The Pukenami

It’s been a rough week, friends. We managed to survive Thanksgiving break I think. To be honest, most of it is but a distant memory which has been wiped out by the horrors of this week.

It all started on Sunday night. I was looking forward to finally having a few hours to myself on Monday after nine days of the kids being home. Then a text message from the school district popped up. Monday was declared a snow day due to the severe winter storm that was predicted. NOOOO!!! Come on, people! Eight to thirteen inches of snow is not that big a deal. Throw some chains on the bus tires and round up these misfits! Teachers and staff can’t make it in? Oh puh-leez. I could send out one group text message to fellow moms and we’d be on the streets en masse in our all-wheel drive mini vans and 4-wheel drive SUVs faster than you can say “Starbucks Run” to personally chauffeur each precious teacher right to the front door of the school to save us from our spawn.

Fine. Fine. Safety first I guess. At least with a snow day I could shove the kids outside to play or to a friend’s house to eat all their groceries and make messes there. (My apologies their friend’s moms. I owe you.) Thus another day was survived. Then at 1:30 AM Karma remembered. I woke up cursing First Born thinking he’d cranked the heat up to 84 degrees again. I stomped downstairs and checked the thermostat. Nope. Just where I left it. And then it hit me. For the next five hours I was violently ill every twenty minutes. Dear Husband came downstairs in the morning to get on an early morning conference call and found me in a heap on the couch. “Is something going on? Why are you down here?” I was too delusional and exhausted to give him one of my signature, “I loathe you” sneers.

I went upstairs to continue my slow, painful death. I stopped in the kids rooms to wake them up, “Guys. Mom’s super sick and I need your help. Can you please do a good job getting ready for school for me?” And you know what? They did! First Born got ready, got his little sister dressed and they all went downstairs. I rapid-fire texted some reminders to my husband whilst I curled up in the fetal position in my bed. Everyone managed to make it to school with just a marginal amount of yelling. The rest of the day was a blur of hallucination-riddled dreams and trying to keep down sips of water.

Just as I thought I was starting to peek around the corner of health later that night, Satan’s Wrath came for Dear Husband and beat him into submission. Hard. He was down for the count. Luckily we both prefer to suffer alone and in silence. Later that day I left him to suffer in peace and went on a Target run to get the bare necessities, but collapsed in sheer exhaustion next to him as soon as I got home. Eventually we both survived the day and were beginning to feel human again, so after the kids went to bed we started to binge watch Schitt’s Creek on Netflix (highly recommend, btw…)

img_20181201_174907125.jpgEvidently, Karma was not done with our family and sent Satan knocking again, this time for Warrior Princess. I heard her coughing and went up to check on her, only to step in … Well…let’s just say I’m going to need to have her carpeting deep cleaned, or maybe just burn it and start over. DH heard me cursing and came up to find me stripping down her bed. He took one look and said, “I’ll go wash her fancy teddy bear that got hit with her toxic waste!” And quickly exited while I scrubbed carpeting, changed sheets and settled her back into bed.

I gaggingly shoved the carnage into the washer, set it to the hottest setting to nuke away the germs, and collapsed into the chair to watch some more Schitt’s Creek — Lord knows I needed some ironic comedy at this point. Alas, it was not in the cards. We heard crying coming from upstairs, thinking it was round two for dear princess. Nope. It was Young Son this time and it wasn’t pretty. He managed to hit every bit of bedding, and let’s just say I could tell he’d done a good job eating his vegetables at dinner. As we were stripping his bed, round two was starting up in darling daughter’s room. Somehow we got everyone cleaned up and back into bed. I wrapped up laundry loads two, three and four and tossed them in the laundry room and shut the door on the horror show. Comedy was no longer going to save us. We quit and went upstairs to bed, but I stayed awake since I knew the next rounds were coming soon. Luckily YS was one and done. WP fought four more rounds that night, but woke up triumphant in the morning.

It was now Thursday morning and we were four for five. I called in absences, cancelled the day’s appointments and YS, WP and I couch surfed for the day. Finally! Friday would be some time for me, right? I got the kids on the bus and savored a few moments of quiet, took a long shower and relaxed. Alas my reprieve was short-lived. You guess it. My phone rang and it was FB’s school. I fearfully answered and it was Nurse Nightingale. “First Born threw up. I’m so sorry.” It’s not like it was a surprise. Literally half of his class was out with the Plague already. At least now the circle of barf is complete and we can hopefully move on.

In my now over ten years of experience of dealing with young kids and stomach flu, I have learned a few things. For those moms who have yet to experience the joys of the stomach flu ravaging the entire house, I share these thoughts and tips with you:

  1. The size of the child and the volume of their stomach is inversely proportional. Brace yourself.
  2. When it hits, it’s gonna suck. But you’ll live through it: I know, I know. You hear that first gagging cough in the middle of the night and your blood runs cold. “NO!!!!” But now is not the time to hide. Mom up. GO! RUN! Get in there and keep that vomit vesuvius in one spot before they come running to you and puke all the way down the hall and all over your bed! Because if they do that, you will not want to live through this.
  3. Breathe through your mouth. The first clean up is the worst. To survive it without adding to the disaster at hand, breathe through your mouth. Think happy thoughts. Puppies and kittens. Rainbows and unicorns. Do NOT let panic set in! Strip down the puker, the bed (it’s just a rule of nature that they managed to hit every single sheet, blanket, pillow, stuffed animal and anything in a five foot perimeter,) hose them off as necessary and shove them back into bed. This is not a PotteryBarn Kids photoshoot you’re prepping for. This is field triage in the middle of war. Staunch the bleeding and take cover, because it’s not over, sister.
  4. Bath Towels are your best friend. Hopefully you have an extra set of clean sheets and mattress protector in the linen closet. This time, save yourself 20 loads of laundry and grab a stack of bath towels for your little vomit villain to sleep on. When the next round of hell hits, you only need to peel away a layer instead of changing the whole bed again. It’s all about conservation of energy. You’ll need it.
  5. Rely on Friends: I’m one of the worst at asking for help. When a friend says, “Ugh! I’m so sorry honey! Can I bring you anything?” The answer is always YES!  Inevitably the inmates ate the last of the saltines and left and empty box in the pantry and you meant to get more laundry detergent at the store that day. (Note: this is also a good time to test said friendship. If she brings you toxic waste colored Gatorade instead of the clear, she is not your friend and you need to find a new one. Seriously. Who gives a pukey kid the equivalent of a Sharpie in liquid form??)
  6. Never trust a fart. It’s a pretty sure bet that at least one person will have the lower GI version of hell when it hits. I forgot to remind my kids of this rule and suffered for my mistake. Poor WP had a rough go of it. What’s another load of laundry though…

On that note, I’m off to go spray Lysol on more things and throw in another load of laundry. Just a word of warning: the next person who asks me how my Christmas shopping is going is getting throat punched.

 

The Things I Found When Cleaning

There are many days I find myself wishing I could have a glimpse into the future. No, not to know the winning Lotto numbers, who will win elections or if feathered bangs will ever be popular again. No. I want to know if my children will be productive members of society when they grow up, or will they be serial killers or [shudder] a politician one day. I feel like if I knew that it was all going to turn out okay, I could get through the bat shittery of their youth.

First Born Male Child is the one I worry about the most. Ever since he was a baby, I’ve always thought, “I am not parenting this child right.” I took him to Mommy & Me groups to play with other babies. But no. He wanted to hang out with the other moms. He’d crawl over, climb on a lap and turn on the charm while I sat and sang “Wheels on the Bus” by myself like an idiot. Later on, everything became a costume or a prop for the epic adventure he was acting out that day. Games and toys have rarely been used for their intended purpose at our house. They are either dismantled, combined with another toy, used as some sort of odd weapon or promptly lost.

On Monday I broke down and braved FBMC’s room. It had reached nightmare levels of chaos and mess and I couldn’t take it any longer. I am by no means a neat freak and have come to terms with the fact that my house will never be “company ready” no matter how hard I try.

I don’t expect my kids’ rooms to look like a PotteryBarn Kids catalog spread (as much as I would love that.) But I do expect to be able to step foot in them and actually touch carpeting with my foot rather than ten layers of dirty clothes (and probably clean ones that never got put away,) or have to wonder if I just felt something wet or was it alive?! God please let it have just been yet another towel that didn’t get hung up.

After Halloween, I knew it was probably going to be pretty bad, so I took a last swig of coffee, braced myself and went in. Garbage bag: check. Empty hamper: check. Lysol wipes: check. I was ready to do battle. “Okay. Let’s start with the big things. Make the bed first — rooms always look nicer with the bed made.” I pulled back the rat’s next of covers and immediately regretted it. I found wadded up clothes at the end of the bed, various candy wrappers, a half-eaten sucker stuck to the sheet (Lysol wipe that … fresh sheets are the least of my worries today,) and three different light sources to read by: mini finger “laser” pointer, dagger-style light saber and R2D2 flashlight. I confiscated the latter, threw out the former and moved on.

Next I filled up the hamper with all of the clothes that were everywhere but in their proper drawers (which of course were left open) or in said hamper where they belonged. I didn’t torture myself further with the sniff test for cleanliness — in the hamper it all went. Then I de-garbaged the floor, since he couldn’t fit any more in his garbage can, which was full of toilet paper which he had TPed his brother and sister’s rooms with for the umpteenth time. (His next allowance is going toward my next Costco run.) I still hadn’t found the remainder of the ten pounds of candy he had collected on Halloween. There was certainly plenty of dead wrappers and spilled Nerds and random (hopefully) chocolate ground into the carpet, but where was the rest?

*Sigh* I chugged some more coffee and decided it was time. [Insert horror movie music] Under the bed. Sweet baby Jesus, hold my hand. After clearing away a few inches of candy wrappers, I found it. All neatly sorted by type into baggies. (Sorting candy motivates this kid…laundry, not so much.) Then I found the bowl within another bigger bowl, filled with water and candy — wrapped and unwrapped. No that wasn’t completely vile or anything. (I was later informed by the perpetrator that you can spin the bowl within the bowl when there’s water in it and it’s super cool. And he also wanted to see which colored the water better: M&Ms or Skittles. I blame his second grade teacher for that one.)

After confiscating the good candy and carefully getting rid of the candy sludge, I went back in. I found a half-full ketchup bottle. Since there wasn’t any evidence of fries or hotdog buns, I figured he was hoarding it for a stupid fake blood prank of some sort which I had hopefully avoided. Then there were some petrified chocolate chip cookies (which reminds me I should bake some since I haven’t baked that type in months) and random bobby pins of mine (is he planning on becoming a burglar and has been practicing his lock-picking skills??)

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But my favorite find was Bat Barbie. HA! I knew the whole Bruce Wayne schtick was BS! Barbie has been Batman all along! Or was FBMC really turning into Sid, the mean neighbor kid in Toy Story who tortured all the toys? Hmm. It’s probably a toss-up. My friend encouraged me to mess with him, so I left this scene for him when he came home:

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But really the best part of Bat Barbie was when I got a call from the assistant principal at his school today while I was at the school dropping something off. He had brought Bat Barbie to school and was tormenting kids on the playground with it. Lucky for him, she was cool about it. Since I was there in person, I bequeathed Bat Barbie to her and she/he now has a place of honor upon her bookshelf. (I’m not sure which pronoun to use for Bat Barbie. My apologies.) I think my next batch of chocolate chip cookies will be dedicated to the assistant principal.

But Bat Barbie has not been my favorite FBMC find of all time. No, it wasn’t even when I found a half dozen pairs of Young Son’s super hero undies in the hydrangea bush beneath FBMC’s window.

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My favorite find was a few years ago when he was in about first grade. I found a bunch of purple tampon applicators scattered around his room. Just the applicators and a few random wrappers. When I got over my initial horror and questioned him on why he had them, he matter of factly replied, “I’m using them for magic potion dispensers.” I never did find out where the actual tampons went, and frankly I don’t think I want to know. So ladies, I’ll leave you with this little gem to think about when that time of the month rolls around again. May it be magical. You’re welcome.

My Boys Will NOT “Be Boys.” They Will Be Respectful, Decent Human Beings.

Normally I like to keep my blog posts on the lighter side and about the insanity of parenthood and other oddball things I come up with. Today’s post is not one of those. It’s taking me way beyond my comfort zone to write this, because I loathe discussing politics and polarizing issues. Debate and confrontation generally make me want to hide under the covers and hope it goes away. I hate that I cannot have discussions with some of my friends for fear of offending and losing a friendship. As I type that I realize how ridiculous it all sounds.

But I’m not here to go into my opinion on the Kavanaugh hearing or the political motivations of either side of the aisle. That has been hashed out ad nauseum on line and in the press. It exhausts me. What still is sticking with me and keeping me up at night however, is how we treat assault — both the victim and the assailant. In the case of sexual assault, how come it seems that the assailant is inherently believed over the victim — that a victim’s perception and memory of events is far less reasonable and accurate than that of the assailant?

This past weekend, my husband and I were talking about the hearing and Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s upcoming testimony. He asked me, “If that had happened to you as a teenager, you would have told your parents, right?” I answered him honestly. “Most likely not.” He was surprised, so I explained that I wouldn’t have for multiple reasons. First, I would have been afraid that I would have gotten in trouble for being at a party with underage drinking. Second, I would have worried that they wouldn’t have believed me. But far scarier to me than getting in trouble or not being believed, was the thought of what they most likely would have done: help me report it. The thought of all the drama, humiliation and pain it would have caused personally and publicly would have been unbearable. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to go to the police and relive the event, to be asked a million embarrassing questions, to have it turned on me as to what I was doing to have somehow “deserved” it. I’m sure the rumor mill at school would have burst into flames from working overtime. Mostly, I couldn’t bear the thought of what something like that would have done to my parents — the pain, hurt, embarrassment, sleepless nights or even the financial burden it would have caused. Wouldn’t it have just been far easier for me to hold it inside and deal with it myself instead of causing even more pain and suffering? And what if I didn’t get justice in the end? What would have been the point?

A friend of mine recently posted a powerful story on Facebook. I will paraphrase it here and hope I will have done it justice. She described how she was attacked as a teenager. She tried to remember details of the night, who exactly was with her or how long it lasted. But she does remember that her parents knew where she was, she was not dressed scantily, had not been drinking or doing drugs (although others around her may have been.) She has no idea what became of the others who were there that night. Unfortunately, she was in the right place at the wrong time. Then she asked, “Do you believe me? You know me and the kind of person I am.”

She went on to say, “Now, what if I say I was robbed, not raped? Because that’s what happened. I worked at a Wendy’s, and while we were closing the store, two men came in and robbed us [at gunpoint].” She went on to describe the tiny, little details she remembers about what happened during the robbery and how she thought she was going to die that night when one of the men held a gun to her head.

Then she asked, “Does that change your mind about whether I am telling the truth? If it does, maybe ask yourself why.”

Luckily no one was injured or killed that night, she and her coworkers were able to report it to the authorities, and the perpetrators were found and brought to justice. She was not ashamed or embarrassed to go to the police to tell her story, she didn’t have to ask herself what she may have done to “invite” this to happen to her, and she was believed. Think about that for a moment.

Back when I was single, younger and cuter, I was a director of special events for a health charity. I ran a variety of fund raising events, including high-end golf outings which consisted of mostly privileged white men. By the end of the evening when the alcohol had been flowing and the auction was coming up, I often was felt up, had suggestive comments made to me and even remember a guy grabbing me, pulling me onto his lap and sticking his tongue in my ear. Other men saw this and did nothing. I politely removed his hand, got up and walked away. I felt I couldn’t risk making a scene, bringing down the night and potentially losing thousands of dollars in donations for the charity from these men showing their machismo and bulging money clips. It all felt like “part of the job” and in fact, a co-worker called it “losing lipstick.”

I told my husband this story and he could not fathom how men could do such things to me. “I can’t imagine ever treating a woman or other human being that way.” Well, I know this and that’s just one of the reasons I married him. His honestly, loyalty and doing what is right even when it’s hard are some of his very best qualities.

The most important job as parents of our two sons and daughter is to teach them how to be respectful, kind and caring to everyone no matter their gender, race or views. I refuse to believe or accept that, “Boys will be boys” and their gender somehow gives them a pass on poor behavior. Do my boys do crazy “boy” things and misbehave? Absolutely. And I’m sure my daughter will do things to make me want to pull my hair out as she gets older too. What I do believe is that “Boys …and girls…will be respectful and decent human beings.” I want my sons and daughter to know this and live it. I already see it in so many of the things they do. There is hope.

It is our job as parents to help our children navigate through their lives, learn to make good choices, and that when we make mistakes to apologize when we’ve hurt someone. No one is perfect and sometimes we all need to be better about forgiving or giving someone the benefit of the doubt. What is never okay is to disrespect another person’s body and his or her power over it. It’s never okay for someone to disrespect our own body and power over it either. This goes for everyone, male or female: respect others and themselves. Furthermore, by allowing assault to happen or doubting the victim, we too are taking away even more of that person’s power over themselves.

I hope and pray that my husband and I can instill this in our children and that they will know they can always come to us for help and unconditional love no matter how old they are or what the circumstances. May we all be…and raise…good human beings.

 

 

Why Kids’ TV in the ’70s was the Best

For those of you who born in the 80s or after, listen up and take notes. I am here to educate you on why TV in the 70s was freakin’ awesome.

“Wow. That’s pretty random,” you say. Well, I’ve had a pretty crappy day today, so I IMed a friend:

“Having a really shitty day. Tell me something funny.”

She immediately shoots back:

Shazam. Totally what I needed.

This used to be one of my FAVORITE vignettes from Sesame Street. I can still feel the soothing sense of calm that would wash over me whenever it would come on. “Milk….Miiii-lllkkk” – heaven. The kitties getting their special little tray of milk from the farmer, then the satisfying milk pour into the bucket…Sigh…Oh! And then that dear sweet little baby who just wanted her bottle! “Oh, hold on baby girl! The milk man is going as fast as he can! Look! He’s running! He’s gonna bring you your milk!” And then she finally gets her bottle. Oh, pure bliss. [Fans self]

So this got us going on all the great skits and songs from Sesame Street and other shows from our childhood.

Then she sent me:

Oh. My. God! I LOVED this song! And I thought it was SOOO cool that this girl had a pet llama. In the CITY! And she really loved this llama because she took it to the DENTIST! As I think back on this, I have so many questions though. Like, 1) Where did she KEEP her  llama? On the fire escape? The roof? WHERE?! 2) Where were her PARENTS?!? I mean I’ve heard of “Free Range Parenting” but this is a bit ridiculous. 3) Who knew there were llama dentists in the city? Seems a little boutiquey for back then. 4) How did said llama dentist not get spit on and the shit kicked out of him by Nicki the llama, who surely was nicht pleased to be having her gnarly teeth scraped by this dude. It made MY teeth hurt just watching! 5) How did the writers at Sesame Street come up with the idea for this? Were they majorly tripping on acid one day, “Hey! Did you just see that girl walking down the street with her pet llama? FAR OUT!!! Maybe she’s taking it to the dentist! Quick! Get me a pen! I need to write this bitchin’ song down RIGHT NOW!”

So, not to be outdone by the Me and My Llama song, I shot back:

Bam! I used to go nuts singing and dancing to this song. I mean I looked like I was a poor white girl having convulsions or a mouse was running up and down my pants or something, but I really thought I had the moves! “Onetwothreefourfive sixseveneightnineten eleven TWELVE!” Did you know the Pointer Sisters sang that song? I know, right?! And the mesmerizing pinball zooming through the machine. Totally trippy. I still sing this song when I’m counting with my kids. They think I’m totally weird, especially when I throw in the mouse-down-my-pants dance.

You know how those “How It’s Made” shows got their start? Yep. Sesame Street. Who remembers the ever-so-satisfying crayon making video?

I still find myself looking pensively at my orange crayon and think, “Hmmm…I wonder how they made my orange crayon.” Oh how I’d like to dig my hands into those huge trays of crayons and run my fingers through them!

But wait. There’s more. Remember this show??!

To this day, I still bellow at my kids like Rita Moreno, “HEY YOU GUUUYYYYSSSS!!!!!!!!” Again, my children are not amused by me. That show was awesome! When you look back at who got their start on that show, like Morgan Freeman!

Even Bill Cosby was on The Electric Company.

(I’m guessing Rita Moreno regrets not punching and kicking him way harder back then.)

I learned all about punctuation from Victor Borge.

And yes, when writing long hand, I still find myself doing the “Ffftt pttt” sound whenever I do an emphatic exclamation point! FFFTT PTTT! See?!?

Last but not least, who doesn’t remember the silhouettes?

Husband and I randomly say words like this to each other. “Bitch…ing…BITCHING!” da da DA da da…(Try it! It’s fun!)

I could go on and on forever about the cameos and the societal elements of these shows. Please. I won’t even mention Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. That man was a saint and he deserves a blog post all of his own (although I don’t think some of my posts would give him “such a good…feeling…”) And I’m sure you, dear reader, have some oldies but goodies that bring you back to your 70s childhood. What were the good ones that bring you back to the days of orange, avocado and goldenrod? Please share some in comments!

Now I think I’m going to go pour myself a nice, tall glass of Milk…Miii-lllk! So good, so warm and white!

The First Day of School Eve

In less than 9 hours, the boys will be whisked off to their first day of 5th and 2nd grades. Part of me is rejoicing that I survived summer with my children 24/7. The other part of me is feeling a bit bitter-sweet that they’re already this old. Those days of innocence are coming to an end I fear. If I’m finding these years challenging, what’s going to happen when the teenage years begin?! I’m screwed.

Today was Supply Drop Off and Meet the Teacher Day. I think I’ve written about this before, but the way our school district does this is completely maniacal and sadistic. There are about 2,000 students among the elementary, intermediate and middle schools which are all clustered together within walking distance of one another. Supplies are to be dropped off, teachers met, lockers found, bus tags gotten, lunch accounts filled etc. For ONE HOUR. For all 2,000 students and their parents. It’s pure, raw hell. When Amazon Warrior Princess starts 1st grade, I’ll have to do this for three children. I better start medicating now.

I have no idea why they do it this way. I’m assuming there is some good reason for it, but perhaps it’s the Administration’s last jab at parents before they are stuck with our kids for the next 9 months. I can’t say I blame them. Educators are all saints in my book, and an hour of revenge seems okay considering.

Other times I think that it’s some annual social experiment in which students and parents are unwitting participants. I picture the principals in some big control room monitoring all the halls and classrooms from a giant screen.

“Okay, turn off the A/C in the 2nd grade hallway. Good! Good! That made the vein on ten mothers’ heads start throbbing! We’ve got a complete melt down in the 1st grade hall! Well done!”

“Cue jams for locker numbers 127, 359 and 785. Wait for it…wait for it! RELEASE! YES!!! Nailed them all in the head! Initiate lingering dead sock smell!”

“We’ve got escapees! How did they get done so fast?! Fire Drill! Time for a Fire Drill!”

After the bedlam has died down, they begin to assess the parents they broke. I picture Count Rugen from “The Princess Bride” after he sucked one year of Wesley’s life away, “So let’s just start with what we have. What did this do to you? Tell me. And remember, this is for posterityso… be honest.” Then they start culling the herd. Only the strong survive.

Whatever the reason they do it this way, I managed to survive another year. Tomorrow is the first day of school. To all the teachers, bus drivers, school nurses, lunch supervisors…God speed. We parents appreciate you more than you can know.

 

 

Running on Fumes

Oh hallelujah! Less than a week until First Born Male Child and Young Son go to school! I feel guilty that I’m so excited for my kids to go back to school, because it feels like I’m wishing away their childhoods. But really it’s more than wanting them out of the house. It’s me wanting some of me back.

You know how I’ve said that as the summer progresses, things just go down hill? June is great because I’ve got plans and ideas…and energy! The kids are drunk with freedom and loving life. But then July comes along and it’s like the 2nd hour of a long car ride. “Are we there yet?!” The movie is over and the snacks were devoured 50 miles ago. August is like hour 6 when lunch was ages ago, car games are boring, fights break out over things like, “Mom! He’s blinking too loudly!” — and everyone has a sore butt from sitting for so long. Just put us out of our misery. Please!

I’ve screwed myself again this summer, and I really wish I’d learn. Instead of keeping myself “fueled” with self-care for me every once in awhile, I put all my energy into keeping the kids busy, happy and not killing each other 24/7. I honestly can’t remember the last time I spent time with a friend. (I’m guessing it was May.) Basically I tried to get in all the miles as I could on one tank of gas, didn’t dole out entertainment for the inmates along the way — basically I blew it all on the first half of the trip. Yep. Total rookie mom mistake and I should know better. Right now my low fuel light is on and my engine light has been flickering for the past 27 miles.

I do enjoy the slower pace of summer and the break from after school activities, homework, strict bedtimes and the spontaneity that affords. But after nearly ten weeks of being with my kids ALL. THE. TIME… I’m burned out. No matter what I’m doing, there’s always a kid in the mix destroying something, fighting, interrupting or doing something weird. Fer crissake — I found a pair of YS’s underwear in the backyard today! HOW and WHY did this HAPPEN!? I swear if I don’t hear or see them doing crazed things, I go on high alert because I know they are plotting. It’s exhausting.

I was trying to write earlier in the day and had to resort to using noise canceling headphones. Our kitchen had turned into the floor of the New York Stock Exchange for Pokémon card trading between YS and his friends. There was yelling, weird hand gestures, paper strewn all over the floor and I think there was a hostile takeover at one point. It was epic. I finally had to ring a bell and banish them outside.

So here I am at 11 PM trying to have a complete thought for the first time today. I just remembered: Bob needs to come tonight. In case you’ve forgotten, Bob is YS’s tooth fairy. Gladys (FBMC’s tooth fairy) has retired since FBMC figured out she was in the same boat as Santa and the Easter Bunny — it’s been a rough year. So here’s what Bob’s leaving tonight. (The Pokémon handbook is FBMC’s.) Lord help me, I hope YS remembered to pick up his Legos before he went to bed!img_20180816_224601775_ll1

Living with Preadolescent Boys. Joy Redefined.

A few posts ago, I wrote about how summer break goes: June is lovely, July is when the boredom kicks in and then August is filled with hatred and homicidal thoughts for all involved. Yep. Right on schedule.

I recently asked a friend who has two daughters, “Do your girls always talk about their vaginas? Because my boys are CONSTANTLY talking about their private parts — penises, balls, junk, butts, buttholes (and even anuses if they’re being all classy about it) … and poop. Oh the poop references. I basically live in a preadolescent frat house. Except for the lack of beer drinking, the smell, filth and mentality are right there.

Here are a few examples of things you’d hear them screaming at our house on any given day:

“If you don’t knock it off, I’m going to punch you in your penis!!”

“Your face looks like a butt crack and your breath smells like a butthole!”

“Hey anus face! I’ve got something for you!” Then FBMC sticks his butt at YS and farts. (He performed this trick on me one day. It did not end well for him. At all.)

“Balls! Balls! Balls! Balls!”

“Hey, FBMC! What does this look like?? POOP!!!” followed by gales and gales of laughter and rolling around the floor while covering his junk. (What’s worse is when my husband stifles a snort of laughter and tries to frown away a smile — this is pure crack for them and then I’m done for.)

If they are being extra creative, it gets set to music like this one sung to the tune of “Do Your Ears Hang Low”

Doooooo your balls hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you tie them in a bow?
Can you throw them over your shoulder
Like a continental soldier?
Do your Balls. Hang. Low?

At that point I close my eyes, rub my temples and sing quietly to myself while trying not to cry,

Yes Jesus loves me,
Yes Jesus loves me.
Yes Jesus loves me,
for the Bible tells me so.

Some days I try to ignore it. Other days if I’m feeling all Glenda the Good Mommy, I come up with positive reinforcements like, “The person who can last the longest today without saying potty words gets a popsicle.” They can hold out for about 15 seconds until one can’t hold it any longer and a whopper comes flying out. The “winner” goes and gets a popsicle, followed by the “loser” snatching one too (because clearly it was going to be a tie,) and then they run outside with their “rewards” yelling more potty words. At least they’re out of the house at this point. Score one for Glenda. To my neighbors, I tried. I’m sorry.

Other days I send them each to their room (this is one of my favorites because I get a little peace and quiet.) When it gets really bad, I threaten to take away electronics. This however, is a slippery slope fraught with danger. If they keep at it, they lose electronics, which in all actuality means I am the one on the losing end. At least if they’re using electronics, they are not tormenting each other and hurling insults.

I think I’m going to implement a new strategy, sort of like a curse jar. Every time they use potty words, they have to pay $1. I figure by the end of the week they should have their freshman year of college about covered, so I consider this a big win for me. And speaking of college, I hope they get into good ones. I’m guessing one will be a proctologist and the other a urologist based on their current obsessions. This will also end well for me because they’ll be able to put me in a really nice nursing home later on.

So yeah. I’m totally ready for school to start. In case you were wondering, here’s the latest countdown:

Screenshot_20180802-200203_2

Be strong, fellow mamas. The bus will be here soon! If they don’t kill me by then.