All yell’s breaking loose

photo credit: showmeone

Three weeks left.  Three weeks left and I feel like I am going to spontaneously combust.  Our two story house has collapsed in on itself like a black hole, sucking all the light out of my world.  Dramatic?  Maybe.  True?  Yeppers.

I’ve spent the last two months trying to entertain a 12 year old, and a 4 year old 12 year old wanna be.  Troubles abound…daily.  Maybe even minute-ly.  Is that a word?

If I wake up to hear what do you have planned today one more time, I will implode.  I’m not sure when my name became Little Miss Day Planner, apparently that memo got colored on, or made into a paper airplane because it sure as heck didn’t find it’s way next to my morning cup of coffee or my evening glass of sanity.

There’s the pool, but when it’s 105 degrees outside and the pool feels more like a bath without bubbles, it looses it’s appeal.  I enjoy solitary, not communal bath times.  Pretty much everything else costs money – and if it’s truly “fun” it costs lots of money.

When I was a kid – oh God, did I really just say that?  When I was a kid no one entertained me.  That’s not to say my parents didn’t do things with me, but they weren’t responsible for my daily agenda.  Mostly I rode my bike and did a bit of hairbrush singing in between.

Today I reached the end of my rope – it was a jump rope so it wasn’t very long to begin with but it was a rope nonetheless.  (Okay, it’s been frayed for a long time, but that’s another post.)  Anyway, Jacob and Nick both had my remote and kept pushing all the buttons.  Nick is easier to deal with – he’s only four.  Jacob, on the other hand, won’t let up.

As a result I found myself raising my voice – something I swore I would never do.  And now I feel horrible.

I think summer has had it’s last hurrah in our house.  I think we are too together – it’s time for a break and not the summer kind.  I never thought I’d be one of “those” parents who looked forward to school.  After all, I used to homeschool Jacob.  But this summer, I’m ready for it to be over.

Today kids seem to need more.  At least mine do.  Maybe that’s my own fault.  I’m not sure.  But I do know that right now I’m thinking “the most wonderful time of the year” comes way before Christmas.

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Blast from the past – October 2008 – Baby Brian

photo credit: Maryalena

Brian Denehey all grows up

Many years ago when Jacob was just a toddler I decided that there was no inherent difference between boys and girls. I was a first time mom who felt very certain about my knowledge on this matter.

So like any mother who wants her child to be able to have as many play experiences as possible I did what any mother would do and bought Jacob a doll. Somehow I convinced Warner that a doll was something that boys and girls were equally interested in if given the chance. And playing with a doll would certainly give Jacob an advantage in the future father category.

I went to Toys R Us in search of the perfect doll for our sensitive new age boy, who would prove that boys and girls are the same it’s society that pushes the gender stereotypes on them. I found a newborn size male doll with a seriously pinched face and adopted him into our gender-liberated family.

I was very excited about presenting Jacob with his new toy. He, too, seemed to be very intrigued by this non-wheeled play thing.

I opened it and was instantly struck by the strong perfumed odor that clung to its realistic chub folds. As I handed it to Jacob I was fully prepared to see his paternal instincts take over as he cradled the infant in loving arms.

What I saw instead was something no mother ever wishes to see her child take part in – a small-footed toddler performing a pretty hearty bug-stomping maneuver on the unsuspecting infant. I stood there in horror while my husband was nearly doubled over in laughter with his I-told-you-so smirk proudly displayed.

I wondered if the sickly sweet stench of roses might have curbed Jacob’s coddling instincts. At any rate, I knew at that very moment that there was a pretty good chance that Jacob would be an only child.

Okay, so maybe there are innate differences between boys and girls.

Or maybe it was just the fact that this baby bore a frightening resemblance to Brian Denehey. That would be enough to throw off even the most maternal of us all.

Nothing against Mr. Denehey.  But that’s a lot of look for a small face.

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Five Things Friday – Great things my kids have said

My witty kids

My kids are never at a loss for words.  Never.  No idea where they get that from.

Anyway, I thought I would share some of their words with you all today.

Jacob having a Beatles kind of day

Jacob

1.    age 6 – “Why did the people crucify Jesus?”  I told him and explained that Jesus rose from the dead three days later and went to heaven.  Jacob’s reply:  Boy it sure does take a long time to get to heaven!

2.    age 7 -  Eating macaroni and cheese at Shoney’s one day: Take a fork and enjoy the taste bud ride!

3.  age 7 – A frequent party of one, one day Jacob was having a solo conversation in the backseat.  We were the only two people in the car.  Here is what I overheard: Don’t make out with my momma.  She’s already made!

4.   age 9 – Speaking to me: You can be an aggressive mean young woman sometimes.  And don’t go running away like you did yesterday.  Sing a different song.

5.   age 8 – I wish Nick would just go to sleep because he’s so cute I don’t want to do anything else. He couldn’t stop looking at Nick.

Nick having a special moment at BK

Nick

1.   age 3:  Said to me:  I’m watchin’ you hothead!

2.   age 3.5:  On the way down the stairs Nick looked back at me and said: Don’t look at me SUCKA!

3.   age 3.5:  When I was trying to get Nick down for a nap he was being too wiggly.  I told him to be still and he said: I’m just trying to get separated!

4.   age 3.5:  As he was rolling the dice during a board game he gave us his take on “baby needs a new pair of shoes”: C’mon I need a new pair of short sleeve pants and shower pants!

5.   age 3:  This was Nick’s evening prayer one night: I pray the lamp to my heart.  I see the bats in the moon.  Amen.

And there you have it – the wit and wisdom of my two boys!

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Five Things Friday – Ways to avoid Karmic destruction

photo credit: Pink Sherbet Photography

Or how not to let your actions/words come back to bite you in the sass.

1.  Don’t EVER respond to the question “How’s your day going?” with “You know it’s really not all that bad.  The kids are actually behaving today.”

If you do you can rest assured that things will go awry.  Someone will break something be it a leg, a flat screen TV or your heart.  Something will break and the world will fall apart at some point.  I guarantee!

2.  Don’t EVER tell your four year old that he can have fill in the blank or do fill in the blank when it’s fill in the blank just knowing he’ll forget it by the time that particular day rolls around.

He will NEVER forget it.  In fact, he will ask to create a damn paper chain to count down the days.

3.  Don’t EVER tell your 12 year old son to clean his room and then walk out the door and leave him unsupervised because you trust his innate ability to create order in the midst of chaos.

Trust me, there is no such thing. The only order any 12 year old  is capable of  is when it applies to a drive-thru or a 4 year old brother who aims to please in the hopes of obtaining some token of appreciation in the form of whatever unwanted, broken toy is littering the floor.  When you come back his room will look suspiciously devoid of all that was cluttering up said room.  And the closet door of said room will be trembling under the weight of all things plastic and crappy that have found their refuge behind it.  When you ask the pleased 12 year old where he put his stuff and he says without pause, “Away”, you can be certain that the closet door is now a weapon of mass destruction for anyone who dares to open it.

4.   Don’t EVER say, “I can’t wait until the kids are fill in the blank“  because that day will come way too fast.

I promise.  And you’ll wonder why you ever wanted to rush it in the first place.

5.   Don’t EVER promise yourself that you will never do fill in the blank like other parents, or criticize other parents for their obvious parental pitfalls.

I will never bribe my children into behaving.  I will never let my children sleep with me. I will never tell my children they sound congested and give my them Benadryl because I NEED them to sleep. I’m here to tell you that the parental pit is more like a black hole and there is an abundant amount of room for all of us to fall in.  I did.  And you will.

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Moxie’s Mommas – Guest Post 2: Laura Easterling

This is a post by my new friend, Laura Easterling. Her son attends preschool with Nicholas and we have found that we have a great deal in common including our tendency towards sarcasm!

Being a mother means never having to say you’re sorry. Wait, wrong story. It means having to say you’re sorry a lot. I will get back to that. But, in the beginning, being a mother means braving the unknown and sacrificing your sleep and sanity to care for a helpless little creature.

For years my husband and I discussed having a baby. We knew we had enough love to offer a child even though we were not sure our dog, a 5 year old boxer, would be willing to share. For years we waited for the right time but that never came because there were always outside forces saying to wait.

I was quite clueless about babies when my husband and I decided to have one. I just assumed that I would learn to change diapers when the time came and I could handle losing a few nights of sleep. The only babysitting job I ever had was when I was 14 and I helplessly watched as a 4-year-old girl violently attacked her 7-year-old sister with a pool stick.

Fifteen years later I became pregnant and began to realize that I was a little naive. People, total strangers, began to approach me with stories of just how much having a baby changed their lives. This was not done out of kindness and was followed by maniacal laughter. Our electrician asked me, “Do you and your husband enjoy going out?” “Yes” I replied. (queue maniacal laughter) “You’re not going to be able to do that again for a long time”. What the hell? Why would someone say something like that to an expecting mother? On top of that, the appliance repair lady mentioned how sore her nipples used to get when she breastfed, ewww. Too much information. I was prepared to karate chop any stranger who touched my belly but I was not prepared to field such comments.

In retrospect, they were right but nobody wants to be too honest about how much babies change your life because it can be terrifying at times. I get it, I really do, but the good outweighs the bad and no one wants to deny a future parent the opportunity to feel so much love and to be loved so unconditionally in return.

The first few months went by and I was amazed by what I was able to do. I still cannot believe that I went so many consecutive nights without sleep. Constant feedings, diaper changes and pacing around the house wondering why this little creature would not stop crying. Does he need food? Does he have a stomach ache? Does he have a hair wrapped around his penis (I was told in baby school that it could happen)? Could I teach him to blink once for yes and twice for no? But you do all you can to help them and get through it because you are madly in love with them. You just do it.

Being a mother means giving and receiving love.

Shortly after my sister had her baby girl we were discussing how difficult it is to stop watching, holding, and loving them. It really is a magical time. I told her that before long her baby would return that affection. It is the greatest feeling in the world for your child to wrap their arm around you , or pat you on the back just as you did for them. To lean against you when they are tired or just for support. To offer you a hug or kiss and say, “I love you”. This is when you know you have built a strong foundation of family, love and support. I was recently reminded of this when, on a particularly down day, my 3.5-year-old son walked in, put his hand on me and said, “Aww, Mommy, did you fall down? Do you need a bandaid”? Yeah, I fell down.

Being a mother means having to make very difficult decisions, possibly dealing with life or death. It means trusting your instincts and accepting the support from those around you.
When my son was 15 months old we discovered that he had a 4cm cyst in one of the ventricles of his brain. The technical term was Intraventricular Arachnoid Cyst. It appeared to be causing a considerable amount of pressure on the surrounding brain tissue and possibly discomfort and pain. He had issues with balance and acted as thought he was falling from great heights when I laid him down to change his diaper or to go to bed.

It was not easy to know what to do about the cyst. Some doctors said to wait until he was older to see what happened. Others said to operate as soon as possible for fear that the pressure from the cyst could cause permanent damage, seizures, migraines and any number of impairments to his motor skills. One even said that there was no cyst at all but instead my son had a “bad brain”, an area void of brain tissue and filled with cerebral fluid in instead.

Obviously that was not the case. He had total brain function and was an extraordinarily happy and active child. A shunt was also a possibility but it would mean having to be extremely cautious of otherwise normal falls and bumps plus he would have to have future procedures as he grew.

So it was left up to my husband and me to decide what to do. Do we take this healthy acting child and risk his life for what may or may not happen? With the support of our family, doctors and each other, we decided to do just that. We gave the neurosurgeon the go ahead to perform brain surgery on our baby because we believed deep down that the cyst would cause him harm.

The surgery did not last very long but it felt like an eternity. I did not cry because I had already cried enough throughout all of my research and days and nights of worrying about making the right decision, through the multiple CT-scans when we had to physically hold him down and all the MRIs. Tears would not help him. By the time the surgery came around I just zoned.
His surgery went very well but few days afterwards he developed a fever so we had to return him to the hospital to receive a spinal tap to rule out meningitis. Again fears arose and again I had to watch as my son was held down under the weight of adults. Luckily there was no infection, just a poorly timed virus.

The greatest lesson of this experience was how incredibly resilient children are. I would have wallowed around in self pity for days, but not my son. He was back to his normal self 2 days after the surgery, grinning from ear to ear. Currently he shows no symptoms from the cyst or surgery, just a small scar from the incision.

Being a mother means loving the entire package that comes with having a child; the good, bad, happy and sad. It occasionally means saying, “I’m sorry”, and taking the necessary steps to make it all better. It means getting in touch with your nurturing side and changing your life in whatever ways are necessary to make sure your child grows to know and practice compassion towards others and the knowledge that happiness is the ultimate goal in life. It means being open to learning from your children how to live again.

This brings me to where I am today. My son’s surgery coincided with several other stressors and I became physically and mentally exhausted. I withdrew from my family and friends, I experienced panic attacks, insomnia and anger which I have been dealing with for some time now. I realized that my negative emotions would cause harm to my son and I could never forgive myself if I destroyed his loving and outgoing nature. I needed to be more emotionally present.

After much reflection I decided to cut out all possible negative influences. I no longer watch the news but read it on my own terms and have asked those who insist on bombarding me with gossip and spewing hate to please kindly stop. This includes filtering emails and hiding people on Facebook. I am trying to cut out passive, mind numbing activities and replace them with more creative and fulfilling activities like reading, writing, Yoga and meditation. Most importantly, I am just trying to be aware of all the positive things like the sweet voice and laughter of my little boy or gestures of support and affection from my husband.

I never knew that I was capable of loving anyone as much as I do my son. Every night I sit by his bed while he is asleep and I hold his hand and try to take in how much he means to me. I wish him all of the wonderful things that life has to offer. He has an outgoing personality and a contagious smile. He loves to sing, dance and “play” instruments . I am proud to say that he has the tendency to be one of the goofiest people I know. Goofy is good.

Laura Easterling is a writer and Massage Therapist living in Savannah, GA.
She is a mother of one, a wife of one and a pet owner of two obedience challenged dogs.

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My Life in Letters – “P” is for Parent

As a parent we all want what’s best for our kids. It’s just that some of us want it a bit too much. When Jacob was born I was determined to be the best mom I could. So I watched him and each time he did something normal or abnormal, cute or disturbing I would rush to Barnes and Noble and find a book on it.

I’m not kidding. In fact, the very night I found out I was pregnant, after telling Warner, I drove my newly pregnant, not even showing self to the book store and proudly bought What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I wanted to get a head start on this whole expecting thing…in case, something unexpected happened.

When Jacob began to exhibit his stubborn nature, I bought books like Parenting the Difficult Child, Your Spirited Child and several other books along the same line.

I read, highlighter in hand, ready to crack Jacob’s code. And as soon as I’d figure him out, he’d change on me again. So I’d move to the next set of books determined to “fix” him, as if he were sick.

Illness came in many forms during Jacob’s younger days. But it usually didn’t come in the form of stomach upsets or rashes.  It was more along the lines of random upsets and rash behavior. I discovered that Jacob was an Indigo child, a spirited child, a gifted child.

When I was a kid, well, I was just a kid. I had an attitude, was a bit sassy at times but my mom didn’t have any books telling her who I was and what she should do to with me. She decided for herself – belt in hand sometimes.

But it seems I turned out pretty okay despite the fact that, since she had read no books, she probably had no idea who the hell I was. I mean she was practically parenting a stranger, right?

When Nick came along I decided that maybe I could do this thing on my own this go round. I was pretty certain that if he was anything like his brother I could rely on the whole been there done that notion.

Turns out he’s very much like Jacob. Turns out I sort of do know what to do – maybe there is something to this whole intuition thing after all.

I’m proud to say that I haven’t bought one parenting book since Nick was born and I haven’t even reread the highlighted parts of the books I bought about Jacob. It’s quite nice. I am finally realizing that Barnes and Noble isn’t just a How-To-Parent store. They actually sell books NOT on parenting.

Now maybe I can find a book to tell me who the hell I am!

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Bliss it was to be alive

Bliss in action

Bliss it was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven.
-Wordsworth

Mr. Wordsworth had some words worth listening to. How many times have you found yourself searching for your own personal bliss? Searching for that something that will overload your happiness in-box.

I know that I have wasted years looking for that very something. Maybe wasted isn’t the right word, because there is nothing wrong with searching – at least it implies that you believe there is something worth searching for – that you haven’t gone all half-empty on your life.

But maybe we are looking too hard. I think Wordsworth was onto something that we should pay a little more attention to.

At the playground yesterday, I watched my boys running around, laughing, goofing off – being young. And if I’ve ever seen a look of pure bliss, absolute heaven it has always been on the face of a child who is doing his job.

So what is a child’s job? Just to be young. According to dictionary.com one of the definitions of young is:

being in an early stage generally, as of existence, progress, operation, development, or maturity; new; early.

To some this might seem to be a state that is not desirable.  After all, we tend to associate being young with immaturity.

But consider this:  When we are fresh, and unmarked by too much life experience we still have our wings – we still long to fly like angels – we still feel invincible.  Maybe those are heaven’s residuals still clinging to our souls.

The laughter of children just playing and being young might just be the closest thing to the echoes of angels we will ever hear.  And if that’s the case then shouldn’t we all make every attempt to retain our youthfulness – a certain level of immaturity?

I’m not talking about youthfulness in terms of frozen botox faces.  It’s an internal youthfulness that may not magically remove your wrinkles – in fact, you might just wind up with more in the form of laugh lines – but it will create some pretty great magical moments in your life.

The fountain of youth is closer than you may think.  I challenge you to do something young today – something fun a child would do.

Will you hop on a merry-go-round, or play hopscotch?  Will you spin in circles until you drop or challenge your child to a jump rope competition?

Whatever you do, I bet it will make you smile.  And while you might have to nurse that aching hip or bruised knee later, I bet you won’t regret it.

How will you find your heaven today?

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My Life in Letters – “K” is for kids

Nicholas and Ronnie

Something you need to know about me – I love kids – probably because I’m just a big one myself. When I drop Nick off at school in the morning I always do three things with him before I leave. It started as a way to help ease him into me leaving, but now that he’s okay with me going, it’s something I still do because it’s fun.

If you walk into his classroom around 8:45am you’ll see me. I’m the big girl sitting in the compact blue chair at the Play-Doh table. It’s the most popular table in the classroom – and not just because I’m there.

And to make it even better for a mom who hasn’t been caffeinated enough, the Play-Doh is sometimes made with coffee grounds.  I am the only “kid” at the table inhaling the aromatic clay.  And I’m the only mom at the table (usually) building a Mr. Bill-esque head and dropping it on the table as I dramatically yell, “Oh No! Please don’t squish me!”  Nicholas follows through with his very effective rolling pin maneuver and Mr. Bill is suddenly Mr. Pancake.  I draw a small crowd when I do this performance. Ev.er.ry.time.

After the clay-station, we usually move to the carpeted area and head for the blocks.   Within minutes the kids have gathered around me, and suddenly Nick is sharing me with all the other classroom architects as we attempt to build the most biggest, bestest castle in the whole world ever.

And all the smalls are clamoring for my attention.  Literally in my face.

“Hey, Nick’s mom, look at me! I’m a bampire! Aaahhhh!”

“Hey watch what I can do,” one little pinkalicious girl says to me as she twirls around in circles.

Somewhere behind all of the other runny-nosed, watch-mes is Nick.  I know this because I can hear him saying, “Mooomeee!  I thought you were going to play with ME!”

So I unfold myself and snap, crackle and pop my way to my grown-up size and ask Nick what he would like to do now.  I follow him around like a good mommy waiting for him to find an activity for us to do.   We settle at the puzzle table and begin our work.  No sooner than I get really into the Max and Ruby super-sized puzzle-fest, here come Nick’s minions Quentin, Connor and pint-sized Ronnie with her super-sized big girl attitude, and dinner-plate eyes (she’s a future heart breaker for sure).

“Hey Nicholath, you wanna play Scooby-Do with uth?” she asks my boy.

Connor yells, “I wanna be Shaggy!”

Nick yells, “I wanna be the car.”

“You can’t be the car, Nicolath, you have to be a perthon!” Ronnie informs him with a “well duh” tone to her voice.

“Oh.  I’ll be the driver then.”

That settled, Nick, Ronnie, Quentin, and Connor run off to do some serious Scooby-Doing.  And I’m left, Gulliver Momma, in a Lilliputian chair holding my puzzle piece.

“Okay, Nicholas I’m going to go now.”

He’s already in character as the driver so he glances my way and blows me a kiss, then throws me a hug complete with sound effects.  “Mwoah, Pfffft, Whoosh.”

And just like that I am forgotten for a short while as Nicholas enters his important work of play.

I know that these moments won’t last forever.  There will come a day when I won’t be the Pre-K rockstar that I am now.  A day when Nicholas will stop blowing me kisses.  So for now, I’ll go in Nicholas’ classroom in all my glory and let my adoring fans flock to me.

Secretly, I’m waiting patiently for Ronnie to cast me in her next production of Scooby-Do.  I think I’d make a great Velma.

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Happy Meal or Crappy Meal? You decide.

photo credit: dno1967

Why is it that something as simple as eating at McDonald’s can cause me so much stress? I wonder if other families are cursing that flame-headed, floppy-footed clown, Ronald, who promises to fill our kids’ tummies with yummy artery-clogging goodies and make every meal a mini birthday by offering a crappy plastic toy. Whose idea was it anyway to bestow cheap plastic tokens upon our kids for doing something as necessary as eating? “Here, honey, let me give you bad food and applaud you for agreeing to eat greasy spud sticks and tastes-like-chicken McNuggets.”

I swore I would not feed my kids this empty guilt food and yet at least once a week I find myself buddying up to the static-spitting speaker asking for some of Ronald’s happiness in a box. I try to make myself feel better by patting myself on the back for not choosing to eat at Krispy Chic or some other grease-laden food hut. Ronald must love our kids because he uses trans fat-free oil to sizzle the vitamins out of the potatoes. He must love our kids because he chooses to offer healthy alternatives like apple sticks with sugar pots of caramel for dipping.

On my next visit I decide to sneak in the apple sticks instead of the fries and am immediately verbally abused by my toddler as he hurtles apple swords at me. So I did what any caring mother would do – I went back to the drive-thru and ordered a small fry for my son. I didn’t even attempt this clever trick with my oldest because he is a product of the health un-conscious, present-less Ronald of not so long ago – the Ronald I grew up with who could have cared less about how happy I was.

As we pull out with our bags of bliss each boy greedily reaches in to retrieve their Golden Arch award for eating – the ever-coveted Happy Meal toy. And the “happiness” begins to spread through the van like a virus. Jacob, the oldest, lets out a cry of disgust as he unveils his toy – a Barbie pinked up from head to toe. “WHY DID THEY GIVE ME A GIRL’S TOY? I NEED TO GO BACK NOW!” I explain that I am not going through the drive-thru a third time and suggest that maybe he could give the toy to his younger brother who seems fascinated by the doll’s splendor. “No way, it’s MY toy. He’s got his own!” I remind Jacob that just moments ago he was extremely upset about the doll. He grins and says, “I think I’ll set her on fire!” Nice. Somehow I don’t think Ronald envisioned infernos in his happy place.

Now Nicholas is upset because his toy car doesn’t DO anything. “What car do Mom-Mom? Where button?” I take the car praying silently that it makes some sort of noise or otherwise cool action so that Nicholas will find some value in it. Nothing. I give it back and smile as I point out that the car has some pretty awesome racing stripes on it. Once again I am convinced that I have an invisible bulls-eye on my forehead as the metal car sails through the air towards my face. Ronald, where, oh where, is the happy?

Again Jacob yells, “I ordered a PLAIN cheeseburger this one has pickles and onions on it!” He passes the burger to me as I try desperately to scrape off the offending food. Then he informs me that he will absolutely not eat it no matter what. “Fine,” I tell him, “but that’s all you’re getting.” He mumbles under his breath something about how unfair I am and I mumble under my breath something about what Ronald can do with his not-so-Happy Meals.

There’s a lesson in here somewhere about how inconvenient convenience is. Or maybe it’s about clowns and how you can’t really trust them. All I know is that the old saying is true – happiness comes from within because it sure as hell doesn’t come from a box with a toy in it.

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Five Things Friday – Ironic Hits of Motherhood

Yesterday I was listening to the radio and I heard the song “Ironic” by Alannis Morrisette. As I was driving my usual afternoon route, my mind wandering in the opposite direction, with Steve and Blue clue-ing endlessly in the backseat for Nicholas, I wondered what some parenting ironies might be. It didn’t take me long to come up with a few.

1. Easy on the junk food. All mothers want the best for their children so it’s no wonder we limit the amount of artery clogging junk food that our littles consume. And protest though they may, we always tell them it’s because we care. Once the prayers are said and little arms and legs are tucked snugly in bed, we sing a different song. For some of us the song takes the form of some sugary jingle that beckons us to tell them what we would do for a Klondike Bar. Forget the whole practice what you preach BS, this mom’s had a hard day and deserves a little chocolate coated frozen cow juice washed down with a heart healthy glass of red wine. Before our sugar-free sweeties wake up, we hide the evidence and bring out the bran muffins laced with flaxseed. Isn’t it ironic?

2. Watch your language young man! During the day you might find yourself saying things like “Shoot a monkey!” or “What the hoo-ha?” or even “Gosh darn it!”. Just a small helping of kid friendly pseudo-expletives that you might utter when little junior drops his heavy plastic Tonka on your toes, or hurtles his juice cup NFL style across the room at your head. You know what you really want to say, but being the perfect momma that you are you curb your sailor tendencies…at least for now. Lights out and you find yourself changing your tune up a bit. Woe to the person who crosses your toy strewn path, because you’ve bottled up quite a bit of frustration. Your husband asks politely if you would mind washing some boxers and out comes Captain Foul Mouth. “Oh excuse the hell out of me for forgetting to wash your @#$% boxers. Did you forget how to use the $%#@$%^ washing machine?” Morning light breaks through the window and that ship has set sail once again. Isn’t it ironic?

3. Don’t worry about what other people think – just be yourself. If we are so busy teaching our kids to be comfortable in their own skin, why is it that we are so obsessed with changing ours? I’d venture to say that many of us would jump at the chance to have something tucked or lifted or otherwise taken back to the place where it once lived happily. We fill our heads with visions of taut bellies and superball buttocks – firm but round and bouncy. So when our kids hear us complain about our outward appearance how can they be so sure that their image is up to par, whatever that is? Isn’t that ironic?

4. Don’t talk to strangers. We spend so much time teaching our kids to avoid strangers like the plague. However, I must admit that I will eagerly chat up anyone over the age of 12 who makes eye contact with me. All this in a desperate attempt to resurrect a few brain cells that have suffered an untimely death at the hands of of all the uber happy characters who parade around on my TV teaching numbers and letters in a frenzy of mind-numbing ditties. Isn’t that ironic?

5. We do not hit! This is something I witness all too often and I find myself faced with irony number two as my inner sailor wants to verbally bitch slap the mom in question. I realize that the many views on spanking and hand slapping have started several small mommy wars. Personally, I don’t believe in using physical measures to coerce my children into good behavior. However, I am willing to agree that this is a point of disagreement between those Hit Moms and myself. Yesterday at the local bounce place, I saw a Hit Mom in action. Her child walked up to her and hit her on the leg. She quickly yanked him to her and slapped him rather hard on the hand, while proclaiming, “WE DON”T HIT!” Isn’t it ironic?

I’m not saying I’m perfect. I think we all do the best we can given the situation. Maybe it’s good for our kids to see us trip up some as long as we learn from our mistakes. Otherwise, they might grow up to be just like us. Wouldn’t that be ironic?

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