The life and times of a stay-at-home mom who yearns for greatness without ever actually getting off the couch.

FRRREEEEEEEEDDDOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!

Thu, 25 Feb 2010 18:16:51 -0800

As much as I now abhor Mel Gibson, that primal roar he delivered in “Braveheart” will always be a classic. And it’s echoing in my head now, as I finish packing up for a long overdue, romantical weekend with The Hubs, sans kiddos.
WWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay, yeah, I’m kinda excited. We aren’t going far, or anywhere particularly glamourous and it’s supposed to rain, but dammit, we’re going and we’re going together and we’re not taking the kids. I don’t care if we stay in the damn Motel6, as long as I get to sleep as long as I want and snuggle the Hubs without a kid between us and eat a meal that doesn’t come in a paper bag. I don’t ask for much, people. It don’t take a whole lot to put a smile on my face. So, yeah, I’m smiling.
It’s a particularly lucky break that we’re going THIS weekend, as this is the opening weekend for Little League in our town. This involved getting the kids to a freezing parking lot by 8am on a Saturday, decorating some poor schlub’s pickup truck with balloons and streamers and whatever more creative people than I come up with, and then racing to the baseball field across town to watch all the kids riding in the back of the pickups arrive with horns blaring and cameras flashing. Then there’s a (way too) long ceremony with the Pledge of Allegiance and the National Anthem and a bunch of speeches, which is always the worst part for me, since 1. I usually can’t hear from whatever random place I’m standing and 2. when they do the anthem, they make the kids take their baseball hats off and my poor David has to stand there all bald and nekkie in front of everyone and I’m not allowed to run down there an beat anyone up for laughing. Following the formalities, there is a “carnival” that consists of a bouncy slide and a raffle and the indescribable joy of wrangling 500 boys for team pictures. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to be missing all that “fun”.
I feel a little twinge of guilt, knowing that I’m sending my dad into the fray for me this weekend, but hey, he picked the weekend, not me. I’m just getting the hell outa Dodge while the getting’s good. Anyway, between my dad, my stepmom, my 21-year-old niece and my brother, I’m sure they’ll be able to handle things. And I’ll honestly be a little (teeny) bit sad to miss the cute photo ops.
But, then I remember: FREEDOM!
So, I’m gonna go finish packing up. I’ll see y’all on the flip side! I’ll be that really relaxed person that you don’t recognize.

Quitting is for Losers

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 10:22:35 -0800

So, ya see that kid? Cute right? Yeah. Anyway, while his brother may have been put on this earth to test my patience, that kid was put here to test my intelligence. Which I used to have plenty of, but seem to have misplaced somewhere. Seriously. I used to be REALLY smart. Now I can barely tie my own shoes. Which is particularly inconvenient, since I have this genius-y kid who is just as stubborn and defiant (and awesome) as I was as a kid. And in the daily parent vs kid war, he’s winning.

You see, David’s not the kind of kid that you can order around. He’ll literally cross his arms on his chest, dig his heels in and utterly refuse to move. And he’s heavy. So, when the kid decides that he’s NOT GOING to baseball practice/guitar lesson/dinner, it’s like running into a brick wall. At speed.

I’ve tried taking away privileges and toys and technology. I’ve tried yelling and threatening and (don’t freak out) spanking. I’ve tried reasoning and logic. But did I mention the stubborn thing? Oy. Stub. Born. He’ll yell and storm off and slam doors, regardless of the no yelling or slamming doors rules in our house. If I follow him, try to discipline him or calm him down, he just escalates and runs away and makes me want to put us both on the 5:00 news. So, yeah, I’ve learned to give him his space. But mostly, I lose the power struggles. I lose them a lot. Oftener than I’d like to admit, in fact. Stubborn little bastard. I blame his father. CERTAINLY he doesn’t get that from ME. *snort*

Here’s what happens:
Me: David! It’s time to practice your guitar! C’mon honey!
D: NO. I’m busy.
Me: No you’re not. You’re playing video games. This is the deal. C’mon buddy.
D: NO! I HATE GUITAR!
Me. No you don’t. Practicing is hard. I’ll help. Let’s go!
D: *silence*
Me: *going into D’s room* C’mon dude. Turn it off.
D: NOOOOO!!!!!! I’M NOT PRACTICING!!!!! *runs outside*
Me: GAHHH! Do I need to take your X-Box away?
D: I DON’T CARE!!! TAKE TV TOO!!! I’M NOT PLAYING THAT DUMB GUITAR!!!! I HATE GUITAR!!!! WHY DO YOU MAKE ME DO ALL THIS DUMB STUFF????
Me: *sigh* Because you begged for guitar lessons, dude. And because I’m mean. Get your butt in here. Now.
D: *jumping on trampoline* NOOOooooooooo!!!!!
Me: Do I have to count? No video games. No TV. One....two......
D: FINE!!!!!! *stomps in house* *slams door* *picks up guitar* I CAN’T DO THIS!!!!! *drops guitar on the floor and runs upstairs crying*
Me: *looks for wine*

Feel free to substitute homework/baseball practice/walk the dog/come to dinner for “guitar”. It all plays out pretty much the same way.

He says he wants to quit guitar. And baseball. And tennis. Any anything that isn’t sitting on his ass playing X-Box. And these are all things he’s BEGGED for. Things he promised he would work at and not quit as soon as it got hard or boring. Things I’ve payed a shitload of money to sign him up for. And it’s not like it’s all at the same time and he’s one of those over-scheduled kids with no free time. We only do one or two activities at any given time. Currently, it’s guitar and baseball. THAT’S IT. No scouts. No religious school. No tutoring or enrichment or language. But he wants to quit. Because it’s HARD. And sometimes I want to quit. Because you know what? Parenting is fucking hard. BUT IF *I* DON’T GET TO QUIT, NEITHER DO YOU, PAL!

I don’t want to raise a quitter. I don’t want to raise a son who cuts and runs as soon as the shine wears off. But I don’t want to be that horrid troll of a mother who follows him around nagging and yelling and making his life miserable. Nobody likes that. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to properly motivate him. Bribes don’t work. Threats don’t work. He’s offered to let me throw out all his toys, all his video games, (FINE!!!) as long as I leave him alone and don’t make him do whatever dreadful thing I’m trying to make him do.

And the REALLY annoying part? The part that REALLY makes me want to injure the little shit? Once we’re there, he usually loves whatever we’re doing and grins so big it looks like his face is going to crack in half. That bike ride at the beach that he threw a fit about going on? Loved it. That baseball workshop he slammed doors over? “It was awesome, mom.” That “super-gross-I’m-SO-not-gonna-eat-that” pasta? Plate cleaned. I KNOW what he likes, and I don’t make him do crappy stuff that he hates. Even the homework is no trouble for him, if I can only get him to sit his ass down and do the damn stuff. But the trauma! OMFG, everything is like TORTURE. And I’m so sick of fighting over every single activity. So. Tired.

I’ve run out of creative ways to entice him anywhere. I can’t out-argue him. I can’t out-smart him. The whole thing makes me feel like an idiot. A weak, whiny, naggy, pushover of a mom, raising a spoiled, rude quitter of a kid. It’s not a picture I enjoy. I used to be smart. I used to think I could figure anything out, solve any problem. I don’t think that anymore.

All I know is that I’m not quitting on him. And I’m not letting him quit. Nobody’s quitting a damn thing, thankyouverymuch.

Quitting is for losers.

I’m that woman

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 17:44:17 -0800

When I was a teenager, there was this one girl that no one liked. And she had no idea. Which drove me nuts! I mean, sure, no one ever actually told her to her face that she was a waste of oxygen, but as I am not particularly good at hiding my thoughts, I figured it was obvious how *I* felt. I avoided her like the plague. I rolled my eyes when she showed up. I was *never* nice to her. Ever. And I wasn’t the only one. Our group made a collective groan whenever we saw her coming. I thought she must have been the biggest idiot on earth, not to know how we felt. Or maybe she just didn’t mind hanging out with people who loathed her. Which annoyed me even more. I mean, how pathetic could you get? (I was kind of a bitch when I was 17. I admit it. Let’s hope I’ve grown up a bit since then, m’kay?)
I *know* you guys know what I’m talking about. I’m ashamed of how cruel I was as a kid, but even now, although I try to be accepting of everyone and welcome all sorts, somehow, in any large group of people, there is always that one person that nobody really likes. Maybe there is a hygiene problem, or a weird vibe, or just an obnoxious way about them. Maybe that person is just freaking annoying. Too everyone. And everyone knows that everyone else is annoyed by that person. And nobody says anything, they just roll their eyes, and avoid, and fail to pass on invitations.
I’m starting to wonder if *I’m* that person. The annoying one. The one people avoid like the plague. I’m afraid I’m becoming my mother. When I was a kid, no one wanted to invite that weird kid over, the one with the crazy mom. I’m not sure which of us was scarier: me for not knowing how to be a kid and just play, or her, for being a total whackadoodle nut-job. Anyhoo, popular, I was not. So, now.... ah, now. Now I am an adult, a parent, and in theory, healed (-ish). I should be past counting birthday invitations and coffee dates and book clubs. I should.
But I can’t help but obsess over it. Why doesn’t anyone invite my kids over for playdates? Why do the playdates I try to set up always fail? Why does no one want to carpool with me? Do their kids not want to play with my kids? Or do they just not want to deal with me? Why don’t I have any really close girlfriends? No one to go out to coffee with me, or see Valentine’s Day (which I totally still want to see, btw) or go shopping? Am I the only one who feels this way? Is everyone as lonely as I am?
I reach out on this blog. I reach out on Twitter and Facebook. But I think even my cyber-self is being shunned. Tap-tap-tap. Is this thing on?
Maybe I’m just making all this up. Maybe I’m just really fucking insecure. Maybe people are just busy with their lives. Maybe they like me just fine, and I’m freaking out over nothing. Maybe not *everything* is about me. Maybe.
Or is it true? Am I *that* woman?
Somebody? Tell me I’m not. Or tell me I am and how to change.
Just tell me you can hear me.
Shit. None of you are ever talking to me again, are you. I just totally freaked you out.
Balls.

Stupid Hallmark/Hershey’s Holiday

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 18:03:49 -0800

Valentine’s Day is in two days. Which annoys me in oh-so-many ways. It’s annoying with the ubiquitous jewelry store commercials. It’s annoying with the “Very Special Episodes” that every show on TV seems to feel is required. It’s annoying with the inescapable chocolate sitting on every flat surface in America. And it’s annoying with the guilt and obligation I feel as the day approaches.
For a day that’s supposed to be filled with love and romance, Valentine’s Day feels pretty crappy. In fact, it’s always felt crappy. It felt crappy as a kid, when the boy I liked never liked me back. It felt crappy as a teenager, when I was ALWAYS alone on Valentine’s Day, until I wasn’t anymore, and then it was all pressure-y and awkward and, yeah, still crappy. And it’s crappy now, as a married mom with three males in the house who SHOULD be making Valentine’s Day lovely, but it never works out that way.
It’s not that my husband isn’t romantic and wonderful at the gifting, because he is. It’s that I’m not. I can’t create a romantic Valentine’s Day to save my life. I suck at picking out gifts, and on this day, I’m not sure I should be doing anything at all. I mean, isn’t it the guy’s job to do all the work on Valentine’s Day? So, let’s say I do nothing. Then I feel guilty for doing nothing. Let’s say I buy flowers/gift/candy. It’s lame and awkward because he’s trying to pretend that it’s not lame. (Me = Lame)
This year, I’m especially bitter because I don’t want anyone in this house to spend any money. Especially guilt money. It’s a lean year at Casa de Shnerfle, as it is in most casas, these days, and I’d like us to be smarter about our (lack of) fundage. So, no, I don’t need anyone buying any pink iPods or sparkly things or lingerie that we all know I’ll look awful in anyway, especially when the kids walk in and want to know what all that noise is about. Oy. *pours more wine*
You know what else I don’t need? More fucking chocolate. Not that I don’t LOVE chocolate. It’s just that I have zero self-control and if it’s available, I’m eating it. Right now, I can’t go anywhere without chocolate staring me in the face. It’s on every counter in every office and every store everywhere. And to top it off, the kids came home from school today with bags of the damn stuff. I feel like an alcoholic in a brewery.
And the worst part is that I realize that this whole freaking “holiday” is something Hallmark and Hershey’s and whoever cooked up to make us feel guilty. It’s a minor saint’s day that’s been inflated into mid-winter misery. And knowing this, I still get all anxious about the whole thing. I’m still all, “Omigod! It’s two days away and I don’t know what I’m doing for Tommy and I know he’s gonna do something awesome and I’m gonna look like an asshole and omigodWTF somebody shoot me!” *pours another glass of wine*
So, yeah, I’m not a fan of Valentine’s Day. I’d rather feel loved all year, anyway, than hang all my hopes on one day of heart-shaped everything. Damn, my kids don’t even want to be my Valentine anymore, because, “Ew, Mom! That’s gross!” So, really, what’s left?
Wine. That’s what’s left. Well, there’s not much left, but enough for another glass, anyway.
*pours*

The (no) Food That They (won't) Eat

Tue, 2 Feb 2010 17:15:08 -0800

So, the other day, I made this uber-yummy beef stew, since it was all rainy and cold and the crock pot is about as close as I ever get to cooking. And as I make it, I tweeted that my kids probably wouldn’t eat it. And I was totally right, by the way, as I SO OFTEN AM. Anyhooo, that tweet prompted a friend of mine to call me and suggest ways to get my kids to eat what I want them to eat, like the old standby: “Fine. Don’t eat it now. You’ll just get it again for breakfast/lunch/dinner/whenever-you-want-to-eat-again.” She told me that I was “nicer” than she is. Which is true, by the way. I AM nicer than she is. As evidenced by my not calling her to suggest that she is a less-than-stellar parent. But really, the menu thing really isn’t about how nice I may or may not be. It’s about choosing my battles.
I would say that David has always been a picky eater, except that “picky” doesn’t come close to describing his eating habits. The kid doesn’t eat anything but bread or milk without a fight. And he’s 9, people. Nine fucking years old, and he still won’t eat more than a handful of different things. Cheeseburgers. Chicken nuggets. Corn dogs. Kraft Mac & Cheese (not Annie’s, not the kids with *actual* cheese). Cheese pizza. These are our dinner options. Sure, there are a couple of fruits and veggies in there, but for the most part, we’re limited to the kid’s menu at Applebee’s.
Matty is both better and worse. He’ll try new foods and he likes meat, so that’s a plus, but the only veggie I can get in his mouth is corn, and he has a strict “NO FRUIT” policy. If I dangle ice cream, I can get him to choke down a couple of bites of an apple, but that’s it. And don’t ask if I have tried this fruit or that fruit, because the answer is, “Yes. I have tried that one. Shut up.” I have tried them ALL.
So, yeah, feeding my kids is frustrating and annoying and a royal pain in the ass, but I’m not asking for advice or sneaky tricks or menu suggestions. I’m saying that I’m not going to war on this one. I’m not fighting this battle anymore. This is not my Everest and I have no wish to die on this mountain. Because I know, without a doubt, that my kids can out-stubborn me. They will win and I will resort to drinking my dinners. So, why should spend my evenings banging my head against a wall?
They are healthy. They are taller than average. They are smart and funny and sweet and healthy. My boys are just fine, thankyouverymuch. So, I’m just gonna keep making chicken nuggets on the side at dinner time, and they can decide to eat regular food whenever they get around to it. Someday they’ll be grownups and they will feed themselves (assuming I don’t kill them for some other offense). And I refuse to be the Food Nazi. I’d rather be the Homework Nazi or the Music Nazi or the Leave-Your-Brother-The-Hell-Alone Nazi.
Which is not to say that I don’t reserve the right to bitch about what little freaks they are that they don’t love their dad’s famous spaghetti. I get to bitch. But I’m not going to let dinner become WWIII. I am not going to war with my kids over what they eat or don’t eat or try and then spit out. I’ve surrendered this one to the powers-that-be. They can live on nuggets and mac & cheese & apple juice. And I’m totally okay with that.

Good Dog, Quincy

Tue, 26 Jan 2010 17:31:06 -0800

When Tommy and I first got married, we had a female rottweiler. Tommy felt like that wasn’t macho enough to balance out the two cats I brought into the equation, and wanted a male rottie to tip the scales. Of course I told him he was insane. And of course, secretly, I was talking to breeders, trying to surprise him with a puppy for his birthday. I found the perfect specimen, and Tommy found me out through channels I have yet to identify. So, we brought his “surprise” puppy home and bought a king-size bed to accommodate our growing family. We named him Quincy, as that seemed an appropriate companion for our Roxy. That was 13 years ago.

Today, I took Quincy to the vet and held him as he took his last breath. I wept over the dog I never really wanted, but fell in love with anyway. Tears fell on his dusty fur as I sobbed and stroked his head and thanked him for all his years of dumb, doggy goodness, all the goofy looks on his face, all the laughter and frustration and stolen plates of food. I thanked him for always being the butt of the joke and the assumed source of all unpleasant odors. I cried for the dog who had let my babies use him as a ladder to the couch, a pillow and a walking aide. I smiled and pictured him as he once was, full of puppy energy, bounding through the Carolina woods after a deer he would never catch. I remembered the one time he plowed me over, ass over teakettle, and kept going, always the little brother to Roxy, nipping at her, chasing her, snuggling her at night, getting caught for her more clever assays into the kitchen trash.
There is a series of books, by Alexandra Day, called “Good Dog, Carl”, about a rottweiler that takes care of a little girl. I always loved those books for the way the gorgeous watercolor illustrations managed to capture the exact postures and expressions of Carl the rottweiler. Quincy looked just like him. He wasn’t nearly as smart, but he was sweet and gentle and loved children. Before he started to suffer from arthritis, he used to give toddlers “pony rides” around the baseball field. He licked our fingers clean. Our faces. We called him “Pumpkin Head” after his big, empty melon of a skull.

The worst part of living with dogs is saying goodbye. And as much as I kept wishing he would go in his sleep and spare me the decision, I was grateful every morning, that he was still there. Tommy made the decision for us. It had been a long road of painkillers and carrying Quincy downstairs in the mornings when he couldn’t navigate the steps anymore. It hurt me to watch him struggle to get to his feet, or slowly lower himself back down onto hips bare of flesh, ribs and spine clearly visible. Almost all of his tan spots had gone white and I’ve never met an older rottie. I knew it was coming, but I couldn’t make the call. I couldn’t decide when his life was no longer worth living.. I mean, yeah, I know it’s a gift we give them, to spare them the worst of the pain, the lingering. And I wish we allowed ourselves such luxury. But without the power of speech to tell me when he was ready, I couldn’t know. I told myself he was happy sleeping all day, following me from room to room, begging for food from our plates with his rheumy eyes, but he was completely deaf. His feet dragged as he walked. He kept losing weight, then more weight. The dog who had weighed in at 130 lbs. in his prime, was now under 80.

He traveled in a fog, levering himself up from the floor to find us, then slowly agonizingly, lowering himself back down, and back to sleep when he had found us. At times, the wood floors were too slippery for him to gain traction, and he needed a boost. Other times, he would attempt the stairs, only to slip and slide all the way down, legs splayed, nails scrabbling for purchase. He rested at the bottom for a while before trying to get up and walk. I would have done the same.
Monday morning, Tommy carried him down the stairs and tried to let him into the yard, but Quincy headed for his favorite sleeping spot instead. When Tom put a hand on his neck, to guide him toward the door, Quincy growled and snapped at his master, his hero, his absolute favorite person on Earth. And Tommy knew it was time. Whether Quincy was too disoriented to know better, or in too much pain to bear the touch, we’ll never know. We do know that we couldn’t take the chance of him snapping at one of the boys. Even an ancient, underweight, tottering shadow of a rottie can do big damage to little limbs.
I made excuses: I had forgotten a dose of his painkillers. Maybe he was just surprised, since he couldn’t hear anyone coming. Maybe it was just the weather making him worse. Maybe we could up his dosages?
We sat the boys down and read them The Rainbow Bridge. They understood better than I did. We gave Quincy lots of extra love and table scraps that night. The next morning, While I was taking the kids to school, Tommy called me to tell me that Quincy had fallen down the stairs again. I came home and we called the vet. It was time.
Tommy had a meeting, so I took Quincy for his last car ride by myself. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to get him in the car by myself, since he couldn’t jump in, but he was so light, I lifted him without any trouble. At the vet’s office, the tears came as I asked the tech, the doctor, “Am I doing the right thing? Tell me I’m doing the right thing...” They told me how 13 is an amazing age for a rottie, how it’s a blessing to let them go before things get really ugly, how they’d been in my position before. It helped. A little.
The process is fast and peaceful and somehow too easy. It shouldn’t be that easy to take a life, so quiet, so effortless. He put his head down as he fell asleep. Then they stopped his heart. He was gone in seconds. I held him through it all, and sobbed like a child, unashamedly. No one judged me.
In looking back, I guess it was silly that I talked to him as he lay there on the floor. He had been deaf for months. but all the same, I talked to him. I told him I loved him. I told him everything would be okay. And I told him what he always loved to hear.
Good dog, Quincy.