The Mediocre Mom

How to Raise a Teenager

2011-09-05T02:42:00.002-05:00

Oh, that's precious. You actually thought I could tell you how to raise a teenager? Bless your pea-pickin' heart. I was just bullshitting you.

I have no clue. None.

I gave birth in 1996 to the most precious, beautiful baby boy. I mean, really, I'm not prejudiced. This child was a celebrity in the well-baby nursery. With a head-full of thick, blond hair and, even at hours old, startling blue eyes, he had even the oldest, most seasoned nurses swooning. Our first few nights home were excruciating. I was barely 20 years old, single, terrified, and wondering what the eff I'd gotten myself into. His cries jolted me awake; his demands left me with black circles under my eyes and sore nipples. Many nights were spent in tears - he and I both - as I held my days-old son up in front of me, trying to reason with him like he was a grown man. "WHAT is wrong? You're dry, you're fed. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU???" I got no answer. I trudged through the next few weeks, hoping I wasn't scarring him for life.

He coasted through the years as a happy, juicy, sweet little monkey. He retained his celebrity status in the family and community, and he thought I hung the moon.

Until now.

The teen years have come with a vengeance, and I will be the first to tell you how ill-prepared I was and am to handle this. I can tell you what to do for cradle cap, teething, potty-training... anything. But I remain dumbfounded when it comes to navigating the treacherous waters of adolescence. I can only imagine my dad is looking down on me, stifling laughter and assured that I am getting my just deserts (yes, actually I DID just spell that correctly), and I'm sure my mom is sighing some relief that the grief is being revisited upon me. Not that they did a bang-up parenting job themselves, mind you...

He's angry, he's quick-tempered, he's selfish, and I am going to win the Shitty Mom of the Year Award by saying this... but...

I don't like my own child.

I can't stand him. I suppress the urge to slap him across his face almost daily. His snarky, holier-than-thou comments infuriate me. I want to tell him he knows jack shit about real life, and I wish I could fast-forward to his adult years so I can watch his children give him the headaches and heartburn that he gives me. Don't get me wrong - I love him. But I truly believe you can love someone and not like them.

My heart is broken, as is my spirit. I feel like I need a do-over with him. Some advance warning that I was going to evolve into this cataclysmic failure.

He reminds me quite often what a piss-poor mother I am, and here's the clincher... I believe him. Not for the same reasons he does, but because surely someone out there is way better at this than me. Where's the damn manual? Forget What to Expect When You're Expecting. Where the hell is What to Expect When Your Son Hits Puberty and Turns Into a Complete Shithead?

To my kids' teachers... You're Welcome.

2010-12-23T02:58:00.005-06:00

Am I one of those moms who totally has her shit together and sends - no, better yet - hand delivers thoughtful, carefully-planned Christmas gifts to my kids' teachers each year? No ma'am. No way. Not nevah.

Fifi's teacher - you got a gift this year, because Fifi walked up to me in the gift shop of a Christmas tree farm with a teacher-themed ornament and begged for it. $6. Do you know how cheap I am? I could so totally buy a venti half-caf, non-fat, no-whip mocha on the way to work, AND a large half-Coke, half-Diet Coke with $6. But because Fifi is so stinkin' cute when she begs, and I wanted to look like Mother Theresa Mommy in her eyes, I bought it. So, yes... it was all about making me look good. To HER. And it worked. You got a ceramic (or whatever the hell material it is) ornament with an immeasurable cheese factor, and I got blatant adulation. It's a win-win. You're welcome.

Faith's teachers - how'd ya like them cookies? Funny enough, the two three-packs of plastic goodie containers were $6 at Wally World. We're at $6 again. But I felt OK with that, because that's $1 per teacher, yo! Plus a negligible amount of pantry staples I keep around. My older daughter with a heart the size of Texas wanted to bake cookies. Probably because she knew her tightwad mother would just as soon choke or vote for Sarah Palin than spend $6 each for six teachers. That's $36. Do you know what I could do with $36? It involves a foot bath and skin scraping from a Vietnamese woman who goes by the name "Tammy".

I digress... Faith made the cookies. I helped and cleaned up the mess. Oh, and those weird-looking cookies? For the record, those aren't Christmas penises. That is the end result of a candle-shaped cookie cutter whose designer had only the best intentions. So what if I have a dirty mind? You do, too - admit it.

Jack's teachers - you didn't get anything. You're welcome. In this day and age, the fact that I have raised my son well enough that he doesn't come to class with a gun in his backpack is a bonus. Not to mention, he would so totally get his ass beat if he came bearing gifts as the class brown-noser. Could I have brought something up there myself? Sure. In my yoga pants, a long-sleeved T that's seen better days, and Dearfoam slippers, with no makeup and my hair in a clip. That, too, would earn him at worst, an ass-beating; and at best, ridicule certain to last well into his sophomore year.

I am boldly, proudly living up to my mediocrity this year. And I have $12 in receipts to prove it. Happy holidays.

The View from the Kitchen Window

2010-08-24T02:14:00.004-05:00

The house is not quite as large as we'd hoped, but it'll do. You can hear Fifi's television through the ceiling in our bedroom if she has it too loud. The dining room has some scary ass wallpaper border, and the staircase is lavender. (Yeah - did you catch that? Lavender.)

But. The kitchen window. Beyond my Arthur Court collection that rests on the oversized sill is a portal to another land. It's my own personal ViewMaster Some things I imagine while swirling Merlot around in my wine ~~goblet that holds nearly half a bottle~~ glass, lost in my utopia that muffles the screaming kids and barking dogs in the background. I imagine ~~Edward walking out from the woods like he does at the beginning of New Moon~~ a new swingset right *there*. Setting up our hammock right... *there*. Even though the reality is just as dreamy.

I look into the backyard that houses fireflies at night; fireflies that are held captive in my five year-old's dirt-smudged palms as he walks breathlessly in the back door to show me his treasure. He's designated an unused planting area off the deck as his "sandbox", and I've been meaning to weed it out for weeks for that reason. (Topping off my Merlot at the thought of that Mom FAIL.)

Fifi plays veterinarian to a neighborhood stray whom she now refers to as "her" kitty. That cat loves her so much, it hides in the ferns below the window and waits for her to leave. My quirky little princess picks flowers and carries on conversations with unseen friends as she gingerly steps through the cone flowers and wild violets. Fifi doesn't care how ratty her curls get, and though she's in cut-offs and a grubby t-shirt, she might as well be wearing a tulle gown with fairy wings, because that's how I see her. She's in her own little universe and has no idea that this window lets me in there from time to time.

I can't decide whether to roll my eyes or laugh as I watch my husband warble to his iPod as he mows through the banks and hills that lead into the creek. Somewhere out there, some birds are covering their ears and wincing. Anyone who can butcher a song that Axl Rose sings is truly untalented. Thank you, Lord, for the mower that drowns him out.

Deer and rabbits have a choice on either side of the woods - a corn and soybean farm, or our backyard. Guess which one is safer? I doubt there would be a fifty-pound, four month-old Great Dane puppy barreling toward them amongst the field crops. That scenario has played out from my window more than once, prompting me to let whatever dish I was washing clumsily drop into the sink as I bolted out the back door to chase the brat all over the place. Dog wrangler wasn't in my job description when I applied, ya know.

I'd love to say that the ViewMaster often provides an idyllic picture of my four children strolling hand-in-hand through the clover, singing about their Favorite Things. But this ain't Austria; it's Indiana. I often see dirt poured down a collar... a chase ensuing between our old yellow dog and the neighborhood stray... Finn's shorts tearing while he awkwardly attempts to the slide on the old, rusty swingset we have been meaning to disassemble.

I suppose the reason I love that window is that it frames the moments that make up my life - good or bad, messy or manicured, sweet or annoying, melodious or off-key, raining or sunny. That is what brings me back to it each day, waiting for a new snapshot.

You live where now? AKA I'm baaaaack!

2010-07-17T04:26:00.008-05:00

Yes, I've moved. Through situations I may discuss at a later time (don't hold your breath, yo...), I sought employment away from the ghetto-fabulous Memphis metro area. Things went from "I'll pop a cap in your ass" to "Would you like a bottle of pop?"

Ahhh, the Midwest. The heartland. The breadbasket. The crossroads. Amish people. Corn fields. Snow. Soybean fields. Townships. More corn fields. More snow. And we love it. We'll skip the part where I lived here for 57 days (trust me; I counted) before my husband and kids moved here. I have the twenty pounds and Xanax prescription to show for that. The staff of Barnes & Noble knew me by name. I saw New Moon in the theater ~~no less than eleven times, maybe more; I lost count~~ a few times.

I have officially experienced winter for the first time in my life. I will never forget the morning of December 31 when I got off work. It was 1 degree. ONE. Uno. With a windchill of minus 18. I had a runny nose at the time, and in the relatively short walk to the parking garage, my snot froze on my face and in my nostrils. I stiffly climbed into my SUV, cranked up the heat, and cried.

Once my nipples thawed, I decided that this particular season is overrated. So did my kids, as the natives here scoff at the snow days that Memphis declared with overly dramatic news tickers whenever so much as a three-minute snow flurry encroached. To declare a snow day here, I believe, is considered weakness. I imagined that they measured it by walking their dog. Some government official would take a labrador retriever out for a walk in the accumulated snow. If you could still see the dog's head, school was in session. If the dog disappeared, maybe it was a good idea to cancel classes. And buy a new dog.

Acclimation stumbled at times. Like when my husband and I didn't think to buy snow boots for our kids. I mean, hell, where do we find them? And what crackhead decided that in February, department stores should discontinue their winter wares and start selling bikinis? February? In Indiana? Really? So savor the mental image of the north Mississippi rednecks letting their kids wear two pair of socks over their hands once their ONE pair of gloves got wet after playing in the snow.

We've seen Lake Michigan. Windmill farms. The Chicago skyline. The world's largest chocolate fountain. We've tried these disgusting concoctions they call three-way and five-way chili.

I took a pay cut when I moved here. I've also developed a deterrant to working overtime, which speaks volumes if anyone knows how many hours I worked in Memphis. I hate myself for those hours now. And in turn, my checkbook now hates me, but my kids love it. Mom is home all the time, it seems! I've rediscovered my passion for cooking, since we don't eat out much now.

While lower-paying, my job is a bit more cush, shall we say. I don't see anywhere near the amount of soul-eating violent acts against children that plague Memphis. An exciting night at work for me is an Amish buggy vs. SUV. (Yep. It happens. And it wasn't me; I swear.) I work in a big city; don't get me wrong. But it seems as though people up here are better at... well... behaving. Srsly.

It's a new start for us, most importantly. A new leaf. New experiences for our kids, and for what seems like the first time, a chance to truly be a family. Pass the pop.

One Tube of Guyliner Away from Emo

2009-10-13T05:11:00.009-05:00

I occasionally use the phrase "So-and-so makes me understand why some animals eat their young." I never thought I'd insert my older son's name in that sentence. Don't get me wrong; I knew the oh-so delightful teenage years were inevitable. I was just hoping for a gradual segue into the depths of hell. A forewarning of some sort.

Instead, Jack went to bed one night my considerate, loving, loyal son, and awoke the next morning a sullen, mouthy teenager, full of piss and vinegar.

My little boy, my firstborn. He was a little surprise I got at Mississippi State as a sophomore. A small "oops" that I now tell him and others was the best thing to ever happen to me, the best decision I ever made. He was born in two and a half hours, a mercifully short labor for a scared-out-of-her-wits 20 year-old single mother (two months past the teenage-mom stigma - YES!), alone in the delivery room, save a close friend. I remember he came out perfect. Oh-so perfect. You usually find that babies with a headful of hair tend to be dark-haired, while blond babies come out as little cueballs, "bald as a peckerwood", my Granny used to say. Never understood why she inverted that word. Anyway, he had a thick, soft generous amount of golden blonde hair. The nurses ooohed and ahhhed over him. He would gaze up at me with startling, crystal-blue eyes. Pink and delicate. Just heavenly.

Yes, prejudiced mommy. Say all you want... I gave birth to the freakin' Gerber baby. He slept through the night at 4 weeks old (just in time for me to start back classes, woot!), he was joyful and giggly and chubby.

The perfection continued through the years. Super bright, he was reading at 4 years old. He started prefacing his phrases in preschool with "actually" and "eventually", moving on to second grade with "Hypothetically speaking" and the like. The Gerber Baby was the next Einstein. Only with better hair. Surely my ovaries were coated in 24k gold. Hold your applause. No, really.

Starting at 8 years old, Jack endured several surgeries and months upon months of physical therapy for an orthopedic issue. It was like caring for a 90-pound newborn back then, but he rarely complained. He missed all but two months of third grade, yet went on to score the second highest number of AR (reading) points for his entire elementary school, only slightly behind a fifth grader who'd had the entire 9-month school year to accumulate what Jack had in less than 8 weeks.

His baby brother, our fearless Finn, came along when Jack was 9 years old. It was love at first sight. Finally, a little more testosterone in our home after two stinky ol' sisters. You've never seen siblings this far apart in age so unusually close. My husband and I have said they'll both have separation anxiety when Jack goes off to college (Harvard or Boston College? We'll keep ya posted...). Jack wants to play with Finn, babies him, fixes him peanut butter and banana sandwiches. It is the sweetest thing watching the two of them together. Makes me farklempt (tawk amongst ya selves).

Though his affection and attention towards Finn has not faltered, the remnants of my once-sweet boy are slowly slipping away. Who are you, and what have you done with Jack???

All of my kids were excellent babies. No colic, nothing. We never have been the red-eyed, sleep-deprived parents. I always joked that because of that, we were going to catch hell when they became teenagers. Who knew how right we were? I'm waiting for even my older daughter's head to start spinning as she projectile vomits split-pea soup all over her Pepto-Bismol pink bedroom.

"You do NOT put your sister in a headlock!"

"What do you mean, this project is due tomorrow? When was it assigned? LAST MONTH?!?!"

"You shut your mouth when you're talking to me!"

"If you roll your eyes one more time, so help me God, I'll knock you into the middle of next week and be there on Wednesday to smack you again!"

"Why? WHY? Because I said so!"

"You slapped your sister?"

"Wipe that look off your face right this minute!"

"Do you want to get your cellphone and XBOX back before you turn 30 or what?"

The sullen looks, the silent stares of contempt... where did we go wrong? I don't care if it's the norm. I want to spray him down with Teenager-B-Gon. I buy him Gap and Ralph Lauren and Wallaby's. They get shoved to the back of his closet while he mumbles something about only wanting Levi's, Nikes, and hoodies. He has a thing for graphic tees, in an astounding array of black and grey. Sometimes he even gets a little crazy and might wear NAVY. Srsly. I will have to try to push the Alex P. Keaton look on Finn in later years, I suppose, because Jack ain't havin' it.

He's still a good kid. Most parents would give their eyeteeth to call Jack theirs. It could be so much worse. But to go from angelic, polite Jack to bordering-on-emo Jack in a short time frame has knocked me for a loop. I don't know if this is the worst, or the calm before the storm. Whichever it is, this is why God begat the scientists who begat Xanax. Praise the baby Jesus.

Buying Healthcare in Bulk

2009-06-03T22:32:00.011-05:00

"Welcome to Holy Moly Children's Medical Center, can I take your order, please?"
"Yes; I would like a knee immobilizer, lidocaine gel, lycra sutures, ummmm... solumedrol with a 22-gauge IV, supplemental oxygen, and a dose of IM Rocephin."
"Would you like that Holy Moly-sized?"
"Errrr... sure; why not."
"OK, your co-pay will be $100; please pull around to the first window."

OK, so that's not exactly how it goes, but that's how I feel lately with the various calamities involving my four rugrats (OK, three, really; Faith reminds me that she has done nothing in her life to contribute to our health plan's two million dollar lifetime maximum). I'm just waiting for Child Protective Services to come bang on my door and start questioning the children individually. "Does your mommy ever hit you?" "No, sir! Wait - do wire hangers count?"

Let's backtrack, shall we? Waaaay back in October of 2007, Finn was jumping on the trampoline (which I vehemently resisted letting the outlaws buy my kids for Christmas, yet was informed that I was being hysterical and over-protective), and broke his tibia. It was a buckle fracture, commonly known as - guess - a trampoline fracture. He was our first to break a bone; not bad for being baby #4. We made a tidy profit on the trampoline when Scott dismantled it. Father out-law asked if he was going to get the money from the sale, since they bought it. I informed them that, sure, they could have the money, but we were planning on using it to pay his grandchild's medical bills. I never heard a word about it after that. But I digress...

In October 2008, Finn had to have his tonsils and adenoids removed and his turbinates done. That was not an accident, but it connects to the next injury. The tonsillectomy recovery was quite an ordeal, and was capped by an injury sustained while rough-housing with his sisters at church a few weeks later. Shattered nasal bridge. Reconstructive surgery two days before Christmas. Finn was given Versed. Mommy took Xanax.

March. Jack showing off his ~~newborn baby giraffe-like~~ mad skills in the skating rink at a friend's birthday party. Took a spill. Braced himself with his arms. Broke his radius. Cast for six weeks. He got Motrin as needed. Mommy upped her Zoloft dose.

May. Finn rebreaks aforementioned post-tonsillectomy, post-reconstruction proboscis at the hands of ~~an evil little girl~~ a classmate at school. Not serious enough to require surgery. Whew - that was a close one. Had his fifteen minutes of fame on Facebook, describing on camera the dastardly deed blow-by-blow. "Ms. Pam tell her, 'Say you're sowwy'... but her didn't."

Yesterday. I'm looking forward to chillaxin' in a t-shirt and shorts before I go to work a night shift. I'm standing in the kitchen, making a sandwich, when a muffled, approaching wail emanates from the front of the house. The front door opens and the wails get more desperate, and you get that chill where you know something's really wrong.

In walks Fifi, looking like Sissy Spacek in the prom scene from Carrie. OK, so maybe I'm exaggerating a wee bit, but it was bloody, and it scared the hell out of me. Seriously - about five drops of pee came out. Mass pandemonium ensues as Fifi, Faith, and the neighbor kid all try to explain what happened. I grab a cloth, wet it, and put it to Fifi's face. From what I could gather from Alvin and the Chipmunks (that's how they sounded, all trying to talk at once, hyper, and I'm sure there was some helium involved at some point), Fifi was running from a barking dog, scared out of her wits, and ran smack into the neighbor's pool deck. Results:

Ouch.

So I had to go to work two hours early and play Mommy, while wearing scrubs. Then I had to clock in. She got stitches. She has a ballet recital in three days. Is it OK if I become an alcoholic now?

It's pretty bad when you've gotten to the point where you're numb to your kids' injuries. Don't get me wrong... you're not indifferent to their pain; you still baby them and love on them and kiss them and make it better. But you aren't panicked; you simply take charge and do what has to be done, whether that is take them to the doctor or call the ER (AKA your place of employment) and tell them, yep, you're bringing your kid in again. And nope, they don't need to consult Medical Social Work.

So the drive-thru scenario was just a comical bit on what has become my life as of late, but we practically do need to start a tab at the children's hospital. Yesterday, I told the admissions clerk to bill me as usual for our co-pay. He laughed uncomfortably and then stopped and said, "Oh - you're serious. Oh, OK."

Is it just me, or are you envisioning my health plan company(*koff koff*CIGNA*koff koff*) getting pissed and making voodoo dolls out of my family? Wait - I take that back. That would make no sense. Because any injuries they'd inflict on us in some primitive, mystical manner; well, they'd have to pay to fix. Hmmmph.

I just have to accept the fact that as long as I have the fruit of my loins under my roof or claimed on my insurance, my employer will get $50 per paycheck toward the hospital bills I owe them. Even if I get the balances paid off 6 months from now, they might as well keep drawing it out. Because we'll be back.

Perfectly imperfect

2009-05-20T04:30:00.003-05:00

Sometimes in my mind, I find my self apologizing that things in my life are not as they should be, according to ~~my mother-in-law's~~ um, public opinion. My house is always in shambles. And while a lot of it is just clutter, oftentimes, the basic cleaning gets overlooked more than I would like to admit.

I forget to sign homework a couple of times a week or send lunch money, and each sibling thought the other fed the puppy. Or the cat. Or the ever-forgiving elderly dog. I will forget dinner or just lay in bed too long to have time to start dinner before I leave for work. So - surprise - it's take-out time again. Chinese or Sonic?

My SUV has food containers and old mail and miscellaneous crap spilling out all over the floorboards. But it's new and dependable and the vehicle of which I've dreamed, so that's OK. It's MY SUV. So what if it looks like a family of transient Guatemalans lives in it?

There's still areas in the playroom that need to be sanded and repainted because I changed my mind about the design and removed a wall full of shelves. It doesn't look great, but it will get done eventually. All that matters right now is that there's a super-comfortable, kid-friendly microfiber sectional in there on which to lay and watch a SUH-WEET Sony Bravia flat screen TV. You'll just need to sweep the Doritos crumbs to the floor and arch your back to avoid the hair clippie wedged in between the cushions.

My bedroom looks like it should be declared a disaster zone. But again, it's MY mess, and I go into convulsions when Superman tries to organize it. The dead roses on the dresser from Valentine's Day? My excuse is ~~I'm trying to grow colonies of bacteria that my high school biology teacher could only dream of~~ I don't want to empty the vase until I have something to fill it back up with. Hubby has yet to take the hint.

My kids? They can be unruly and spoiled and are very difficult when it comes to getting them to help around the house. Our son's lackadaisical attitude towards it cost him his summer trip with his youth group to Florida. Do I beat them daily or accept that they're never going to reform? Not like I'm gonna come home to my seven year-old greeting me at the door with a smile on her face, saying, "Let me take your satchel, Mother Dear. It must be dreadfully burdensome. Faith is upstairs drawing you a bath, and Father has prepared a feast. I had to help him make more broccoli, because I ate all of mine. Finn is already bathed and in bed and only watched twenty-two minutes of television today. It was a documentary on the environmental devastation of the Exxon Valdez. He was taking notes on an Etch-A-Sketch."

Shyeah. Back to reality.

Bottom line - the mess? It's our mess. You don't have to look at it. The unruly kids? They're my kids. I either love them, or start Googling "Chinese water torture". It's all imperfect - perfectly imperfect. But it's the home we've made, literally and figuratively. Take it or leave it.*

*:Just be careful where you step, because I think Fifi forgot to clean up after Susie when she ate the grass clippings and barfed on the Pergo in the living room.

A child of "firsts"

2009-05-20T03:13:00.012-05:00

Considering the number of children we have, things are not as chaotic as one might think. At least they weren't until August 13, 2005, when Finn came with a whimper into this world. Who would've thought that the little runt who arrived five weeks early and refused to take a first breath, scaring the bejeezus out of us all, would end up our fearless one?

This post was inspired by a text message from the hubby while I was at work: fyi - having kids clean up the backyard. Finn just pulled his pants down and peed on the patio. The antics that ensue with this child have us scared out of minds one minute and laughing until our sides hurt the next.

Recently, we found out the hard way that he now knows how to unlock the deadbolt on the front door. He woke up before his daddy and me, and decided that he would go play at the neighbors house three doors down. Thank God we live on a cul-de-sac. According to our neighbor, he walked over to her front drive where all the children from her home daycare were playing and joined in the fun. She asked him, "Finn, do your mommy and daddy know that you're here?" "No. They're napping." So she let him play for about twenty minutes, then walked him home and told him to lock the door. She heard it click.

Daddy went and bought door latches today. Methinks he should install them pretty high, because Finn is also talented at using chairs and other height-assisting devices to obtain the forbidden.

With three siblings born years before him, he also was our first child to break a bone. Hubby and I had been home from our Mexican siesta (read: cruise) just a couple of days when he jumped on our trampoline and landed off-kilter, thus earning himself a buckle fracture. AKA a "trampoline fracture". From the trampoline. That my inlaws bought the kids. That I vehemently objected to and was told I was being hysterical and overreactive. Ha.

Six weeks after his Halloween Eve tonsils and adenoids surgery in which his turbinates were reconstructed due to obstructive sleep patterns, he broke his nose while rough-housing with his siblings at church. He had to have reconstructive surgery two days before Christmas. (Should I be scared anytime there's a holiday looming?) Less than a month later, he ran into the doorknob in the kitchen. Square on his nose. The sickening thud filled me with visions of yet another ENT consult. And a DCS visit. A few days ago, he got pushed on the indoor playground at his day school by a little girl, and - yep - broken again. But not bad enough this time to justify surgery. I have a video of him describing the heartless assault - when I figure out how, I will post it.

He rarely has a clean face. He looks like a male toddler Carrie Bradshaw if you let him dress himself. He has taken up a new hobby: biting. A little late in development for that, don't you think? He's clingy, he has meltdowns if you dare tell him "no". He helps himself to ~~Easter candy on top of the fridge~~ ~~four pudding cups at once~~ snacks without asking. His nails stay dirty. Currently, we are having to slowly wean him off watching TV until he falls asleep, a coping mechanism used when we had a night-time babysitter while we worked. He's having withdrawals akin to a crack-fiend.

I've been a mother for nearly thirteen years, and never have I heard one of my children (or any children, for that matter) utter such a bizarre statement as the one Finn blurted out in the kitchen Monday... "Mommy, I wish I was a toilet so you could go poo-poo in me."

Crickets chirping... Excuse me?

Moving right along.

Spoiled rotten by his siblings, Finn is rushed upon when he falls, with his ever-attentive sisters and brother cooing, "Bayyyyybeeee! Are you OK?" Yet Superman and I aren't totally blameless - when the older kids do something bad, we scold and bark and carry on. Yet when Finn commits one of his daily felonies, oftentimes we bit our lip to keep from laughing.

He climbs! Did I mention he climbs? None of my older three ever climbed! Yet Finn scales stationary (and sometimes non-stationary) objects with great frequency in pursuit of adventure or chocolate.

He's loud, he's mischievious, he's whiny, he's dirty, he's rough, he's everything "all-boy" his older brother never was. It's been quite an adjustment, but I'm acclimating. For instance, he informed me today that he wanted to pee outside. I wasn't paying any attention and just muttered, "Uh-huh." Hubby cocked an eyebrow and asked "Do you even know what you agreed to?" We both look over, and Finn is "watering" the lamb's ear in my flower beds. So we've graduated to peeing in the front yard. In plain sight of neighbors.

I shrugged. Party on.

T&A on the kiddies' field trip (and it wasn't me!)

2009-05-13T01:57:00.003-05:00

I decided I would be a good mommy and accompany Fifi on her class field trip to a smelly-stinky farm. I flew down I-55 in my oversized SUV, daring any subcompact to get in my way. I thought I was running way late, but I got there before they even finished unloading rugats from the school buses.

Things seemed quite normal until I saw a child's mother wearing... the unthinkable. A head-to-toe size up uncovered the following fashion faux pas...

* Uber-short shorts. if she bent over, you could've seen her hoo-ha; of that, I am sure.

* Peroxide-blonde, permed hair with two-inch roots.

* The remnants of a black eye

* The beginnings of pink eye.

* A bra that lacked support and surely had seen better days.

And last but not least... drum roll, please...

A skin-tight shirt, accentuating her gargantuan muffin top, that read: "How do you like your eggs in the morning?"

Since when is it OK to dress like this in public, and, more importantly, why in the hell would you dress like this for your first-graders' field trip?

I ~~know~~ hope her child did not know what the words on his mother's shirt meant, but I sure as heck did, along with the other bazillion chaperones. Super classy. What was she thinking?

I took a picture with my Blackberry just so my husband would believe me. As soon as I can doctor it a little to provide some ~~ill-deserved~~ privacy, I might just add it to this post.

Moral of this story: if you're gonna chaperone your child's school field trip, don't dress like a dime-store floozy. Your kid may not notice, but the rest of us will have to stifle our vomit. Thatisall.

In Which MsMommy Forbids the Hubby from Ever Going Out of Town Again

2009-05-03T18:17:00.008-05:00

"I've got a room by myself with a king-size bed," so sayeth the text that my husband sent as soon as he got to Atlanta for a children/youth ministry conference. I rolled my eyes and put my phone back in my purse. Smart men don't send texts like that, knowing there's even a remote possibility that their wife is breaking up the 24th sibling squabble for the day.

I had to work on my birthday since Daddio was going to be out of town. First offense. Hubby didn't catch up on laundry while I worked in the days leading into his departure. Second offense. Inlaws backing out on helping me, kids rolling their eyes at me, dogs going apeshit at night during the thunderstorms... what's a Mom to do?

She eyeballs the tequila in the fridge and goes for it. Strawberry margaritas after the kiddo are in bed. She partakes in a little retail therapy and then comes home and does NOT do housework. She gets a wild hair up her ass and starts a home improvement project and refuses to divulge details to hubby on what exactly she is doing, only sending cryptic texts to him, such as, "Where are the tile nippers?" "Did you know that there's wood underneath our siding?" And... "Wow... your shopvac is lighter than I thought it would be..."

THAT'S what a Mom is to do.

I also have to deal with the dogs more, too, when hubby is gone. I bought the Maltipoo for Fifi, and I do think the pooch is pretty stinkin' cute. But she is a small yip-yip dog, and they have a tendency to be difficult to house-train. There have been a couple of times when I have stepped in one of her little piles of poop, and envisioned making one of those furry white rugs out of her... Sheepskin rugs can be pretty expensive, so I would save some money. Wait - I paid $350 for the dog. Maybe not.

(FWIW, I find it pretty creepy that single-pelt sheepskin rugs are shaped like, well; a sheep...)

Anyhoo, as bad as this sounds, handling the house and all that goes with it ain't my bag. I work a lot. I don't do much housework. That's the hubby's thing, since he's only part-time at his job. And I know it must come across that I can't handle things by myself, that's not entirely true. I'm just not used to it. Kudos to you Moms who scrapbook, have playdates, go on outings every other day to various cultural and educational kiddie venues, teach Sunday School, commit yourselves to PTO. If I did all that, I would, well... commit myself.

I refereed, took a couple of Xanax, recruited some child labor in my home improvement project. Counted at one point a total of FOURTEEN neighborhood children in my front yard. Resisted the urge to backhand my mouthy soon-to-be-teenager. Chased my three year-old who refused to be convinced that skid-marked underwear is not OK, and that one should ask Mommy for wiping help. Reminded a tearful seven year-old that she was not in love with her classmate, and to stop talking like that before her Daddy gets home and has a heart attack. Took a couple more Xanax. Rebandaged Finn's scraped knee with not-yet-paid-for BandAids in WalMart so he would quit having a meltdown over the fact that I removed his old, dirty BandAid and thus exposed him to ridicule from his preschool buddies that "They can see my BWOOD!" Argued with my tween that, yes, consistently wearing Sperry's without socks makes your feet smell like hot, buttered ass. (I lost that argument.)

Though I work a lot, I am still the main chef in the home. Hubby was living off of grilled cheese and frozen chicken nuggets when he met me. I'm the best (culinary) thing that has ever happened to him! Weekly menus are planned out so that the "hard" stuff is served on nights I am home or able to cook before leaving, and the easy stuff for him so he doesn't poison the children. My point in saying all of this - and I do have one - is that while Daddy was living it up in his king-size bed at the Hilton, I... didn't... cook. If memory serves me correctly, the kids ate at On the Border the first night, pizza then second night, and Interstate BBQ the third night. Total of spent on take-out: $150. My sanity retained: priceless.

I still have about half a fifth (is that mathematically possible?) of tequila left but I'm nearly out of strawberry puree, I'm down to a handful of Xanax, my gas tank is nearly empty (that's usually his job, too), and the house is ready to be declared a natural disaster.

I wouldn't want be a single Mom again, not with four kids - it's never been more obvious now. So I guess I will forever tolerate hubby's 30-minute bathroom sojourns, complete with his novel of choice; his driving skills that morph me into a white-knuckled screaming banshee, spinning tales of him possibly splattering my children all over the highway while I'm not in the truck with him; even his smug texts describing his enviable solitary sleeping arrangements. I can tolerate it all. Just as long as he doesn't make a habit of forcing me to wing it solo.

I'm so excited, I could tee-tee my pants!

2009-02-14T01:06:00.009-06:00

I did it. I bought a Crackberry. And I am connected. SOOOO connected. And me likie!

I gave my "old" phone (not really that old) to Jack, who has become a texting fiend as of late. He, I'm sure, will appreciate that phone more than the plain-jane Motorola he had before. CellularSouth didn't even charge me to switch his number to my old phone. AND it wasn't time for me to upgrade, so they let me steal my husband's upgrade so the phone was about a third the cost. He didn't want a new phone after perusing the website yesterday, I swear!

I am on Day 4 of ten shifts straight. It's OK, you can go ahead and feel sorry for me. I'll let you. Geeeeez. I am not actually fatigued; I am just sick of getting up, going to work, going home, straight back to bed, annnnnd repeat! I also miss snuggle time with Finn. I was hoping to get some extra cuddles in this morning, but he woke up early, and Superman took him on over to his parents so we could sleep. My new work schedule came out, and instead of my boss at my prn job giving me just a few of my available days like I thought she would, she gave me all of them. EEEK. So from February 22 - April 4, I only have Sundays off. Fortunately, every single shift there is only eight hours. SUH-WEET. Easy money, honey. Plus, I am gonna start socking away some money each month in hopes of making it to California next year to see my family.

(My red light is blinking on my Crackberry! New email!)

I have a new everyday camera that I haven't taken for a spin yet (hint: I paid far less for it than what Nikon's MSRP is, because I bought it at Sam's Club!). I'm excited. And now I must find a new home for my old camera, a little Casio Exilim. It still works great - I was just ready for a change. eBay, maybe? My Canon Rebel (a digital SLR) is so freakin' big, so I decided I needed something smaller for toting around for casual pictures and outings. I do, however, need to finally master the Rebel. It has lots of bells and whistles about which I know nada. If I could only find a day off work to fiddle with it... I have given myself a deadline to learn the damn thing, or it goes on the auction block, too! If any of you SLR high priests or priestesses have any tips, pass 'em on, for Pete's sake!

Yes, I am on a new gadgets kick, but not to worry, I also paid a generous amount on debt and bills and whatnot so far this month. But by gosh, my theory for the moment is, "If I am working like a dawg, I am gonna enjoy it!"

(My Crackberry just went "dink!" New text message!)

Props to my friend Tifny, who lugged her two little girls over to my house so she could babysit MY kiddos. Our babysitter was unavailable, and my inlaws were being asses (imagine that), so Tif volunteered. I would have given anything to be a fly on the wall with her girls, ages 4 years and 6 months, and then my four thrown in the mix. I may have to slip an Ativan in the envelope with her check this morning. She will probably be gone by the time I get home, which is a bummer, because her baby Caroline is so stinkin' cute, I could eat her. Even Superman gets a wistful look on his face when he holds Caroline. Then he thinks about enduring another pregnancy of mine, and he practically throws Caroline across the room to Tifny. Wuss.

Dink...

So anyway, the other day, I... uhhh...

Ping!

What I was going to say was... errrr... I...

Flash... flash... flash...

I'm really sorry, people. I would love to conjure up some more clever banter, but my Crackberry is calling me. I need a fix.

In Which MsMommy Blogs Instead of Cleaning Her Room Like a Good Girl

2009-02-10T01:03:00.009-06:00

I am sitting here in the guest bedroom, propped up with the laptop. Why am I in the guest room? No, I didn't finally confront Superman about his ass hair and hurt his feelings, thus getting the boot. It's that the aforementioned, hard-working, thoughtful, hirsute Superman cleaned out the ~~crap~~ misunderstood clutter that I constantly accumulate in our master bedroom. Yes, we have thousands of dollars worth of Louis Phillipe bedroom furniture, a gorgeous antique chair, new carpet, and other fine things that I keep covered in ~~crap~~ mail, kids' drawings, receipts, bikini with tags I will never fit into that somehow cruelly keeps resurfacing, and sometimes, some stuff that, well, scares me. It's not like this all over the house - that's just mainly clutter - it's just my room, and my side of the room. I am actually surprised that by now, Superman has not resorted to sleeping under the bed like Finn does sometimes when he is fed up with us:

Evidently, Superman has not hit that point of frustration with me. Yet. Would you?

Let's do a post-mortem, shall we? ... on the bed are papers, picture frames, the taunting bikini, etc. Books piled in a ridiculously-tall stack on the nightstand, which I think is a hint from hubby. Hey, I just passed a neonatal-ped board exam and am really relishing being able to read "regular" literature! Anyhoo, there are accumulated birth certificates and other need-to-be-filed-under-"important" miscellaneous items on the dresser. There are clothes piled on my antique rocker, suffocating the heavenly, custom pillows for which I paid a ridiculous amount of money. "Senseless pillows", as Superman calls them. To post these pictures, I had to dig through nightstand drawers (which I actually did clean out a month ago, thankyouverymuch) to find the USB cable, as it wasn't in my camera bag. Imagine that.

Cringe. Sorry honey. I admit it. I did not work tonight, but I still didn't get around to putting ~~this crap~~ my treasures in their proper, yet-to-be-determined places so that I could make our bed so I could sleep in it and not the guest room. And so you could sleep in it and not the guest room when you get home in a few hours. It's just that the corner of the new sectional in the media room is sooo comfy, comfy enough for a three-hour nap during which I should've cleaned up the mess. I will do it after I take the kids to school and go to the doctor. I promise. Probably.

Granny (1926-2007) ~ A post from my brother's blog

2009-02-10T00:41:00.007-06:00

I could just post a link, but I decided to post the whole blog entry my brother wrote about our Granny, who just celebrated a birthday in heaven. I wanted to write about her too, but a) he beat me to the punch, and b) I was too farklempt that day. So read on. And pardon the somber looks on our faces - we were standing on what Hurricane Katrina left of our memories...

Granny (1926 - 2007)

"Yoooooo-hoooooo!!!!!"

That's the sound you'd hear as you let yourself into Granny's home at 615 Ruth Avenue in Gulfport. Pardon the cliche (and I've learned it's now become a cliche to invoke the phrase 'Pardon the cliche'), but it really was a simpler time then. As a kid, I would ride my bike a mile or so to her home, leave it outside, and just let myself in. Locking doors and chaining your bike weren't the priorities they are now for many people. All the nights I stayed over there; all the times I swept up the pecans and leaves on her driveway; all the macaroni & cheese she made for me; all the episodes of Jeopardy and ABC Nightly News with Peter Jennings we watched; all the cans of Fresca on the floor in her closet that, as far as I know, remained untouched seemingly for years; etc. For as long as I knew her, she suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. I think it started in her 40's and never loosened it's grip on her. Yet, she always maintained a positive perspective on it and never complained, at least not around me, other than to say in her soft South Mississippi drawl, "Maaaaaaaat, Granny's joints are kinda hurtin' today."

I'm grateful for all the time I got to spend with her. You'd think the age difference might have made it difficult to discover things we had in common or carry on lengthy conversations, but no worries on both counts. Going to "Grandma's House" was always grand. The reception after my Dad's funeral was held there, too. THAT was surreal, given all the memories of his time spent there in his youth and in adulthood. Thanks to Katrina, however, Granny's home is now likely in the Gulf of Mexico somewhere between Gulfport and Havanna.

My sister, Anna, and I have visited Ruth Avenue and the lot her home was on (see photos), post-Katrina. In fact, Anna found one of Granny's frying pans and our grandfather's old 175-lb ten-key adding machine (which used to sit on the closet floor, if memory serves correctly, right next to the abandoned stash of Fresca). Shortly after Katrina, I asked Granny how she was doing, knowing her long-time home had been eviscerated by Mother Nature. She said - and this is probably my favorite life lesson so far - "Well, there were a few pictures and mementos I wish I could get back, but everything else was just stuff." Just stuff. How's that for an eternal perspective on things? You can't put a value on that kind of wisdom. I'm grateful that MY kids have their grandparents close by, about a 15-minute drive away.

Granny would have been 83 today. When you're finished reading this, howsabout lettin' out a big fat "Yoooooo-hoooooo!!!!!" in Granny's honor?

Thanks,

Matt

We could all learn a lot from my older girl...

2009-02-08T03:01:00.005-06:00

Faith has the kindest heart and a vulnerable soul. She was six months old when she scooted her way over to an electrical socket, reaching to play with it, and, though it had a safety plug, her Daddy gently admonished her. "No, no, baby..." in a quiet, gentle tone.

That sweet, chubby little face crumpled, and she dissolved into tears. We have told that story ever since. She is our sensitive one.

Superman's outspoken and, at times, tactless grandmother once accused us of mistreating her, because she has always cried at the drop of a hat. That's another story for another day that makes my blood boil.

Please don't think I am Miss Mary Sunshine, enamored of Faitha's frequent tear-filled episodes. It can get annoying at times. Now that she is older, I have been known to tell her to "Dry it up", "Drop the waterworks", and even preface my statements with, "And if you start crying, so help me God, I will (fill in the blank)..." And behind her doting moments lurks a tween that can fight with her older brother like nobody's business.

But she is tender-hearted. She cares too much what others think of her. She hesitates saying anything that may even remotely have the chance of hurting someone's feelings. She cries at movies, hurts right along with her little brother when he takes a spill, and lays in bed with her sissy, taking the go-to-your-room punishment with her at times. She unfairly assumes my moods and darkness when I am in one of my valleys, and lays in bed with me until it passes.

She is a little mother, lauding praise on Fifi when she brings home an art project or a good grade on her weekly homework. She puts on a sing-song, lilting voice with Finn, asking him if he wants a snack. "Do you want a cheese stick, baby? How 'bout an apple, precious?"

How appropriate that, so far, when she grows up, she plans to stay home with us in Memphis and go to nursing school. Caring for people. Oh, so Faith.

I don't know where she got it from. In the whole nature vs. nurture debate, this probably wouldn't be an argument for environment. She is so much calmer and loving than me. I can only be proud that I can claim her, because she is a benevolent soul. We could learn a lot from her hesitancy, her empathy, her gentleness. We should all strive to have her heart.

I blame North Mississippi Redneck Royalty on this one...

2009-02-02T23:14:00.005-06:00

So I was reading OhMommy's classy-as-usual post about her wedding. She waxed on about what she loved and what she would've done different on her big day. Then she turned the tables on us, and I realized my comment would be as long as, well, a post. Here goes:

Can I just start by saying that I started my period the day before my wedding, totally unplanned? That was a sign of bad things to come. No honeymoon anyway, as we were broke college students.

Yes, weddings are a time where it's all about "me, me, me". It's allowed; it's expected. Every little girl dreams of her wedding day.

I wanted to get married at a grand, historic B&B in my college town of Starkville, MS (Go Bulldogs!). In trying to find a picture online, I have sadly discovered it has been renovated into short-term lease apartments. Sigh. Anyhoo, I wanted chairs on the lawn, with a small reception inside for a reprieve from the Mississippi heat. My mother-in-law refused and said (even though our pastor would officiate), doing it outside of a church "wasn't religious enough".

I wanted to get married at Chapel of Memories on campus. That got vetoed as well. In hindsight, why the hell did I let her veto so much? MY family paid for it. So we had to get married in the "proper" First Methodist Church of Starkville, which is so huge, it looked no one was at our wedding, as 80 people are dwarfed by a sanctuary that seats 600.

I never thought a big venue was appropriate anyway, since I already had a child.

My bridal bouquet. I had something in mind, nothing very extravagant. The florist quoted my MIL a figure, which surprised her, and - insert Mississippi drawl here - she said, "Can't you just do sumthin' with carnations?" The flamboyant young man turned up his nose and said, "Mrs. W., the only time I use carnations is for funerals. But don't worry - I can make something that will work in your budget..." He gave me what I wanted and the rest of the cost was absorbed by my grandmother.

I drew the line at programs. She wanted programs and found a quote (for MY family to pay, of course). I didn't want programs. I never have liked them. I told HH, if they don't know us and need a folding paper to identify everyone, then they don't need to be at our wedding. I won.

Two or three bridesmaids was my limit, but even though there were no cousins or whatever that had to be in the wedding for my husband, we still had to ~~pull more attendants out of our butts~~ augment our wedding party. Which meant I even had to give into a friend who practically invited herself to be my bridesmaid, even though we never kept in touch. She slept in my bed while in town, didn't iron or hem her dress, and "scrunched" her hair with lots of mousse, whereas everyone else was neatly coiffed. And it seemed her sole purpose for attending was to hook up. Her target deflected her attention throughout the festivities.

The rehearsal dinner was in the church fellowship hall and was take-out barbecue served by HH's aunts and was TACK-OOOOOOOOO! The food was cold. I cringe to think of it. One silver lining was the gag song my brother sang at the ceremony rehearsal - Steven Curtis Chapman... "It could be love/Or it might be a really bad case of influenza/It could be love/Or it could be the flu/And if it's the flu/I hope I didn't give it to you..."

I was a fat bride, and I was thin when I met HH, so I will regret that the rest of my life.

Right after we married, we headed around to the side of the church and this little old lady approached me while HH ran to the bathroom. She said "Excuse me, who did you just marry?" It was HH's elderly aunt who didn't make it in time. I felt so bad for her.

I had to endure my brother pulling me aside during the reception to tell me I was being a jerk. Evidently, he had never heard the term "Bridezilla", and was not aware that this day was my nightmare, not a real wedding. It was completely run by everyone BUT me, and there were people there that frankly, had no right to be there.

I would say I wanted a bigger reception, but my mom and grandmother did what they could afford, and it was still very pretty and quaint. It was in the basement fellowship hall, and a funeral had already started after my wedding. So you heard the low, mournful moans of the organ above us the whole time.

The flowers were exquisite, the cake was so very beautiful, and I married the man who drives me crazy - good and bad - and whom I love fiercely. In a time when many of our friends are divorcing, he and I reflect on what on earth could drive us apart for good. He was the best part of my wedding day; the rest is just annoying little details.

We had a delayed honeymoon to Mexico for our 10th anniversary, which was fantastic. We had never been anywhere without our kids. EVER. And it was there on the beach in Cozumel that I knew, on our 15th anniversary, we were doing it again. No one but us and the kids. On the beach. Casual, natural, no fuss. How I wanted it the first time.

I hate that I have such negative memories of my wedding. But we will make it up soon... OUR way.

Gulp... blatant favoritism?

2009-01-27T04:49:00.005-06:00

I hear from time to time of studies showing that many parents admit to having a favorite child. And I am afraid I am guilty of that, though I am trying to dissect the whole situation. I remember a few months ago at work, someone told me I don't speak of my older three nearly as often as I speak of Finn. I immediately became defensive - "Gasp! Yes, I do!" - but her statement gave me pause.

Surely Finn isn't my favorite. But she was right - I do speak of him more, since I had time to reflect on it. Is it because he's still in the toddler phase, doing such cute things and really emerging with this spunky little personality? That he's so different to me, because Jack was this mellow, thoughtful, relatively quiet little guy, and Finn is in-your-face, all boy?

Is it because he is the baby, our grande finale? I think that's it. He's still tiny to me. He came along at a different point in my life. I stayed home with my oldest three, and had Finn after graduating college and entering the workforce. He had a rough start in the NICU, and when he was finally sent home, he slept in our bed, and, three and a half years later, still is in our bed!

He is my calm in the storm, at least when he is asleep, and sometimes when he is having rare, still moments during the day. I have been having flat-out panic attacks for the past couple of months, and he is what helps resolve them. They mostly manifest at night, when he is asleep next to me. I distract myself with TV or, if able, a book, and I hold his hand. Or lay his arm across me. I kiss his little face dozens of times. And though it takes a long time, it all passes when he's there.

Maybe it is because he hasn't hit the phase where he questions me or won't clean his room or talks back to me or bursts into tears because I won't let him go the party everyone else's Mom is letting them go to. He is still moldable, shapeable. I am still his universe. His soft place to fall when he has an owie. He needs me like I need him. He clings to me like I can't recall any other child of mine doing. And he has that perfect fit I have spoken of, where he just melds himself to me as he goes to sleep.

God, does this all sound bad? I am thinking as he grows and develops into your typical older child, that it will pass. That he won't seem as favorited as he is now.

I desperately love my older children.

But Finn is my last first smile. My last first tooth. My last "please, oh, please, say MaMa before DaDa this time...". My last first wobbly steps on chubby legs. My last baby.

My Little Loves' World

2009-01-21T01:18:00.008-06:00

Certain things just make sense to my little ones, and it probably flabbergasts them as to why their mother is so clueless.

1. When going outside during a snow shower, one should wear Garanimal shorts and a Nike t-shirt, along with Crocs flip-flops, one size too large.

"Finn, honey... It's too cold outside for that. You can't wear shorts and flip-flops in the snow." "But I'm gonna wear my jacket, Mommy," he says, in as much an exasperated voice that a three year-old can muster. Gosh, Mom, he's gonna wear a jacket. DUH!

2. Western wear consists of a pale pink and burgundy, gauzy Gap button-up floral blouse, paired with sparkly jeans, Mudd fashion boots, and the piece-de-resistance, a red bandanna from Daddy's dresser.

"That's what you're wearing for Cowgirl Dress-Up at school today?" I ask Fifi. "Yep!" She says confidently, as she flips her hair and nonchalantly walks out of my bedroom. Let's add it up - cowgirls wear sparkly jeans (especially if Richard Simmons is their stylist). Why not? And any boots can be cowboy boots, even if they lace up and have platform heels. And a red bandanna around one's neck can make any outfit Western, even a Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress, by God.

Fifi marches to her own beat, dances to her own music, what have you. And I love that music so much.

3. If someone tells you when you ask "What stinks?" that it's your upper lip, one cannot rest until the matter is fully investigated.

This was the case this evening when Superman was dressing Finn, and Finn asked "What's dat smell?" (more than likely, Superman farted). Finn couldn't rest until he contorted his upper lip with his little fingers, pushing it up into his nares to see if said upper lip did, in fact, stink.

4. If you experience a rare, exciting snowfall in the MidSouth and it stops snowing, your Mom can make it snow again if you simply ask her to do so.

"Mommy, it 'topped 'nowing!" "I'm sorry, buddy...." "Well, make it 'now again, Mommy!" I can't control the weather anymore than I can control my mother-in-law's mouth. But it's a nice feeling, knowing that your baby boy thinks living in a universe under Mommy's control can create such magic. I don't deserve such an honor, but one can stop and dream for a minute. And as mediocre as I can be, I will continue to dream that I will always make Finn's world that magical.

The Ass-uh-dint

2009-01-09T20:09:00.007-06:00

I made Superman pick up Finn from the inlaws BEFORE getting the girls so that I could have more time with him before work. Otherwise, he wouldn't have gotten home until 4:30. A little over an hour with my baby before work? I think not. So he gets home a little before 3 p.m. - bless you, Superman - and Finn's sleepy. He climbs into bed, and I help him maneuver his little legs and tiny sockfeet under the covers, where he assumes that perfect fit against me.

Does your baby (or babies) have a perfect fit? Sometime you have to scoot them down a little, where their head tucks right into the curve of your neck. And then you pull them to you. Perfection. And then his breathing slowly drifts into a rhythmic calm, and I know he's out. That's when I sneak kisses he won't wipe off, and nibble his little ears.

A little while later, I am up for good as the girls bust in the front door. Fifi joins us, and she and I giggle and play for a while, which eventually wakes Finn, who gleefully wraps himself around his older sissy. Then hilarity ensues as their not-too-petite mother starts to get out of bed, but instead pauses, turns and looks at her munchkins, and divebombs them. The screams and laughter are priceless. What is this crazy woman thinking, wrestling with us?

Finn gets up to pee, and Fifi and I dissolve into giggles as we hear, well, err, an irregular pattern to his pee stream. "I pee on da floor. But it was an ass-uh-dint. I di-in't mean to. I pee on da new rug, but I di-in't mean to. It was an ass-uh-dint. Yep, it was an ass-uh-dint, Mom.Mee!" He reappears, hikes up his pants, and heads downstairs. Superman was told of the ass-uh-dint and was cracking up. Evidently, the ass-uh-dint claimed his pants, too, which were soaked. I heard some pee hit the water, so as much of an ass-uh-dint as he made, he must've really had to pee. So he runs around the house in his Tom Cruise best: a shirt and a Pull-Up, waiting for the Bob Seger to cue.

Sweet Baby Jesus...

2008-12-21T07:56:00.015-06:00

No, this is not a post about our Lord and Savior, despite Christmas being only 4 days away. Yowza. No, "Sweet Baby Jesus" is a common utterance of mine. Usually used in place of "Oh, my", "Oh, no", etc. As in "Come look at the name of this kid in the ER... Sincerely MyAngel... Sweet Baby Jesus, why do they let just any re-re reproduce?"

Moving right along, my utterance of Sweet Baby Jesus is due to the fact that in less than 24 hours, Finn will be headed to the operating room. Again.

Evidently our ~~death trap~~ church has it in for my kids right now. Finn was rough-housing with his sisters, fell, knocking Faith to the ground, who in turn knocked Fifi to the ground. At least this is what I was told. That was Sunday night (12/14). I was at work. I slept all day Monday and zipped straight back to work Monday night. So here we were Tuesday morning, and I selfishly wanted to keep Finn home from day school for some snuggles and our ritual of conversation that creates memories like no other.

It took convincing. He wanted to go to school. So I opened the back door to the 20-something degree weather (harshly cold for those of us in the mid-south), and said, "Brrr! You don't wanna get out in this cold air!" Finn giggled and said, "Brrrr, Mommy!" to which I laughed and looked down at him... and gasped. His nose was purple. The bridge was as wide as his nares. His dad had picked up a short day shift at work, and I couldn't reach him to ask,"~~What did you let happen~~ What happened to my BABY?" So I cupped his face in my hands and peered at it closer. Oh. My. Sweet Baby Jesus (in your fleece-lined golden diaper)!

So I called the pediatrician, had an animated conversation with his nurse, who told us to make an appointment with the same ENT who did his surgery in October. So we went to see Dr. C., who was quite impressed with the extent of the injury (he should've seen it before quite a bit of the swelling went down...). He said his nose needed to be fixed. So I immediately start picturing the Karate Kid coach grabbing his student by the face and going crunch, crunch on the student's nose with his thumbs. Dr. C. watched me and said, "Mrs. W., you're turning green..." I gulped and managed to sputter, "Is he... is he... is he going to get pain meds?" He laughed and said, "Oh, it won't hurt at all when we're done." Curious answer, but I accepted it as he launched into describing the procedure. I heard clips of "gas him... IV... sedation... intubation... repair the damage and reconstruct... extubate... home..." And the room started to spin. Dr. C. jokes all the time, so I was waiting for him to interrupt the serious anesthesia and intubation talk and say, "I'm kidding! We'll do it in the office - ten minutes flat!" Alas, he never said it. So I left the office in a daze.

My monster-in-law said I (I, not her precious, still-breastfed-at-35-year-old son) should be ashamed of myself for putting my baby through pain just because I don't like the way his nose looks now. Can I slap her? Please? I mean, let's not forget that Finn could have breathing problems later in life and other complications from his pulverized proboscis. But yes, you're right, Beelzebub, I am letting them operate on my baby so there's still a chance for him in Hollywood. Eye roll.

So off we go to the surgery center tomorrow, where I will head straight after working tonight, only to have to work again Monday night. And I will hopefully be able to dose him up on his Lortab, as the monster-in-law has threatened to not babysit him while I work since he will be in pain (her way of getting us to cancel the surgery). No added stress there.

Might I mention that two days after the broken nose, Jack broke his pinkie and hand at the same ~~death trap~~ church? It never ends.

Sweet Baby Jesus.

And... breathe

2008-12-04T04:51:00.008-06:00

I guess when you set out in life to have a houseful of children, you underestimate things. You WAY underestimate things. The amount of laundry, the lack of sleep, the decibel level.

I am considering writing President-elect Obama and asking him to pass a law mandating 30-hour days. Because I think I might be able to catch up and then conquer everything that keeps falling by the wayside in my incongruous life of motherhood and full-time employment.

I was almost late to work tonight because the kitchen was getting on my nerves. There were a few areas of dried-up... I don't know... on the kitchen floor. So I grabbed a broom and started sweeping. Because I can't spot-mop without the whole floor being clear of debris. Naturally, this was interrupted by an alarmed inquiry, directed at no one in particular... "Why am I sleeping glass up from underneath the cabinets?" The obvious answer from my ten year-old, parked at the kitchen table doing homework: "I don't know. I guess something broke." DUH. No time to care, I move on. I grabbed the Swiffer, then felt the sudden urge to move the refrigerator and clean underneath there, too. What has gotten into me?

Delegation... I ask Fifi to sweep up the pile of unmentionables that I have gathered in my mad quest for last-minute cleanliness. I pause for a minute to reflect on what possessed my aunt to give us a perfectly good Swiffer Wet Jet, still in the package, just because she thought she wouldn't like it. Mental note made to mention it to her next time we talk... I have enjoyed this cast-off of yours immensely!

I make a mad dash through the kitchen, with my mind playing a continuous loop of the Swiffer commercial with the apologetic mop/broom/whatever that keeps trying to woo its owner back with flowers and chocolates... Baby, come back! You can blame it all on me! But I don't stop there - my Ritalin-deprived state requires that I also pay attention to the splattered, smudged, God-knows-what-else covered closet and bathroom doors in between the kitchen and living room. They need cleaning - NO - they need to be sprayed down with bleach cleaner!

And then I pause for a nanosecond and say to myself, "Self, you haven't even had a shower yet, and it's 5:04."

Forlorn, I trudge up the stairs. I beat myself up and think I should have woken up earlier in the afternoon. But I am exhausted. I start counting up work days in my head. I worked Saturday night, slept Sunday, went to orientation for my prn job Monday from 7:30 to 3:30, same thing on Tuesday, then straight on to work Tuesday night, then back tonight (Wednesday), and Thursday night, and Saturday night. I may get cancelled Saturday night, and even though extra Christmas money would be nice, 12 more hours is looking less and less appealing. And I am thinking maybe I don't give a rat's ass that there may be fewer toys under the tree... toys that will eventually clutter my home and be discarded or sent to Goodwill within months, anyway... but I digress.

Turn in permission slips.

What is that smell?

Are you going to be able to make it to my Christmas program?

Laundry is piling up.

The dog needs a bath.

There are garbage bags of stuff piling up in the guest room. The babysitter might appreciate being able to walk in that room, let alone lay down.

The grout in the hall bath needs scrubbing. Bad.

Those leaves we raked into exactly 21 bags a couple of weeks ago? They've reproduced since the last cold snap.

What is that smell???

I am terrified that one of these days, I am finally going to conquer this house, and in the debris, find another child.

So you see, President-elect Obama, 30-hour days make perfect sense. To me, at least. Anyone else?

Seeing the good side of him...

2008-11-30T11:06:00.010-06:00

I mentioned in a previous post the awful cornbread dressing my Dad made, and I just got to thinking that maybe I should write a post on his attributes. Maybe it will contribute some to my long-term sanity. Who knows. And maybe it will end up being cathartic. I am sure I will leave out some gems, so this may not be my last post about him. Or at least won't be the last time I mention him. Some of them may seem awful, but some things ya gotta look back on and laugh.

Since we are nearing Christmas, I am reminded of the Christmas after he and Mom divorced, and I was living with him in this really awful run-down apartment. It was built on to someone's house. Anyway, he was poor as a church mouse, doing whatever he could to make ends meet. That year, I wanted a Nintendo video game system. Remember the original that came with two games - Duck Hunt with that hunting rifle you shot at the screen, and then I think Super Mario Brothers? He said there was no way he could afford it, and yet there it was on Christmas morning. And I don't think I played it near as muuch as I should have, considering whatever creative way he had to conjure to pay for it.

And from that same apartment comes a memory of him getting so mad at me, because I went hysterical over a heinous act he committed. That heinous act? He washed his dog and then sprayed her down with my perfume! My super fine, don't-you-forget-it, cool as all get-out EXCLAMATION perfume! Remember
Exclamation? The nerve of him to spray my classy, exquisite perfume on a canine. HA!

The parties I had in high school. OK, he was usually a bit - or a LOT - tipsy, and he would get right in there and dance with us. My friends thought it was awesome. Most of them loved him.

The time he found out I smoked pot at Lalapalooza. OK, Mom, if you're reading this, hopefully Dad told you at some point, and if not; well, it was 16 years ago. I'm not dead, I still have a brain ("This is your brain" - image of eggs - "This is your brain on drugs" - image of eggs hitting a sizzling frying pan - "Any questions?"), and don't worry, I would DIE if I knew one of my kids did. THAT BEING SAID, I had to tell him because I got a job at Winn Dixie and had to do a drug test and knew I would fail it. But I didn't. I guess I didn't inhale enough. So I got in trouble. A TON of trouble. For nothing. But my point - and I do have one - is that he didn't yell. He cried. He sat at the table and sobbed like I had never seen him sob before and never did again. He said he wanted so much better for me. And the older I get, the more I try to look into what he meant by that, exactly.

The van he drove when we were little. Considering I work with children, I think of that van and cringe. He made a padded cover that went on top of these benches in the back so it was like one huge bed in the back behind the middle captains' chairs. When we would go on trips, Matt and I would sleep on it in the back. Like I said, cringe; unrestrained children in a vehicle. Gee, how did we ever survive? Aside to my brother, who reads this: Matt, I vividly recall that little fan that hung behind Dad's seat, I am assuming to replace the lack of rear A/C back in the 80's, and I remember you stuck your finger in it and sliced your finger open bad. Didn't you? Am I imagining it?

I remember I had a big brass bed growing up. And it wasn't really all that big, but to me it was huge, as all things were back then. Anyhoo, for some reason, the mattress and box springs would collapse through the frame on a whim and scare the bejeezus out of me and/or a friend, if one happened to be there when it occurred. And Dad would pretty much tell me to chill out and then he would put everything back together. Which leads one to think, why didn't he ever just fix it for good?

I loved going to our "camp"/second house/whatever, because it meant I got to use what we kept there - VO5 shampoo and Mr. Bubbles bath bubble powder. And I never understood why we didn't use them at our regular house. I always had to use Mom's Apple Pectin shampoo, which made her mad. Haha.

He made his "World Famous Hamburgers", which everyone loved and which, I believe, was 3/4 ground beef and 1/4 ground sausage (Jimmy Dean kind). Or maybe it was half and half. Who knows, but they were good. Good enough to make you forget the crappy cornbread dressing.

I cussed around my little friends. And I thought Dad would never find out. Until one time, when I was made 7 or 8, we were lighting fireworks, and true to form, the neighbors called the police over the noise. (Never did know which neighbors to this day...) We kids would usually try to run inside when the cop cars came around. One time - 4th of July or New Years, I don't know which - here come the cops. I saw the car and hissed, "Oh, SHIT!" and then realized in horror what I had said in front of MY DADDY. Instead of getting mad, he started laughing and laughed so hard, I thought he was going to fall out of his chair.

I remember he helped me put out the minor fire I started in Mrs. Dedeaux's magnolia tree with a stray bottle rocket. Oops.

I remember how often my parents hung out with the Lenoirs (or at least it seemed often to me), and I wish Scott and I were like peas and carrots like that with another couple. When Mr. Lenoir died, I remember going to their house (they had moved to Bayou View at that point), and when my Dad walked in the living room, Mrs. Lenoir sobbed and reached out her arms and said, "Oh, Bubba." You may laugh - yes, he went by Bubba; it's the South, yanno - but it was the saddest moment. And to know she found comfort in her husband's old beer buddy like that. And he hugged her back. And he let her lean on him for the longest time.

This is going on too long, and I don't care.

He adored my kids. The two he really knew. He called Jack "Fuzz" because he had this fuzzy blonde hair when he was born. Sometimes he called him "The Fuzz", as if it needed emphasis. He called Faith "Peaches". I think somehow he associated it with or derived it from Peach fuzz since they go together. Not sure. But he was PawPaw to them, and worshipped them. I have so many pictures of him with the kids that it breaks my heart to see them all at once, so they sit in a Rubbermaid bin. He and TS would water his vegetable garden, and they would go down to the beach, hand in hand, with my little boy just jabbering away. I thought today (like I have often before) how he only saw Fifi once, as a newborn, and he died before Finn was born.

TS remembered him most and thus was shaken considerably by my dad's death. He had just had surgery on both his legs when Dad died. I remember him wheeling himself in his wheelchair up to Dad's casket, putting his elbows on the armrests of the wheelchair, bring his little fists to his eyes and just bawling. And I, stoned on a far-too-generous dose of Xanax, just crumpled at the site of my sweet boy, so brokenhearted at the sight of his PawPaw, that all I could manage was to squeak out, "Oh, my baby..." as my husband dashed over to Jack, leaving me puddled in a chair outside the viewing room.

Yes, it has been cathartic to write this so far. My fingers have been flying across this keyboard ninety-to-nothing. But it has also been difficult not to counteract some of the memories with "But he..." and start naming bad memories and why we weren't speaking when he died. It was a justifiable reason, but it will all haunt me forever. Because faults and all, he was my father. And I will never have him back. He definitely had his good points. Oh, so many good points. And now I am sure this won't be my last post about him.

Turkey for me, turkey for you...

2008-11-27T04:37:00.003-06:00

Let's eat the turkey in my big brown shoe!

OK, I'm sorry. But that song is too funny.

This past month has been awful, to say the least, and I am looking forward to what I hope will be a break from the "never-ask-what-else-can-go-wrong" happenings as of late. Things could be much worse, but it's hard to think that way in the midst of it all. Sometimes you have to rationalize your own pity-party.

Like the one I had last night. Both of my grandmothers died in 2007, and so already I have gone through one Thanksgiving without them. I got really emotional yesterday thinking about it. The traditions, the food they cooked, and honestly, how I let them down so very many times in my life, yet their love they still gave. Where is Granny when you need someone to call out, "Yoo-hoo!" Or Memaw when you want some of those delicate, delicious, impossibly small biscuits that she made?

I thought about my Dad, too. I miss him terribly, and I really wish we had a few do-overs in life. I won't delve too much into that, but his demons ultimately cost him his family. If only... there are a million "if only's" I could think of. My kids would still be climbing all over him and he would be relishing every minute of it, if only.

One thought about him came to mind recently that made me laugh so much... and mind you, I am not trying to be mean... but his cornbread dressing was awful! I forget who - maybe one of my cousins - talked not long ago of Dad's dressing like it was the best thing that had ever been in their mouth. And I remember thinking, "You have got to be kidding me!" It was dry enough to suck most of the moisture from your circulatory system and require a two-liter bolus of fluids to recover! And hardly any ingredients. I mean, seriously, you want some real dressing? Drive on over to see me. But in all seriousness, I think back on it fondly and with much hilarity.

Too bad everyone is strewn about the country, and the patriarchs have been laid to rest, because this would've been a great time for the Skinners and Lenoirs to revisit the Turkey Bowl in Jones Park.

So I will be off work in less than two hours, and then the marathon will begin. I don't plan on going to sleep - there is a behemoth in my refrigerator soaking in a brine of water, salt, brown sugar, and apple juice, ready to be roasted. I am a staunch traditionalist when it comes to Thanksgiving, so I will make all the staples - dressing (see above reference), sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, corn, rolls, honey ham, pumpkin pie, etc. Superman forgot to pick up a pecan pie for himself, but I am going to surprise him and make him one while he sleeps. All the while, the TVs shall be tuned to the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade.

I am sure a certain little three year-old will miraculously recover his appetite today. He had his tonsils and adenoids removed and his nasal passages (turbinates) widened on October 30. OUCH. It has been a tough road - nothing is worse than seeing your baby writhe and shake in pain. But the worst is definitely over - we are just trying to get weight back on him. He continues to milk the whole ordeal big time. Almost a month out from the surgery, when you ask him to do something he doesn't want to do, or if he asks for soemthing and is denied, his reply is, "But my FWOAT hurts!" That little con artist.

My in-laws had the audacity yesterday to ask to take the kids with them to have Thanksgiving at my brother-in-law's in-laws' home. Did you catch that? They want my kids to spend Thanksgiving away from me at someone's house that technically isn't even my kids' family. Errrmmmmm.... NO. I can't even believe they asked. Who in their right mind would say, "Sure! I didn't want to spend the holidays with my children, anyway?" Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

I will sell them to you. My husband's parents, that is. Real cheap.

But moving on to things and people I am thankful for, I know even though I have had a rough go of it lately, I am blessed beyond measure.

My overtime at work will be cut soon, making things tight for us, but I still have a job.

Finn had his tonsils and adenoids out and only had to stay overnight at the children's hospital where I work... but he is not a patient at nearby St. Jude's, like those with their mothers at their bedsides, fervently praying and begging God to spare their child's life.

The plumbing exploded in my house on two separate occasions less than a day apart... but it's repaired, and we have a roof over our heads.

TS is getting picked on badly on the bus and at school... but instead of being a latchkey kid or someone whose parents show no affection, he has a family at home who love him deeply and support him no matter what.

My posterior is wider than I'd like, and my abs are about as far from perfect as you can get, but that means that there's ample food in our home.

There isn't enough room in this blogosphere to list all my blessings. But I know what they are, and I will cling to them for dear life whenever that pity party starts to roll around again.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you who read this.

An inspired post

2008-10-31T04:11:00.007-05:00

Yes, this post is inspired... inspired by the laugh-out-loud post from Mandy in which her husband, with the best intentions, took their son to day school when Mandy wasn't feeling well. And took him to school Pops did. In a Christmas outfit. In October. PRICELESS. I laughed so hard, a little pee came out.

Because I have been there.

I have had many near-misses, one last week in which Faith helpfully dressed her little brother in size 2T overalls. He looked as though he was ready to help sandbag the levees. Seriously. The hems almost came to mid-shin. I quickly vetoed that. Said pair of overalls of course ended up tossed in the dirty clothes. I folded them, then made a conscious effort to put them up on the closet shelf until I get rid of them so that no one tries to make my youngest look like High Water Harry ever again.

A years-long running phrase has been uttered by teacher after teacher for all of my children. "Ohhhh, Mommy must be off work today!" And what does that mean, you might ask? THAT, my friends, means that Jack or Finn's hair is neatly parted, and they are in a neat little outfit. Or at the very least, something that matches with season-appropriate shoes. It means that Faith or Fifi back in preschool days had on not only coordinating outfits, but matching hairbows (that I made, thank you very much!). Nowadays, it means that someone at least attempted to tame their extremely thick, tangly, naturally curly fros, errrm, hair.

I will say that having four kidlets can be likened to nailing jello to a tree. Man, there are days when I am thrilled that I managed to wake up in time to feed the little darlings, let alone make sure they looked like at best, a Target ad (I'm aiming low here, people), and at worst, extras from Escape from the Trailer Park, Part 3.

I shudder to recall how many times I have picked the kids up from either day school or regular school, saw them approaching me from a distance, and thought, "What... the... hell...?" My endearing thoughts of my husband selflessly transporting our menagerie to and fro quickly turns into emotions ranging from perplexion to embarassment to annoyance. My cartoon-bubble dream sequence appears above my head, and I gaze up at an imagined scene of Superman gleefully smoking a crack pipe as he prepares to choose my sweet angels' wardrobes for the day.

And it never fails; the usual response when I interrogate Superman's obviously drug binge-induced clothing choice... "What? What's wrong with it?" The doe eyes stare at me, perplexed as to why I did not embrace the magnificence of his FIERCE aspiring stylist within.

I just shake my head, retreat to a corner with a bottle of Shiraz, and make a note to email the victimized child's teacher... "Dear Mrs. X... Forgive him, for he knows not what he does..."

Couple Nears Divorce with Each New Home Improvement Project

2008-10-26T03:52:00.005-05:00

Somewhere Near Memphis (AP)
Another casualty of the latest blow to the economy... marriages crumbling. While times are shaky and everyone is tightening their belts, Superman and I know that there are still tiny but significant home improvement projects we can tackle (read: finish) without bankrupting ourselves. Unless you count what a divorce attorney would cost.

$60 for paint and supplies to repaint our pathetic faded shutters and pitiful front door. Check. Extension ladder borrowed from our friend Chris. Check. Tempers... NOT in check!

Things heard today flying from our mouths...
"Get C inside! There's crap falling from the roof!"
"Hold the ladder steady." "OK"... while standing there with my arms crossed, NOT holding the ladder, as though a guardian angel is doing the work for me.
"I can't get these last two screws out. One's rusted and one's stripped."
"Well, FIGURE IT OUT."
"What do you want me to do? I don't have the leverage up here to yank on them!"
"What are you gonna do, leave that one shutter up while the rest are all shiny and new and freshly painted? Oh, THAT will look all nice and REDNECK! We'll fit in with the next door neighbors! But I guess you're used to that where you come from!"

I suppose my harping spurred super-human strength in Superman, because somehow (and maybe I don't want to know how), he got the last shutter down.

Later, he came inside and informed me it was too late to replace Finn's ceiling fan because he had to have the electricity off to do it. It was getting too dark to have the electricity off. He appeared in deep thought as to what to do next, so I suggested sanding the front doors so I could paint them. "Ohhh, yeahhhh." He had a gleeful look on his face, as though I had gifted him the chance to use more manly-man power tools.

That was short-lived. Can this marriage be saved?

"I can't get all the peeling paint off."
"Figure it out."
"Well, yeah, but I would have to actually scrape it off."
"Well, I guess you've got some scraping to do."
...Did I mention my PMS is rearing its ugly head?

No word from hubby for a while. Turns out he wasn't even home. He went to Lowe's to get a proper instrument with which to scrape. Sucka.

I left for work, the doors weren't done; they're still not done. What I shall paint tomorrow on my day off remains a mystery. He gave up his day of watching football for the most part. But at least next weekend, he can properly cheer Mississippi State with his maroon shutters and front door.

Oh, how he puts up with me is a mystery. There are no Saturday workshops at Lowe's that cover that aspect of home improvement. They might want to look into it.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?!?!?!

2008-10-20T02:54:00.001-05:00

Who does this??? REALLY??? It's a TAMPON! And it gets so much worse!

Tampon Crafts

In which MsMommy Almost Drove the Purty SUV off the Road...

2008-10-11T06:30:00.012-05:00

It takes about six hours for us to get to Chattanooga, if you figure in potty breaks and one meal. We've never driven it at night, but the kids had nine weeks' tests, thus preventing me from leaving any earlier than 4:30 or so. A stop at Walgreen's added to the time.

Jack sat in the front seat next to me. I only had to threaten him and his siblings a few times with a lifetime of grounding and other random punishments. At one point, I told the older two that I was so sick of them talking to eachother so hatefully, that I was going to start making them hold hands in public. I thought of the one thing that would mortify them the most and ran with it. I just may do it, and it just may work.

Just past Nashville, Jack asked if we could turn off the radio and have family talk. Seeing as how the radio and the DVD player going at the same time was causing extreme overstimulation on my part, I readily agreed. He then asked the girls to turn off the DVD player. So this commenced almost two hours of talking.

I heard about school and church, and as time went on, the girls fell asleep, and Jack started synopsizing entire books. Seriously, he probably talked about five books, and spent several minutes on each one. I will admit that my eyes glazed over from time to time, and his voice would occasionally morph in my mind to that of the teacher from the Peanuts cartoon... "Wah, WAH, wah, wah-wah-wah..."

The conversation dabbled briefly on the subject of his being picked on at school. I was mad as hell to find that sometimes, the subject of ridicule is the way he walks, and the scars on his legs. He can't wear shorts to school, but the boys have seen them when he changes into his football gear. As he spoke, I was daydreaming of pulverizing those spineless creeps. It's one thing to make fun of a haircut or clothes or something, but to make fun of a congenital disability over which my son has no control... that takes a special kind of mutant asswipe. Sadly, Jack has been dealing with this for years. Before, I went to the elementary school and had it nipped in the bud. I can't do that now. But at this point, he knows some people don't understand it, and he copes with it. And the fact that he still wants to suit out for football amazes me.

On to the near-mishap... just as we get into the outskirts of Chattanooga, almost 11 p.m., Jack says, "I'm ready to talk about sex whenever you are." Cue record screeching to a halt, and my need to overcorrect the SUV for no apparent reason. (And no, we haven't broached the subject, because the whole thing freaks me out, and I am well aware Superman and I should've had The Talk with Jack ages ago, plzkthanks...)

I had this all planned out that I was going to buy some book by Kevin Lehman for parents who are too chicken to talk about sex with their kids. I didn't plan for Jack to bring it up as I was driving 75 miles per hour down Interstate 24 in eastern Tennessee after a frazzled night of traveling by myself with four kids.

I stammered "Well, uh, umm, what do you already know? Or what do you want to know? W-w-w-what questions do you have?" I was astonished and temporarily relieved when he said, "Well, I know there's a sperm and an egg, and that's reproduction." I started to say, "Yeah, but...", and then he continues on about monozygotic and dizygotic twins, and chromosomal abnormalities, etc. I did a double take. I was thinking the conversation would be the birds and the bees, and Jack starts teaching me about genetics.

Though I was perfectly content for the conversation to continue on a scientific path, I knew I might as well rip the band-aid off and get down to the nitty gritty. So I diverted the subject matter to, well, the actual act. I am secretly glad that the whole "This is the penis and this is the vagina" thing kind of went unspoken; a silent understanding. He said he knew sex was for making a baby. I said, "Well, you know, sometimes people do that to make a baby, and sometimes they don't." He said, "Right, and the Bible says it's wrong to do it if you're not married." The Bible! Yes! My escape hatch! OK, no.

I told him, yes, he was right, that the Bible says it's wrong. But whereas many of you may want to leave it at that and run, I could not. Consider where I work. Ten and eleven year-olds come in pregnant all the time, and it ain't because they've been raped. Kids are having sex this early. Britney Spears made a huge production of her virginity in the public eye, and now (huge surprise), she and her mother have admitted publicly that she lost her virginity even long before she started touting her purity. So I choose to be realistic. And I told Jack that. I said I was well aware that he truly believed what he was taught - that sex before marriage is wrong - but some people still don't wait for it. And with that decision comes consequences.

It escalated from that point into what I really wanted to do - scare the hell out of him about sex. Disease! Death! Pregnancy and the destruction of education and career! And thank God Jack knew about HIV and had a healthy fear of the idea. I even broached condoms, an area with which he was vaguely familiar.

Yes, it may be extreme, and not the route you would take with your own child. But Jack got the point I was making. Aside from the diseases and nastiness that comes with casual sex, he knew what I was getting at. That I want better for him. My wise-beyond-his-years son said he knew how hard it was for me, his mom, that I got pregnant with him. He said, "You had to quit school, and it was really hard on you, and we were alone and didn't have any money. And I know you don't regret it, but I don't want that to happen to me." I reached over and squeezed his hand. I told him he was right - no regret - and given the chance, not for a second would I change any decision I made. I admitted that, yes, I could've been done with school years earlier, and much further in my career, or a different career. Yes, things were harder on me, and eventually his dad, too, when he entered the picture. But it was the path I chose, and as hard as it's been, it was a great path, and the life we were meant to have. The life that is amazing simply because I am his mother.

I think I learned more from the talk than Jack did.

Rookie vs. Seasoned

2008-10-07T20:39:00.007-05:00

You have a portable wipes warmer... sometimes I have to run to the nearest public bathroom and wet some paper towels.

Your little girl's hair is swept effortlessly into a perfectly matched bow three times the size of her frontal lobe... I consider it an accomplishment if I spray my girls' unruly curls with water and run a brush through as they scream in agony.

Your SUV has protective seat covers underneath the car seats to avoid indentations in the leather... I will do good to make sure no one crams Goldfish and week-old Sonic french fries into the seatbelt connections.

Your hair is perfectly coiffed, and you are wearing friggin' pearls with your Juicy Couture sweatsuit.... I put on a baseball cap, and yes, since you asked, these ARE my pajama bottoms I'm wearing at Target.

You enrolled (insert insanely overused Yuppie name here) in Gymboree... I am proud that I got to sit down for ten minutes and read Chocolates (with his classic, never-gets-old name that has the bonus of being Biblical as well, if that's your cup of tea...) a book instead of parking him in front of Noggin.

You either crafted Martha's latest organic oven creation or spent $40 on Super Suppers.... I managed to thaw some extra lean ground round in time before work to make a pot of chili that my kids cheer over.

You buy Pull-Ups with the wetness indicator... my indicator is the vapor trail emanating from Finn's boo-heiney, or the fact that the Pull-Up is hanging well past his natural inseam.

You hold monthly scrapbooking parties... my kids remain forever in suspended animation on my hard drive.

Your life is go, go, go, schedule, schedule, schedule, playdate, playdate, playdate... mine is chill, we'll get there eventually, how about we sleep in or take a nap?

You always have a small tube of hand sanitizer with you... OK, so do I! (Sing with me! "If you're OCD and you know it, wash your hands!")

You give air kisses to the help/your mother-in-law/your husband as you run off to the latest Junior Auxiliary function that took you six weeks to plan... I tuck into a jumbo popcorn, relishing the spontaneity and blessed solitude of going to see a chick flick by myself while the kids are at school or otherwise occupied.

You ask the furniture rep if the chaise comes in a peau de soie or similar finish... I ask him, "What do you have that my kids can't destroy?"

Your stilettos are my Crocs. And I don't have bunions.

You consider yourself a daredevil for wearing white after Labor Day... I go to Target in flip-flops in January.

Yet, somehow, our kids are loved the same. And probably, in a few years after you've had a couple more kiddos, we'll be sitting at my kitchen table over coffee, laughing at your past inability to open your child-proofed toilet lid.

You just can't make this stuff up...

2008-10-07T01:15:00.009-05:00

Oh, Fifi. She is just one of those kids with a perpetual question mark over her head. Will she be a genius? Or will I be getting a late night call from the police after she's caught on a joy ride? Either way, she keeps us entertained. Who else can - and let me interrupt and say that I kid you NOT, I swear to whatever deity you worship, that I am telling the truth - OK, who else can slip on a banana peel? Like in a cartoon?

I was in our room upstairs, and I hear this loud racket below, followed by wailing. Superman asking, "Baby, are you OK?", followed by a pitiful, "Noooooo... .... I'm not!" Superman comes upstairs, hand clamped over mouth, trying not to laugh. "Fifi just slipped on a banana peel..." Excuse me? Only Yosemite Sam and Wile E. Coyote do that. That does not happen in the real world. But sure enough, Finn absconded from the kitchen with a banana, carelessly tossing the peel onto the tile floor, and his sister literally took the fall. Classic.

The hilarity with Fifi continued tonight when Superman called me at work to tell me of Fifi's initiation of a guffaw-fest. Evidently, whilst eating dinner at the Outlaws, Faith gets up from the table to put her plate in the sink. As she leaves the table, Fifi puts two English peas on Faith's placement, then yells at her sister, "Faith! You PEED on your placemat!" Buh-dump-BUMP! When I start to wonder where she gets all this, I have to remind myself who her mother is.

On a side note, on a climb-in-my-lap-and-let-me-remind-you-how-much-I-love-you note, Fifi came home from school with her discipline folder for me to sign. She had begged her older sister not to show me, but it was inevitable that I would see it. The accusation: the teacher handed back a graded test, and Fifi tried to change an answer. When I asked her about it, she promptly burst into tears and said, "But I didn't make a one hundred!" Oh, my poor baby, my poor little neurotic, perfectionist baby. You get it honest.

Also on the home front, I am struggling with my oldest, in a way that I want to go to school and beat the asses of his classmates. Jack is an amazing kid, but not winning any popularity contests. Just when I think I know a lot about parenting, I realize more and more each day that I am in new territory. How do I handle this? Do I handle this at all? He is picked on. Kids go in his backpack when he's not looking and steal things. He's made fun of for the littlest thing. I want to ask his teachers if they even pay attention, but then would he WANT me to do that? Very likely, he may not.

I try to do the Mom thing right. I buy him what's cool. If he doesn't want me to buy a certain shirt or brand of jeans because they're not what everyone else is wearing, I never press the issue. Ever. I am getting home from work just as he is walking to the bus stop each morning. I don't wave, because he would freak out and surely die of embarassment if I did. He doesn't acknowledge my presence, and I am OK with that. After the first day it happened, at least.

I didn't know until today that he started taking canned sodas in his lunch, because kids were making fun of him for bringing Capri Suns. Did I violate the law of coolness by not knowing that you aren't supposed to bring Capri Suns to school past a certain age?

I need to talk to him. And one of the things I am going to tell him is... someday he will be a very important, successful person. And those a-holes making fun of him?... They're probably going to be asking him if he wants fries with his order. I know at his age, someone telling me that wouldn't help much, wouldn't be very believable, but I hope my verbal band-aid somehow gets him through these crappy, awkward years. Any suggestions? I am at a loss, and wanting to kick some ass.

It amazes me the pitfalls and heartbreak and laughter you can experience, all in a single day. And all because someone in a delivery room a few years ago handed you a sweet, perfect little being. And that sweet, perfect little being had no instruction manual or online tech support.

I feel guilty because...

2008-10-03T00:16:00.008-05:00

Another blogger used this title recently. Her missives were blatantly honest, sometimes funny, sometimes sad enough to give you pause. Anyhoo, she confesses her shortcomings as a wife and mother and just as a human being in general. So I will do the same...

I feel guilty because...

* There are days when a nap means more to me than getting up and spending time with the kids.

* I don't like hardly any of the crap my husband watches on TV, so I use that as an excuse to hole up in my bedroom to catch up on my TiVo.

* I let the kids' birthdays sneak up on me, so by the time they roll around, my work schedule's already done. Too late for a party. No one had a party last year, and this year, Jack and Faith's party was 2 months and 1 month late, respectively. I have already sent out Fifi's invites early to try to improve on that.

* I feel vindicated that I am finally the one driving the nice ride in our house. 'Bout time I get a little CUSH for working this much. That's shallow.

* I could care less if I go to church. I think many churches are the reason why there are so few Christians. I just think most churches emulate greed and one-uppedness and focus so much on money and things like that, that they forget the reason why they're there in the first place. Not to mention, getting six people out the door for church every Sunday makes a lot of un-Christian things comes out of our mouths in the midst of the pandamonium. I believe that just because you don't worship with other people in a building, it doesn't make you a bad person.

* There are way too many things around the house that I consider my husband's responsibility; i.e. taking out the garbage, mowing, cat litter box (even though she's kinda my cat!), and, well, almost everything.

* On the same note, I am overly critical of my husband's performance of said chores. I get irritated and rewash clothes if they sit outside the dryer too long and get wrinkled... when I really should've done them in the first place.

* I sometimes wonder what life would be like had I married someone more successful, more nurturing, etc. And yet at the same time, I can't fathom not being with my husband. The thought seems foreign and uncomfortable.

* I don't remember my family's (outside of kids and hubby) and close friends' birthdays. Hardly ever. And yes, I feel like a selfish a-hole for it, thanks.

* I wouldn't ever want the maintenance of acreage or a huge lot, but I would be OK with not ever having neighbors. I mostly get along with mine, but I rarely interact with them. Which I know comes across as appearing either a hermit or a bitch. I just like to keep to myself. I don't feel the need to be good friends with any of them.

* I don't like the kids to play in the front yard or out in the cove, because I am insanely paranoid something will happen to them. I am fine if they're in the backyard.

* I should take my kids to the zoo or other creative outings more.

* I am A.D.D. about household projects. I will move on to a new one before finishing something.

* I don't trust my husband with the finances. He has no clue what goes on and asks if he can go spend money, and asks what the spending limit is. It was like that even when I stayed home, and he made all the money.

* I am often disgusted by how the house looks, yet I could do more to keep it clean.

* My weight goes up and down by about 10 pounds regularly, because I eat like a mad woman when I PMS. Then I turn around and behave, drop it all, only to repeat in four weeks.

* I love to cook, yet I find myself way too often ordering out or picking something up, just out of sheer laziness or letting time slip away from me.

* I don't think I feed my kids healthy enough foods. I bought vitamins for them the other day, because it was bothering me.

* I can't wait for Fifi's teeth to grow out enough so we can have veneers put on them. They are calcified in places for reasons even her dentist is not sure.

* I yell at the kids way too much.

* I use language my kids shouldn't hear.

* I should've gone to take care of my Dad when I found out he was sick. Hell, at the very least, I should've called him. Then it was too late.

* I should've taken my Neonatal Pediatric Specialist Board Exam by now.

* I am tired all the time and have no medical reason to be.

* I am a jack of all trades, and a master of none.

* I can't make a good pie.

* I should've gone to see my grandmother in Texas more before she died, but I didn't, because I was upset that she was forgetting me. I couldn't handle seeing her that way.

* There aren't as many pictures of Finn and Fifi from infancy to toddler years; just some hit and miss.

* I should exercise, but just can't be bothered. I know it would feel great to be all toned and energetic and healthy, but I don't have the motivation. People who do it everyday and love it fascinate me.

This list could go on and on and on, but that's all I have time for right now...

A lot to catch up on...

2008-09-30T01:59:00.007-05:00

OK, so without too many details, let's just say that the decision to take the minivan (that I mentioned in the previous post) on our Florida trip turned out to be disastrous. Imagine the six of us, packed in the super non-sexy mommy mobile, blowin' down Hwy. 45, north of Meridian, MS. All of a sudden - CLUNK, CLUNK, BOOM, SCRAAAAAAAPE!!!!! Superman had his FedEx ear plugs in and was asleep from the night before, so I smacked him on the arm to wake him... "What the HELL is that?" So we pull over, and sparing you the boredom, let's just say that my Ford Windstar committed suicide.

We were in PODUNK. Middle of nowhere. Scary!!! Had to call the highway patrol, Superman's having a meltdown, acting like, well; his mother. I was thisclose to losing it with him, and *ting!* - lightbulb moment! Yes, my crazy ass thought, "Screw this!" So, using the main argument of myself being not a globe-trotter, but a Tennessee-trotter, and thus needing reliable transportation on my numerous adventures with the kids and sans husband, I bought a new vehicle. YUP! Had the minivan towed to the Ford dealership in Meridian, and drove off in a new Expedition. Insane? Yes. Second vehicle note? Yes. Do I care? Not really. At least not right now.

Florida was fabulous, if you leave out the inlaw part. Freeloading ass-hats. Next year: Tybee Island? Ass-hat-free.

Though there were more steps than I liked, we were right on the water, and it was beautiful. Peaceful, quiet, cool mornings on the balcony. Fresh coffee and the sounds of waves crashing. I was in heaven. One morning, Faith woke before anyone else, and she and I went walking on the beach. In the midst of the chaos that ensues with four kids, it was great to have the time alone with her.

We made the drive into town (Destin is about a 30-minute drive from the little community in which we stayed) for shopping and dinner a few times. I made a couple of trips to Publix just past Rosemary Beach and am evermore professing my adoration of that store. I may petition the company to come to DeSoto county. OMG - Dom Perignon, a humidor, fresh sushi, and more varieties of any crap you'd ever want to buy or erroneously assume you need! Spectacular! And as I type that, I realize that my life of domesticity has reduced me to being insanely excited about a grocery store...

Anyhoo, sensational trip overall, capped off by a swing through the MS Coast for my friend Gloria's wedding. I don't recall Catholic wedding receptions being a free-for-all beerfest and rave, but hey, bring it on. I think it's only the second Catholic wedding I've ever been to. I saw some really great friends that I hadn't seen in 10-15 years, and we all had a blast. I forgot how much I just loved Gloria's whole extended family, and, well, how much they loved me! If you are on Facebook, I have lots of pictures posted!

Afterward the wedding, we met my friend Mandy in Biloxi. Anyhoo, Superman was already plastered from the wedding and really embarassed me, as he took a little too long to mention that, no, he wasn't tired per se; it's just that he had just puked in the bathroom at Rise, the club inside the Hard Rock casino in Biloxi. Klassy with a K, honey. Jeez. My revenge was being not very sympathetic to his heinous hangover the next day. Serves him right. That's what I get for marrying on the straight and narrow. The man can't hold his liquor. Haha.

I wish we'd had more time on the Coast. It would be worth another trip down there just to spend some more time with Mandy and meet her family. It's funny how motherhood can bring you together and form this connection that wasn't there before.

I wish I was still in Florida; heck, even Long Beach! I didn't get to go to L'il Rays or Quality Bakery, or drive around the old haunts. But all good things must come to an end. Here I sit, back at work, just finished my lunch and headed back out to all the units to make sure my peeps haven't killed anyone or eachother. Kidding!

A tricked-out isolette...

2008-03-30T01:04:00.000-05:00

I need a maid...

2008-03-22T04:46:00.002-05:00

I need a maid. My house looks like a bomb hit, and it is so disheartening to walk in the door after I get off work and have to look at the mess. There are enough dust bunnies there to open a Webkins store. The crown moulding is only partially completed and what's there still hasn't been painted. Half-completed projects abound in our house. There are not enough hours in the day. So I need kind of a Alice-from-the-Brady-Bunch-meets-Bob-Vila-type domestic assistant!

I did, however, manage to empty out the girls' closet and stuff and pulled out bags full of clothes and shoes. So at least I decluttered one part of the house. Now on to the other 2200 square feet. I am trying to squeeze in some spring cleaning and reorganizing, but it's tough when I am working this much. I am working 60 hours this week and next week since we will be going to Gulfport in April. Extra money is a good thing. Plus, I am getting crisis pay, which is some good money, especially considering how quiet CVICU is tonight!

I had promised the girls that the instant "Enchanted" came out on DVD that we would get it and watch it that night. So that is what we did Tuesday. Superman refused to watch it with us, saying he had too much stuff to do around the house. It's a double-edged sword... part of me cringes at the mess, and then the other part says that the mess and laundry and whatnot can wait... I want time with my kids instead.

I need to clone myself. And get a maid. Any day now, Publisher's Clearing House will knock on my door. Yeah, right!

I asked Superman to start checking on jobs nationwide with FedEx instead of just limiting it to Memphis. I am just ready for a change. I would be worried about our house selling in this market, but I guess I shouldn't borrow trouble.

I have nothing inspiring or amusing to say right now. It's 5 a.m., I am counting the hours until can leave work, and my eyes are starting to cross! And even though I am working an unexpected shift tonight, I still have to go help hide Easter eggs this morning at church. I made the commitment before I knew I had to work, but I wouldn't feel right not doing it. Everyone there will just have to pretend that I don't look like death warmed over. Then sleep for a few (but not enough) hours and once again - back to work.

The best-laid plans?

2008-02-27T01:16:00.005-06:00

OK, so today did not go as planned. I set up an appointment with Jack, Faith, and Fifi for the dentist. Ask me why I made the appointment for 1:30??? I think I already knew my schedule at that point, so I must've been smoking crack. I don't know.

Point being, I worked Monday night, and I finally got in bed around 9 a.m. My alarm went off at 12:20. Barely enough time to get up, throw on some clothes, check the kids out of school, and drive them to Collierville! That's quite a drive for those of you who don't know. Needless to say, I still hit the snooze button. Matters were complicated by waiting forever at the elementary school for the girls to come to the office to check out.

Oh, it gets better. Faith walks up and says, "My teacher says I need a note from the dentist if I am going to miss the rest of my nine-weeks tests today." {Cue vinyl record screaching to a halt....} Are you kidding me? I freaking forgot about her nine-weeks tests? I told her to go back to class; I'll reschedule. I took Fifi and we hauled heiney to the middle school and scooped up Jack.

Dentist report: Jack has flawless teeth. The dentist and office-manager-slash-hygienist gushed on and on about his teeth. However COMMA Fifi had some decalcifications on hers. She also needs an orthodontist referral as she has the same crowding Faith has. Dr. McHotty, DDS, thinks Fifis won't get as bad as the Faith's if we have some of her teeth pulled. Funny side note: The orthodontist we were referred to was a good friend of my brother's in high school. I am contemplating asking for a huge discount due to the emotional scarring he helped inflict upon me in my formative years by calling me "Fetus". Long story.

We finished the day with Jack's first guitar lesson, which he seemed to like. His instructor is a great guy from our Sunday School class, and I just love his wife to pieces. She's this teeny little thing with a wicked sense of humor.

We spent the next hour or so looking for two king pillows to fill my new shams. Two places only had one each. Evidently, someone out there only needed one pillow on a king bed.

I got the invoice on my fabulous window treatments and pillows. Way under budget. WOOHOO! I will have to post some pictures when I have time. But I may wait until we have replaced our awful 80's brass-trim ceiling fan with the globeless exposed light bulb. Shudder...

Goal tomorrow: not oversleep and get the kids to school on time after a good breakfast. I was dead asleep (you would be too after only thee hours' sleep), but then someone called me and woke me up. Now I am WIDE AWAKE. That happens all the time now. One slight jolt and *boom* I am awake for hours. Crap. Shutting down the laptop and headed, I hope, for the dream land where Matthew McConaughey and I sip umbrella drinks on a secluded island.

Why I LOOOOOVE that tiny man!

2008-02-23T21:55:00.003-06:00

Prayer time a couple of nights ago at the dinner table... we had already blessed the food, but a few minutes later, Finn clasped his little hands and placed them in front of his face.

"Finn, do you want to say a prayer, too, baby?"
"Yesh."
"Do you want Mommy to help you?"
"Yesh."
"OK, say, Dear God,"
"De-yah Dod..."
"Thank you for this food..."
"Taint too por dis pood..."
"Thank you for my family..."
"Taint too por mah pammee..."
"And thank you for this day."
"Taint too por dis day."
"Amen."
"Ay-min."

Times like these, my friends, help explain to people why I chose to have four kids.

I saw the family from Jon and Kate Plus Eight on Oprah. This couple ended up with a set of twins and a set of sextuplets from fertility treatments. YIKES. The husband still looks overwhelmed. You have to wonder how plugged in he is to having this chaos at home. But I don't watch the show, so he may show a totally different side. But the youngest (six) are over three years old, and the Dad still has that deer-in-the-headlights look. And I thought we had it rough. NOT.

One thing the Mom said that struck a chord... She said having all those kids is so worth it. She said everyone has days where they go to sleep at night and think, "I was really hard on so-and-so," or "I really dropped the ball there." But the great news is tomorrow you can get up and start over and start fresh.

We don't get any do-overs, but we get a new day. Thank God for that.

Intro

2008-02-23T00:46:00.002-06:00

I do not (read: cannot) stay home with my four children. My house is always a wreck. I am trying to do better with cooking on a more regular basis. I am not a homeroom mother; I don't participate in the PTA. Sometimes my temper runs short. You won't see me at the church door every time it opens. I am asked constantly at work if I ever take a day off. And how does this all look?

Like I am a Mediocre Mom. I would give anything to live in a 3500 square foot McMansion on a 0.75 acre lot, with a sparkly SUV in the garage and a full refrigerator. I would love for my girls to go to school immaculately dressed, with a hairbow to match every conceivable outfit. I would love to get up at 6:30 a.m. on my days off and have Julia-Child-perfect scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon on the table to fill up my babies' tummies before they go to school... and not have to drop them off at the front to get a tardy slip, because I hit the snooze button six times.

I lost 60 pounds, and I would love to not be constantly watching to keep it off. I would love to throw on some cutesy Nike windsuit and head out the door at every opportunity for a glute-and-ab toning jog every day.

I would love to not feel like I am the only adult in the house. And yet at the same time, I would love to feel as though I don't have to constantly harp at my husband. I think he does the best he can, but my breadwinner status got old a long time ago. If he doesn't go full-time at his job soon, I just might lose it.

But aside from a perceived "Mediocre Mom", what am I? I am a mother who does the best she can at this moment. I am a mom who's trying really hard to plug into my home life. A manager at work who's trying to cut back on her hours and still manage to live comfortably; to not flinch when the kids need lunch money again; to smile brightly when another field trip arises. No, I may not be able to buy my daughter that new dress for her Gator Gras dance, but I picked out a super-cute outfit from her existing wardrobe and spent 25 minutes blow-drying and flat-ironing her hair straight (a feat if you've seen her extremely thick, curly hair!) and applying a rarely-allowed coat of lip gloss. But I forgot to send her with extra spending money. Naturally. LOL What can I say? I'm working on it.

I put $50 extra in savings this week for not going to Starbucks, and I will add more when I avoid the Grease Pit AKA Employee Cafeteria whose sole existence is to make my butt wider.

I am under new construction. A more user-friendly me. Bite my tongue, get out of bed earlier, buy that cute windsuit, and load up my new iPod. And shower lots of kisses, eye-rolls from the recipient kids and all. Add "Momma loves u" notes to their lunches. Finally grant my husband's wish that I not only wash and fold the laundry, but put it up, too.

One day at a time. Occasional relapses expected and allowed...