In So Many Words

Much to the dismay and occasional embarrassment of my boys, I enjoy spending time with, and talking to, the teenage girls that they play tennis with. It's interesting to hear what they're up to, find out what they've been shopping for and also be accessible to them in case they want to spill something to me that they don't necessarily want to discuss with their own mom. In addition, these ultra-competitive and athletic girls have been nothing but a great influence on Zoe and they're always excited to see her. So when I see them, we end up talking. And laughing. And talking some more. And all the while we try to ignore the groans and eye rolls that are always shot in our direction from the boys sitting nearby.

My boys cannot even begin to understand how I can tolerate the incessant yackity-yack-yack that comes out of these girls' mouths and I say hey, it's easy. After all, I once was -- and kind of still am -- one of those girls that goes on and on and on, explaining things in way too much detail than is necessary, driving Doug to insanity and making him wish that there was a different model number of me. One that came with a mute button. And skinnier calves. And better baking skills.

One of these chatter sessions occurred about a week ago and after this girl and I said our goodbye's and see-ya-later's and gave each other a goodbye hug, I got in the car to drive my boys home. This is when my oldest kid said something like "God, I didn't think you guys would ever stop talking! By the way, did ya know that someone proved that girls talk way more than boys but don't say anything interesting? Boys can say the same thing, using only a tenth of the words that a girl does!" I said yes, I know, and that's because boys talk like cavemen and girls know how to use adjectives. He just rolled his eyes at me, looked out the window and grunted something that sounded like "uuurrrggha."

Since then, I've tried to pay a little more attention to the differences between boy and girl conversations and the more I listened, the more I realized that my kid is right: boys are cavemen. For example:

Boy: (While pointing at friend) T-shirt.

Girl: Ooooh, I love that shirt! The fabric is sooo soft and I love the color! I love that there is a flower on the front and that there are sequins on the flower, too! Where did you get it? Do you think there are any left? I love shopping there they have, like, the cutest clothes! Cool t-shirt!

Boy: Hungry.

Girl: I'm, like, starving to death but I don't want to eat anything sticky or loaded with grease. I wish there was a Panera nearby so I could get a bagel. Oh, they have the best bagels ever. To die for, really. And the veggie cream cheese is my fave. What? You've never had it? You really need to go. So I don't know what I should eat right now. Maybe a piece of pizza would be okay.

Boy: Lotsa homework.

Girl: I cannot believe how much homework I have. Like, don't these teachers know that I have a life?! And that I don't want to spend, like, eight gazillion hours studying the countries of Africa!? Seriously, what do they think Google is for! At least I got these new pencils. Aren't they like the cutest thing ever? I just love them. Oh, and you won't believe what happened in Algebra today, it was the funniest thing ever!

Boy: Ugggh, brrrr.

Girl: It's soooo cold outside! And my lips are so chapped they're about to fall off of my face! And could my hair be more staticy? Seriously, oh my god! I don't think my fingers are ever going to be warm again! But look at these Ugg boots I just bought at Nordstrom! Aren't they, like, the cutest thing you've ever seen? And they were only, like, $200. I know, right? I should tell my mom I need them in another color, too, because they're just soooo cute!

Boy: Hey, I think I'm sick. My throat hurts when I swallow like this, and I feel cold, and my knees hurt but it's mostly my right knee, and sometimes my neck hurts when I turn my head like this, and my nose feels like it's getting stuffy but it's mostly my left nostril, and my head hurts right where my eyeballs are, and I'm hungry but I don't know what I should eat because chewing might hurt, and it hurts to swallow like this, and I'm pretty sure I'm getting a fever because my armpits feel warmer than usual, and (cough, cough) did you just hear that cough? Holy phlegmy! Oh god, I don't feel good.

Girl: Hi, I have a little bit of a cold, but I'll be okay. So do you want to go shopping?

Okay, so they're not always cavemen. Sometimes, like when they're sick, they're wusses too.

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.

Just Admit Failure

I know that there are several people that struggle with infertility, but for me, getting pregnant was pretty easy, meaning that for the first two babies, all it required was uttering the phrase "Maybe having a kid/another kid would be cool," attending a Christmas party at D'Amico Cucina, washing down gnocchi with large amounts of white wine and then tearing one off. Even Zoe's pregnancy was accomplished without any disappointment, except for the fact that I found out I was pregnant right before we took the boys on a four-day mini-vacation, which meant no beer or tequila for me. Just the first of many inconveniences that this girl has created for me.

And although these babies all arrived with ten fingers, ten toes, a set of eyeballs and what appears to be a pair of ears, I'm pretty sure that the ears don't actually work. Or maybe it's that they do work, but there's a defect somewhere between the ears and the brain, causing the words that they hear to fall down somewhere around their belly button. Or maybe they don't understand anything I say because I bonked their heads on the door frames one too many times as I raced through the house carrying a suddenly-longer-so-now-their-head-sticks-out-two-inches-past-my-elbow-baby in my arms.

Whatever the reason, I'm sick of repeating myself. It's to the point where I'm physically incapable of pretending that I'm not annoyed when I say things two, three or seventeen times, and then having to repeat myself again the next day, week or even two months later. So now, every time I have to remind someone of something, it comes out embedded in sighs, eye rolls and arm flailing, and honestly, all the extra effort is kind of exhausting.

About a week ago, with Zach in the passenger seat, I pulled up to an insanely busy intersection and prepared to take a right. Yes, the light was red but everyone knows that you can take a right at a red light. Unless, of course, there are three ginormous signs that say "NO TURN ON RED" staring you in the face. Just as I was about to turn I noticed one of these signs and, since Zach is going to start drivers' training in the near future and I need to start setting a good example, promptly slammed on my brake. Then I said "Ugh. I hate those signs. I failed my first license test because of that stupid 'No Turn on Red' sign."

"I know, I remember you telling me this story," he said. I was shocked. When had I told him about this? I had no recollection of ever having a conversation with this kid that included the topic of hey guess what mom is kind of a moron because she failed her drivers' test once. And since when does he remember me telling him things?

And that's when it hit me: they will always remember stories that involve a parent screwing up and/or embarrassing themselves. So from now on, when I remind them to do something, I'll tack on a little tale of personal woe from my own fucked up past and maybe that'll make our conversations more memorable. For example:

• Please rinse the hunks of food out of your braces with a couple gulps of water. I had to wear a headgear when I was little and my brothers teased me relentlessly.
• I need to initial your practice report every week. After I didn't practice, I used to forge my mom's signature on my band practice reports in high school.
• No, you can't swipe two gummy worms out of the bulk bin because stealing is wrong. I once got busted for shoplifting at a ShopKo in 7th grade.
• Please use two hands to carry that plate. I once walked into a screen patio door carrying a full plate of BBQ ribs and dumped them all over myself.
• Don't run around the store because you might bash into someone. In junior high, while quickly walking into The County Seat at Maplewood Mall carrying an extra large cherry ICEE, I tripped on the edge of the carpet and launched my ICEE all over a rack of clothes.
• We're leaving at ___ o'clock. After arranging to take my brothers to a Wild hockey game for their birthdays, we arrived at Xcel Center, and because I forgot to double check the game time, we arrived a little early. Seven hours early, to be exact.
• You need to study for your social studies test. I hated political science in high school and slept through most of the class, especially when we were learning about Watergate. I bombed that test, but now know that Deep Throat is more than just a porno.
• Stop talking to me and expecting me to hear you while you're three rooms away and I'm standing next to the dryer/doing dishes/rocking out to Metallica/screaming at your brother. Sorry, but I have no embarrassing story to share when it comes to this request. I will, however, start requesting that they pull their heads out of their butts, scrape the poop out of their ears, and START LISTENING!

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.

Oh Never Mind, It's Just Mom Talking

Do you ever have the feeling that your kids are impressed with your intelligence, enjoy listening to your point of view, are amused by your jokes, respect your opinions and are thankful for your wisdom? Yeah, neither do I.

While I don't expect my kids to be conformist robot children that are unable to voice an opinion or express displeasure in various situations, lately it seems that everything I say, no matter how insignificant or important it may be, is automatically declared "retarded" and results in one of the following lazy-ass, snarky caveman replies:

• Why?
• But that doesn't make any sense, so no.
• I don't want to.
• Ugga ooo ah ugg, uhhh.
• (sigh) Just, enough. Geeez.
• Can't someone else do it? I dunno who, just not me.
• What are you talking about?
• That sounds dumb.
• Uh, what? Wudja say? You weren't talking to me, were you?
• I got it. OK, yes. Got it. GOT IT! Wait, what?

A couple days ago, I was in the car with Charlie and we were headed home from one of his tennis clinics. Another parent at the clinic told me that one of the coaches had recently ran a marathon, and another had ran a half-marathon after losing a significant amount of weight. Like, triple digit significant. Since I can't visualize myself running any distance exceeding three miles without stopping for a beer and only own a scale so that I can weigh my luggage before I travel, these stories impressed me. And since Charlie only works with these coaches every-other-month, I don't know them very well and wanted to make sure I was pairing the correct name/face with the right success story.

I was attempting to talk to Charlie about these coaches -- specifically about Mark, the coach that lost all the weight -- because he lost so much weight that it truly altered his entire appearance, including his face. So I asked my kid who had just spent four hours with these coaches: "Hey, that guy sitting in the chair next to where I was standing, that was Mark, right?"

"Hmmm? What are you talking about? Mark who? There's no Mark. Whatever..." he mumbled while gazing aimlessly out the window.

Maybe I wasn't being specific enough, so I tried again: "Mark. Your coach at the tennis clinic Mark. Mark the guy that started eating better and lost weight Mark. Mark the guy who worked out like a maniac and started running and kept on running and in fact just ran a half-marathon Mark. That Mark."

"I seriously don't know a Mark and have no idea what you're talking about. Are you talking about Bruce? Bruce didn't lose any weight." Keep in mind, this is the third year that Charlie has been working with Mark.

"No, I'm not talking about Bruce and besides, I know him. I'm talking about Mark. I'm pretty sure he was standing next to me, but I just want to make sure." Seriously dude, wake the hell up!

"Oh, that guy? Well that's Mark, duh. And did you know he lost a bunch of weight? I dunno who you were talking about, but that guy was Mark." I looked at him peripherally, desperately searching for a hint of sarcasm in his eyes, or a "Holy shit I'm a stupid moron I can't believe I didn't know who you were talking about" look, but all I saw was a look that said "Mom is dummy. Oooga ugh meh."

"Boy, do I feel foolish. How could I have not known that was Mark. Maybe I should have asked you." Somehow, miraculously, I managed to not smack him in the forehead when he said "Yeah."

After a few minutes of silence, I noticed that Charlie was banging some random beat on the door handle. Just when I was wondering what the hell he was doing, he said "Hey mom, wanna hear my caveman song?"

"I've heard it. In fact, I hear it all day, every day." I was pretty sure he wasn't going to understand this.

"Whatever. I have no idea what you're talking about." And I was right.

A couple days later, the boys wanted to go hit some tennis balls with a friend of Charlie's. I took a break from mowing the lawn so that I could prop my sweaty self in the car and drive them there, then returned home to finish mowing at top speed before they needed to be picked up. Now, I'm not really a high maintenance kind of girl, but driving around with projectile sweat shooting out of my forehead and grass clippings coating my legs seems a little bit on the disgusting side. But since I didn't think I'd have time to take a shower before they would want a ride home, I somehow managed to hover over my car seat and drive back to the courts to pick them up.

Sure enough, as soon as I got there I found out they wanted to hit for just a few more minutes (at least, that's what I assumed because all I really heard was "Couple more, K.") so I sat on a bench and watched. And listened. And eventually made the fatal error of speaking.

Zach complained, "Man I'm serving like crap today and just double faulted twice."

I said, "That doesn't sound so good. Maybe you should serve a couple dozen balls before we head home."

Zach turned and looked at me like I just threw a bucket full of gasoline in his direction and was about to light the match and then grunt-yelled "Whatever! I'm not even talking to you! Gawwwwwd."

I contemplated just getting back in the car, driving home, turning all the ringers off and letting them find their own way home. But then I envisioned them having to walk the five miles home, hunched over and lugging those big tennis bags full of equipment, and decided against it.

After all, what if they got distracted by hunting a mastodon or starting a fire and someone decided to steal their bags? Replacing those racquets would be pretty expensive.

Parenting Tips (for the insane)

I recently came across some interesting parenting tips and figured that since my attempt at incorporating "positive discipline" was such a huge success, maybe I'll put some of these tips to use, too. But then after reading the tips and envisioning myself actually using them, I couldn't stop laughing.

Start kids off on plain (unflavored, unsweetened) yogurt in an attempt to help them develop an appreciation for foods that are not sweet. This sounds like a simple enough idea, if it weren't for the fact that Sour Patch Kids are so good and unflavored, unsweetened yogurt tastes like pus and has the texture of silicone caulk. And I think that kids are naturally attracted to eat things that aren't sweet, considering all the little kids I know that have eaten dirt.

Continually build upon responsibilities into adolescence until one day your children are responsible adults with the ability to live independently! Yeah!!! Oh yeah, that all sounds fine and good but there is this little thing called "reality" that interferes once in a while with the whole giving the kids responsibilities plan. Like the reality that kids forget, or decide not to do something, or roll their eyes before they say "I'm not going to do that," or are busy completing the 864th goddamn science project of the year so they don't have time to even say "I'm not going to do that." What this tip failed to include after the word "adolescence" is the phrase "by repeating yourself three times each day for 15 years, and occasionally hurling a clean basket of laundry across the room while simultaneously pointing out the fact that slavery ended decades ago..."

How many other words for "No" can you use instead of "No"? Ideally, you should divert attention to another healthy activity, but what other responses do you have? Okay, seriously, where do I begin? Do I include just the words I actually say out loud, or should I include the ones that I say to myself, too? I guess I'll do both: Nope, nuh-uh, no way in hell, not unless you want to experience massive amounts of physical pain, what the fuck are you thinking, are you mildly retarded, seriously oh my god, who are you, that's a good idea if you were a moron, I'm going this way please don't follow me, stop it, stop it now, stop it now before I call the cops on you, and of course -- NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Need a diversion for those long car rides with your toddler? Make a sock puppet, give it a name & keep it in the car. This is a tip I may actually try to use. I think I'll name my puppet Martin E., and he'll be made out of stitched together cocktail napkins. I'll glue a couple cigarette butts to his head, give him bloodshot eyes and tape an acrylic martini glass to his side. Then, when I'm driving around retrieving various forgotten items and passing myself on the highway, Martin E. can tell my kids that instead of going to the school or the tennis court, mommy decided to drive to the bar, because Martin really needs a drink.

Take care not to use language that identifies a child with any physical, emotional, or behavioral challenges. So, yay for me because I already knew this before reading the handy dandy tip. For example, if one kid has a giant zit growing on his chin (you know, the kind that if it were to grow it's own face and start talking you wouldn't be surprised) instead of saying "Wow, that's gross and looks painful, glad I don't have to go to school looking like that," I say something like "I hope you don't get hit on the chin today and by the way, have you been using that facewash I bought you?" And when a kid is behaving in a way that I find unacceptable or really, really embarrassing, I never say "No!" but usually opt for things like "Your behavior is making me consider walking that way and you shouldn't follow me" or "That's a good idea if you're trying to piss me off." Or if a kid suddenly bursts into tears because someone looked at them wrong, I never say "Quit crying and being a pathetic drama queen" but instead say, oh wait...I actually do say that. Never mind.

Singing silly songs is a wonderful way to disarm a cranky kid. Seriously. If you ever see me doing this, especially in public, you have permission to pull that machete out of your giant purse and chop my head off.

For improved sleep & strength, get kids to climb up and down stairs whenever possible. The only question I have is: who in the hell doesn't make their kids use their own two legs to climb up the steps? Is this some sort of joke? Like, climbing the steps is the only physical diversion this person could come up with? How about kick a ball, or jump rope, or play tag. No, no. Let's climb up and down the fucking stairs! Oh, maybe I could trick them, like "Go get me that ___ upstairs. Oh, wait, just kidding! I don't need it after all. Put it back and bring me the ____ instead. Ha ha, gotcha again! Isn't this fun? Now go get me the ____ downstairs and put it all the way upstairs." I agree that this type of activity may wear a kid out, but it may also create a kid that, when he gets to school and his phy-ed teacher tells the class to run stairs, discovers a violent side that he never knew existed.

Spring is the perfect time to increase outdoor time and explore the birds, bees & butterflies. There are two birds nests in our yard: one in a front yard shrub and another under our deck. While it's fun to watch the baby birds grow after the eggs hatch, it's not fun to see the dog maul baby birds immediately upon their departure from the nest. Also, I hate butterflies and have really, really bad reactions to bee stings. There's also the fact that I'm pretty sure that Zoe is afraid bees, considering the fact that every time she sees one within two feet she says "A BEE! IT'S A BEE! GET IT! GET IT! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! A BEEEEEEEE!" So, while I'm happy spending time outside and gradually teaching my kids about the birds and the bees, I will not be exploring any actual birds or bees.

Kids should yell and scream outside. Teach them to use their "Fairy Voices" inside, giving quiet voices a magical quality. If a kid grows up hearing and saying "Let's all use our Fairy Voices" and then that kid goes to school and has to go outside for a little free-time commonly referred to as "recess" and says "Oh goody, now I can be loud and I don't have to use my Fairy Voice anymore" that kid might get laughed at and be like, gee mom, thanks for making me sound like an idiot.

Get kids in bed 1/2 hour early to give them time to decompress, talk about their day & sleep peacefully. Let's see, I think it's time for some basic math skills: If I were to spend 1/2 hour each night with each of my three kids individually, that would mean that bedtime would take me an hour and a half, every night, not including the time spent saying "Go to bed, go to bed, please go to bed, get your ass to bed." I'm all for a good night hug, but spending two hours on bedtime? Not so much.

Since we all love to hear people say our name, address kids by their names only for good events, NOT bad! Then what exactly am I supposed to call my kid for the majority of the day!? "Hey you, over there, stop picking on your brother. Kid upstairs that lives down the hall, you need to get your ass to the bus. I wish that this person standing in front of me with the attitude would stop being crabby. Boy with buzz cut, you were supposed to take the garbage out." Not only would this make me sound like an idiot, but my kids would wonder what the hell happened to me because usually when they're in trouble I (like most other moms) not only use their first names, but their middle names too.

Unless, of course, I said these things while using my Fairy Voice. In that case, they'd just laugh at me.

Sometimes, I'm Speechless

There have been a few conversations with my kids lately that seem to serve no purpose but to make me question my abilities as a parent. I mean, really, it would be great to be able to say that I have witnessed actual use of common sense, traces of self-sufficiency and improvements when it comes to their listening skills since the beginning of the school year, and at times I think I'm making progress. But then I end up having conversations like these:

Me: I reminded you three times to put the book in your tennis bag. It's in there, right?

Kid: (pause) Oh, well, I think it's already in there, so I should be fine.

Me: That's not what I asked. Either you know it's there or you don't. You either put it there, or you checked to make sure it was there when you realized that it wasn't where it normally belongs. So, did you check?

Kid: Well, no, but I'm pretty sure it's there.

Me: Maybe you could just admit that you didn't listen and that you forgot about it and you have no idea where it is. Right?

Kid: Kinda.

Kid: We had a different person who teached us today.

Me: Cool, but you mean "taught." Teached is not a word.

Kid: No, I mean she teached. Because she was there teaching, so I was teached.

Me: Yes, I know. But she taught you, she didn't teached.

Kid: We had a, um, a different person be our teacher today.

Me: It's windy today, and you'll be in the sun all day. You should probably put some Carmex on at least once or twice.

Kid: I don't have any Carmex, so don't worry about it.

Me: There's stuff in your bag, I saw it there.

Kid: Oh, well that's not Carmex. It's Chap Stick.

Me: (sigh)

Doug: Are you excited about today?

Kid:

Doug: I said, are you excited about today?

Kid:

Me: Don't be crabby, and please answer your dad.

Kid: Did you know that it's hard to be super still? It's like making my brain frozen.

Me: Those shoes are falling apart. You should wear your new tennis shoes tomorrow.

Kid: Then what should I do with my old ones?

Me: Throw them away.

Kid: Okay.

Kid: (the following day) So, should I wear my new shoes today?

Me: Yes, that's what I told you last night.

Kid: What am I supposed to do with my old shoes?

Me: Put them under your pillow.

Kid: Seriously?

Kid: I'll just change clothes at school.

Me: You won't have time. Just change when you get there.

Kid: Yeah, maybe I'll just change in the outhouse.

Me: (wretching sounds) Please. Do. Not. Change. In. The. Outhouse.

Kid: Oh, okay. So I won't change in the outhouse. Or at least I won't tell you about it next time.

Kid: What's for dinner?

Me: I'm grilling pork chops.

Kid: Oh, I'm not really that hungry.

Me: Well, if no one is super hungry, then maybe I'll just make breakfast for dinner.

Kid: Yay! Pancakes for dinner! When are we eating?

Me: Wow, this weather is perfect for outdoor baseball. I love it.

Kid: Oh my god it's so hot. I'm hot. I'm sweating. I'm hot.

Me: Yeah, isn't it great!

Kid: I should have worn a white t-shirt. It's so hot.

Kid #2: My back is sweaty! I'm hot! Oooh, Fun Dip! Gimme!

Me: Beer, please.

Me: Should I steam the asparagus or grill it?

Kid: Oh, definitely grill it. Yum, grilled asparagus!

Me: Dinner's ready.

Kid: (two bites later) Do you want this?

Me: I thought you liked asparagus.

Kid: Last year I did, but now I don't.

Me: Where's my wine glass...

Me: You were supposed to be up at 7:30. Why isn't your alarm on?

Kid: Wuh? Huh? Oh, um, the alarm is on.

Me: No, it's not. I don't hear it.

Kid: Oh, that's because it's turned all the way down so it isn't too loud.

Me: (blink, blink)

Kid: Why do we need to bring empty water bottles to the baseball game?

Dad: So that you can't fill them with vodka.

Kid: Oh, bummer for mom.

Hmmm...maybe they're learning more than I thought.

Good Luck With That

Whenever Zoe brings home the elementary school's monthly newsletter I always make sure to read it because even though I try to avoid the Volunteer Coordinator and I'm not the President of PTO, I like to be informed of what's going on. As usual, April's newsletter wasn't very interesting and didn't include any gossip, but I did manage to learn a few things:

• There is a theme for volunteering this year: Volunteers Shape the Future. They don't specify whether the shape is a triangle, rectangle, circle or dodecahedron.
• Like it or not, standardized testing in the form of MCA-II's will be in a couple weeks, so please don't feed your kid Fruit Loops, a Pop Tart and Mountain Dew for breakfast that day.
• Physical fitness testing is taking place in phy-ed. This will prove, once again, that there are some kids that eat too many fries with their serving of ketchup.
• The position of Vice President is available on the PTO Board. This is tempting, and I think I'll consider it. Okay...the answer is no.
• Our school district is incorporating Efficacious Learners Framework (ELF) into their curriculum. Yeah, I said "ELF. What the fuck is that?" too.

Apparently, the school district has realized that even though there are a lot of kids that can simplify polynomials, label the countries of Africa and ace a spelling test, these kids kind of suck at things like being able to independently find a solution to an everyday problem using common sense and logic. Kind of like my kids.

ELF includes "five traits that have been labeled as important for life-long learning and success." After reading about the five traits, I think that school officials should have taken the time to become acquainted with my kids before they declared themselves truly "committed to enhancing these traits in your children."

1. Problem Solvers...identify problems, evaluate multiple solutions, reflect and revise, persist. Five words: dog shit. On the floor.
2. Resourceful Learners...inquisitive, innovative, critical thinkers. Charlie gets a small amount of credit here because he seems to have finally learned that if he sees that the garbage is full, it should be taken out. Imagine my shock when I saw him yank the bag out of the can without me asking! He lost points, though, by not tying the top of the bag shut. (Remember, I'm anal.) When I pointed out this fact, he glared at me, instantly lost the use of all fine motor skills, his hands morphed into inflexible hunks of flesh and after fumbling with the red plastic drawstring for fifteen seconds he said "I don't think this bag is supposed to tie." Maybe he's right. Maybe those drawstrings on the top of the bag are actually there so you can strangle your child when he's a smart ass.
3. Self-directed Learners...flexible, goal directed, optimistic, persistent. As much as I'd like to forget the disastrous day at the grocery store involving two boys and their search for Capri Suns, I don't think I'll ever be able to.
4. Responsible Leaders...honest, reflective, accountable to self and others, willing to lead. I'm patiently waiting for the day when a kid steps forward and admits fault, sincerely apologizes to the person they wronged, accepts an appropriate punishment and doesn't try to blame their blunder on someone else. And note to satan for when that day arrives: The North Face makes really warm coats.
5. Skilled Communicators...effective listeners, able to clearly articulate ideas, visually literate. Mom, I need these papers stapled together. Okay, go get the stapler. Where is the stapler? Over there. Over where? Over there, in that cabinet where it's been for the last ten years. I don't see it, just tell me where it is. How can you not see it, it's ten-inches in front of your face. Where? RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU! All I see is tape, and I don't need the tape, I need the stapler. Yes, I know, the stapler is next to the tape. No that's paper. (stomp stomp stomp - grab stapler - manage to not staple kid's lips shut) Here. Is. The. Stapler. Oh, why didn't you say it was by the tape?

So, as the elementary school staff works hard to incorporate these traits into their curriculum in an attempt to encourage self-efficacy in my kids, I just have one bit of advice for them: The Kirkland-brand tequila sold at Costco is surprisingly drinkable.

The Translator

Everyone warned me that this day would arrive. My teenager thinks that I have always been a clueless, bossy, and boring mom. I have obviously never attended junior high, am on a mission to embarrass him when given the opportunity, and an outhouse probably has a better sense of humor since at least it has raunchy jokes written on the walls. He has apparently decided to perfect the snarky comment, and is willing to put in the time and dedication needed to accomplish this task. I would like to survive his teenage years, and Charlie and Zoe's future hormonal imbalances, with some sanity, a healthy liver, and without a daily fight. So from now on, when he says something especially crappy, I'm going to translate the horrid statement into what I think he really meant.

What are you talking about? I'm sorry, but I was too busy thinking about my science test tomorrow. Could you please repeat what you were saying, because I'm sure it's really interesting, and you're super smart.

That was so lame. Although I would have maybe jumped over that puddle differently, you did it with a lot of grace and style.

Thanks for making that unfunny. Thank you for explaining why that joke on the 93X Half Assed Morning Show was funny, because even though I pretended to know what they were talking about, I really had no idea.

Enough already. I really appreciate your concern. I will definitely take your suggestions seriously and think about everything you've said.

Shit. Shit.

It's alright, but not great. Thank you for taking the time to make this delicious meal instead of making me eat cold cereal for dinner. In fact, I'm really lucky because I don't even have to eat cold cereal for breakfast.

Whatever. I got it. I GOT IT! Yes, I know I still have homework left, and I should probably inquire about that missing assignment in math. Thank you for reminding me.

Really? Just. No. Wow, mom, that's a really impressive singing voice/dance move. But maybe you should stop so you don't make everyone else feel inadequate.

I knew you were going to say that. I am accustomed to hearing you repeat yourself, because I never listen the first 137 times.

Please don't get the impression that Zach is anything but a great kid. He gets straight A's in school, plays varsity tennis, never needs to be reminded to practice piano, is an amazing big brother, and most of the time we manage to have pleasant, productive conversations. But he is a teenager, and dealing with this smart-ass attitude is kind of foreign to me. After all, I was never a teenager myself, so I know I was never like this to my mom.

Boys Have a Burrito, Girls Have a Taco

Whenever I'm forced to suck it up and hang out at a park with a bunch of other kids and moms, one thing that keeps me entertained is listening to the terminology that kids use to refer to their body parts. I get so much satisfaction from hearing a boy that's been throwing rocks and being a bully say "Ow! I fell on my tushie!" before he runs to his mom saying "Kiss my tushie momma. Kiss it!"

I'm pretty much a "tell it like it is" kind of mom when it comes to teaching kids what their body parts are called. A butt is a butt, a penis is a penis and if you get kicked and it hurts, it's because you got kicked in the nuts. Recently, Zoe found a Victoria's Secret catalog sitting on the kitchen counter (Note to Doug: please remember to put the catalog away next time). While I know some women that have clearly won the boob lottery, I happen to be stuck with the equivalent of a basket-full of pull tab losers. So when Zoe looked through the catalog she instantly pointed to one of the swimsuit models and said, "Wow! Look at her boobs!" and I was like uh huh, I'm familiar with boobs because I see them a lot. On other people. She then grabbed the catalog and started following Charlie around the house saying "Hey Charlie! Look at these boobs! And these! Wow. Boobs!" and Charlie couldn't run away fast enough because the only thing worse for an 11-year-old boy than hearing the word "boobs" is having to actually look at them.

Last summer while Zoe was outside playing with some neighbor girls, she farted. This of course made her beam with pride, fall down laughing and then exclaim "I farted! A fart came out of my butt! Did you hear that?" Another mom, who I won't identify by name but will say that she lives very, very close to us said "Wow. Such a mouth. We don't use language like that. My girls say "toot" and "bottom." Seriously lady (whose house I can see if I look out a certain large window), it's not like Zoe said wow that was a close one, I almost shit my pants. She said fart and butt. I wanted to call this woman a certain name, but she probably would have said "Oh, we don't use that word in our house. We say 'female dog.'"

By far my favorite thing is how five-year-old boys refer to their penis, or more specifically, how moms want their boys to refer to their penis before they discover that it's there for a reason other than peeing. Between ding-a-ling, Jimmy, the li'l fireman, Willy, ding-dong, wee-wee and doinker, it's a non-stop laugh factory. With so many different names, it's easy to forget about the most basic name of all, but fortunately my friend's six-year-old was kind enough to remind me:

Gotta love the name weiner. Or in Liam's case, the weener.

One Minor Glitch...

Okay, so I wasn't completely honest when I said that nothing angered me enough over the weekend that was worth me taking the time to write about, because Zach did manage to piss me off on Friday. I'm going to go ahead and attribute it to the fact that a teenage brain only has access to the area where common sense is located for short periods of time each day, and I'm still trying to figure out when that fifteen minute window occurs.

Since we were spending the day driving to 83 different places he decided to bring his DS in the car. Unless where we're going is over an hour away, I normally don't let them bring anything valuable in the car because I'm not a big fan of having my windows smashed out for a $125 toy. But considering the fact that we weren't going to be in any one place for an extended period of time, always going to be parked in visible areas and that there are about 35 different hiding spots in the minivan, I didn't say anything and let him bring it.

When we pulled into the parking lot at Noodles & Co. for lunch, I was going to remind him to make sure that his DS was hidden out of sight but then decided not to because I figured he'd say something like "Really? You think I should? Well, duh, I'm not stupid. Stop reminding me. I know already." and since we had been having a fairly smooth morning, why start a fight now? As soon as we ordered and sat down, though, he looked at me and said: "Oh crap. I left my DS on the seat. Someone should go move it."

"You're kidding me, right? I was going to tell you when we got out to make sure and stick it on the floor or something, but didn't because I figured you'd remember." I knew I should have ordered a beer with my pan noodles.

"You were not going to say that. You're a liar. That was such a lie." Yes, you read that right. My kid just called me a liar. I may have avoided giving him the opportunity to say something crappy to me the first time, but this one more than made up for it.

I grabbed my keys and walked -- okay, more like stomped -- out to the car and if I hadn't left my purse at the table I probably would have just jumped in and drove away. I also resisted the urge to drive back and forth over his DS case and instead stuck it somewhere that was out of sight: in the back of the van, where he couldn't reach it.

When I went back to our table our food was just arriving and everyone was silent. Zach knew he was in trouble so he grunted an apology but otherwise just sat there and ate while I composed a lecture in my head. Something I realize is that when one kid is in trouble, the other two manage to pull out good behavior like I've never seen because their goodness really stands out against the other kid's misdeeds. They also know that if they're the slightest bit bad when I'm already mad about something else, then utensils may start flying through the air.

After a few minutes of carb and Sriracha consumption, I finally managed to tell him that what he said was really craptastic and that maybe he should have used the "say things to yourself silently before you say it out loud" tip I gave him a couple weeks ago. I told him that I didn't remind him about his stupid DS earlier because I didn't want to deal with his smart-ass remark, but I ended up hearing a much worse smart-ass remark that also accused me of lying. And then I told him to not make a sound and let me be mad for five more minutes and then I would be fine.

Sure enough, after about five minutes we were all back to normal and having fun watching the mom at the table next to us try to carry on an adult conversation with her friend while simultaneously trying to stop her four-year-old son from throwing all of his mac & cheese on the floor while laying on his chair pretending to be Superman. At one point she said: "Austin, sweetie, you're making a big messy mess and mommy wants you to sit nicey-nice. Can you do that for mommy? Mommy will get you a cookie if you do." I wanted to tell her "Yeah, well, in ten years he might sit nicey-nice, but he'll also call you a lying liar!" but my five minutes of anger was up and plus, from the looks of her kid and how she's dealing with him, being called a liar will be the least of her issues.

I'm Too Predictable

These are things that I would be perfectly happy never having to say again for the rest of my life. Okay, maybe six months. Yeah, one month would be just about perfect. In fact, I'd be happy to have two weeks off from saying any (or all) of these phrases:

Zoe eat your breakfast.

What? Another science project?

Stop climbing on the back of the couch.

Yes, you need to wear a coat.

No you cannot have a snack right now.

No I am not buying you candy.

No I am not buying you a stuffed animal.

Zoe eat your lunch.

Stop asking me to buy everything you see.

Stay away from the dog's butt.

Please don't stand right behind me.

Please don't fart on your brother.

Seriously! Who does that?!

Stop using your shirt to wipe your mouth.

Really, that's okay, I didn't want any help anyway.

Did anyone feed the dog?

Zoe stop singing and eat your dinner.

You need to cut your fingernails.

Please go to bed.

Not later, now. I said go to bed now.

I really meant it. GO TO BED.

Yeah, you probably are hungry. Maybe you should have ate dinner.

Stop telling me things while the hair dryer is on.

What do you mean the dog crapped on the floor!

Please don't forget. Seriously, don't forget.

What do you mean you forgot?

What do you mean you lost it?

What do you mean we're out of vodka?

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.

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.

Cuervo, Take Me Away

I actually look forward to the kids having a day off from school, as long as it's a Friday, it's not winter and there isn't a science project that needs to be completed. Since Presidents Day didn't meet any of these requirements, I was ready for the day to be over by 10:30. Ay-Em.

I was hoping to sleep in until Doug had to get up for work, but instead my kick ass dream was interrupted at 6:45, courtesy of the dog sprinting around our bedroom at a frantic pace that meant: "I have to go pee. I have to go pee. Get up, get up. I have to go pee." So I got up, let the dog out and then shoveled the driveway.

At 7:50 Zoe came stumbling down the stairs, complaining that her leg hurt because she had been asleep for too long. Four moans, three groans and one full body flop-on-the-floor later, she ate her waffle and then launched into her "There's no school so when can I play Mario Kart" campaign.

At 8:45 Charlie woke up and made it all the way to the couch before he collapsed again, physically incapable of sitting upright or pouring a glass of orange juice. He did manage to appear in a chair when breakfast was ready, but couldn't find the energy to grab his own fork.

After Zach was brought to consciousness by Zoe (after I told her to go wake him up) at 9:00, he mumbled something that sounded like "Morning," read the sports section while he ate breakfast, and the first audible words out of his mouth were, "Ugh, there was a little too much cheese on my eggs."

I reminded the boys of when we were leaving for their piano and tennis lessons, and since Zoe was busy reading books to her stuffed animals I went downstairs to workout, hoping that burning a few calories would be the equivalent of hitting a reset button on the day.

Usually if I'm on the elliptical when the kids are home, I get interrupted no fewer than three times with random questions or reports of naughtiness. Maybe the kids all sensed that I needed a few dozen minutes to myself, because no one came downstairs to tell me anything. Or maybe, like I eventually discovered, they were just waiting until I was done.

Thanks to an elevated heart rate and being able to laugh at a few people on "The Price Is Right," I had managed to pretty much forget about the start to my day. So when I came upstairs refreshed and ready to start over and the first thing I heard was Charlie say, "Guess what Zoe did!" I was more than a little ticked.

"She was in my room, digging through my desk drawers and closet. And then when I told her to stop she charged at me and hit me! And then she practically bent my fingers so far backward, I'm surprised they didn't break off!" Apparently Charlie had been in his room, wrestling with a rhinoceros that had recently been handed a UFC contract.

I looked over at Zoe who was in the same exact spot as before, reading books to her stuffed animals. This is a girl that can hear a candy wrapper from two miles away, but right now she was pretending to be deaf.

I constantly remind these kids that it is not my daily goal to see how mad I can get. I don't walk around waiting for the naughtiness to begin, excitedly anticipating a good scream or being able to yank a fistful of hair out of my head. So when I get stories like this it makes me crazy, and it results in the same stupid conversation everytime:

Kid 1: Kid 2 was mean, and hit me!

Kid 2: I did not hit you!

Kid 1: Yes, you did!

Me: Kid 2, were you naughty? Did you hit him? Tell the truth, please.

Kid 2: Okay, maybe, yeah. Cuz he deserved it!

Me: Well, then say you're sorry. And don't hit.

Kid 1: That's it?

Me: Oh. Um, Kid 2. Stay out of Kid 1's bedroom.

Kid 1: UGH!

Kid 2: UGH!

Me: UGH! Where's my drink!

I would love it if they didn't get quite so much joy over getting each other in trouble. You'd think they would figure out that when one of them makes me miserable, the slightest wrongdoing from the others just adds to the misery. And the drama could come to a grinding halt any day. Did Zoe almost bust Charlie's fingers off? I don't think so. Did he overreact to her looking through some pictures that he had drawn? Probably.

After the finger-breaking/hitting crisis was settled, I reminded the boys of what was on our schedule for the rest of the day. Five minutes later while Zach was getting something to drink, he asked me: "So, what time is tennis again? When do we have to leave? And why do we have a piano lesson in the middle of the day anyway?"

Last night when the boys were playing a video game together, Charlie asked Zach a question. After asking the same question for the fourth time Zach said to him, "Hey Charlie, why don't you try listening to me sometime." Excuse me, Kettle Black. Get in line. And since you have the limeade out, make me a margarita.

Parenting Anti-Advice

I've decided that now is as good a time as any to fine tune some parenting techniques. I know that there are a few things that could use a little improvement, like my lack of patience (okay, a lot of improvement), and since there seems to be more advice out there than ever before, I thought maybe I'd look into a couple age-appropriate suggestions and give them a try.

Goal #1: Stop yelling at Zoe so much.

To accomplish this goal, I looked into the "positive discipline" philosophy. This approach takes a lot of work, patience and mental strength. It also requires a lot of time, like your-whole-life kind of time. With positive discipline, there is no such thing as "wrong, evil" or "punishment," only "inappropriate" and "teachable moment." And here's the real kicker: negotiation and raising your voice are definite no-no's.

Well, things seemed to be going pretty smoothly and I thought that maybe just reading about positive discipline did the trick. I'll never have to yell again! I did all of that research for nothing! After informing her all afternoon that we would be leaving for Charlie's violin lesson in one hour, half-an-hour, and then fifteen minutes, the moment arrived where I asked her to turn off "Tom & Jerry" because we actually, really did have to leave, which instantly triggered crabbiness and a meltdown. Time to engage Project Positive Discipline!

"No! I don't want to! Maybe in ten minutes." She was sprawled out on the couch and showed no signs of cooperation.

"Zoe, we have to leave in no minutes, not ten. You're acting inappropriately. Please turn the TV off, get a snack, put your shoes on and get in the car." I still hadn't raised my voice, the snack wasn't really a negotiation or bribe since she needed to eat, and I felt like I was still in control.

"But I'm tired. I don't want to go." Now she was crying and doing her best eel impression by sliding off of the couch and into a heap on the floor. Meanwhile, Charlie was standing by the door with his coat on, waiting for us to get in the car and Zach was attempting to get his homework done amidst the drama. "And I'm hunnngreeee!"

"I already said you could get a snack! And you need to get your shoes on now! All you have to do is sit in the car and eat some crackers. The way you're acting is so naughty and wrong." I didn't have time for this and now I was definitely yelling. "Positive discipline" was quickly becoming "project unrealistic."

After a couple more minutes of sobbing and yelling, she finally composed herself enough to get in the car and we were headed to the violin lesson. In a perfect positive discipline world, I would have knelt down, looked my overwhelmed daughter in the eye, and taken a few minutes to explain to her that her behavior was inappropriate, and that I sure did love her lots and understood that she was mad and felt powerless. Then I would have wrapped my arms around her in a reassuring hug, pulled an organic snack out of the pantry, and carried her to the car. But here's the thing: I live in reality, where we have places to be ten minutes ago. Sure, my method resulted in a few more tears and a little bit of yelling, but at least I embraced a "teachable moment." After all, she learned that she should stop acting like a psycho and get her ass in the car already.

Since Goal #1 was such a rip roaring success, I figured I'd take a shot at another goal, since I couldn't possibly do any worse.

Goal #2: Communicate more efficiently with Zach.

According to the teenage communication experts (which, by the way, I'm now convinced do not have teenagers of their own), a parent should find common ground and mutual interests that they share with their teenager. Spend more time together talking about things other than school, don't snoop through their things or spy, and if they tell you or show you something that you find inappropriate or don't necessarily agree with, share your disapproval with them in a non-judgmental way. And when you are having a conversation with them, make sure you have their full attention before you start talking.

Zach gets home from school an hour before Charlie does, so it's a great time for us to catch up on his day and maybe even talk about what is on the schedule for the rest of the week. If he's willing to talk and/or listen, that is.

While he was eating a granola bar, and before I started talking about after-school plans for Thursday, I made sure to make eye contact so that I knew he was listening. As soon as I said "Okay?" though, he said "What about Thursday? You were talking to me?" It's official, I completely suck at this.

After a couple minutes of silence, he said, "Oh hey. Check this out. John got this random text from someone and he forwarded it to me. You gotta see this." I decided to suck it up and not be mad about his lack of listening skills, and instead I was going to be open-minded and non-judgmental. After all, he was voluntarily showing me stuff on his phone, so I wouldn't have to snoop through his texts like I usually do. And then I saw this:

Okay then, very well. So then I guess if anyone needs me, I'll be outside shoveling the driveway. Oh, and I think I also had a Goal #3 for Charlie, but for some reason I seem to have forgotten what it was.