I’m not gonna lie. This was not one of my better parenting days. My throat hurts tonight — not because I’ve been infected by COVID-19. No. It’s because I yelled so much. I think I may have sprained a vocal chord at some point.

The bad mood in our house has been more contagious than the Corona virus. One person gets snippy and it just sets off an avalanche of hostility among the rest of us. The fighting and arguing has already taken on epic proportions and my patience for it is dangerously thin. I know it’s because we’re dreading being cooped up with no certain end in sight. The unknown is a scary beast and already it’s getting the best of us.

I’ve been holding off on getting out special fun projects, because I don’t want them to burn through them in one day like the ridiculous amount of junk food I stocked up on. (Please don’t tell them I have said cache of junk. I have hidden it and plan on doling it out accordingly. Otherwise they will be like feral hyenas on the Serengeti after a lion has taken down a wildebeest, and there will just be a carcass of empty wrappers left over when they’re done.)

I’ve been slowly stocking up on supplies over the past few weeks, as the potential for these drastic measures increased day by day. Yes, I got toilet paper when I went to Costco, but just one package like a sane person. First Born was concerned we wouldn’t have enough. I assured him we would be fine as long as he stopped TPing his brother’s room on a regular basis. (Yes, this actually is an issue.)

You know what I went a little crazy on? Coffee. Lack of toilet paper would be far less frightening than a lack of coffee. Really, it’s for everyone’s own good and safety that the Warden and I will have our glorious vat of caffeinated goodness every morning. You’re welcome.

I’ll leave you with this gem from First Born. A few years ago when I was decorating the kids’ bathroom, I found these fun vinyl signs that I put up over their sinks. One said, “Brush your teeth. All of them,” and the other said, “Wash your hands. Use soap.” Yeah. Well, First Born took it upon himself to rearrange the letters a bit. This is what I found when I went to disinfect their bathroom earlier this week:

Well, yes they really do need to do a better job washing their anuses. I do their laundry and it makes me cry some days. In the meantime, I’m just gonna go wash my hands now and go find the snack cache.

Okay. Let me start off by saying, I don’t really have worries that if I do contract COVID-19 that it will kill me. My immediate family and I are generally physically healthy (mentally is another matter altogether.) Based on my obsessive reading, I’m guessing we would fall into the category of the majority of people who will experience milder symptoms. Here’s hoping.

But no. COVID-19 is going to be death by a million paper cuts for me. Between the disinfecting and being around my family 24/7, I’m gonna die.

It’s going to cause my anxiety and any underlying OCD tendencies I may have to go into overdrive.

“Wash your hands for 20 seconds.”
I’m beginning to feel like Lady MacBeth at this point with all the hand washing. “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!”

Now I’m all in support of good hygiene. But as a mother of three, do you know how many times I ask my kids, “Did you wash your hands?” It’s become an involuntary reflex at this point, so much so that every time their butts hit the kitchen chairs for dinner, “Did you wash your hands?” comes out of my mouth. When I hear them in the bathroom and the door opening immediately after I hear the toilet flush, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “I didn’t hear water running. GO WASH YOUR HANDS!” Followed by loud sighs and eye rolls from them. But now that the stakes are exponentially higher for the importance of good hygiene, my stress level just skyrocketed. [Paper cut]

Oh. And the whole 20 second thing and singing “Happy Birthday” while you wash? *Ugh!* Oh, I’ve seen all the other suggested 20 second song refrains you can sing instead of “Happy Birthday” — but you know what goes through my head? “Dance Monkey” by Tones. That song is absolute nails on a chalkboard to me, yet that’s the song my stupid brain cues up every time I squirt soap on my hands. It makes me stabby. [Paper cut]

“Don’t touch your face.”
Uhh, yeah. Good luck with that. (You just touched your face just now, didn’t you. See what I mean?) [Paper cut]

Crap. I just rubbed my nose. [Paper cut]

[Slathers on hand sanitizer. Wipes down keyboard for good measure.]

ARRRG! I just touched my eye! …and the hand sanitizer wasn’t dry! It BURNS! IT BUUUURRNNNS!!! [Paper cut]

[Runs to bathroom to splash water in eyes.] Oh God. Please tell me that was chocolate frosting on the faucet handle left over from one of the inmates after they actually washed their hands! [Paper cut]

[Grabs disinfecting wipe and madly scrubs just in case. Looks over at toilet.] Jeez. I might as well scrub that while I’m at it since I’m sure it’s been completely desecrated by someone in this household today. [Opens lid. Gags.] Why me? [Paper cut paper cut paper cut!]

3+ Weeks of Togetherness
You know what just may terrify me the most? My children being trapped at home for the next three or more weeks. It’s already day one of self isolating and already I want to quarantine myself in my room. Maybe by the end of the week we won’t even be speaking to one another…There’s a thought.

While I am grateful that our schools have eLearning capabilities, the thought of having to ride herd on the boys every day to get them to complete their work makes me want to cry. I’ve said it a million times before, but teachers rule and I bow down to their amazingness, patience and ability to put up with their students day in and day out. I’m trying to keep a positive outlook on their eLearning assignments, like “it’ll give them something to do!” But then reality will set in and well…

In all seriousness, am I worried about COVID-19? Yes. I worry about older family members, especially those with underlying health issues. I worry about family and friends with compromised immune systems due to cancer and other diseases they have valiantly fought. I worry about my friends with cystic fibrosis, who fight every day to breathe. I worry about my family and friends who are healthcare providers, that they will have proper protection while they selflessly help others…and that they can physically and mentally handle what is sure to come. The list goes on and on.

To stave off pure insanity that all these “paper cuts” will inflict, I’m going to turn to writing. And since there is already so much scary and serious stuff out there to read, I will try to write some goofy stuff to distract us all. I’m sure the inmates will provide an infinite amount of material. Pray for me.

In the meantime, be well. Wash your hands. And be good to one another.

I don’t know what Santa puts in the stockings at your house, but here at the Psych Ward, he gets “creative” in his stocking stuffers (translation: desperate.) In addition to candy canes, chocolate “coal” and other random junky toys, Santa goes a little utilitarian. Everyone always gets new toothpaste, toothbrush, flossers (which will most likely get used for anything but teeth or shoved in the back of the drawer never to be used), fun pens, crazy socks and the like. The adults also receive things like Tylenol, breath mints, hand sanitizer and SuperGlue. We go through an alarming amount of SuperGlue at our house, because the PSW inmates’ motto in life is, “Drive it like you stole it.” (It’s a good thing we don’t live in Japan and do the whole Kintsugi method of repair — We’d be flat broke!)

As always, Santa came through on the Super Glue. I try my best to keep it out of reach from the inmates, but I guess that just seems to make it all the more tempting for First Born. The other day I found a tube of it sitting on the counter. “Hmmm…I don’t remember leaving it there.”

So I went and poked my head in the Warden’s office. “Did you use the SuperGlue recently?”

“No. Why?”

My shoulders drooped and I shook my head. “Well, if it wasn’t you, then that just means that First Born’s been up to something.”

“Hey First Born. What were you using the Super Glue for? And before you deny it, I know it wasn’t Dad, so it had to be you.”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Great. That meant it was something particularly devious and I was sure to find out what it was when I was either delousing his room or at some other inopportune moment.

That moment came a few days later when I was up to my elbows in sorting laundry. “Didn’t I just do all the laundry like ten minutes ago?!! How?! How does one person go through this many T-shirts? But wait. Shouldn’t there be more underwear? Where’s the underwear? Oh…still attached to the pants I see. Excellent.”

Just then, Young Son comes bounding over wearing only his Pokemon undies. “Tah Dahhhh!!! BEHOLD!” Then burst out into hysterical laughter.

On his head he was wearing a winter stocking hat with something sticking straight up off the top of it where the pom pom should go. I sighed. “What fresh hell is this?”

Young Son gleefully answered, “It’s a PENIS!” and then rolled around on the floor gasping for air between gales of laughter.

Yep. So it was. It was an eight inch penis made out of bright yellow modeling clay, complete with testicles and a surprising amount of detail. And how was it attached to the (brand new) stocking hat??? You guessed it. Super Glue. This stunt had First Born’s trademark all over it.

In addition to being annoyed that a brand new hat was basically ruined, my mind immediately came up with all the ways that First Born was planning on using said penis hat. Other than corrupting his little brother and sister, what if he wore it to a friend’s house? What would the mom think?!? Or what if he wore it to school?! I broke out in a cold sweat just thinking about that call from the principal.

I ripped the penis off, threw it in the trash and tossed the hat in the laundry that conveniently surrounded me.

Suddenly we heard First Born thundering down the hall yelling, “YOUNG SOOOOONNN!!! What did you DO!?! Where’s the PENIS!?!?! GIVE ME BACK THE PENIS!!!”

I turned to Young Son, “Dude. You better hide!”

First Born burst into the room, nostrils flaring, looking for his rat fink of a little brother. “Why did you have to go and show Mom for?!?! What were you thinking?!?!”

Then he turned to me. “Where is it?? Give me my penis back!!!”

At which point, I burst out laughing like…well…a pre-teen boy! “Really?! You’re really asking me where your penis is?!”

Oh. He did NOT like that. At. All. I don’t know if he was more angry that Young Son had gone and shown it to me, or more embarrassed that I had seen his weird pornographic headwear. He decided to stick with the anger part and tried to pound on his brother.

“Why did you think Mom would think that’s funny!??”

Now normally, he’s right. The funnier they think something is, the less I’m amused by it. And based on Young Son’s reaction, I was definitely not going to be amused by it.

But in this case, it was sorta funny. I mean I did cringe at the thought of what he was planning on using the hat for…and he did ruin a brand new hat in the making of it. But really. He’s eleven. That’s what boys that age do. They make jokes about penises and balls and farts and poop. Annoying? Yes. Abnormal? No.

After he calmed down later, I said, “Look. I love your creativity, but could you please harness your powers for GOOD?!” He sullenly agreed.

In the meantime, the penis has mysteriously gone missing from the trash. Perhaps he’s taken my advice to heart and he’s busy setting up his new millinery shop on Etsy. I’ll keep you updated.

Please note: I have not posted a picture of the detailed penis so I don’t get banned from Facebook or have the authorities knocking on my door.

THE END IS NEAR!!! I can see the light! School starts this week!

One could interpret that in two very different ways:

Positive: “Hooray! I survived summer break without a visit from DCFS or jail time! There is light at the end of this never-ending tunnel! Is that bus headlights coming toward me?? *Sniiiifffff* I smell diesel! Hallelujah!!!”

Negative: “I’m dying! The Four Horsemen are coming! That light is so beautiful…but why do I see my ancestors beckoning me to come hither? Yep. The non-stop fighting and complaining of the inmates has finally killed me.”

First Born and Young Son go back to school on Wednesday. (Meaning Tuesday is Supply Drop-off/Meet the Teacher day, and we all know how much I loathe THAT day.)

But even more stressful than that is the fact that First Born starts middle school this year. I know he’s looking forward to some aspects of it, like feeling grown-up and having more independence. But I can tell that the reality of it has been starting to sink in over the past few weeks. Let’s just say he’s been far from a joy to live with lately. I need to remind myself that this isn’t all toxic pre-teen hormones making him surly and short-tempered. All. The. Time. A lot of it is anxiety oozing out of him in the form of asshole-ish behavior.

I remember when I started junior high 35 years ago (ugh!) I was terrified. The entire summer before I was sick with fear, dread and so much anxiety that I had trouble sleeping and was nauseated most of the time. My teacher the year before had drilled into us how hard and different junior high was going to be, she made it seem like we were going to be going directly to college instead of 7th grade. We were going to have insane amounts of homework heaped upon us, expectations of us would be exponentially more difficult, we’d only have four minutes to change classes and they would be located 3 miles apart (don’t even think about going to your locker or the bathroom)…and worst of all, we would have to change and shower in front of our peers for gym class!

But after the first few days, I found out that my teacher was basically full of crap, and junior high wasn’t nearly as bad as she had made it out to be. Sure, it was a change and a little confusing at first, but it was a good thing. I wasn’t stuck in the same classroom with the same idiots and same cranky teacher day after day, hour after hour. I began feeling more grown up and started gaining a bit of confidence…which was immediately snuffed out by hellacious adolescent peers who still live in my nightmares to this day. (That’s a post for another time.) Best of all, we did not have to shower after gym class. We all quickly learned how to do strange contortions with our clothing so that the least amount of skin and underwear showed, doused ourselves with Wild Musk perfume and and Tickle deodorant and called it a day.

Is there a pedagogical reason why some teachers put the fear of God into their students to prepare them for the rigors of the next step in their schooling? I get that students need to understand that expectations will be higher and things will be different than what they are used to. But so often what is lost in translation for the student is that all the work they have been doing and the skills their teachers have been teaching them are what makes them prepared for the next step. Instead, so many (like in my case) are left feeling overwhelmed and terrified that they aren’t ready and are going to fail miserably.

I get it. When I get frustrated when First Born’s immaturity peaks out sometimes, I find myself saying things like, “You need to get more organized and on top of things! In sixth grade you won’t have your teacher holding your hand all the time! BE RESPONSIBLE!” Instead of getting him to shape up, I’m sure I’m just adding fuel to the fire of his anxiety of not feeling ready, mature or smart enough. Don’t get me wrong. I know this is going to be a big change for him and there are going to be some pretty big potholes along the way. But I need to keep my anxiety in check so I don’t add to his.

So next time he’s acting like a total beast and feel like ripping his head off and using it as a bowling ball, I need to remind myself to pull him in for a hug instead of yelling. Maybe it will help to ease the anxiety for both of us.

To my fellow parents sending their kids back to school: congratulations! You made it through another summer! And to those teachers going back to the grind and craziness of the classroom, good luck, God speed…and have mercy on my inmates! Just remember: I am their mother, and they can’t help a lot of it.

Yesterday as I was driving through town to take the inmates to their eye doctor appointments, a funeral procession came to the intersection where I was stopped. I pulled over and waited for them all to pass.

But while I was waiting there, multiple cars went around me and continued on their way, either oblivious to, not caring about or annoyed with the somber string of cars with their flashing lights. It saddened me and made me angry.

Later I went home and looked up the law on what you are supposed to do when you come upon a funeral procession. You are not allowed to cut through or cut off a funeral procession, nor should you honk (one would think this should go without saying.) But you are not required to pull over as a funeral procession goes by, it is merely a custom that so many seem to forget more and more often.

While I had somewhere to be and things to do, it was still important for me to take the time to acknowledge the mourners passing by. Even though I did not know the person in the hearse or their loved ones following behind, I took the time to respect their grief. This was not a trundling, never-ending train carrying lumber or coal from point A to point B. No, this was a long line of people accompanying their loved one to his or her final resting place. A few minutes of my time to respectfully pause and bear witness to the loss these people were suffering really seemed the least I could do.

This was a good reminder for me though. How many times have I impatiently waited in line while lost in thought with all the little things I need to get done, plan dinner, get who when and where, instead of bothering to have a nice chat with a fellow shopper who could use a kind word in that moment? How often have I wasted time scrolling through Facebook to keep up with what friends are doing instead of actually calling them to meet for coffee to really see how their life is? How many times have I obsessively read news article after news article, yet never seem to do enough with my outrage over the treatment of my fellow humans near and far.

We all need to be reminded to pause…

…To pause and notice what is going on around us.
…To pause and care more for our family and friends.
…To pause and ask ourselves, “Am I doing enough, loving enough, giving enough?”
…To pause and really appreciate the amazing gifts we have been given in our lives
…To pause to just breathe and take it all in.

Perhaps if we all pause in our daily lives, our world can become a kinder, gentler place while we are still in it, before we become the one in the hearse, or become the mourners following behind.