My own room

I miss my bedroom, the one that I had when I lived with my parents, before I graduated college.  It had posters of sea fantasies.  It had cardboard waves of perfect teal that took me an hour or two to cut out with tiny, dull student scissors.  The sheet set was motley colored with blues, greens, teals, and a little pink that I fell in love with enough to say something to my mom who had been trying for over a frustrating year to get me to pick something.   I had a used student desk that someone had painted bright teal and then did a black dry brush technique on it to make it a dark teal.  My mom hated it.  She also hated the green metal daybed with metal vines that I picked out my first summer home from college when my old canopy bed finally collapsed in exhaustion.  It was my room with my personality with the homemade Greek gods chart and the glow in the dark star charts. 

It was mine.  It was where I went to study, to read, to watch the Simpsons.  It was where I went to pray and meditate.  It was where I went to cry and yell at God.  It was where I went to sing to my favorite songs, to pretend I was a some one else, to imagine being grown up and in love.  It was where I could drop the armor and be me.  And now I don’t have that.

Every room in this house and in the last house was a combined effort.  The master bedroom has furniture we picked out together with his clothes strewn across the room.  The boys’ room is their room.  The office is a clutter of books but mainly it’s His office with my stuff.  The combo room is just that.  It’s boys toys, a DVD collection, his grandma’s old loveseat, my parent’s old dinette table, a yard sale find of a chair, and my huge cherry hope chest.  The only room that seems entirely mine is the kitchen; while I enjoy baking, cooking, crafting, it’s not mine in the way my bedroom as a kid was mine.

I’ve learned that if I want to be goofy and silly, I can always be that way in front of the boys.  They love that their mommy breaks out in random song.  They think it’s hilarious that I do random dances.  They adore it when I Kung Fu dance with them or battle swords or play cars or invent new games.  They think I’m a card.  I’m sure I only have a few more years before my cute craziness becomes an embarrassment.

But where do I go for quiet reflection?  Where do I go to talk to God?  Where do I go to cry, to be angry at this fate of economic stress?  Where do I go to let my guard down and be weak?  Where do I go to put down my armor and be me?

So yesterday, I nearly lost it.  It wasn’t the temper tantrums or the referring of the Master Monkey staff fighting.  (It seemed like a good idea when I found them at the dollar store.)  It wasn’t the workbook page fighting.  (Though I now believe any mother who decides to home school is either a saint with patience to spare or just plain CrAzY.)  It wasn’t the whining, the yelling, the playing, the regular mommy stuff.  It was that and the thought of all those bills and all those financial responsibilities and the struggling business and the hits that keep coming financially speaking and that in the end we did it to ourselves like every other American.  And I HATE not being able to fix things.  I HATE feeling like an idiot.  I HATE feeling helpless. 

So where could I go to give into the misery so that I could bounce back and be the good mommy?  No where.  I crawled into bed and threw the covers over my head and let silent tears roll down my cheeks, praying to God just to hold on to these worries, these burdens until bedtime, and then I’ll pick them up and deal with them.  But right now, God, I need to be Mommy, and that means having my head in the game, not worrying about things I can’t control.

And you know what?  That’s what happened.  I shook off the covers and the tears, washed my face, and grabbed a plastic sword.

But in the end, I still need to find a place of my own.

 

The little dictator

As Sean grows older, he becomes more demanding.  He has no problem in taking some one by the hand and leading that person to what he wants.

He’ll take my hand and lead me to the fridge.  He’ll point to the fridge and demand, “Juice!”

He’ll take my hand and lead me to the fridge.  He’ll point to the top of the fridge for the candy jar and point and point.

He’ll take my hand and lead me to the counter.  He’ll point and demand, “Banana!”  Because he has learned to say banana, he demands them a lot, so he can hear himself say it.

He’ll take my hand and lead me to an open book of look-and-find.  He’ll point to the ground and demand, “Sit.” He’ll sit as well and tap the book.

Other days, he’ll just bring you what he wants.  He’ll shove a book into your hands, or he’ll shove a car into your hands.  Some times he’ll toddle out of the kitchen with a box of crackers and shove them into your hands with a demand of “Pease.” 

If, for some reason, you cannot give into these demands, he’ll throw himself down for a temper tantrum with a soft wail.  Honestly, it’s too funny because it’s nothing like the top of the lungs screaming Evan used to do.  Good luck with that, kid.

The main problem is that Sean does not understand that when he hands me a box with a cake on it or picture of pudding on it that does not mean it is in the box. 

Sweetheart, it’s a mix.  Mommy has to make it.  I swear to you don’t want to eat this powdery stuff.  Come on.  It’s time to throw your fit in your bed room.

 

Confusing Biology

As I sat peeing, Evan came in to see me.

Evan: Oh, I have to pee too!

Evan sat on his potty and started peeing.

Evan: Mommy, are you peeing from your bottom?

I see that our biology is a little weak.  But do I want to explain what a urethra is?  Should I keep it simple, allowing for years of misinformation and misunderstanding of the female body.  Forgive me, future biology teachers, I’ll correct it my mistake before he comes to you.

Me: No.  Girls have a vagina.  That’s where they pee.

Evan: Oh.  Mommy, where is your gina?

Me: (standing up and pulling my underwear and pants on.  I point to my crotch.)  Here.

Evan: Can I see your gina?

Excuse me?  You can see one in sex ed when you’re older.  You’re can see a real one when you’re in college and in love.

Me: No.  It’s private.

A few hours later, I was washing some dishes, when I heard my husband peeing with the door open.  Evan heard him too and joined him.

Evan: Daddy, do you have a gina?

My husband: No!

Ok, we’re still having issues with human biology.

Just Shut Up

When I was seventeen, I lost my voice.  Lost as in gone, not a peep, not a sound, not even a squeal.  My throat became soar the day of high school graduation.  Seeing that I had about a dozen parties to attend in the next four days, I did what any normal teen would do.  I ignored it.  I ran off to my parties.  All straight-edge, I might add.  (You don’t drink.  You don’t smoke.  What do you do?)  Saturday night, as I talked to a friend at a slumber party, at 11:52, I opened my mouth to say something and all that came out was a squeak.  The party stopped.  After that initial squeak, nothing would come out of my mouth.  Since I was seventeen and only lost my voice, I stayed at the party, entertaining people with my pantomime and the little sign language I knew.

Now if you haven’t guess by now, I’ll tell you that I’m a talker.  I’m a legend in the family for my ability to talk for hours and hours.  I have friends that can recall random stories about me talking for hours and hours.  I have old professors who don’t believe said friends that I can actually talk more and faster when I’m tired.  So when I lost my voice for two days, I endured untold amounts of teasing and abuse from family and friends.  I had friends that came over to actually see if it was true.  When I regained my voice, I swore I would never lose it again.  I never got close until this weekend.

Friday I woke with a soar throat.  I gargled and drank gallons of juice.  But by Saturday, my throat was worse, and I felt like my energy was gone.  As in none, as in a boneless chicken, as in I wish I could sleep but I’m too exhausted.  My parents came and took the boys, so I could regain some energy.  Sunday I was on the mends.  My throat was dry, but I had energy.  I bravely took the boys to the grocery store.

See that.  That was a mistake.  I don’t have THE LOOK down.  I’m working on it, but I just don’t have it yet.  You know THE LOOK.  The-don’t-press-my-buttons-kid-or-I’ll-clean-your-clock LOOK.  I have THE VOICE down pat.  It works wonders, but when it hurts a little to breathe, much less talk, THE VOICE doesn’t work to well.

We get to the store, and some nice old man pulls out the cart with the car on it.  Have you seen these?  These are carts with a Fisher-Price plastic car on front of the cart to make grocery shopping fun for the kids and easy on the adult.  It might work, except the carts have horrible steering control, and the kids can get out of them whenever they want, which means they get out when you are quickly pushing past the cookies.  The car is perfect eye-level for the candy in the check out stand.  So as I push, I was hissing at the boys to stay in the car, stay on their side, do not stand, do not push, do not hit, do not touch, no candy, no cookies, no ice cream, so help me God.  In the check out stand, I unloaded the cart, slapped hands reaching for candy, unloaded more of the cart, slapped hands again, chatted with the cashier, slapped hands again, and bagged the groceries.  My throat was ready to call it quits. 

I pushed the hell cart to the car.  As I loaded up the groceries, the boys got out of their car.  I opened their doors and told them to get inside.  Evan decided what his mother meant to stay was to dance, so he started to do the circle dance, where he runs around in a little circle flailing his arms.  But I couldn’t deal with that as Sean decided to make a break for the car across the parking lot.  I. Don’t. Think. So.  I scooped up Sean and hissed at Evan to get in the car.  I buckled a screaming Sean into the car to find Evan still dancing in a circle.

“EVAN L- GET IN THE CAR NOW!”

I think I shot out a burst of fire because that’s how my throat felt.  Evan scrambled for his seat.  I buckled him in, wondering if I had lost my voice because the pain had me in tears. 

I got the boys home, discovering that I still had a voice but it hurt like hell to use it.  Googling for all sorts of remedies, I nursed my throat back to normal. 

The moral of this story is boiled lemonade tastes as disgusting as it sounds.

 

Going to the Movies

Evan:  I’m going to the movie with my friends!  Homer and my animal friends!

Me: Who are your animal friends?

Evan: Master Monkey!  Master Mantis!  Master Tiger!  Master Monkey is going to get the popcorn, soda, and candy canes!  He’s going to get a lollipop!

Me: Wow.  What are you going to see?

Evan: Monsters vs Aliens!

Me: Wow.  That sounds like fun.

Evan: Wait!  I’ll tell you a story!  I saw Wall*e and Eve at the movies, getting candy!

Me: Really?

Evan: I saw Spiderman with his candy and Batman with his candy!

Me: So, do you want to go see Monsters vs Aliens with Daddy, Seanny, and me?

Evan: No!  It’s too scary!

 

The Missing Blink

Evan: Seanny’s baby B.O.B!  I’m the Missing Blink!  And you’re Mommy Cockroach PhD!

 

 

Why won’t you let us take you to the movie?  And why am I the cockroach?

 

 

 

 

This is Mama Bird. The eggs are safely in the nest. Over.

Yesterday I went to an open house for the pre-kindergarten at the school I spent ten years attending.  While my brothers, and even I, think it’s a little scary to incarcerate my boys at the same school we went to, but I must say that the education was excellent.  I’m hoping my kids do not repeat the same horrific bullying experiences I had, but they’re boys, so that’ll help tons.  Plus we plan to send them martial arts, so the bullies have one chance before my kids kick butt.

 

As I sat there, with my mom, whose Council of Women decreed she should attend to find out what was happening in their school, I thought about what I could write about as my eyes glazed over from the information overload about how it had been 21 years since they had a pre-kindergarten class and the qualifications they had to meet.  I thought about sharing that information, and then I could watch my numbers plummet.  I thought I could write about how my mom and I kept staring at the young woman sitting two seats down from us who looked terribly like my elementary school best friend (before middle school turned me into a walking pariah) but how she just looked too young.  It turned out it was her, but how amusing can I make my weird staring become?  Then they talked about security, and I thought of Bad Mommy Moments and The World According to Me.

 

Apparently parents are WAY more concerned with safety then when I went to school.  First off, at my Brownie induction, my mom, being the leader, decided to have it at night, so that all the parents would be there.  With the gate open and the ceremony taking place in the first room inside the gate, some guy broke into the office down the hall and stole all the petty cash.  My dad secured the scene like the cop he was, and my mom alerted the priests, called 911, telling the operator she didn’t know if the robber was still in the area.  Minutes later, the children were thrilled to watch the SWAT helicopter search the school grounds and the neighborhood.  Way to go, Mom.

 

Second, my school is two blocks from a mall.  The junior highers would try to ditch and walk over but were always caught.  Though as a big junior high kid, many of us asked our parents to let us go over there for a few hours before they picked us up.  One year, a store or two was robbed by a man with a gun, and he took off into the neighborhood near our school.  Word on the street was that some of the kids saw him running with the gun in view, and we were forced to abandon our lunch hour for the safety of the classrooms.  I put as much stock in the gun rumor as I did about the rumor of two sixth graders having sex in one of the tunnels in the playground.  The kids just kissed.

 

Granted there were two bomb threats when I was an eighth grader, which turned out to be a classmate’s boyfriend calling to get her out of school early.  But then there were several bomb threats at my public high school for the same reason.  (And the time a bunch of the students kickedtheassesofsomeneo-nazikids.)

 

Instead of keeping the gates open, an adult has to be buzzed into the office.  In the office, the adult has to sign in and show id, which is checked against the list of adults allowed to enter the school and take home students.  The adult is given a sticker, which all the kids demand to see.  At the pre-kindergarten, the adult’s id is check again before the child is allowed to leave.  Pretty standard stuff, right?

 

Then the parents asked about child safety and where the bathrooms are.  The parents were assured no child is ever, ever left alone.  I started to think they had added a whole lot more bars than I was a kid.  Where could a kid go?  It’s a tiny school.

 

Then the punch line was thrown in.  Someone wanted to donate a whole security system with cameras, which were being installed this summer throughout the school and church.  Um, what?  There was already two cameras outside the office, so the secretary could see the person to buss them in or not.  My mom and I exchanged looks.  Most parents breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Wouldn’t it just be easier to add a retina scanner?

 

I bit my tongue before I could mention it.  My mom whispered, asking me what I thought.  I smiled.  I think this will make a great post, especially when I mention the guard towers and the SWAT team.  My mom rolled her eyes.

 

I wonder if I could be a guard with a uniform.  I look pretty tough in sunglasses.  Or I could wear a suit like the the Secret Service with a radio ear piece and all!

 

 

Give me a blog roll, please

 

Holey Cheese!  It’s been a week of Bad Mommy Moments and just waiting for Naptime Writing, going to Inkatopia because I’m Wild for Words, reading my Red Clay Diaries.  But I’m realizing that I’m not Lost in Suburban Bliss and The World According to Me is not real.  It’s according to Evan or Sean.  No, sir, I’m Not Drowning, Mothering is what I call it.  This is Parenting by Dummies.  Oh, Evenshine!  I’m In The Mommy Trenches, trying to be another Incognito Mom in The Momoplex, but I cry over Spilled Milk and burn my Polymer Clay Snails.  Country-Fried Mama f-.  Maybe I should start Praying to Darwin because I’m a Mediocre Perfectionist, though do I not live in Single Mom World.  Thank Darwin for that.  Then again I hear that Kaiya’s Laughter Heals, so maybe I should start praying to Kaiya.  Commonterri! I really need to get back to A Mother’s Walk.  *!

 

 

 

This is a continual work in progress.  Because I can’t think of where I can put some of my favorites.  Looking at you, The Fem Spot.

Systematically checking for weaknesses

Leaning against the wall in perfect Western cowboy fashion, conveying the sense of seeing it all, doing it all, with the leather fedora fitted just above the eyebrows, I look over at you, raising the fedora just a little so we can make eye contact.

 

“They show extreme intelligence, even problem solving.  When they look at you, you can see they’re thinking, working things out.  They just keep attacking the lines.  They never attack the same place twice, unless they’re sure they can get through.  They’re testing the lines for weaknesses.  Systematically.  They remember.”*

 

It’s been one of those weeks.  You know the kind.  Lots of no’s and crying.  Requests for the impossible.  The time outs, the sit outs, the yelling, the whining, the “if you hit your brother again, so help me God.”  The “if I shipped you off to your grandparents, they would send you back with in minutes” mood.    Wondering if I never let you eat desert after your bedtime, what makes you think I would start now?   Yup, Evan’s testing the boundaries, and look, he taught his brother.

 

My mom warned me.  “When they were babies, I thought this is hard but it’ll get better.  When they were toddlers, I thought this is hard but it’ll get better.  When they went to school, I thought this was hard but it’ll get better.  Then they were teenagers, and I knew it was the worst.”  Thanks for crushing my hopes and dreams, Mom.  Really, thanks. 

 

So all of a sudden, Evan has decided that the rules no longer apply to him.  He doesn’t have to hold hands crossing the street.  Ha.  He can run off in the grocery store.  Ha.  He can hit his little brother.  Ha.  He can whine to get his way, instead of talking.  Ha.  He can make a huge mess and let Mommy clean it.  Ha.  Ha.  He doesn’t think he needs to do his chores, eat his dinner, or finish his workbook page.  Ha. Ha.  Ha.

 

Since big brother is having all the fun, Sean has also decided to play.  He can whine to get his way even if he knows the words.  Ha.  He doesn’t have to hold hands when crossing the street.  Ha.  He can throw temper tantrums when he doesn’t get his way.  Ha.  He can hit his brother when ever he feels like it.  Ha.  He can throw his fork, his toys, his brother’s toys.  Ha.  Ha.  He can have my time when ever he wants, and if he doesn’t get his way, he starts to throw his temper tantrums.  Ha.  Ha.  Ha.

 

When can these kids read, so I can point to the rules every time they think those rules apply to them.  Not that I have the rules written done anywhere because the boys can’t read them.  But if I did, they would read something like this:

 

1. No whining.  Use your words.  You whine; Mommy will ignore you because if she doesn’t, she will make the whining stop in some unpleasant way because it’s like nails on a chalkboard.
2. We hold hands when we cross the street.  Or I carry you like a sack of potatoes.  You’ll hate that more as you grow older.
3. You run away from me in public, and I will spank you in public.  Mommy hates spanking, but she’ll use it when you put yourself in danger, which is what you’re doing when you run away.
4. No hitting, no kicking, no punching, no pushing, no pulling, no biting, no hitting with toys.  Do nothing that will harm.
5. If you want to have a temper tantrum, that’s fine.  We all have them, ask your father.  But if you decide to have one, then it has to be done in your room.  I don’t want to deal with it.
6. If you don’t eat your meal, it’ll be there until the next meal.  No snacks.  No desserts.  Yes, I DO plan on having a talk with Papi about it.
7. You will do your chores and your workbook pages.  If you don’t you will start losing playtime, cartoons, and snacks.
8. If you want Mommy, you have to ask.  If she is busy, then you have to wait.  She’ll be with you when she is not busy anymore.
9. If you pull out a toy or dump toys everywhere, you have to pick them up.  I will not keep picking up after you until you move out.  I’m not raising animals.  Take care of your things or they’ll be in the trash.

10.Mommy reserves the right to add more rules when needed.

 

If you follow the rules, you can expect pleasant surprises from a pleasant Mommy.

 

Now all I need is a magic marker and poster board.  That and my boys’ having the ability to read.  Until then, I will be taking breaks eating Rice Krispy Treats and drinking Diet Cherry Pepsi, wishing I was following my diet, wishing it was naptime, wishing I was on Maui without a care in the world.

 

Hey, what did I say?  I said clean up the Legos.  Don’t throw them!  Either of you.  Put them away.  Do NOT use your brother as a backboard.  Or a target.  Don’t hit.  So help me God, I’m going to feed you to some wolves.

 

 

 

*Can you guess the movie I was alluding to?

 

 

A little unholy in the holy place

This last Sunday we went to church as we had been doing throughout the Lenten season.  Unlike the last several times we went to church, my sons acted like unholy terrors.  To be fair, I’ve seen Evan act a whole lot worse at church than either of them acted on Sunday, but it seemed like all the good behavior vanished in smoke within the first fifteen minutes. 

 

We divided and attempted to conquer.  My husband whisked the crying Sean out of the room and dealt with him in the crying room; while, I had Evan, trying to get him interested in any book or any toy or even in a quiet game of eye spy to get him interested in the service.  We barely made it through, and my husband coolly suggested we try daycare.  But that’s a different time, and I don’t think the service time would fit into our schedule very well.  And I was raised to believe children were supposed to be at church because how else would they learn.

 

So here’s my problem.  First Sean is just at that age where he just can’t sit still, wants to move around, and doesn’t want to be quiet.  He enjoyed singing, but this last Sunday he just couldn’t care less.  If Sean’s happy, then he has to move around.  He just can’t sit still.  Now he’s much better than Evan was at his age, but I fear now that he has learned he can escape the whole thing by pitching a fight as Evan learned.  I need to figure out how to handle him.

 

Evan has really become a trooper.  He has become much better at being quiet, content to look at the books and the toys, but Sunday all that failed us.  There’s no way I want to put him in daycare because he should be able to sit somewhat quiet for forty-five minutes.  He has learned he can easily pit his parents against each other when it comes to public behavior.  I am willing to deal with the issue right there no matter how loud because if I’m alone, I don’t have the luxury to take anyone outside.  My husband would rather take the offending child outside at the first sign of trouble because he doesn’t want to be inconsiderate to other people.

 

My arsenal of weapons includes religious books, quiet toys, gold fish, and the emergency fruit snacks.  I’ve read that I should only bring religious books if I must.  But this advice came from someone who put her tots in daycare during the service.  At my best friend’s church, the children are given crayons and papers to color until they are collected to go to their Sunday school.

 

So basically I’m desperate for a little advice from anyone on how to help keep the boys quiet and calm.