New Years Resolutions, MoM Style

I have sat staring at this accusingly blank page for at least a half hour now. I have filled it several times with intellectual and emotional vomit only to clear the self-indulgent mumblings and welcome the blank page again. Honestly, if I were to choose between the two, I would prefer the former.

I have juggled several ideas for today's musing, but my mood has vacillated wildly from minute to minute and this was intended to be a humorously empowering series of rantings rather than a melancholy collection of crap. So, I will honor the holiday with the public declarations of my parental resolutions for the new year.

At the end of July two years ago, I suffered a crippling loss in my life. Perhaps I should expound on the dynamic of my family. I was the mother of five beautiful children, but the concentration of gender-specific hormones is unevenly distributed. Our house oozes, drips, and as I am reminded every time I clean the boys' rooms, wreaks of testosterone. The one nugget of hope in this mass of manhood is an ultra-concentrated pocket of glittery-pink-jewel-crusted estrogen wedged squarely in the middle. So, when we decided to welcome another child to our hoard, I began the scientific research to ensure a slight evening of the teams. We schemed, charted, plotted, and conspired to tip the biological scales in our favor. Each month at my ultrasounds, I honed my eyes with superhuman focus in the hopes that I would not see “the stem on the apple.” I should have been more worried about something else.

At our anxiously-awaited “big” ultrasound appointment, our focus changed from what anatomy was present to the heartbeat that wasn't. My misguided quest for the holy grail of girlhood seemed pretty superfluous. We returned home to pack our hospital bags and prepare for the most miserable delivery possible, one that didn't end with hope and possibility, but with dark promise. To add a sprinkling of insult to our heaping helping of injury, the child was indeed our little girl. We named her Brynn.

So many thoughts have haunted my sleepless nights after that horrible afternoon in late July and each doubting, loathing, questioning one has revisited me as my December due date passed, as I donated the few Christmas presents that I had collected in anticipation, and as we have celebrated/mourned each passing nonexistent birthday. But, being a spiritual person who believes in a heaven/hell-based judgement system, I have wondered if perhaps my home was unworthy and unready for our Brynn. I have begun to wish that I could channel a little more June Cleaver and a little less Sybil. With this goal buried firmly in my brain, I begin my list of aspirations.

First, I will always take deep, cleansing breaths before entering the bathroom. This is not to prepare for the toxic fumes that are often brewed in this particular room. I acknowledge that many of my moments of raging parental lunacy are spawned by some disaster in the bathroom. The sudsy soaps, lavish lotions, tantalizing minty toothpastes, flirtatious first aid supplies, adrenaline-inducing hygiene instruments all combined with the promise of unlimited water bubbling forth are an intoxicating siren song to any adolescent. Being the mother of five normal boys, I have had to develop the useful skill of hovering above the commode in order to use the facilities. So, for the sake of my sanity and household peace, I resolve to look past the toilet paper wads cemented to the ceiling, the mascara mural on the wall and the tight white underpants hanging from the shower head.

Second, I resolve to stop cooking. (I have not yet reconciled this in light of resolutions to follow, so don't point out the glaring discrepancies.) This falls closely in line with the bathroom resolution. If I never entered the kitchen to produce meals, I would never face my childrens' culinary catastrophes. One alarmingly early morning in a scorching hot desert summer, I awoke to the blissful giggles of my two oldest sons in the family kitchen. Not wanting to miss the moment of childhood joy, I snuck into my dining room to observe a winter wonderland. The ceramic tile, declared by many institutions to be a lethal weapon if properly lubricated, was covered in a shining coating of butter and then lightly dusted with dehydrated potato “snow.” Rather than embracing my inner June Cleaver, my evil alter-ego boisterously demanded an explanation. With childlike invention that brings a smile to my face, admittedly two years after the incident, the two boys had decided that they missed winter fun and had created a “butter skating” rink and were having snowball fights and preparing to construct a snowman. I look back and wish that rather than grumbling under my breath as I cleaned, I had broke out the gravy.

Third, I commit to scientifically test the consumption capacity of the human child. I question the assumption that children are picky eaters. I have yet to meet anything that holds still long enough that my children will not consume. We dine with friends and they will ask the common question, “What will your children eat?” The answer is EVERYTHING! I do not mean that in the conventional sense which limits their eating to actual food-related items. I mean, they eat EVERYTHING! I would be doing the scientific world a favor by actually feeding my children till they begged me to stop, though I am dubious that this will ever happen. But, I do not want to fill my precious children full of calorie-cholesterol-packed garbage. I resolve to find my inner-June and create healthy snacks in this scientific pursuit, but suppress my inner-Sybil's desire to stuff it in their plump little cheeks.

Fourth, I will buy a new house rake, shovel, and fire hose. Being a homeschool mom, I anticipate those few weeks of school breaks that most parents loathe and beg to end. During these weeks, I embrace my diagnosed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and bleach the world. This winter break, I bought a steam cleaner and began scalding my castle with bacteria-banning tools and attachments. My living room, which is the gathering place for our whole tribe, was among the last to be baptized by fire. I pulled out every couch, cleaned every shelf, wiped every movie and book and alphabetized and categorized our libraries. Then, like one of those overrated movie shots where the action is filmed in one-take, I walked to the kitchen to begin lunch preparation and then back to my newly-cleansed living room to ask for jelly preferences and.... an air raid had hit the living room floor. I think my inner-June would be satiated by raking the offensive objects into a neat pile, shoveling them in one graceful swing (still smiling) into a garbage bag, and my inner-Sybil would complete the process with a high-pressure wash.

Fifth, I will pet every matted, dirty, stinky ball of fur in our zoo of a home. We live at the end of a very long block and just before a seemingly eternal field of corn and wheat, therefore, we are the safe haven of all lost and misfit pets. We have a stock “Lost” poster ready to print at a moment's notice. But when advertising fails, we take them in and we love them, but all too often I am sourly cursing their infestation of my counters, the dog scavenging the garbage after our rib dinner, or the infernal cat hair on my carefully designed outfit. Recently, we lost one of our beloved misfits to a horrible accident. He was neurotic, he was odd, he was sweet and cuddly, he was always on my counters, and he was the perfect match for our neurotic, odd and cuddly family. This year, cat hair is the new neutral and I will wear it like a supermodel.

Lastly, I will savor every stage of development for the fleeting gift that it is. I will revel in the beauty of my little ones as much when they are awake as when they are innocently sleeping. (I know, not at all sarcastic or humorous, but apt.) There are too many days that my evil alter-ego has monopolized my day. Rather than catching those moments to teach, to laugh, and to learn, I have nearly sucked the souls from my children like some winged she-beast from Greek mythology. I too often sink with exhaustion onto my couch, usually with a child in each arm, and watch them sleep sweetly rather than the television program to which I am tuned. I will play board games, even if the red-nosed operation guy is minus a broken heart, it never stopped the tin man. I will whimperingly comb out more knots in my waist-length hair because my children want to practice their french braids. I will kiss the boo boos, whether my repeated advise would have prevented them or not. I will sleepover in sleeping bags to catch the closet monsters. I will disregard the bedtimes just a little to read that extra book. I will save my quarters for the joyful purchase of stale grocery store gumballs.

So many times in the last year, I have neglected to take my children somewhere and laughingly made excuses about the structural integrity of the places we visit or the formation of a coupe to overthrow the government, which is a real possibility, so beware. This year I am going to acknowledge the marvelous and brilliant children that I have. I am going to take them anywhere, make as many memories as I can with them. I make this resolution in hopes that my children will balance the national deficit and spur architects to greater heights of achievement.

Hide and Seek

Today we found our “Grateful Pumpkin.” You might ask, “what is a Grateful Pumpkin?” It was supposed to be a wonderful new Thanksgiving tradition to bring reflection and focus to our holiday. (These activities are usually doomed to failure from conception, so I shouldn't be surprised at the epic failure this yielded.)

In my passion as an amateur decorator, I subscribe to Better Homes and Gardens (I call it Better Homes Than Mine). Usually they have ideas that would require a second mortgage on the house or selling a bodily organ, so I read and drool covetously with no intention of recreating. Until October... the little ceramic turkey had a beautifully written tag with a declaration of gratitude. The idea of the the exercise was then to hide the turkey and the individual who finds it replaces the tag inscribed with something that THEY are grateful for and finder becomes the hider and the situation continues. This goes on until Thanksgiving. Knowing that a glass turkey would stand no chance in my house, I knit a little white pumpkin with a small ribbon to attach the tag. There were about three rounds of hiding before it was GONE (ominous and mysterious music inserted for dramatic effect). My daughter, the last hider, assured me that she hid it on Dad's desk, which though cluttered, is not capable of swallowing our Grateful Pumpkin. The days stretched into weeks and then into a month and the Grateful Pumpkin was forgotten....until today.

I would like to lie to everybody and claim that my house is immaculately clean at all times and ready to welcome any company, but I am actually scared of being sucked into the depths of Hell for telling a lie THAT big. The truth is that my house is barely identifiable as a living structure. Every time I answer the door, I am anticipating that a caring neighbor or friend has called one of the hoarding television programs and they are coming to dig me out. But honestly, I have a fairly strict underpinning of organization in attempting to tame the chaos.

Therefore, disorganization is not the culprit in everything that disappears in the depths of my house. Sadly, the perpetrators of the majority of the disappearances in our house are not the minions. The most dreaded words in our house are, “I put it somewhere safe.” For those that are parents, you completely understand this concept. The most chaotic and abysmal places in the house are above the six-foot mark. (I am using word in the sense that it resembles an abyss in its depth and expanse not in the sense that I use it on the minions, “This room is abysmal,” meaning severe or hopeless.) This happens because my hubby or myself recognizes the fragility or importance of an artifact and in order to preserve it, we exile it to a “safe “ place never to be seen again. (Again inserting ominous music for optimal reading effect...duh, duh, DUH.)

This particular irritation comes to mind because it is nearing Christmas, and I am trying to track down all the purchases that I have made throughout the year. I am the miserly mother of six little minions, so the idea of a massive shopping spree at the end of the year is completely economically inconceivable. As I spy those little morsels of gift-giving perfection, I pick them up and stash them somewhere “safe.”

My husband's tie requirements are very specific, and being a religious family, he must own a couple of ties. I was thrilled one afternoon two years ago, when I found a perfect pink tie and anticipated stuffing it in his stocking. When I began consolidating the gifts for wrapping that year, the pink tie was missing. I knew the “safe” place in which I had squirreled the tie, so I began excavating. I found many other forgotten treasures for stocking stuffing, but no tie. After many hours of reorganizing and colorful not-so-inner monologue, I gave it up as lost. This last May, while gathering hidden birthday presents, I found the pink tie in exactly the same “safe” place that I believed I had hid it.

This is not an isolated incident. When we bought our home and received the much-anticipated key, I rushed right out and made copies, then attached my prized piece of metal to my keys and six feet of dog chain. The keys and the chain swiftly vanished. I have reorganized, redecorated and renovated my home numerous times since that day and still no sign of my keys. We have begun to theorize that there is an inter-dimensional portal in our house or perhaps a Narnian-like entrance and there is some satyr running around wearing a fashionable pink tie, sucking on teething rings and locking and unlocking the doors in my house.

My eldest son is receiving a gift that was purchased for him for him last Christmas and stored somewhere “safe”. My youngest minion is thankfully slow in teething because he is receiving a “safe” teething ring that I purchased for his birthday in October. So tonight I will consolidate our Christmas loot, old and new, and begin the seemingly endless task of wrapping the booty. Well, as soon as I find the tape; I put it in a “safe” place.

NOTE: I was going to post a picture of the infamous Grateful Pumpkin for visual interest, but apparently my minions put it someplace “safe”.

Portrait Paradise Lost

My family serves an interesting purpose: we are an instant crowd. A flash mob in a phone call. Filling a phone booth, planning an impromptu birthday party, about to forfeit a football game, needing to invade a small European nation? Our phone number is the only one you need on speed dial.

A couple of months ago, I received a generous offer from an old high school friend. She has been studying photography and wanted to photograph my mob of monsters to instantly bulk up her portfolio and jump start her entrepreneurial pursuits. I was thrilled with the prospect because with Christmas quickly approaching, I had a no-brainer gift for my friends and family. In the few seconds before I responded to her request, a foggy and nagging traumatic memory tugged at my thoughts, trying to remind me why I have a nervous twitch and immediate nausea when walking by portrait studios.

Perhaps my portrait phobia started with Jr. high school when I hoped that a thick layer of spackled Wet n' Wild makeup would hide my pock-marked and greasy visage. I lived through an era of time where hairstyles were gravity-defying and the hairspray that achieved these effects the best was the cheapest one with the most musky smell, which traveled to the farthest reaches of the building. I have been blessed with a thick head of stick-straight, baby-fine, reflectively-shiny dark hair. I can safely say that my follicle superpower is the amazing ability to repel any styling products regardless of price and fragrance and my hair will remain straight, without even a hint of wave or curl. So, picture day was torturous. Other awkward classmates arrived with their hair defying gravity in “claws” and “waves” and my feeble attempt more closely resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Greasy and follicly leaning, my school pictures were always an embarrassment.

This phobia was revived again as a parent when my second child was only 18 days old. I believe that children who lack verbal skills must have an amazing telepathic ability with other small children around them, because the symphonic wailing during this event was impressive. I attempted to soothe my infant by thumping rhythmically on his back like a bongo drum, and just as I got him to coo happily, the toddler tagged in and took up the two-man tantrum. The portrait session was covered by a coupon advertising a Herculean-sized package of the first accepted pose. Historically the photographer gets four million more beautiful pictures after you have accepted the first mediocre one and then you remortgage your home to be able to have a bunch of cute pictures to keep in the top of your hall closet. In this portrait session there were TWO pictures. I don't mean that I purchased two pictures, I mean that there were only TWO pictures one of which was gifted by the photographer to us because it was so funny that both children were posed with their heads thrown back in the throws of full furniture-shaking screams!

With only a week to plan for my friend's charitable portrait session, I was only able to nurture a few ulcers into maturity over what to clothe my whole family in. While other people try to match handbags and shoes or while other kids are pestering mom for the newest craze in name brand clothing, my family is happy to settle for coverage. Spiderman jumpsuits, dance leotards, pajamas, even the occasional plastic grocery bag with strategic holes worn as overalls... in our house if it covers it's capital. But this is another topic for another pointless rant set to paper.

After hours of painstaking excavation of Mt. Washmore and rigorous expeditions into bedrooms to mine the contents of their dressers and closets, I had assembled the perfect combination of casual, yet dressy; coordinated, but not matching; unique, but not odd; and not a superhero in sight. I had it coordinated down to the socks, shoes and hair accessories.

The two-hour photo session proceeded with an eerie smoothness that soothed me into a false sense of security. The children were uncharacteristically obedient, congenial and obliging, following her direction with an obedience I had never witnessed. As is the case with five little boys and one 35-year old one, there was an occasional wrestling match in the dirt or pond-scum fight, but overall the behavior was acceptable and I felt confident. (I must note that my friend's vision and professionalism was wonderful and not what brought me surprise.)I was delighted with the notable lack of blood or screaming that are usually prevalent in our family outings. I drove home with a grin of satisfaction that I imagine people wear who have boringly normal children, the ones not secretly plotting world domination or designing plasma cannons (again another rant altogether). I was going to get my GAP ad-worthy family portrait to hang grandly in my living room like a Picasso.

I must also preface my portrait problem with the fact that I am an amateur interior decorator. I love to explore the balance and the hue and the shape of whatever graces my walls or covers my windows or knick-knacks around on my shelves collecting dust. Being the mother of six kids, the only evidence of this has to be six feet or more above ground-level to remain intact. Pictures are the essential element of kid-defying decorating. I have beautiful natural wreaths and paintings to lead the eye from the permanent marker, patched holes, grubby hand print chair rails, and bloodstains that otherwise add character to my home.

My mailbox is a tomb for the unwanted. I seem to receive nothing but printed advertisements to establishments that I never have nor intend to frequent, or bills which I intend to pay, but generally don't anticipate that I can afford. I know that it irritates my mail lady, who gives me snarls and glares every time she drives by and I am outside. I just don't see the purpose in harshing the buzz of my daily caffeinated beverage by reminding myself that I have actual adult responsibilities. In reality, I generally only fiscally behave as an adult two days a month, the day that I pay the mortgage and the day that I pay all the utilities, the rest of the month is blissful denial. I even went so far as to get one of those mail delivery movie services, this in hopes that the anticipation of the movies from my queue would motivate me to empty the mailbox. I do check the mail more frequently, I just grab the red envelope and leave the rest. So, the small box in my mailbox was welcome and not at all a disruption to my correspondence-delusions. I was so excited I might have actually emptied the mailbox before rushing into the front door and slamming the disc into my computer.

The loading time seemed eternal, but I coolly did a cursory clicking through of the thumbnails and all looked wonderful. My color-coordination had been perfect, the kids initially looked deceptively angelic and I was sure that I was going to get that prized and treasured Picasso that had eluded me time and again. The first group shot was acceptable, I only looked mildly plump as opposed to the grotesquely fat that I had anticipated. My husband was glowing with his toothy smile, my only daughter primly grinning and then the greasy-pimply Jr high horror rushed back. There in the middle center of the photograph was my stubborn four-year-old, his tongue lolling out the side of his stretched mouth, his head cocked mockingly to one side and his eyes crossed as the crowning glory. Panicked, I flipped through the other family portraits and to my horror, they were all the same although sometimes he changed it up a bit with his finger lodged to the second knuckle in one of his nostrils. My two middle boys had played switcheroo in the car and each now glaringly wore one white and one black sock both of which laughed at me from the computer screen. I finally settled on a pose and enlarged it to the desired proportion to perfectly accentuate my vaulted ceilings and calculated paint scheme.

And so...on my wall hangs a portrait of the eight of us, eyes crossed, picking our noses, acting like zombies, giving bunny ears and the sweet baby sitting in the middle looking resigned and confused. The way to conquer portrait-induced phobia: If you can't beat 'em, I guess you join 'em.

Yellow Paint

When I was eight-years-old, in an attempt to distract me from the abysmally boring town that my mother moved us to, my grandmother enrolled me in a ceramics class. The class consisted of a handful of cute little old ladies clucking busily while painting minimally and me sitting happily and quietly in the corner.

Often my grandmother and I would fine tune our creations in her living room (her newly built living room) on a rickety old card table while watching Angela Lansbury solve crimes that were painfully obvious to the average four-year-old. During one of these creative sessions, my creation required the use of school-bus-yellow paint. I cannot remember the piece, but I will ALWAYS remember the color. I reached across the table and plucked the color decisively and began turning the lid with the usual amount of gingerly applied force. That failing, I tried a bit harder and then harder in a fashion vaguely resembling wrestling an alligator. In one spectacular jerk, the lid freed and the paint leaped from the bottle in an arc and puddled in the brand new brown carpet.

I stood mortified in place, back-dropped by a steady stream of accusations and peppered with profanity. My little eight-year-old body froze, not knowing whether I should seek witness protection or cleaning products. I scrubbed and scrubbed on my hands and knees. To the day that the carpet was changed in that room, my grandmother claimed that there was a faint yellow cast to that particular region (nobody else could see it).

This last month, I traveled back to my grandmother's home. The living room, incidentally, has been recarpeted at least three times since the infamous yellow paint incident. I am blissfully walking through the living room with a pudding in my left hand when I hear the saccharin warning, “Don't spill on the carpet, dear.” In disbelief, I turn to my beaming grandmother and mutter, “I am 34-years old. I am sure that I can handle not spilling.” To which she retorts without pausing for an instant, “I am sure, but there was the yellow paint.” YELLOW PAINT!?! (this particular piece of punctuation is my husband's favorite. It is called an interrobang and is used to denote expressive disbelief and loud exclamation. It is used quite purposefully in this application.) It has been 26 years (TWENTY-SIX YEARS!?!) and I am haunted and expected to be repentant about YELLOW PAINT!?!

My young baby, just weeks past his first birthday, proudly took up the yellow paint standard this weekend. My grandmother has two recliners settled in her living room, one for herself and one for my grandfather. Perched like vultures above them are two overhead lamps, with their domes teetering precariously on their spindly bases. In an accident involving my grandmother's balance, or lack thereof, one of the lamps was “bent double” and on Saturday afternoon a new one was purchased. Sunday morning, my sweet one-year-old crawled behind one of the chairs, gripped the base of the lamp with his dimpled fist and proceeded to pull himself to a standing position. As his balance steadied the lamp succumbed to gravity and tumbled head-first into the window sill, shattering in a glittering explosion.

I apologized profusely and offered to replace her newborn lamp. The offer was denied vehemently, and I continued on about my day, soundly determined to make restitution. My determination waned with the woeful mention of, “I guess I cannot crochet today, (pausing for the dramatic sigh of a martyr), because my new lamp is broken.” I might mention that the second lamp is still standing strong and it was midday with no need for artificial illumination. The resolve to make restitution diminished further with the second mention (also containing the defeatist sigh). This same resolve then abated, abbreviated, attenuated, curtailed, declined, decreased, depreciated, died out, drained, dwindled, ebbed, extenuated, faded, lessened, receded, reduced, tapered, tempered, weakened, and finally vanished all together with subsequent sighs and subsequent moanings.

The question remains. At what age can you “bend double” a lamp without blame and without having to be reminded TWENTY-SIX YEARS LATER, “Remember that one time when you fell on your butt and broke that lamp?” Is my poor sure-footed thirty-year old son going to be stopped from approaching lighting fixtures with the heeding, “Yeah, but remember when you broke Grandma's brand new lamp?”

To further illustrate this point, I tell the story of my very responsible 11 year-old. My sweet husband bought us both brand new e-readers and my son, the bibliophile, benefited from familial trickle down economics. He has lovingly doted on his new toy, so when the battery needed charging after our long car ride, my husband kindly loaned my son his beloved new e-reader. My responsible son gently pressed the button to awaken the treasured technology, but to no avail. He pressed it again and waited patiently and then turned to me helplessly. In a declaration that I wish could be claimed as uncharacteristic, I mindlessly spout, “Oh great, you broke it!”

HE BROKE IT!?! If my husband had pressed the same button with the same pressure and the same insistence as my sweet son, he would have quite emphatically shouted, “Darn thing is broken!” But at age 11, HE broke it?

So when do YOU stop breaking things and does technology begin breaking itself? Perhaps it is when the ratio of your belongings is higher in favor of things you bought yourself than in things that your parents gave you? Perhaps it is at the age of your life when you know that YOU are going to have to explain to the clerk at the refund desk why a knitting needle tangled unyieldingly in the video player is a manufacturing defect (another rant). Perhaps it was during puberty, I distinctly remember the logical shift of blame from me to everyone else when I was that age.

I have decided for the sake of simplicity to adopt dear hubby's doctrines on who broke things. He is an equal-opportunity tyrant. If anybody else was holding, consuming, using, glaring at, or thinking about his property when it malfunctions, then THEY broke it. If he was engaged in any of the above listed activities, it is an obvious case of technological suicide.