Suck it Up!

We all know parents that do the dreaded Gasp of Sympathy every time a kid falls down. Whether they see their kid hit their head on a table, trip on a curb, fall off a bike, slip on a patch of ice or tumble into a vat of glass shards, some parents have no self-control. Before the kid has even hit the pavement the mom's eyes quadruple in size and she has inhaled so deeply that it always surprises me when I discover that there's any oxygen left for the rest of us.

While I try desperately not to fall into this category, I was guilty of it one time when Zach was in second grade. After his scooter hit a crumbling piece of sidewalk, he went flying off the thing and he used his left elbow to break his fall. I didn't gasp when he fell, but as soon as I saw his misshapen elbow I made a sucking noise that was the equivalent of me saying OH MY HOLY HELL YOUR ARM IS GROTESQUE THEY'RE PROBABLY GOING TO HAVE TO AMPUTATE. This of course threw him into a little bit of a panic, but thanks to Doug giving me a look that felt like a smack in the face, my composure quickly returned and I was able to think logically. Turns out that while his arm was in fact broken, it wasn't broken very badly and his elbow wasn't even misshapen. Apparently when someone has really skinny arms, it looks like that all the time.

Ever since that episode of unwarranted fear and panic, my kids know that it takes quite a bit of pain and discomfort to push my sympathy button. After all, they're old enough to get an ice pack out of the freezer and they all know where the Band-Aids are kept. If the injury is really severe and there are tears involved I may even get the Band-Aid for them, offer up a dose of Advil and even say something really consoling like gee, I'll bet that hurts a little bit, good thing you'll recover.

While I was at Zoe's tennis lesson a couple days ago, I discovered that she has acquired my suck-it-up mentality. When the kid that she does lessons with fell down and started to cry, she just stood there and looked at him with a bewildered expression. Don't get me wrong, Zoe cries about something almost every day, but it's usually about:

1. Losing
2. Not getting her way
3. Starving, even though she just "ate" lunch
4. Losing
5. Something that Charlie did wrong or didn't do right

Instead of crying when she gets hurt, she usually displays anger and rage (often accompanied by embarrassment) to a degree that you wouldn't think a 34-pound girl was capable of achieving. So when this kid grabbed his knee and wailed, her first reaction was to put her hands in the air and then say "Oh come on. It's not that bad. I don't even see any blood, it's just a white scrapey thing. You'll be fine."

I just stood there beaming with pride while his mom leapt to her feet and consoled him. Zoe looked at me with a what-a-wuss look, shrugged her shoulders and then went back onto the tennis court and took advantage of some one-on-one time with her coach.

Later, after I had donated a Band-Aid from Zoe's tennis bag and the kid's tears had been dried, he went back onto the court but was obviously distracted by the presence of the Band-Aid. Zoe seemed happy to have her friend back, until he missed a shot.

"You missed! Stop picking at your ow and pay attention!" she barked before hitting a backhand.

I was amazed and overwhelmed and somehow managed to resist the urge to run onto the court to give her a hug. How in the hell did my thoughts come out of her mouth? And she even managed to use the perfect tone of voice. What a girl.

Sorry To Inconvenience You

On Sunday afternoon I voluntarily drove around our over-populated suburb and went shoe shopping with my husband. How much time did this take, you ask? Let's just say that it was more than one hour, but less than six. Now before you start thinking "Ah ha! The Mean Mom said that she would never rip on her husband, but I knew she'd cave at some point! I can't wait to read about how horrendous it was!" I have to admit that it was actually pretty tolerable and even enjoyable. After all, I wasn't under any pressure to find shoes for myself or the kids, the boys were left at home and I took advantage of the opportunity to point out several items that I really liked because you never know when Doug will be overwhelmed with the urge to shower me with gifts.

Due to the fact that the majority of men's shoes consist of little more than hideous hunks of leather and fabric sewn together into something that resembles the shape of a foot, we had to go to a few different stores to find something that he liked. How many stores exactly, you ask? Let's just say that it was more than one, but fewer than six. We did manage to find a pair at store #2 that didn't make me wince with disgust, but unfortunately they didn't have the right size. Since I like to be efficient and don't really derive joy from making wasted trips, I figured I'd call store #3 to see if they had the correct size before we drove there.

Now is when the bitching starts, but it still isn't about Doug.

I had a coupon for store #3 but of course the coupon was at home. Since I knew exactly where the coupon was I called Zach so that he could look at it and give me the phone number. As soon as he answered his phone, though, I knew that I had interrupted a critical video game marathon and that there was no way in hell this conversation was going to result in me having a phone number.

I told him to look in the cabinet in the kitchen where I keep the calendar. "What cabinet? Where?" That long door, in the kitchen, by the fridge, where the calendar has been hanging for the last ten years. "Oh why didn't you say so in the first place." Open the door and look on the top shelf. "What? The bottom shelf? All I see are bags." No, the top shelf. There's a coupon for a shoe store. Do you see it? "Start over. I see no coupon on the bottom shelf. Oh wait. Here it is on the top shelf, not the bottom shelf. What do you want?" Please tell me the phone number. "I don't see a phone number. I just see a coupon." Please open your eyes, turn on your brain and decipher numbers. And stop making me want to hurt you.

Doug was listening to my end of this riveting conversation and could see the beads of sweat forming on my hairline. Since we still hadn't found a pair of shoes for him and he didn't want me to lose my mind and start screaming in public, he pulled out his iPhone and said "Here, I'll just look it up."

Within ten seconds Doug had found the phone number and I had pretty much hung up on my limited-use-of-the-English-language kid. After another 20 seconds I found out that store #3 not only didn't have the correct size, but didn't even carry the same style. And then I started to wonder if they sell shoes at the bar.

I probably would have had better results if I had told Zach to Google the name of the shoe store instead of having to physically move around the house trying to find a specific piece of paper because as I've discovered, technology is more helpful and reliable than a teenage boy. I will definitely remind him that although I know I'm not as interesting or smart as a PlayStation 3, he still needs to pay attention when I'm talking to him. And maybe he needs a smack in the head. After all, I think there's an app for that.

Hey Kids, Drinking Is (Really Not That) Bad!

In our school district, all kids participate in a Drug Abuse Resistance Education (also referred to as "DARE") program. The main purpose of this program is to "provide children with the information and skills they need to live drug-and-violence-free lives" because according to the DARE mission statement, "contemporary America is rampant with challenges that could keep children from a positive life path."

While I'm grateful that they are educating the kids about bullying and how to avoid violent situations, I don't have the same words of praise for how they are educating the kids about drinking. In fact, I kind of think that that part the program is a pain in the ass.

Doug and I have always kept beer in the fridge, liquor in the cabinet and have applied the "everything is fine if enjoyed in moderation (until after the kids go to bed)" frame of mind to drinking. We don't fall down or launch into obscenity- and anger-filled rants (again, until after the kids go to bed) and I've never once said "Hey you, child over there, come with mommy to the bathroom and hold my hair." We don't have DWI's on our record, we don't start barroom brawls and we are rarely hungover to the point of wishing for death.

Trying to set such a fine example of enjoying booze in a responsible manner takes a lot of effort. No, really. A lot of fucking effort! There are times when a shot or two of vodka/tequila/Jameson would be so much more efficient than having to go through the process of mixing, shaking, stirring and sipping, but I always decide against doing the shot because even though my kids can't remember where the extra rolls of toilet paper are kept, I know they would remember the sight of me knocking back shots of tequila and licking the salt off of my hand while I'm stirring the Tuna Helper.

So, my frustration with the DARE program is that instead of supporting my beliefs that everything should be taught in a realistic manner (Yes, full-of-bullshit abstinence until marriage unit, I'm talking about you), they're sending a strong "NO USE" message. Seriously. No use. None. And here's the funny part: they teach this curriculum through 12th grade.

While I find it completely appropriate to tell the younger kids that they shouldn't be constructing their beer bongs quite yet and should be going to gymnastics to learn things other than how to do a great keg stand, I have to wonder how much influence the Don't Ever Drink Drinking Is Bad Only Losers Drink lecture is going to have on an auditorium filled with high school students.

I, like you, knew plenty of people that drank and smoked (among other things) in high school and for the most part, we all turned out fine. We all managed to create children that were born tail-free, a large majority of us graduated from college and if there is money on the line, we'd still be able to complete a calculus equation or at least find the area of a square.

On the other hand I also know people that (even during their senior year) refused to let a drop of Sun Country Wine Cooler or PBR touch their innocent lips, and then they moved out and went away to college. Suddenly these people who thought that drinking was only for morons couldn't get drunk often enough, they fell asleep in puddles of their own barf, flunked out of classes and became resentful about missing out on all those fun parties back in high school when liver and brain cells recovered in less than an hour.

So, while I'm not going to be the idiot mom who completely gives up, says "kids will be kids" and throws a bottle of Jim Beam in her kid's glove box every weekend, I'm certainly not expecting that they'll never, ever drink because "a cop talked at school for the DARE program and told me not to." I'm assuming that at some point before they turn 21 they might sip a drink now and then (a note to my mom and dad: I may have tasted a beer before I was 21), maybe play some beer pong in a friend's basement (again, that may have been me), laugh when someone (like me) falls down the steps (holy crap that was so funny) and know that while I'm not encouraging them to get drunk, they can call me if they need a ride home because after all, that's what I told them.

On Saturday night while walking to the kitchen I passed Charlie on the steps. He asked me where I was going, I shook my empty glass and said I needed a refill. Since now that he's all DARE-educated and aware of the evil effects of alcohol, he said you're going to get drunk mom. I said well yeah kid, that's the point. But I'm home, I'm not driving anywhere, I'm an adult, I'm not going to pass out and because all of my kids still live at home, occasionally getting drunk is kind of a necessity. He never heard the last part of what I said, though, because he had turned around and was headed to the kitchen too. Apparently I'm not the only one that likes to mix cranberry juice and tonic. Mine might have had a little bit of vodka in it, though.

A Few Random Thoughts

Over the last few days I have tried to be more patient and aware of the people around me and as a result, I've learned a couple things. None of it seemed important enough to write an entire post about, and when lumped together into one entry they still don't seem very important. But here they are anyway.

• If the providers at certain medical facilities would like to see their female patients on a more regular basis, maybe the Ob/Gyn should start offering complimentary bikini waxes with an exam, a mammogram should come with a massage and the dentist should offer free lip waxes anytime the drill comes out.
• Along those same lines, when a guy signs up for a gym membership he should be required to receive a complimentary back wax.
• If you want to fit into a pair of jeans that are sized in the single digits but like to eat actual food and drink beer that doesn't taste like shit, shop at the Gap.
• Radiohead is great music to listen to in the car, at a party or at the bar. But is it great for a workout? With the exception of "15 Step," not so much. All it did was make me thirsty for something other than water and make me wish that I was either at a party or at the bar.
• I overheard the following conversation in the grocery store: "Can I have candy? No. Please I want candy! No. How come I can't have candy, because I really want some! Not now no candy. Candy candy candy you get me a treat! I said no. BUT MAAAAAWWWM I WAAAAAANT CAAAAANNNNNDEEEEEE! Oh, okay, here." Sorry lady but you just screwed yourself and yes, I saw your kid smirk at you.
• After a recent trip to the dentist it has occurred to me that four shots of booze would have the same numbing effects as two shots of novocaine, but would be a hell of a lot more enjoyable and my nose wouldn't have still been numb three hours later.
• Anyone who has had plastic surgery that isn't medically necessary automatically forfeits any and all rights to criticize or laugh at those of us that haven't been stretched, stitched, augmented or lifted and aren't hauling around coconut-sized sacks of silicone.
• There are a lot of women this year that have decided to completely ignore the pick-up procedures at school. Here's the thing, other moms aren't looking at you sitting in your fancy SUV because we're impressed by your car and think you're a rebel because you are breaking the rules. We are glaring in your direction with flames shooting out of our eyes because we hate you. We don't think your car is anything special, we hate your stuck-up attitude, we hate the fact that you're sending a message to your kids that it's okay to be an inconsiderate moron, we hate that you sit there and talk on your Bedazzled cell phone and never notice that you're blocking traffic, we hate your ginormous celebrity wanna-be sunglasses that you wear even when it's cloudy and we wish you would either get a clue or go away.
• I'm pretty sure that the whacked-out mom at the post office, despite what the words to her song implied, wasn't there with her little girl to buy "stamp stamp stampity stamps oh la la la so here we go along we go la la to get the stamp stampity stampy stamps." I think she was just getting stamps.
• I will stop picking on vegetarians when they: A) Stop being a pain in the ass. There is really nothing worse than going out with someone who gets pleasure out of being high maintenance and bringing attention to themselves and their wacked-out dietary choices by questioning each and every ingredient. Oh, and here's a little secret: When you ask the server if the kitchen uses vegetable stock for the soup, the server will say yes and the stock is made with chickens. And B) Stop giving me nasty looks as I sink my teeth into a bacon cheeseburger and let the grease drip down my chin. Just quietly enjoy your BLT made with Fakin' Bacon and let me enjoy the fact that my meal is better than yours. Ah, who am I kidding, I will never stop picking on vegetarians, but if they weren't such a pain I'd probably pick on them a little less.

Get Away From Me!

There are times when it seems like my kids can't talk to each other without using a "you're the most annoying, stupid person I have ever encountered" tone of voice. It's like listening to a 12-hour debate about who touched who and why do you have to be so dumb and quit looking at me like that and oh my gosh your breath is going to kill me and move over I was sitting there first and no we're not keeping score because I hate losing.

On the weekends when the bickering becomes unbearable and I start checking out the prices of a one-way ticket to Fiji, I always suggest that maybe they should all retreat to their separate corners of the house far, far away from each other. After all, there is a playroom downstairs, Zach has a video game chair in his room upstairs, Charlie has a perfectly comfortable bed in his room down the hall and Zoe has, well, Zoe has wherever she damn well pleases because no one ever wins an argument with her and she never stays in one place for longer than three minutes anyway.

Just when I think that their age gap is getting bigger every day and our house will forever be known as Crabby Kid Headquarters and I'll have to wait until they're all over the age of 21 before they find common ground, the planets align, they quit fighting and sometimes they even manage to find something to do while being near each other:

Granted it's not exactly a Normal Rockwell moment and they aren't technically playing a game together, but at least no one is screaming about who is touching who or whose breath smells like a butt.