you mean where I'm fffrrrruuuuuum. Well, that would be South Korea.

Moron: HAH! I knew it! I knew you weren't Chinese! I knew it was Korean! See, I spent a few years over there, working and such, and I thought you looked like them, and then I saw how your daughter was sitting and that told me that for SURE she was from Korea because that's how little Korean girls sit.

Me: (blink blink blinkety blink) Oh, that's weird. Seriously, super weird. But anyway, Zoe is a halfsie. She's half Korean, but her other half is a mishmash of a bunch of non-Asian countries and a generous sprinkling of geek. But that's neat, that Korean girls sit. On the floor.

Moron: So, can we talk?

Me: Isn't that what we're doing?

Moron: No, I mean, can we talk? In Korean?

Me: You can talk, but if it's okay I'll just reply with things like "Hola, margarita, por favor."

Moron: You don't speak Korean? But you're from Korea?

Me: Well, yeah, but there's this really funky new thing called 'adoption' and stuff, and, um, seriously? Is really happening?

Moron: Do you remember that cool place on the river...

Me: Dude, I know no landmarks. Except the spoon on the cherry sculpture.

Moron: Oh, where's that?

Me: Downtown Minneapolis.

Moron: Oh I see. So what area of South Korea are you from?

Me: That area where they were abandoning babies in the early 70's.

Moron: Hmm, yeah, I wasn't there in the 70's. I was there in the early 90's. For work. I worked there for a few years.

Me: Super neat.

Moron: Yes, it was. I'm so surprised that you don't speak the language. Well, it's been nice talking with you!

Me: Definitely interesting.

I am not shitting you. This conversation is almost word for word. I wish I would've recorded it.

Where are your shoes?

Today is Wednesday which, for me, means that I'm periodically checking the computer and waiting for one of my kid's tennis tournament draws to be posted. I don't remember the last time I've experienced a Wednesday without having to go through this suspense, but I'm guessing it was maybe two weeks ago, when the tournament director was really on top of things and posted the draws on Tuesday afternoon instead of making us all wait until Wednesday.

These draws tell me several things:

1. Who my kid will be playing;
2. The time that I'll have to get up, aka ass-crack of dawn;
3. Whose parents I will have to tolerate for three days;
4. If I will have to pack our cooler with breakfast, lunch, dinner or my all time favorite, a combination of all three; and
5. The amount of time I'll have between matches to drive to ______ to purchase ______ for the sum of $____. This is infinitely irritating because ______ should have been packed in the tennis bag but was forgotten at home, even though I reminded someone _____ times to CHECK YOUR BAG AND MAKE SURE YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED!

Like shoes, for example. Shoes are a good thing to have when you're playing tennis. So I've heard.

At the end of July, we experienced a week of tennis that will be forever known as the Barely Controlled Week of Chaos in Which My Family Was Spread Across the Midwest. This week involved Zach flying to Kalamazoo, MI for one national tournament, my husband and I driving Charlie and one of his friends to Omaha for a different national tournament, and Zoe and the dog staying home with my holy-shit-what-did-we-get-ourselves-into-this-time parents. As you can imagine, planning and packing and preparing for a week like this required a little bit of forethought (AND THREW ME INTO CONTROL FREAK BLISS!) and I'm happy to say that nothing was forgotten (HOLY SHIT I TOTALLY KICKED ASS!) Or, clarification, nothing that I was responsible for was forgotten. (BECAUSE, LIKE I SAID, I KICKED ASS!)

The night before we were leaving, while I was triple checking my lists and piling bags up by the door, I gave both boys their lists and told them several times to check their tennis bags, make sure everything is in there and oh yeah, make sure everything is in there. Charlie was all yeah yeah, got it, it's all there, oh wait I need to grab my shoes, hey cool this is what it feels like to have ADHD because I CAN'T FOCUS ON ANYTHING BECAUSE I'M SO FREAKING EXCITED and oh yeah, I was about to grab my sho -------

The drive to Omaha; uneventful. Zach's flight to Kalamazoo; uneventful. The parents staying with the dog and girl; bark barkity bark growl hey old man don't fucking move from that chair bark bark.

After we arrived in Omaha (which is chock full of stoplights that are mostly red) and checked into our swanky hotel, we headed to the courts for tourney registration (here's your t-shirt and bag of shit), parent meeting (don't be a bunch of assholes and embarrass your kids) and a brief practice session. Oh, and did I mention that Omaha in July, in addition to smelling a little like manure, is also hot? Like, hot. And a little humid. But mostly just really, really fucking hot. So after schlepping stuff from the car and listening to some nutrition lady drone on and on about the importance of hydration, I had a pretty good filmy glaze accumulating on every surface of my body and that glaze did not put me in the mood to hear these words: "What did you do with my shoes?"

Let me repeat, in case you missed it the first time because I sure as hell did when I first heard it: What. Did you do. With. My. Shoes.

First of all, what? The fuck? Why would I do anything with your shoes, CHILD!? And did I not nag you 38 times less than 24 hours ago to get your shit together, including your shoes?

Sure enough, there were no shoes. After pulling everything out of that tennis bag that is just slightly smaller than the trunk of most sedans, no court shoes were discovered. What I did discover, however, is that my forehead can sweat A LOT and I can gnash my teeth and mutter swear words so that they're only audible to a certain individual and when that individual hears that gnashing and swearing, their forehead also starts to sweat.

I wiped the sweat off my hands so that I could text my parents to see if there were, in fact, a pair of blue Adidas court shoes sitting in the back closet, just waiting to be shoved into a tennis bag. And while I knew that the answer was going to be yes, I didn't need to receive the text that I did: "We'll have to check later. We're at your brother's house right now, eating burgers and swimming." Okay, then, thanks a lot, hope you get a sunburn.

At that moment, I was kind of at a loss as to what I should do. Obviously I needed to get the kid some shoes because there was no way in hell I was going to default him from five days of matches, but I also needed to make him suffer in some way. Putting thumbtacks into the soles of the new shoes seemed a bit extreme, as did breaking off his thumbs. And that's when, as my kid stood at the fence and watched all of his friends on the courts, I started hearing the most wonderful sounds: Why aren't you hitting, Charlie? (I forgot my shoes). What? You forgot your shoes? At home? (Yes. At home.) How could you forget your shoes? (I dunno.) Ha ha! Did you really forget to bring your shoes? (Yes, I did.) Man, your mom must be mad! (Yes, she is.) Why isn't Charlie hitting? Dude, he forgot his shoes!

Punishment and suffering... check.

And now is when I shamelessly promote my iPhone. Thank you, iPhone, for promptly giving me the name, address and phone number of the nearest pro shop that sold court shoes in my kid's size. Thank you for providing a map so that I could drive directly to said pro shop which, conveniently, was just a few miles away. Thank you, also, for multitasking and allowing me to receive a text from my husband while I was searching for the nearest bar, a text that said "Just tell Charlie it's no big deal. I'll just drive the five hours back to Maple Grove and get his shoes for him." I love being married to a smart ass. A smart ass who also has an iPhone.

Once the shoes were bought (bonus: there was a coupon for this pro shop in the bag of shit that we received at registration) and on my kid's feet, he played his ass off, won a bunch of matches, had way too much fun and was forced to listen to me tell this story to anyone who said "Hey, Charlie got new shoes!"

When Zach heard about what had happened in Omaha, his reaction was exactly as I expected: Holy crap, mom must've been ticked. So you'd think that after watching his brother writhe with discomfort every time we left for a lesson or match and I'd say "Hey, does everyone have their shoes" with just a little less than a crap ton of sarcasm, he'd be super responsible about his own bag and always make sure he had his shit together. I mean, you'd think that, but you'd be wrong.

Over Labor Day weekend, both of the boys played in a tournament at the University of MN. Most of the matches started on Saturday, but Zach ended up with a Friday night match. As usual, I made sure to have the cooler packed (including a flask because it was, after all, a Friday night) and Zach was to have made sure that his bag was packed.

Well before it was time to leave, I found the giant child, sitting on a bench near our back door. Street shoes on, bag on his back, phone in his hand, brain half-way out of his head. I said "Hey, you know we aren't leaving for, like, at least 20 minutes" and he said "Ya, well, ya. K. I'll jus' wait." Since he ready with so much time to spare, I started patting myself on the back while thinking holy shit, man. This is kick ass! He is fired up to win this match! Chalk one up for me cuz all that nagging is paying off!

We drove half-an-hour, dealt with some traffic, found a parking spot amidst all the U-Hauls and Suburbans that were covering the U of M campus (it was move-in weekend) and walked to the tennis center. Just as we got to the door, Zach put his bag down, unzipped it and started channeling his brother: Where are my shoes?

Oh, ha ha hooo ha! That's a good one! Two times in one summer?! No way! Stop it! Seriously, STOP FUCKING WITH ME! Because you know if you were to have really forgot your shoes I would potentially HAVE TO KILL YOU!

1. Yes, he really did forget his shoes.
2. No, I didn't really kill him.
3. I need a bigger flask.

I quickly reviewed my options:

1. Default him from a match that he was sure to win, and be out the $55 tourney registration fee;
2. Drive home, in traffic, to get the shoes, which would probably result in him defaulting because he'd end up being late for his match;
3. Drive to a pro shop that was approximately 10 miles away, plunk down $110 for another pair of shoes, which would look really great sitting next to the other new pair of shoes that were already in the closet at home; or
4. Kill him, then go to the bar.

I know some of you are thinking I should have went with Option #1 (or even #4), but that approach wasn't going to happen. He knew I was mad (as indicated by the flailing arms, spinning head and the chants of "I'M SOOO MAD!"), he felt like a moron, and his dad had pulled out the most scathing of disciplinary words: he said his first and last name.

After spending a few extra seconds glaring at my kid who was wishing he had put his invisibility cloak in his bag, I decided to go with Option #3, stormed out the door and started quickly walking down the sidewalk to the car that was parked in the ramp in the spot that I had pre-paid $10 for. And that's when I remembered that maybe I wouldn't have to drive anywhere because they sold shoes at the U of M's tennis desk! I could just give them $110 in addition to the $55 registration fee that they already had! So, ya know, whoopee for me!

(For future reference: If you ever have the opportunity to throw a shoebox at your kid while he's bent over and tying the shoes that were just in said box, do it. It's really, very cathartic.)

Since then, several more tournaments have been played and several more lessons have been attended and I'm happy to report that so far, no more shoes have been forgotten. Now, if only I could say the same thing about the hats and water bottles.

I'm not fat! I'm just a big asshole!

There are several reasons why I enjoy having a cocktail (or two, or whatever) at the end of a day:

1. Things went exceptionally well and I would like to celebrate the wellness before it goes away. Because we all know that very, very soon, things will most likely be unwell.
2. Things were a little bumpy but hey, the kids are finally locked in their rooms and tomorrow is a new day.
3. The weather just screams "whiskey!"
4. The weather just screams "vodka!"
5. From the moment the alarm clock went off, or actually from ten minutes before the alarm went off, the day was like a pair of rusty pruning shears, jabbing me in the brain. In the same spot, over and over and over again. Until the spot became a festering boil that could only be soothed with booze.

Wednesday was one of those days. Not the awesome day, or even the slightly bumpy day. I had a day filled with jabs. And although each event and irritation may not seem like much, together they added up to something that made me want to scream. And since some of you have a low tolerance for monotony, I'll just summarize the bulk of the day by saying it included a lot of unappreciated meals, misplaced items, exposure to stupidity and missed social outings. If, however, you want more details, you can read about my day here. Otherwise, you can skip reading about all the bullshit and get to the creme de la creme.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

One of the things that I love about the club where my kids play tennis is that they have a designated area for ping pong. This super accessible area is just out of my sight, which means not only do I not have to witness the chaos, I don't have to listen to it, either. Unfortunately, though, I kind of wish I'd been able to see and hear the most recent chaos.

After their lesson and while they're waiting for their sister's lesson to finish, the boys usually head off with their friends to play ping pong, and Wednesday night was no different. The only difference with this last Wednesday night is that there were a couple younger boys (who play hockey, not tennis) that wanted to play. Since my boys know these kids, they were more than happy to include them. So when Charlie walked back to where I was sitting, in tears and holding his elbow, I was like "how in the hell do you hurt yourself playing ping pong?" Well, this is how:

Charlie was playing ping pong with Twin A or, more accurately, Charlie was beating Twin A at ping pong. In the process of losing, Twin A gets angrier and angrier. After he loses, Twin A walks over to my kid, stands directly in front of him and aggressively argues about the score. Charlie says "Fine, you lost 9-11, not 8-11. Whatever." and walks away. As he's walking away, Twin A runs at my kid and body slams him against the wall, holding him there. My kid says "Hey, you're 10 and I'm 13, but you're a lot bigger than me (no joke - the kid probably has 40 pounds on Charlie) so don't do that. Get OFF!" Upon hearing this, Twin A lets him go and immediately decides that he heard my kid say "Hey, dude, you're fat. And you're fat. And did you know you're fat? Wow, you're fat! Get off of me because you know what? YOU'RE FAT!" After Twin A backs up, Charlie removes himself from the wall and walks away, only to be nailed in the right elbow by a flying ping pong paddle that Twin A decided to throw at him. After hurling the paddle, Twin A runs off to find his mommy.

Then the fun times really got rollin'.

Since I know the parents of these twins, I say "Hey, Blondie, what just happened here, and why is my kid's elbow swelling up?" Twin A is now seated next to his mom and immediately cues up the always successful waterworks and "Well, he called me fat!" defensive combination, which should completely justify why he smashed another kid against a wall. Because according to Twin A, not only did Charlie call him fat while he was getting acquainted with the wall but he called him fat several times during their super friendly game of ping pong which, by the way, Twin A lost 8-11.

While I stood there with Charlie trying to figure out what the hell was going on, Blondie, and her blondish husband, included the following points in their son's defense:

• He gets bullied a lot at school for being fat, so he's very sensitive about it.
• He's very competitive and sometimes has a hard time controlling his anger.
• They didn't see what happened so therefore they can't get involved.
• They don't fight their kids' battles for them.
• Kids will be kids.
• Twin B says that yes, he heard Charlie call Twin A fat. Several times, in fact.
• Maybe Charlie and Twin A should go out to the parking lot and finish the argument by fighting it out.
• Boys will be boys.
• They're sure Charlie's elbow will be fine (even though he has a tennis tournament this weekend), but their son is now suffering from emotional abuse.

And then, after I said "Well, Charlie, I guess you should be more careful about who you beat at ping pong," they left. Without apologizing and basically giving their son permission to shove another kid against a wall when he loses, they left.

After talking to my older son and another boy (who happens to be friends with both Charlie and Twin A) who witnessed the entire incident, and being assured by both of them that Charlie never called the kid fat, I handed my kid an ice pack for his elbow and headed to the front desk. There, I learned that children under 12 aren't supposed to be anywhere in the club without parental supervision and that there are surveillance cameras everywhere that will have the entire incident recorded. Oh, and we need to take a picture of that bruised arm so that we have something to attach to the report.

Seriously, if only they would have apologized...

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.

Basically, (other people's) kids suck

I've used this blog to rip on my kids, pick on lazy people, vent about inconsiderate morons, complain about school projects and talk about my hatred of people that insist on texting/eating sloppy joes/putting on make-up/watching Days of Our Lives while driving. Today, however, is best summed up as... other people's children kind of suck.

As you may or may not know, my seventh grader, who is twelve, plays tennis. My ninth grader and soon-to-be seven-year-old also play tennis, but this blog isn't about them. It's about my twelve-year-old.

Now, this kid doesn't just play tennis. He plays tennis. Among his accomplishments:

• Selected by the USTA to attend two camps at the USTA National Training Center in Carson, CA.
• Ranked in the top eight for 12-and-under in the USTA Northern section, which includes Minnesota, western Wisconsin, and eastern North and South Dakota.
• Is a 3-star recruit on TennisRecruiting.net
• Currently playing 3rd singles for the high school varsity. He is the only 7th grader on the team.

During his first season of high school tennis, he has a 16-3 record. Over the past few weeks, he has pulled a win out of close three set matches, beating seniors and team captains along the way. He loves being on the tennis court, and loves the team he's playing on.

Today (if it doesn't rain) is the semifinal sectional match, which is kind of a big deal. Since this is tennis - not football - the amount of school spirit directed towards the team isn't exactly overwhelming. So, in an attempt to let the school body know that "hey by the way, the high school tennis team is pretty damn good this year," all of the boys are wearing their uniforms (white shorts, maroon Dri-Fit shirt, tall black socks) to school today. And of course they just had a match yesterday afternoon, which meant that I quickly did a couple loads of laundry last night so that everything would be ready for this morning.

But Charlie didn't want to wear his uniform to school.

Because he was so sure that he was going to get laughed at by a certain group of kids. Or, in his words, "They're totally going to make fun of me and won't care. They'll just think I'm stupid."

I know kids are mean and that they say things to other kids without thinking first -- this will never change, and there's nothing I can do about it. But right now, I'm pissed off, I hate the fact that my kid is being made to feel bad about something he's good at and passionate about and, if you happen to hear about a zit-faced seventh grader that got nailed in the side of the head by a Babolat racquet, I didn't do it.

It was probably my kid, after I gave him permission.

Married to the Mean Mom Has a Birthday

Yay for today being my husband's birthday! Ideally, I would have loved to have been the kind of wonderful wife who plans an entire weekend of festivities based on birthday based fun fun fun, but since we live in reality and have these things called 'kids', not only did that not happen, but it's not going to happen today, either.

Good news: He had a lot of time to himself over the weekend to sleep in, read, play Xbox, workout and watch the Australian Open.

Bad news: He had a lot of time to himself because the kids and I were at a tennis tournament, which means that he had to play with the 24-hour play machine, also known as the puppy. Also, all time spent reading or playing a game was constantly interrupted by texts from me saying things like "Up 3-2, playing great, missing some forehands" or "please bail me out of jail after I kill a few of these moms." In addition, the kids and I knew the results of the men's and women's Australian Open finals, but because he managed to resist the urge to check the results, we couldn't even talk about the match while he watched it by himself. And sleeping in didn't really happen either because even though I tried to be quiet at 6:45 in the morning, I'm sure he heard me whispering "We are leaving in five minutes! Get your teeth brushed and your tennis bag packed NOW!"

Good news: He had Zoe home on Sunday to play with the dog and keep him company while I took the boys to their matches.

Bad news: Zoe woke up with a cough and a low fever, which meant that she spent the day on the couch, coughing and moaning about her low fever, but not really playing with the dog very much.

Good news: Zoe was feeling better last night so we went out to dinner to celebrate.

Bad news: Zoe felt better for the length of the car ride, after which she promptly declared herself as 'freezing to death' before her fever instantly spiked to 102. Mozzarella sticks eaten = one, which coincidentally is also the number of beers that each of us had.

Worse news: Like I said before, we each only had one beer! And he had to drive home so that I could hold fever girl in the car.

Good news: He had the whole bed to himself last night, with the door completely shut, and was able to get an uninterrupted night of sleep.

Bad news: He had the whole bed to himself last night because I was sleeping in Zoe's room, waking up every half-hour or so to hear her either cough coughity cough or talk in her sleep saying "sorry I'm really sorry oops did I do that I didn't mean to sorry." And it wasn't the fact that she was talking in her sleep that was freaking me out, it was that I didn't really know she was capable of saying the word 'sorry'. Anyway, since I managed to get about 2.6 hours of sleep last night, Doug may want to think twice before he opens that bedroom door and tries to communicate with me.

Good news: He took today off so that we could sleep in a little and we could see a Coen brothers movie.

Bad news: Zach managed to suffer from alarm clock user error AGAIN so I was whispering AGAIN, something like "oh my god I'm going to put that phone somewhere that you will never be able to not notice that alarm going off." Also, the boys don't have the motor skills necessary to shut the bathroom door without anything less than a sharp thunking sound. And even though Zoe took a break from the fever for a few hours last night, it has returned just in time for Monday morning. Which means that a bloody, obscenity-filled movie and fatty popcorn has now morphed into girl on couch, Buzz & Woody and Orville Redenbacher.

Good news: I'm going to make him something great for dinner today.

Bad news: I have no idea what that great thing is because since I was home for exactly 10 hours this weekend, we have nothing in the house that screams "the preparation and sauteeing of me will result in a delectable birthday dinner." We do, however, have something that says "Look at me, I'm a frozen pizza."

Worse news: Whatever I do end up whipping together will have to be eaten early, because the boys have a piano lesson tonight.

Good news: Like I said before, he took the day off from work and coincidentally, it snowed last night. Yay for not having to celebrate a birthday by sitting in two hours of morning traffic on a Monday morning!

Better news: I shoveled the driveway this morning.

Bad news: I now smell like I shoveled the driveway this morning, and for all of you that live in a cold, snowy climate and have spent any amount of time outdoors doing something besides standing still, you know what smell I'm talking about. And since Zoe is sick and will be expecting me to be her beck-and-call girl, who knows when I'll be able to find time for a shower.

Good news: I wrote a birthday blog for Doug last year, and hopefully if he reads it again, it'll make him feel happy enough to be able to forget about how potentially crappy this year's birthday could turn out to be.

I Kind of Suck At This

After reading some blog posts from the past, I realize that over the last year I've bitched and moaned on a pretty consistent basis about my kids' helplessness. I dream about the day that they are able to recognize a full garbage can, follow six-step directions without forgetting steps 2 - 5 and be able to keep track of when bedtime is approaching. The moment that they realize I can't be at home making something for dinner while simultaneously driving them around will certainly be a day for the record books. And what if -- seriously stretch the imagination here -- they were to ever figure out that they should get their shoes and coats on, without being told, five minutes before the time that we're supposed to leave!

Seriously, if I were ever to discover all three kids standing by the door with their shit ready to go at 11:28 after telling them that we're leaving at 11:30, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to drive to wherever it is that we were going because I'd be hyperventilating and suffering from shock. There are times that after seeing lifeless lumps on the couch or listening to a soon-to-turn-violent game of tabletop ping pong, I think hell no, man! Today is the day that I am NOT going to remind them to start getting ready! I am going to just put my coat on and walk out the door, and if they aren't ready, well then SCREW THEM! I'm leaving them behind! That'll teach them! And then, sure enough, as the time approaches, I cave in and shout a couple reminders, wait for them to get shoes on and then head out the door on time. Why do I do this? Well, because the piano lessons are kind of expensive so it would be pretty pointless to show up without the kids, and because I'm pathetic. And lately, I've taken advantage of the opportunity to be pathetic a lot.

Kid #1: I swear this kid's brain shuts off the moment he climbs out of bed in the morning. I say things like "Hey, do you want me to get some of those cookies you really like with the macadamia nuts in them" and all I get is a vacant stare and an "ummm, I've no idea what you're talkin' about. What cookeeeezzzz?" Every response and demand has a little extra uuuuhhhhhzzzzzz to it, with a sigh or four thrown in for good measure. One morning, I made the fatal elementary error of saying something so stupid as "Make sure everything is in your backpack and you're not forgetting anything." You're-a-stupid-mom lasers shot from his eyes as he said "Of courssseeee everything's there. Duuuuuhhhhhh." So I, logically, assumed he had it covered.

As soon as all the kids were out the door, I sat down at the computer to return some emails, drink coffee and do a little Facebook creeping. As soon as I sat down I noticed a very familiar green binder sitting by the keyboard. A binder that had the words "Science" and my kid's name on it. Well, that can't be right because I was assuuuurrrreeeddd that everything was taken care of and dddduuuuuhhh! My initial ha-ha-this-will-teach-my-kid-a-lesson instincts said that I should keep my ass in the spinny chair, my non-travel coffee mug in my hand and not only not take the binder to school, but maybe even hide the binder. And then the stupid invasive bitch that lives inside my brain piped up and reminded me that this kid has yet to miss even one point in science this trimester, and boy oh boy wouldn't it be a bummer for him to miss a few points just because he couldn't turn in the homework that he had completed over the weekend. After all, this was the first time he'd forgotten to take something to school all year!

So what did I do? Of course I grabbed the binder, put on my coat and then walked out the door, without my coffee and without even brushing my teeth. And then after I delivered the binder to the junior high, I figured I'd continue my I'm-a-loser-mom morning by running into Costco to get some of those macadamia nut cookies that he doesn't really remember if he likes or not, but I know are his favorites.

Kids #1 and #2: Most days, my boys are pretty good about making sure their clothes end up in a laundry basket. Lately, I've noticed that they seem to derive enjoyment out of leaving one sweatshirt or pair of pants in the middle of their floor -- sort of an "I'm not as anal as my mom" statement -- but otherwise things are pretty predictable. Until, that is, dress clothes get thrown into the rotation. For some reason, a pants hanger confuses the hell out of them and they're never quite sure if the dress shirt should go in the laundry or not, even though they just got done playing in a piano recital held in a room "hotter than the surface of the sun," as my husband so eloquently put it.

Last Sunday, Zoe and I missed the boys' piano recital and instead drove (well, technically I drove while Zoe watched Toy Story 3 and laughed her ass off) a little over two hours in each direction to spend a whopping 40 minutes at a wake for my great-aunt. By the time I got home, I was mentally shot and hopeful that I wouldn't have to do anything besides wash my face, put on the most hideous flannel pajamas I could find and drink a beer. What I was definitely NOT in the mood for was finding two sets of dress clothes piled in the middle of two different bedroom floors, showing zero evidence of a boy trying to be helpful or self-sufficient. What I instead saw was two boys who figured they could just drop the clothes wherever they wanted to and mom would take care of it because, as we all know, mom always takes care of it. And after all, that Xbox wasn't going to play itself!

Now, I could have dug deep and found the energy to walk from our upper level to the lower level, found more energy to wave my arms around while I yelled at the lazy boys and then stomped back to the upper level to show them for the 38th time how to operate a pant's hanger. But then I probably would have just ended up being even madder because I would have had to stand there and watch them fumble with the complicated contraption because even though they could easily operate a controller for every game console ever made, the mechanics of this particular hanger were just. Too. Darn. Hard.

And then the dog chewed on one of the collar stays, which made me start thinking: if piano teachers and the organizations that support music education for teenagers really want to encourage kids -- boys, in particular -- to continue taking piano lessons, perform in recitals and not drop out, maybe they should stop requiring them to dress up in things that require funky hangers, collar stays and ironing skills. Because if they wouldn't have had to dress up for this particular recital, then I'm sure the clothes would have ended up in the laundry basket instead of the floor, which would mean that I wouldn't have had to pick everything up for them.

Kid #3: Since I've obviously failed miserably in teaching the first two kids how to use common sense and be responsible, I decided at the beginning of this school year that I would leave the packing of Zoe's backpack each morning up to her, and her alone. I envisioned her spending several days walking the school hallways in snowboots because tennis shoes were left in the closet, a few days of recess spent indoors because snowpants were hanging on a hook at home and more than a bookshelf full of overdue library books. So, where exactly am I on this well-intentioned project? Here is how most mornings go:

• You need to put a snack in your backpack.
• Today you're eating home lunch. Get it out of the fridge.
• Where are your shoes?
• No, don't put them there, stick them in like this.
• What about your snowpants?
• No, they don't fit that way. Here let me do it.
• Just, give them to me! Now get your lunch.
• Wait, where is your water bottle?
• You still need a snack.
• It's library day. Go get your book off of the table.
• It's 10 degrees outside. Please put your coat on.
• Yes you need mittens and a hat.
• Put your boots on, too.
• Get away from the dog's butt and put your boots on!
• Go get in the car. Wait, where are your mittens?

So, yeah, things are going pretty much how I predicted they would and I won't be surprised when the UPS man delivers my Pathetic Mom of the Year Award sometime around spring break. After all, that's when the boys' high school tennis season starts which means I'll get to do more driving, more laundry, prepare more meals on-the-go and best of all, have even more opportunities to be pathetic.

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...

A Productive Weekend

One week ago today, I was in Surprise, Arizona with eight 14-yr-olds (actually, one of the girls is only twelve but she acts 16, which averages out to her being 14) for the USTA Junior Team Tennis National Championships. Following a summer of matches and a sectional tournament, sixteen out of 6,000 teams from around the country made it to this tournament and after some amazing tennis, our team won the championship.

In addition to watching some matches that probably shaved a few years off my life, a couple other amazing things happened that, even though they're not more impressive than our insanely fit and slightly scary to look at mixed doubles team, definitely made the weekend memorable.

• We arrived at the airport for an early morning flight with all of the kids and luggage accounted for, on time, without stress.
• Zoe woke up at 5:30, got dressed and got in the car without one trace of opposition.
• Since the matches started at 7:30 each morning, the kids had to get up really early in order to have time to eat something and not play tennis in their pajamas. Shockingly enough, out of eight kids over three mornings of getting up, only one kid (mine) overslept one time.
• I successfully navigated unfamiliar streets while driving a Suburban crammed with eight kids and myself, with the music cranked, and never acquired a speeding ticket, parking ticket, dent or flat tire.
• However, while running out for a 6-pack of beer, another mom did manage to blow a tire. But to tell you how kick ass this woman is, in addition to returning to the hotel with a flat, she also returned with the 6-pack.
• Not one sweatshirt, water bottle, tennis bag or cooler was left behind at the tennis courts.
• I taught the kids how to suck helium out of a balloon.
• I impressed a few boys with my ultra-efficient method of putting peanut butter on a toasted bagel. Apparently, it's the little things that matter.
• Another mom and I shared a hotel room (with Zoe) and managed to not make each other crazy. In fact, we're now even better friends than before we left.
• Four adults and nine kids checked out of four non-trashed hotel rooms, on time (because we had to request late check-out), without anyone bursting into tears, screaming or, most importantly of all, forgetting anything.
• No one sustained any injuries or illness.
• Although I did drink a few beers over the weekend, I somehow managed to survive without any vodka.

And then there is Zoe. This girl basically skipped and sang through four days of being told what to do, when to do it, when to get up, when to go to bed, that we didn't have time for her to swim even though we were in Arizona and the sun was out, when to be quiet, when to cheer louder, when to sit still, when she could eat, no she couldn't have ice cream, no I'm not spending $5.00 on cotton candy and for crying out loud just go to the bathroom now because we won't have time to find one later! She sailed through two turbulence-filled flights at weird times of the day, including a return flight that landed after midnight. Throughout all of this, she figured out exactly how to cheer against the opponent and discovered that she had the confidence to look a boy (from Texas who was more than twice her size) in the eye and tell him "You played my brother and you called a ball out that was actually in. You cheated. We're mad at you."

There were only a couple times that I detected some exhaustion and potential crabbiness coming out, and one of those moments was so obvious that a USTA photographer saw it, snapped a picture and then promptly posted it on their national website.

So thank you, Zoe, for managing to pull out some good behavior when I needed you to, not driving all of Zach's friends to insanity and not making me look like that crazy lunatic stressed-out screaming mom that can't even survive one weekend without vodka. You know, the mom that you see when you're at home in Minnesota.

The Cheering Section

I remember a time when Friday night's schedule included nothing but unwinding from a busy week via happy hour, maybe hanging out with friends or occasionally going out to dinner. Now that my kids are older, though, the last four Friday nights have meant packing up for a weekend tennis tournament that has included a Friday evening match time. Does this make me a candidate for parent of the year? No. Since I'm not able to crack open a bottle until after 9:00, do my kids realize the happy hour sacrifices that I've been making? Absolutely not. Does this make me borderline insane? Definitely.

After spending so much time at such a wide variety of tennis matches over the last month, I've had the displeasure of coming into contact with pretty much every type of annoying sports-watching parent out there. Therefore, I have decided to write a little list of rules, guidelines and basic tips so that people can get a clue, stop embarrassing themselves and, most important of all, stop pissing me off.

The Mean Mom's Guide to

Parenting and Not Being Batshit Insane

While Watching Junior Sports

Like (for example) Tennis

• During the game/set/match, don't sit by the opponent's parents. You may be best friends, but that doesn't mean you need to be best friends while your kids are taking the current situation very seriously and trying to beat each other, preferably without splitting sets. It's kind of awkward for everyone, especially for your kids who definitely notice you guys sitting next to each other and can't help but wonder what it is you're laughing about during the changeovers.
• If you do insist on sitting by the opponent's parents and your kid is the one getting beat, don't say things like "Oh man, little Johnny is playing like crap today. Little Johnny is doing so bad. Wow, is little Johnny ever having an off day." Instead, stop making excuses and give a little credit to the kid whose great playing skills are being rewarded with a win.
• If your kid is acting like an immature little shit and displaying horrible sportsmanship during a match by yelling, smashing equipment, screaming obscenities, cheating or any combination of the above, do not rationalize his behavior by saying stupid things like "He's just so passionate about winning and is such a competitor" or "He's still young and gets so emotional about big points." You honestly think that the kid acting like a civil human being isn't passionate and doesn't care about winning? And if you think that your kid isn't old enough to be able to handle himself on the court and behave for two sets, then your kid probably isn't old enough to be playing tournaments.
• Pay attention to what other parents are doing around you. Do you see them coaching their kid from the stands? Are they cheering for each and every point by clapping loudly and screaming? If not, then please notice that everyone else is looking at you while thinking "PLEASE GET A FUCKING CLUE AND SHUT THE HELL UP!" and come to the conclusion that you shouldn't do these things, either.
• Come prepared for the day. Kids get hungry after running around a tennis court for an hour and a half, sometimes longer. I always pack a cooler for my kids, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I've packed enough for your kid, too. Stop assuming that everyone is always going to be so generous with an extra sandwich or granola bar. We may not always be able to remember the first names of every single tennis parent, but eventually, after enough tournaments, no one will be able to forget yours: Mooch.
• If your kid loses, try to refrain from talking to him about the match for at least 20 minutes. He needs time to process what just happened and the only thing that will result from an immediate barrage of advice or criticism from you is anger from him. It doesn't matter if you say "It's amazing you managed to hit any forehands out there since your head was up your ass" or "Wow, that sure was a fun match to watch!" Even if you say "I thought you played great," the result will be the same: tears and anger and a kid that is now 100% sure that his parents absolutely, positively, without a doubt, do not get it.
• If you do insist on confronting your kid immediately after losing a match, please go outside and do it in private. We don't want to see him cry.
• Try to remember that no one is perfect, no one wins every single match or every tournament they enter and even the best players have off-days. And even though this rule is hard to remember, after a lot of practice it does get easier. I should know, since I've had the opportunity to remind myself of it every Friday and Saturday for the last four weeks.

Basic Math

As you know, there are a few things that irritate me. No, really, there are. One thing that I haven't mentioned, though, is scratches on my car or, to be more honest, my minivan. And the only thing more irritating than scratches left by strangers that are incapable of leaving a "Sorry about the gouge in your door, ma'am" (because obviously it would be addressed to ma'am -- it's a minivan, but I don't know for sure since I have yet to encounter a person kind enough to leave a note), is gouges caused by my kids. Let's label these gouges "A".

When I finally pull into the garage after spending a day at tennis and whatever else I may have found time to do, there is always a shit load of stuff to haul out of the car. In addition to three tennis bags, a bag of swimming stuff, my gym bag and a cooler, there's usually a couple bags from an errand I miraculously managed to run between lessons, maybe a bag of dog food, an additional cooler containing non-rotting groceries or, on really good days, a case of beer. Let's label all of this crap "B".

Since I'm not a pack mule (or at least I wasn't the last time I checked), it usually takes me at least two trips to get all of this crap into the house, which means that the back door of my minivan gets left open. Let's label the open door "C".

Due to the fact that we kind of loathe a couple people in our cul de sac, we usually hit the button and close the garage door within seconds after getting out of the car. It's our little way of saying "Yes, you saw us come home but no, we don't want to talk to you because you're an annoying prick who insists on using his leaf blower at 9:30 at night." Even if these neighbors aren't home when we get home, it's become a habit to hit the button. Let's label this door shutting habit "D".

My minivan is dark blue. Let's label my minivan "E".

Even though Zach hears what is coming out of my mouth, like "Zach don't shut the garage door because the back door is still open", he doesn't always comprehend what it is that I'm saying. For example, instead of "don't shut the door," he hears me saying "Yes, of course I want you to shut the garage door, drop everything in the laundry room and then disappear to the basement and grab an Xbox controller." Let's label this inability to understand your mom even though she's speaking English "F".

I like vodka, which I will label "V".

So, basically this is what happened: C on E + D + F = Several lines of A on C caused by the metal on the garage door dragging down half of C. I yelled "NO!", Zach yelled "HOLY FREAK OUT I'M SORRY ALREADY GEEZ!" and then, because I really don't like having scratches on my minivan, I promptly reached for V. Or, in other words, having kids = V.

Establishing My Identity

One of the most common complaints about becoming a mom is that it's easy to lose your identity. Suddenly everyone knows you only as Julie's Mom or Kyle's Mom, and every question and conversation that used to involve nothing more than you, you and a little more about you is all about them. For example:

How are you? --> How are the kids?

You look great! --> You look great, for someone that's had 3 kids.

Nice to see you! --> Nice to see the kids.

Let's go to happy hour! --> Let's meet at the park.

Do you have a Red Bull? --> Do you have a juice box?

I just bought a BMW M5. --> I just bought a minivan.

Do you have a mint? --> Do you a couple rolls of Smarties?

Dammit! It's last call! --> I only have the sitter until 10:00.

I love your shoes! --> I love your daughter's shoes.

Even my own kids find it hard to believe that I had a life before them and that at one point, I was a much thinner/occasionally fun person and found pleasure in more than just stain removal, driving a minivan to piano lessons and cooking semi-edible food. It's surprising to them that I had conversations in my own home that involved using obscenities without muttering, complained about my size 4's being too roomy and could go an entire month without ever having to say "don't squeeze the juice box."

But since I'm not one to dwell on the past (besides, I've tried and it's not as much fun as it sounds), I've decided to focus more on my current mom-self and make sure that they start noticing my finer qualities, not the side of me that is best described as "ape shit insane control freak perfectionist sarcasm queen." So, throughout the last weekend (which by the way, involved spending another bazillion hours at two different tennis tournaments with a couple dozen tennis players/ friends from our club), I tried really hard to always be prepared, patient, encouraging, anti-embarrassing and supportive, and hoped that the short people that share my last name learned something about me.

Crisis #1: One of the coaches was really hungry, but didn't have time to go buy something to eat.

Solution: I had an extra sandwich in my cooler, which I gladly handed over.

Lesson Learned: Mom is generous and always happy to feed others.

Crisis #2: Another player's mom asked if I could give her daughter a ride to the 8am matches on Monday morning. I, of course, said sure. After arriving in their driveway, on time, and seeing that no one was coming out of the house, doorbells were rang and phone calls were placed, resulting in player and player's mom being woken up and slightly embarrassed.

Solution: They were going to have to drive themselves, and my focus instantly switched to getting my own kids to the match on time as I pictured the chaos taking place in the house that I just left.

Lesson Learned: Mom never lets people oversleep and is a great, if sometimes irritated, back-up alarm clock.

Crisis #3: Over the course of the weekend, various players had: skinned knees, a headache, an unexpected period, too much sun exposure, a dying iPhone, a worn grip, and a parking meter that was about to expire.

Solution: I had band-aids, Advil, a tampon, sunscreen, a phone charger, an extra grip and spare quarters.

Lesson Learned: Mom is always hyper-prepared, embarrassingly organized and is always willing to share.

Crisis #4: During one of Charlie's doubles matches, another mom insisted on sitting right next to me. This normally wouldn't be a problem, except for the fact that she had the world's worst case of B.O. and I was sitting downwind from her. I couldn't think straight, I seriously almost gagged and my vision was temporarily blurred.

Solution: I made up some lame excuse like "I should go check and see what Zoe is up to" and left the bleachers. Charlie asked me later why I left the match and when I told him the reason he couldn't stop laughing.

Lesson Learned: Mom will lie in order to avoid disgusting situations, oxygen deprivation, or death.

Crisis #5: After arriving home on Saturday night, my kid was bummed because he had worn his favorite tennis shirt all day and needed to be back at the courts at 8:00 Sunday morning. There would be no time for laundry to be done, so he wouldn't have his favorite tennis shirt.

Solution: When kid woke up on Sunday morning, he discovered that not only had I already worked out and showered, but his clean tennis shirt had magically appeared outside his bedroom door.

Lesson Learned: Mom doesn't sleep.

Crisis #6: After a couple months of saying "don't forget your water bottle," sure enough, one of my kid's forgot his water bottle at home.

Solution: I calmly said "That's okay, we'll figure something out" and I asked another mom if she had an extra water.

Lesson Learned: Mom doesn't always spaz out over minor things after all and will, in fact, ask other people for something once in a while.

Crisis #7: After a great weekend of tennis that included A) Charlie winning a Level 5 (aka really hard tournament) consolation singles championship, B) Zach's USTA 14U team winning the sectional championship and earning a trip to the Team Tennis Nationals in Arizona, and C) Our club's 18U team also earning a trip to Nationals, a bunch of the players wanted to go out to dinner to celebrate. I was covered in sweat residue and dirt and had kind of forgotten what my house looked like, and I wanted to go home. But the boys really wanted to go out with their friends.

Solution: The place they wanted to go had beer and onion rings, so I said 'kay.

Lesson Learned: Mom is willing to make sacrifices for her kids' enjoyment, especially if there is beer involved.

Crisis #8: It was a long weekend that involved getting up early, sitting on hot courts, eating out of a cooler and getting to bed late. And even though she wasn't playing tennis, Zoe attended all of it and managed to stay pleasant -- until Tuesday morning. And Charlie loved spending time with his friends and was in a great mood -- until Tuesday morning. And Zach is, well, a teenager. So when Zoe snapped at Zach, he snapped back, forcing her into tears and sending Charlie stomping off in a "what did I do?" rant.

Solution: I said "Everyone stop talking and take a ten-minute break from each other, because you're all crabby." Zach said no, I don't think that's it. I think the only one that's crabby is you.

Lesson Learned: Zach now knows that he should never, ever, under any circumstances, accuse me of being crabby. And I'm pretty sure that from now on, he won't be forgetting his water bottle, since it's now firmly implanted in his left nostril.