Mindless Mom

It’s my birthday today.  Oh yeah, sweet sixteen and never been kissed.   Or thirty-one with three kids, a mortgage, a mini-van, insomnia, and a growing desire to dye my hair blond.  Okay, the blond thing was a joke……..maybe. 

I woke up to my youngest landing an elbow jab into my pelvic bone and my eldest putting me in a headlock.  I think a “Happy Birthday” may have been muffled in there somewhere.  Unless I just heard that as I was drifting into the light from the the lack of oxygen from the follow-up chokehold by my son.  

My three-year-old got what I really wanted for my birthday - to sleep in.  But she made up for it with a “Happy Bertday” when she finally threw herself and her 40 stuffed animals out of bed.  The more she said it, the more it started to sound like “Happy Buttday”.  So today’s my Buttday.  

I’m not officially the big 31 until 5:05pm, as I am often reminded by my mother.   So I plan on really living it up as a 30-year-old for the next seven hours.  Good thing I have to work.

So far today’s been pretty much a disaster.  I woke up late.  I already mentioned the part about the near suffocation and elbow jab.  Not that I minded either of them - both were followed by apologetic smiles and lots of hugs.   After my five second shower and weak attempt at dressing for success, I set off downstairs.  Within the next 45 minutes the following happened:

• I sliced my hand trying to cut an orange.
• I was shafted at the Dunkin’ Donuts drivethrough.  They forgot my donut hole box, which meant I had to turn around and actually GET OUT of the car, go back in and DEMAND my damn holes.
• I pulled out of Dunkin Donuts and hit the corner only to have my gas light flip on.
• I turned around and pulled into a gas station.  I started pumping my $3.95/gallon gas into my car and while glancing around the beautiful concrete landscape caught the $3.75/gallon price at Circle K across the street. 
• I nearly dropped all of the donuts trying to get in the door to work, as apparently holding the door for someone with their hands full has gone out with the feminist movement.

Since that time, I have eaten four donuts (chocolate with sprinkles), drank a Sunkist can of pop and a bottle of Tropicana Fruit Punch.  I plan to polish off the donut holes by lunch.  

At this rate, I figure if I’m drunk by 7pm this will be the best damn Buttday of my life!

My three-year-old has recently become OBSESSED with the color pink. Everything has to be pink. She wants pink shirts, pink pants, pink socks, pink purses, pink paper, pink crayons, pink “lipthstick” and pink underwear that she doesn’t even wear because she could give two shits about actually dropping a load anywhere other than in her diaper. (Take the puns where you can.)

The good news about this demand in pink is that her mother, insert ME, is about as tomboy as you can get. I think I claimed “Tomboy of Defiance County” for six straight years as a child…thank you very much. So as you can gather from my pageant circuit, this pink thing may very well send me over the edge.

But enough about me, back to the Pink Lady.

With the recent development of my three-year-old’s pink view on life, she has several “pink” monologues she goes into when asked about her favorite things and what she’s going to be when she grows up. I have been wondering for weeks where she comes up with this stuff. I was wondering, that is, until last night.

I must have had a shot of Coca-Cola mid-day because I was more coherent than normal at 7:35pm last night. I watched and listened as my two daughters played with their Little People in the corner of our living room. And at one point I started laughing out loud. My three-year-old dominated the playtime with commentary that has become very familiar in recent weeks and it went something like this:

“I am a mommy. I live in a pink castle wiff my pink babies, and we have pink walls, and ours castle is painted pink.”

“We drive in ours pewple and pink car.”

“We have a red dog, but we pwetend it’s pink. Okay, Sammy?”

“MOMMY!! MOMMY!! MOMMY!! When I gwow up I’m going to live in a pink and pewple castle…. and have a pink and pewple car….and Cwifford will be ours dog. Sammy you’s going to live with me. Okay?”

While I’m willing to work on sourcing the laundry list of pink clothing articles and accessories needed to complete her current toddler world, she’s going to have to tackle that castle bit on her own. Daddy?

For any of you who have children, watch children, see children, know of a child or two……or three, the following image captures what should forever be written down as A HORRIBLE, NO GOOD IDEA!

Sure it looks cute enough…..brother pulling little sisters for a kodak-moment wagon ride.  But what I was unable to capture on film was big bro getting cocky with his muscle strength, picking up speed, pulling the wagon into a grass ditch, flipping the wagon on it’s side, continuing to drag the wagon with the girls half-side up, and vocally ensuring them that they were “almost there” and that he’d “stop when we get to the telephone pole”.  The telephone pole was an additional fourteen grass stains later.

So until Radio Flyer creates a wagon that can accomodate my entire rat pack, we will be re-instating the every man to his/her own seat rule (be it wagon or bike) on walks around town.  Walking muscle-headed five-year-olds are no exception to the rule!

So this morning on my drive into work I was caught behind a car that had one of those diamond-shaped “Baby on Board” signs suctioned to the inside of their back window. All together now………awwwwwwww.

As we both rounded a bend off of the highway ramp I couldn’t help but notice that the overprotective mother who has extreme concern for the welfare of her infant strapped into the car seat, as noted by the “Baby on Board” sign that has carefully been placed directly above his or her carseat, threw a cigarette butt out of her window. The following thoughts raced through my head:

1. You littering SOB.

2. You’ve got to be kidding me that you are displaying signs promoting safety and caution around your vehicle for the sake of your child, yet you’ve trapped them inside a 4′ x 4′ junk box w/ a smoke chimney emptying it’s content into your vehicle. By “smoke chimney” I mean you, crazy lady.

3. UNBELIEVABLE!

4. I’m glad the cigarette is still lit on the cement. Maybe the toddler walking across the street with his father can step on the lit butt and burn himself. Then again, maybe she’ll glance down, whip open her car door and take another drag before tossing it in a different direction. No sense wasting it when you can inhale more black soot into your lungs. I wonder if she’s the chick who’s 2-yr-old was videotaped smoking pot?

5. She needs to change her sign to “Stupid On Board”.

And to think all of this in my head…………and it’s Friday, not Monday.

Spring is here and has brought with it a blossomed cherry tree in my front yard, children begging to go outside every second of the day, and allergies that have swelled my son’s eyes shut.

I’ll spare you the allergy photograph and share with you a picture of the cherry tree. My three-year-old has made it routine to pull one flower off the tree every day after we pull into the driveway. I’ll try to remember to take a picture of the 1/2 naked tree in a couple weeks.

I joined a band over the weekend. 

Word on the street was that a local band was looking for a street cat that could rock out with a Gibson or a Fisher Price, whichever was available.  I thought I’d check out the scene, see if maybe I could fill the void with my musical talents. 

I wore my flannel snowman pajama pants to send the message that I was serious.  In retrospect, I think it really helped me bridge the age gap with the other band members.  

After a few dozen jam sessions and a diaper change we decided to put on a rehearsal show for our red-headed publicist before we looked into booking some local Chuck E. Cheese venues.  You know, work out the kinks before the big gigs started rollin’ in.

What happened next was anything but pretty. 

I wish I could say that we were able to hide our creative differences in front of an audience.  But after the first verse of our first song our drummer lost control (pictured below - front left) and almost took out the lead singer.   At one point my fellow guitarist decided to work the imaginery crowd and ripped off her shirt, claiming the lights were “too hot”.  It was all downhill from there.  No one could get back on track.  I was laying down the chords to “Old McDonald”, guitar girl # 2 was pumping out some “Twinkle Twinkle”, and who knows what the hell our front man was belting out.  I think at one point I heard shrieks of “Pour Some Sugar on Me” coming from the broomstick mic.  

Based on our creative differences and a language barrier with the youngest band member, we were all left with the heavy “make or break” decision on the future of the band.  Those factors - and the fact that it was bedtime - led us all to take our own path in pursuit of solo careers.  

But don’t rule out a reunion tour just yet, because when we had our game on and a few of us had poop in our pants…………man did we rock out.

So bedtime in my house is like a three ring circus.  It starts out well enough, everyone lines up to walk up the stairs together in their pajamas with their cups of water in hand.  Cute little “night nights” are exchanged.  Then once we cross the bedroom threshold and the reality of going to bed has set in, all hell breaks loose.  My eldest fakes an injury, my middle child suddenly “members” something she left downstairs and makes a mad dash to go back for it, and the youngest carefully observes her siblings behavior and quickly decides she’s not going down without a fight.   Her version of a fight usually involves huge puppy dog eyes that slowly, timed with perfection, increasingly fill with water until they overflow onto her pink cheeks and nose, followed up quickly with a blood curdling scream.  My favorite time is when the scream empties itself right inside my left eardrum.  It’s then that I usually begin the chant “I love my kids.  I love my kids.  I love my kids.”  Too bad that my ears are still ringing from the deaf-roaring sound so much that I can’t even hear my own pep talk. 

God forbid that the same persuasion technique be used on all three kids.  No, my children want to make sure I’m well-rounded enough to end up on Oprah later in life to discuss my authored book entitled “Teetering on the Edge of Prozac - Getting Three Kids Under Five to Bed before Midnight without Corporal Punishment”.  

The eldest requires 6 books to be read front to back.  Do not even think about skipping a word because it’s going to trigger a “re-start”.  The bus driver will be back at the front of the book telling you not to let the pigeon drive.  And after the six published books, he appreciates a made-up story that somewhere involves a “boy named Cade”, preferably science-fiction in nature.  Good thing I’m an expert in comedy and lectures (also referred to as moral-based three minute animal stories).  No need to worry though, I’ve created a world where robots really do have feelings and Transformers love their sisters.  Oh yeah, and Freddy the Frog is a huge hit when he smashes the flies with his tongue.  Those Mad Libs from my junior high days have really paid off.  Misplaced nouns, adjectives, and adverbs make for great storytelling.    

The middle child is a girl after my own heart.  She can be appeased with food and drinks.  And I don’t mean cocktail drinks.  Dangle a ripe strawberry or fill up her water glass………and you’re golden.   The “I love you mommy” flows out like a song.   Of course the terms of endearment are quickly followed by orders for breakfast the next morning and a list of all the things we can do during the upcoming weekend.  “Sure honey, I’ll make you cupcakes and pizza for breakfast after we go to the zoo before I go to work…….go to bed already.”

The baby of the bunch has sleep going to bed down pat.  She looks as if she’s praying to the gods for us to just stop talking and to get out of her face so she can go to bed.  I’m sure she’s cursing me in babytalk when I shut her bedroom door because she shares a room with her big sister who is still in there singing “I love pizza.  Zooo…..Zoooo…..amimals at the zoo.  We goin to do sumpin at the zoo………….cupcakes……………I love my mommy and muffins”.  I find irony in the fact that the kid who pierced my eardrum with her cry now has ringing ears of her own. 

Lights off and all the doors are shut…..one, two, three, breathe………  But not too deeply, because big sis is already calling for a refill on that water and boy wonder thinks he “may need an grape allergy pill because my eye really hurts and I’m tired of rubbing it” and screetch baby is crying for everyone to shut the hell up.

Oh look at the time……8:52pm…….there’s still lots of time before that book title doesn’t apply.

I put my three-year-old to work last night.  Hey, her room’s not going to clean itself. 

After Cinderella swept all her toys under her bed, fit as many Polly Pocket microscopic pieces into her pajama drawer as she could, put every single stuffed animal in the house on her bed so they “could go to sleep”, and combed out every My Little Pony mane so that each of them now resemble RuPaul - she tried on the “glass slipper”, also known as the Charlie Chaplin doll shoe minus the shoelaces. 

Her feet must have been swollen from all the cleaning.

It’s ok.  I’m not ready to to start fielding marriage proposals from Prince Charmings any time soon. 

Bippity-Boppity-Boo.

I’m officially a soccer mom.   My son has entered the world of organized (or not-so-organized) athletics.  For forty-five minutes a week for the next six weeks he gets to slap on some shin guards and run free.  Better translated, he gets to plant himself on a 30yd makeshift grass soccer field w/ miniature goals and run in a pack with other kids as they all chase after the one kid actually kicking the ball.   My personal favorite is when the kid with the ball breaks from the pack and none of the followers notice.  Oddly, the herd appears unphased when “GOAL” is shouted from across the field.   And yes, in case you’re wondering, my kid is usually in the herd.  But due to his inherited athletic abilities, he did score a goal this week!  And in true soccer mom fashion, once the goal crossed the line I was instantly transformed into a crazed fan, waving my arms in the air and screaming cheers of approval.  I’m pretty sure he’s destined to be the next Pele’ if my cheering has anything to do with it!  Don’t underestimate the power of encouragement…….hell, the kid wipes his own ass….don’t think that skill wasn’t acquired without lots and lots of cheering. 

So organized athletics comes with its fair share of entertainment on the field but the sidelines seem to provide just as much entertainment.  “Day One” let me in on the following family scenarios:

Full-Go Family    

This would be the family that is absolutely OBSESSED with winning no matter what.  Drills = Boredom.  They need goals scored and names attached.  These are the parents that walk around asking “Isn’t this a soccer game.  Why are they doing drills?  Did the game start?”  They need assists counted and penalty kicks clearly marked.  These are the families that walk away from the game and begin listing the 7,345,550 things their kid can do “better” next time without taking a breath.   Meanwhile their five-year-old is stopping to pick up the dandelions fifteen feet downwind of the “pep talk”.  Disconnect anyone?

Social Family

This family doesn’t really care what event they are at, as long as they were the first to sign their kid up.  Actually they probably coordinated the sign-up sheets and assigned teams.  They bring lawn chairs, snacks, goodies, checkbooks to update, cell phones that they repeatedly answer, blankets and pillows - in the event that any siblings want to sprawl out and watch the portable television they brought.  They obnoxiously smile at EVERYONE who walks by in hopes of gaining popularity.  They point out their kid without being asked to.  “Billy’s the one in the blue shirt with the glasses.”  (Note to self:  No playdates with Billy)  These people set up camp on the sideline to resemble their living room and mingle with a mission.   These are the people that know just about everyone in the tri-county area.  If you’re not on the list, you’re bound to be stalked.

Glamour Family

This is the family that has gone out and purchased brand new top-of-the-line clothing attire and equipment.  Their kids are donning coordinating Nike shoes and shinguards, Adidas t-shirts that contain the same accent color as their shorts, and a newly unboxed, wrong-sized soccer ball.  Somewhere in the middle of this showy garbage is a five-year-old who’s never even seen a soccer ball, much less has any desire to play.  But damn does he look good running with the herd.  And he puts Billy’s blue shirt to shame, which secretly makes me smile. 

Semi-Normal Family

I like to throw my family in this group.  By no means are we normal.  But our five-year-old enjoys running around, likes being with other kids, and has seen a soccer ball in his lifetime.  We cheer for him when he’s good.  We cheer for his teammates when they score.  At the end of the game we tell him “good job” and move on to dinner at Burger King.  (Some of us have to eat!)  We are cordial to neighboring parents but don’t feel the need to schedule playdates or record stats.  We go because it’s fun, gets us outside, and who knows……..a future Pele’ may be in the works. 

 Strung Out Soccer Family Mom

This captures the family that typically is represented by one parent (primarily the mother) that can’t help but announce this is the 17th soccer game she’s been to in the last three days.  She leaves her mini-van running the entire forty-five minute session.  Four of her seven kids are on the sidelines whining for dinner.  One is straddling the field and the sidelines because he really has no desire to play soccer - which is obviously not an option for any member of this family.   The other two are taking turns running from the mini-van to the field while screaming “MOM!  Jack just kicked me.  Dad’s on the phone and wants to know what we’re having for dinner”.   This mom likes to look around at surrounding sideline parents with shrugged shoulders and rolled eyeballs as if she has no idea where these children came from.  Either that or she completely ignores all of her children and latches on to the closest adult in an attempt to hold adult conversation - something that she doesn’t participate in throughout the other 167 hours of the week.

There you have it - a well-rounded playing field, er…I mean sideline. 

Let the games begin. 

And no, it’s not a perm.  I have naturally curly hair.