Glass House for Sale
I am posting early this week. I know. It is totally bizarre and completely out of character, but my life this week has been plagued in my every waking hour (which is about 72 straight now) with a horrific tragedy. I am sorry to say that there will be little to no satire or sarcasm to what I have to say, because it is of the utmost importance to not only parents, but to the human race. I started writing these silly musings not just because I like to write and it is a venue for venting, but because other parents and people need to share the humor in their lives.

So, I pose a question. What is the job of a mother or father? Or a grandparent? Or an aunt or uncle? A neighbor? A teacher? The word that leaps to mind in most of these situations is “nurture.” So why are we supposed to nurture children, but yet do we not nurture each other?

My family has been so close to a devastating and tragic event this week. The actual details are completely unimportant, but sleep has been an absent bedfellow for the past 72 hours and the emotional discordance rarely leaves my addled mind. This tragedy has reminded me why I left my journalism career 12 years ago, and have only looked back to flex my creative muscles and write musings about the joys in my life. Why is it that when people open their mouths, sometimes unbelievable and insensitive garbage falls out? I have heard outside observers make conjectures about drugs, child abuse, anti-depressants, ADHD, autism, school pressures. Knowing what I do, none of these seem at all applicable to this situation, and most seem even laughable.

Two weeks ago, I attended a homeschooling event with my friends who are embroiled in this tragedy. My eldest minion was being a complete monster. Complaining about the silliness of the event and having to participate in the frivolity. The muttering and grumbling continued for the better part of 30 minutes and my temper percolated with his insolence. My dear friend felt the pallettable tension between us, approached my son as she often does her own children, wrapped her arms gently around his slight shoulders, and with sincere friendship said, “I am sure glad you are with us, Little Brother.” His frown faded, the disgruntled gray cloud disappeared and my heart instantly softened— permanently softened.

I sit with tear-stained face in my own stunned silence and think on these people that I know. The only thing that I have been able to say is, “I want to be just like them when I grow up.” Patient, kind, slow-to-anger, gentle in discipline, soft spoken, charitable, teachers of personal responsibility, intellectually brilliant.

So, in trying to make sense of some of the events, I asked my husband why he thought people judged other parents so harshly. What he said was so wise, but so sad at the same time. “Because people want to be able to separate THOSE children from their own and THOSE parents from themselves.” Now, I will admit that there are some instances where THOSE people who grace the headlines should be separated from reasonable and loving parents, but after being confronted with crime at my doorstep, I am left wondering how many times I have comforted the dissonance in my thoughts by ostracizing THOSE parents from myself through perceived fictional faults.

I have begun asking myself, what I hope for my children to achieve when they leave my home and embark on their own journey into adulthood. The answer was obvious, I wanted them to be confident INDIVIDUALS with a true moral compass to guide their decisions. As I watch my minions grow from blissfully sleeping infants to not-so-blissful teens, I realize that this entire exercise in parenting is about establishing individuality and independence. This means at some point, those of us parents who are merely voyeurs in horrific situations, need to accept that sometimes actions have no explanation. Sometimes unimaginable horrors are truly a result of independent choices made by an incomplete individual using their right to choose.

Several months ago, I was struggling through the grocery store with a bright pink long-arm cast and an entourage of tired and hungry little minions. Some of them were running ahead, two of them were wrestling while we waited in the express line. The scowls and grimaces from fellow shoppers were like lasers on the back of my neck. As I approached the checkout and unloaded my few groceries, the finishing touches for my planned dinner, and prepared to pay, the clerk quietly and tearfully said, “The man in front of you gave me this (producing a $20 bill), he says he hopes the rest of your day is wonderful.” I was barely able to catch a glimpse of the stylishly dressed young gentleman scampering up the escalator. The smallest influence of a complete stranger altered my entire viewpoint.

I am pausing this week from my musings on mayhem to beg each of you to show mercy to each other. Who cares WHY something happened, care that it happened and that you have the ability to either add to the festering despair or circulate love among those of the same chosen career-- raising generations of independent individuals. When you are in the grocery store and the distraught mother with a gaggle of misbehaving budding individuals slows your speedy checkout, don't think about how you would change the upbringing of their brood or the critical advice you would impart, think of how you will uplift another.

Mother's Day Wit and Wisdom

I know, I am a horrible MoM! I missed writing last week. I would like to say that I have a wonderful excuse, but life has truly just been whooping on me. I have sat introspectively thinking about Mother's Day and what it means to me for the past two weeks, knowing that as a blog about mothering, I should feel obligated to at least nod in the direction of the holiday.

The honest truth is that I am just not a sentimental person...at all. Some more nurturing mothers post inspirational messages around their houses. I have a QWALL or in other words, a wall of quotes written on 3 by 5 cards that have inspired my family to post them and reflect on their wisdom during our goings on throughout the day. I would generously say about 10 percent of them have truly life-changing and inspirational meaning behind them. All the others are snarky comments that make us giggle and keep me from going on a shooting spree with my Pampered Chef cookie gun. So I have chosen to scatter my satirical sunshine throughout this post and perhaps inspire others to shed their saccharin ways and join me on the dark side.

Being eaten by a crocodile is just like going to sleep... in a giant blender. “

Homer Simpson from The Simpsons

My particular religious affiliation is very sentimental about the role of mothers, especially on Mother's Day. One of my unfortunate friends posted on Facebook that she had been cornered and asked to give the address about motherhood on this momentous occasion. She was begging suggestions. Before I had a chance to enter my opinion, there was a barrage of cute little mommies writing about the “blessings” and the “unconditional love.” Don't get me wrong, I feel blessed and I love my children more than anything in the world, but my advice to her was to tell the truth. More people are going to listen and and relate to truthful stories of mischief and mayhem and your God-given patience not to Velcro the little darlings to a wall. (I have never pondered this unthinkable and extreme course of action.)

Here are the truths that I have plucked from my abysmal parental sea of chaos.

#1 Motherhood is not for the squeamish. When I embarked on this crazy journey, I fainted at the sight of blood and heaved in sympathy when someone else vomited. Now I am an old pro. Apply direct pressure and grab the garbage can, here comes MoM! Admittedly, my home is weighted fairly heavily toward the male gender and their sense of self preservation is clouded by a mistaken belief of invincibility, but I could never have made it this far without an amazing ability to suppress my gag reflex and avoid going into the light.

“I couldn't detect horse manure if I stepped in it.” Michael Caine as Sherlock Holmes in Without a Clue

#2 You may believe that you have the patience of Job, you are wrong. I have mentioned before that I preceded my career in motherhood by being a journalist for newspapers. As a journalist, you research everything. The only way to take action is if three or more sources have told you to do so. So, when I welcomed my first child into the world, I was a well-read and resolute mother. My child was going to be the epitome of discipline, goodness and the American way. After a while of real life, I realized that these parenting books are full of garbage.

#3 All those moments in the store when you were single and thought you would never let your child act like THAT, were completely erroneous. You are entirely helpless to stop it once the wild hair is planted. I recently chose (by some bout of explosive stupidity) to have an operation on my left arm that rendered it completely helpless. I am still unable to lift more than the weight of my own purse (which is admittedly laden with many first aid implements given my line of work) without flinching and howling in pain. Since that ill-fated decision, my children have unleashed their inner demons. We have gone from shopping as a regimented group in a rigid formation to one child licking all the handles on the shopping carts, while another taste tests all the food in the bulk section of the store, yet another is hiding in the racks of clothing and shouting, “PICK ME!” at unsuspecting shoppers (truly happened to me today and the entire escapade was initiated and encouraged by my hubby). Yet another is tired and blowing his nose on the silk skirts in the Women's Section. I am just waiting for some passive-aggressive shopper to slip a box of condoms into my basket as a not so subtle hint.

#4 Your child will sneak out of the house without underpants/shoes/socks...several times. I find myself terrified to observe the ensembles of my crew when they file out of the van at any given destination, especially if we were hurrying out of the house. (We are always hurrying out of the house.) No underclothing, two different socks, two different shoes, no shoes at all! When I started motherhood, I swore that my child would always wear more than three articles of clothing (jam or jelly doesn't count as an article of clothing) and always wear shoes. Now I am just happy if I am not facing indecency charges when I go to the playground.

“What does that have to do with the price of beer?” Sylvester Stallone as Snaps Provolone in Oscar

#5 You may be punctual, but your children are not! Being a reformed journalist, I have a compulsive desire, actually a NEED, to meet deadlines. Being on time to anything with a child is like running a marathon in a chain gang. If you cross the finish line at all it is going to be awkward and painful. The worst part is that a few months ago, I installed a little device in my car to help me squeeze every drop of fuel economy out of our gas-guzzling beast. This cheeky little black box even gives me a letter grade for my driving performance, like some sort of voluntary and sadistic flashback to elementary school. Speeding, which I feel compelled to do when my chain gang is dragging, brings my letter grade to disgraceful levels. The only thing that angers me more than missing a deadline, is a C+ from a audacious little box attached to my dashboard. Does a cumulative GPA still apply 10 years after graduation? If so, these kids are killing my permanent record.

#6 Cold cereal for dinner is okay. Part of my self-imposed parental training was learning to cook EVERYTHING from scratch. When I mean everything, I am truly not joking. I bake my own bread from wheat that I grind myself. I stuff my own sausages with meat that I ground myself and herbs from my garden. I even cook my own soap from lye and fat, like the pilgrims. A few months ago, after that explosively stupid surgery I opted to have, I was feeling particularly unable to summon the sincerity from my soul to cook a nutritious and inspiring dinner. My friend suggested, “Just give them all cold cereal.” The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning.....I could just feed them cold cereal! Occasionally indulging in sugary cereal for dinner was not going to kill them! The epiphany was utterly and indulgently pleasurable.

“A coven of witches! Not an oven!” Tim Roth as Ted the Bellhop in Four Rooms (ask your parents before watching this particular movie.)

#7 Sometimes you just have to accept defeat with grace and dignity. I have had to admit lately, as I begin plodding into the unexplored territory of teenage trauma, that occasionally I have no idea what to do. I say grace and dignity, but what I really mean is random and unexpected laughter. My eldest son, the culprit of pre-teen-anger-inducing-angst, has a razor sharp tongue (which he obviously inherited from his father, because only sweetness and light escapes my lips.) (My husband just shot his cold cereal from a nostril in suppressing his laughter as I read this section aloud.) One day, as he hovered over me (I have been declared fun-sized) and verbally bashing me about my innumerable downfalls as a parent, I was struck by defeat and could find no mature way to handle the feelings of helplessness that sat like a stone in my throat. With total and calculated precision, I inserted my index finger into my mouth and moistened it thoroughly. Being resolute in my course of action, I reached beside his ear (which may have been smoking slightly) and plunged it deep into his ear canal. The effect was immediate. His tirade stopped instantly, mostly because neither of us knew what to do about the situation. We now refer to this as maneuver as “parenting by wet willy,” and find it universally applicable.

“You know what that means, it means he doesn't have a head. How am I suppose to write for a guy who doesn't have a head? He's got no lips, no vocal cords. What do you want me to do?” Whoopi Goldberg as Rose Schwartz in Soapdish.

#8 You are your own worst enemy. Now I will get sentimental. Mother's Day is often used to reflect on the women that have shaped our lives. Not too recently, my grandmother passed away. I won't say that I knew her well, in fact as I sat listening to other people's reflections of her life, I realized that my relationship with her was completely unique, especially being that we had been estranged for many years in my youth. Whenever we came to visit, she flung open her front door with a welcoming smile. She always had food cooking, even at odd hours of the day and her pot seemed bottomless when it came to feeding my large family. I would feel embarrassed about the lack of socks, or the stained shirt, or the hyperactive behavior that is inherent after a long car ride. She would always smile and tell me what angels my children were and what a wonderful mother I was. Amazingly, my children would always rise to the occasion and be the angels that she proclaimed them to be. She didn't just say this to me, she said it to other people. As I heard stories of this woman and her life as a mother, her philosophies, her ideals, I realized that she had this relationship with me, because I was a mirror reflection of her. With her gentle and quiet nature, she had known that I had enough criticism incubating within myself, and I needed nothing more than pure encouragement.

What can I impart about Mother's Day from my mayhem? Remember that motherhood is mischief and mystery. If your children are smiling, happy, even a little smudged with jam or mud, but not withering like a forgotten houseplant, you are probably doing just fine.

My Birthday Resolution

This weekend marked the anniversary of the dawning of my life and with this, the realization that I look really really old. Not like I look my age, but that rigorous abuse and hours of bottom-clenching driving in traffic have left me looking and feeling like something out of that Benjamin Button movie. So, being gifted with family and friends who sent me monetary expressions of affection, I have begun my quest to at least regain some of the minimal hygiene habits that have been lost in the mayhem of motherhood.

My college roommates used to tease me mercilessly, because I would not be seen by anybody (especially not members of the opposite sex) without my face fully adorned with cosmetics. There were an alarming number of times when I had already showered, curled my hair in spongy pink rollers, and removed my war paint in anticipation of a going to bed. Only to have an unexpected late night visitor, and I would remove the curlers and reapply the war paint to conduct my business with unannounced company. Then reremove and recurl upon my company's departure. I admit that this is a little bit extreme, but when did I go from make-up and shower twice a night to barely being able to find time for either activity twice a WEEK? I see magazine ads about the “five-minute face” and tee hee to myself, because I have barely had five minutes to empty my bladder.

I once went to school wearing one brown sandal and one brown loafer. I was trying to accessorize my outfit and while having a visual comparison, I forgot to match the winning choice before rushing out the door. This conundrum seems ridiculous when presented this week with the fact that I have one shoe of seven different pairs. Being of diminished stature, my feet structurally match my height. My daughter minion is eight-years-old, and much to her delight, she can now wear the same size of shoes that I do. This has meant that I have NO shoes. I went to play soccer in my three-inch wedges yesterday, because BOTH pairs of tennis shoes have disappeared into the pink swamp that is her bedroom floor. Matching shoes to an outfit? I feel accomplished if I match shoes to each other.

As I prepared for our weekly worship service on Sunday, the day after my new resolution to revisit the glamor of my youth, I decided to invest time in actually coordinating an outfit. My usual physical preparation for church takes me about fifteen minutes, and that includes, shower, dressing, make-up, and gathering supplies for minions. During my closet excavations for fashionable clothing, I came to the conclusion that being fashionable is time consuming and I value sleep over beauty. I tried on outfit combinations and debated the cut of shirts and how they compliment my rapidly expanding waistline. Usually, I figure if I have the strategic parts covered, I am doing great!

With my newfound birthday wealth, I invested in two new blouses, two new belts, and a new skirt. It used to be that I would MATCH my outfits, meaning that my blouse, pants, socks, jewelry, etc. was in the same or a complimentary color family. I had numerous pairs of earrings for the perfect match of sporty vs. elegant, silver vs. gold. As the money burned a hole in my pocket and I browsed through the thick forest of clothing racks in my local department store, I came to a realization. I mentioned in a previous post that the motto is our house was “If it covers, it is capitol.” I am just a short trip from wearing a batman cape and a Walmart bag. My SUPERMOM pajamas, that are supposed to be my daily pep talk, end up being worn to the grocery store with whatever shirt (usually my husband's) doesn't smell when I lift it from the laundry basket and take a whiff. I bought my two blouses, put on a pair of jeans and immediately lost 15 lbs. It was the easiest and best weight loss plan ever!

I had a friend complain that she only ever does her hair in a ponytail anymore, it is all she has time for. I found myself secretly envious, because I often cannot even find the time to run a brush through my tangled tresses. The truth actually is that I usually cannot find my hairbrush at all, it has been used to beautify Barbie and been sucked into the same abyss that apparently ate the other half of every pair of my shoes. I look at the beautiful women in my area, the ones that don't look like they are pushing a million years old. They go to the beauty shop and have their hair styled and colored. Are you kidding me? I haven't been to a Dollarcuts in 12 years! Since my mop of dark auburn hair is lapping at my waistline, perhaps it is about time that I at least reined in the chaos with an elastic and a comb on a daily basis.

I am going to get on a sensitive subject for a second, so those who are faint of heart should skip this paragraph. I also purchased, as a gift to myself, some foundational garments. I don't know when it happened, but suddenly not only did I wear “Granny Panties” (bras actually), but I don't remember when safety pins and duct tape began becoming part of my lingerie fashion statement. I guess when “the girls” became functional, I stopped worrying about fashionable. The funniest part of the whole operation was buying an athletic top to wear to the gym. I wasn't even in the “intimate” section of my local buy-everything-here-store, and my eldest minion was blushing. Makes me want to take an extra trip to Victoria's Secret just for spite.

I am going to skip the subjects of jewelry, coordinated hair accessories, or lotions and perfumes, as fully recovering from my slothful binger is going to be a multi-step process and these two seem like the icing on the cake. But, if you don't see me on the streets around my home....GREAT! I have achieved my goal of sluffing off the air of defeat and dementia and putting on a convincing facade of hygienic normalcy.