Yellings in the grocery store

We were at the grocery store with one of those stupid car carts because they had been banned from them for a month earlier and I figured that it was time to try again.  We were in the canned foods aisle picking up food for the food drive, when I heard Tornado E shouting at the top of his lungs.

Tornado E: Stop touching my penis!  Stop touching my penis!

I investigated to see Tornado S had his hands on the wheel, and Tornado E was just having fun.  Ever have a moment when you couldn’t figure out if you wanted to scream or beat a child?  I pulled Tornado E out of the cart and quietly explained why we don’t say things like that in public when they are not true.  Then he marched next to me for the rest of the grocery trip.

There has to be an easier job out there.

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Meet the other boy I watch

Sean: Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!

Me: Yes?

Sean: Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!

Me: Sean-Sean.

Sean: A feeesh!

Me: I see the fish.  It’s a red fish.

Sean: Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!

Me: Sean-Sean.

Sean: A feeesh!

Me: Yes, I red fish.

Papi: He really doesn’t stop unless you ans-

Sean: Mama! Mama!

Papi: wer.

Me: Sean-Sean.  No.  He doesn’t.

Sean: A pi-rate boat!

Me: Yes, a pirate boat.

Sean: Mama! Ma-

Papi: Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean! Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Sean!  Se-

Sean: (first smiling.  Now he put his hand out like a stop sign.)  STOOOOOOOOOOOOP!

Papi: Sean! Se-

Sean: STOOOOOOOOOOOP!

Me: Do you really think that’s helping?  Either of you?

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Do you Hear what I Hear?

Before I go into my blog, I should set the scene.  Remember how I mentioned we moved into small house in a gated community.  As is typical to gated communities, every house looks the same.  Have you ever seen The Big Hit with Mark Wahlberg?   The running gag through the movie is that every time he comes home to his little house in the ‘burbs, he pulls into the wrong driveway because all the houses look the same.  That’s my neighborhood with Southwestern houses, which makes me a little ill to think about it.  Among these houses are five-foot tall walls, separating the small back yards.  Add that most of the residents are retires, and you now know everyone.

 

The other day, my neighbor stopped me as I was ushering the boys out of the house to go get the mail.  This nice woman was telling me how sweet and charming my boys were which I couldn’t help but agree.  Then she told me how she and her husband prefer to keep the windows open and sliding glass door open for the cool air, which everyone does here.  She told me how she enjoyed hearing the voices of my sons playing and how it brought back the days when her own sons were young.  That terrified me.

 

It dawned on me that she and the rest of the two blocks had heard my family at our best and at our worst.

 

I am by no means a quiet person.  I get excited; I get loud.  I get talkative; I get loud.  I get happy; I get loud.  I get angry; I get loud.  You get the picture.  It’s really a shame that we don’t live somewhere where I can holler my boys’ names across hills and woods.  In tight quarters, I am a bit obnoxious, and I started to wonder how we sounded.

 

Did we sound like a happy family?  Did I sound like a happy mother?  Did I sound like I was in control?  Do my boys sound happy and uncrazy?  Do I nag all the time?  Do I yell all the time?  Can they hear how much TV my boys watch?  Is it too much?  Am I a good mother?  Are my boys good boys?  Lord, help me, do I sound like I belong on the show “Cops?”

 

Now I know I’m not an uptight, control-freak mother.  I only need total creative control. (And yes, I did have someone, mention that I needed all control back in my college days and the guy had only two classes with me, go fig.)  But I’m not uptight.  My husband and my mom agree on few things, and one of them is my utter lack of discipline or in other words, not as much as they want me to have.  But I think I’m a pretty good mom because my boys are happy and smart.  Sure, I’m not perfect nor do I want to be.  I’m still trying to do this all by trial and error while reading and listening to the experts.  I just want to be the best mom, the best person I can be for my kids.

 

But I have to wonder in those bad mommy moments {;-)}, who is listening and who is judging.  

 

And I have to remember to close the window at night.

 

 

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The Shoe’s on the Other Foot

I left the boys playing on my bed as Evan piled pillows up for them to jump into with a bounce.  I remembered I needed to check something on the internet.  I heard the pitter-patter of little feet and turned to see Sean running into the kitchen to get his juice,

 

Evan: Sean!  Seanny!  Se-ann-y!  SE-ANN-Y!  Sean!  There you are!  Sean.  Come here.  Come here, Sean!  Come here, Sean.    Sean!  Come here!  I told you to come here!  Come on, Sean!  Come here!  SEAN!

 

And now you know how I feel, kid.

 

 

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