In a Better Mood

Leave it to PFunky to set me straight--and some uplifting words from Laurie to put me on a better track.*

I've been pissed off all day. On Twitter I was reading about all the "GREAT" and "FANTASTIC" plans people have for the new year. Everyone was so freaking chipper. Apparently I only follow the uber-achievers whose sole purpose in life is to make me feel like a big gigantic loser by comparison.

Where am I going? What am I going to do next? What have I accomplished so far? What do I have to show for my time on this planet? Why was it again I went away to college? And moved away from home? How the heck am I going to make the changes I really want to make in my life?

Oh yeah, and I'm going to be 40 in 2010.

It wasn't a pretty day.

Just moments ago, I was reminded that we are putting another decade on the books (I mean I knew this, but I didn't really THINK about it), and then I started to think about my life 10 years ago.

The roof that is over my head? Didn't belong to me yet.

The kind people I work for now? Hadn't met 'em yet.

The three crazy, rambunctious, big-hearted boys who make me want to both pull out all my hair and laugh hysterically every single day? One just went back home to live with his mom and the other two were a vague concept.



I may not be world-famous (yet). I may not be the hottest mommy in town (yet). I may even still have that nasty Diet Coke habit (let's not get too hasty with our resolutions), but I do have a life I couldn't conceive of just ten years ago.

Makes me wonder how I'll look back ten years from now.


*I hope you know how much your words meant to me today--always.

I'd Wish You a Merry Christmas if I Wasn't so Freakin' Tired

Holy cow!

I had no idea how exhausted my mother must have been during the holidays when I was a kid.

I have my three boys, the husband, my parents and brother in town. Not THAT many people, and I'm bushed.

My mom worked as an ER nurse when I was Santa-believing age. She regularly hosted twice as many people in a smaller house on a much smaller salary and never let us see her crack--not even once.

I am not worthy.

I'm 39 years old and it's taken me this many years to get all of my presents wrapped before Christmas Eve...to have a dinner prepared the night my parents arrive (what? I take them to restaurants with cloth napkins!).

Mom hasn't had to cook one thing so far this holiday (sure she just arrived this afternoon), I have all the groceries purchased for meals through Friday (even stuff for lunches) and I'm almost done with my cooking (yeah, so I'll be up REALLY late).

But I'm kinda proud of myself.

I also can't see straight let alone carry on a conversation with anyone.

So if you don't hear from me for a few days, it's not because I don't love you. I do. But the torch has been passed and I'm the "mom" of the family now, and pretending to be organized is EXHAUSTING.

Merry Christmas!!!

Bottles on a Shelf

I've been listening to your personal jam session with Rock Band for the past hour and it makes me want to bottle you up so I can enjoy this moment over and over. Oh the shelf that bottle would sit on! It would be nestled in among thousands of other tiny glass jars--the ones holding the sounds of your baby giggles or the one that holds the image of your smile the day of your first tball game.

If only I could have a shelf like that. One that I could visit any time to relive those experiences again and again.

Tonight you're five. You haven't mastered reading yet, so you sing the words you know by heart and fudge the rest adding in woots and yeahs as you see fit.

No stage fright. No performance anxiety. You haven't discovered those yet.

There are tears in my eyes and my heart feels like it's ready to burst just listening to you sing without a care in the world. I wish I could keep the world this way for you forever--the way it is right now. But I can't keep those bottles on the shelf and I can't stop you from growing up.

My hope however is this: No matter how old you are you'll always sing with abandon and be exactly who you want to be regardless of who is watching.

So Many Interests, So Little Time

My desire to learn about so many things and to master (okay become proficient) a number of skills has reached epic level.

And this whole oh yeah I'm a political consultant thing can get in the way some days.

Plus? Sleeping?

How am I going to become a world famous photographer/knitter/gardener/well-read/self-actualized/uber-Mom/social media maven/baseball parent with all this work and sleep taking up my time?!

I've already given up the laundry, cooking and most of the cleaning (until my parents come in town or I'm hosting a real party), and still there is never enough time. This doesn't even take into account the roots and eyebrows that constantly require maintenance.

Oh and also I should have added "organized, beautiful home-owning and fabulously fashionable" to my list above.

Shit.

Guess we're all going to have to settle for friendly chick.

DC Acronyms Attack--FDA, TSA, CFPA

If you live in the DC area long enough, you get used to the myriad of government acronyms. I have friends who work for the CIA, DEA, ICE, BATF, IRS, DOT, OMB, FEC, DOJ and a host of others.

I learned about yet another new acronym today. Emily and Cooper over at The Motherhood pointed me to a recent announcement by the White House calling for Congress to form the CFPA or the Consumer Financial Protection Agency. You can read more about it here and here.

The White House, in an effort to expand online engagement, is reaching out to a variety of online communities--including mom bloggers--to take our questions about financial regulatory reform.

FINALLY, someone who wants to talk to me as a mom blogger about something besides diapers! And its The White House no less! I couldn't be happier that our elected officials are beginning to understand the role of mothers (all parents, really) as financial decision makers and the effect stable markets have on our day to day life.

Upon Emily and Cooper's encouragement, I submitted the following questions.

1. What effect will the proposed Consumer Financial Protection Agency (CFPA) have on current regulatory agencies? Will regulators and rules be consolidated under this new umbrella? Which agencies in particular will be moved? How long will it take to streamline the process? How will overlapping regulations or loopholes be closed if contradictions exist?

2. Which, if any, provisions will be put in place under this new agency to protect those Americans who practice fiscal responsibility? In other words, which specific provisions will be put in place to make it more lucrative for financial institutions to conduct honest business with financially responsible clients rather than what they can stand to gain by exploiting those who are in desperate financial situations?

Tomorrow, the Chair of the Council of Economic Advisers, Dr. Christina Romer, a mom of three herself, will answer our questions directly by video.

I wonder if mine will make the cut. You know I'll keep you posted.

I'm Grateful for My Kids...Really...I am. Wha?!

So I was charged with the task of creating a video post talking about what I am grateful for in my life. Yesterday was crazy. I woke up late and rushed around the rest of the day trying to make up for it. I don't have video skills. I knew there was no way I was going to edit up some fantastic piece in one day and properly give tribute to all of the things I'm grateful for.

But I had a video camera.

And of course I had my kids (they're always hanging around).

What a brilliant idea! I'll film my kids being sweet and loving and talk about how much they've changed my life...enriched it.

They were more interested in the cat.*



I've developed an enhanced sense of humor since having kids (I had to). I think that's pretty cool.



And yes that was my underwear you saw flying behind my head. So much for the folded clothes--and my dignity.

*No children were seriously injured in the making of this video and the cat had already hidden herself far away from the crazies. Though head-butted by his younger brother, my middle son has his mother's hard head and popped up unscathed just moments later.

Today I Was the Mean Mommy (insert evil cackle here)

Yesterday's rain storms left us with a gorgeous day today.


My garden needing weeding, the carport needed organizing and well who doesn't want to spend some time at the pool. But were the adults in this family doing that today?

No.

There we were pulling everything out of the car port so we could power wash the siding to remove the dirt encrusted spray of what looked like a case of soda. (I'm not sure it wasn't that much.)

Apparently, when you get a group of kids together and provide them with an ice tub full of soda it's really fun to shake them up and spray them at each other.

So we're pulling out trash cans, setting up the power washer (and fighting over who gets to use it) when I look inside and notice that all three of our boys are inside in the air conditioning sitting out the couch playing video games.

Oh no they weren't!!

All of the sudden I had a wonderful idea!

Boys come here please. Go get the bucket, a few scrub brushes and sponges and the dish soap and come out here please.

The boys were going to learn a lesson.

Oh cool! Yay bubbles! Can we wash the car next?



Yeah that lasted five minutes.



My arm hurts.

I'm doing all the work.

I've been scrubbing for 20 minutes and it won't come off.

You're a horrible mom.

Why yes my children. Yes I am. But my siding is clean and I'm thinking the next time you go to shake up a soda you might remember all the fun you had today.

Cue the Mommy War

The mommy wars draw lots of attention. People like nothing more than women fighting whether it's over a man or about how to raise children or in mud.

I hate nothing more.

As women, we moved apart during the Industrial Revolution. We moved to cities--away from our families and away from the women who were our support systems. The focus of our attention became the men who brought home a paycheck. We began to see one another as a threat rather than an extension of our network.

That's just dumb (my intelligence is blinding, no?).

I say this all in an effort to mitigate any comments that might be made about what I am about to write next.

cue the whining...

It's summer. My kids are home. Family events are taking place. The weather is gorgeous. My garden needs attention. My house is a mess.

I WANT TO STAY HOME. I DON'T WANT TO GO TO THE OFFICE ANYMORE.

Stupid money and bills and luxuries and travel. If it weren't for you, I'd be job-title free!

And poor.

Oh well. Back to work.

Dear Small People in My Bed

Dear Small People* Who Climb into Bed with me at Night,

It sends warm fuzzy feelings directly to my heart just thinking about the fact that the most comforting thing to you is to sleep nestled up against me.

BUT, we must have some rules. Trust me, following these will come in handy later in life. I can’t get into the WHY now, but I promise. I’m your mom. Would I lie to you?

1. Humans lie PARALLEL to each other in bed.
   
   
2. Limbs are to remain still--even during dream state. Flinging and flailing of extremities is strictly prohibited.
   
   
3. Wetting the bed is not appreciated—especially when you leave your co-sleeper with the wet spot to sleep in.
   
   
4. All nails must be trimmed neatly. Drawing blood is highly frowned upon by most except for the random girls who read Twilight one too many times and really?? That trend will be tired by the time you’re old enough to understand what a freak your mom is for giving you these helpful hints for “co-sleeping.”
   

Love,
Mom**

*No! I’m not talking about THOSE little people, I finished with that phase back in '97. Jeez, keep up!

**The same mom who worries weekly about the kind of mate you will make later in life, and winces just a little each day for the men or women who might have to live with your love of fart humor and inability to pee INTO the toilet.

A Note to My Youngest on His Last Day of Preschool

Tonight you asked how many sleeps you had until Kindergarten. Telling you it was almost 100 would have been so overwhelming especially since you can't count that high yet.

But in a year from now?

You'll be counting the stars. You'll be reading. You'll know what to do during a fire drill.

Once you start Kindergarten, you'll probably be broken of the verbal habits we've let slide because you're our youngest and damn if they aren't cute.

No more will you tell me about how you "runned" on the playground. Next baseball season you won't ask me if we can go to the "'session" stand. And I'm guessing that your favorite toys will cease to be described as "mines."

I mean you've already left "sanks" (thanks) and "pickels" (testicles) behind.

Guess I'll just have to savor every last one of my 100 opportunities to get you into your "jamas" before school starts up again in the fall.

"White Trash Mom" Not A Look, but a Way of Life

"White Trash Mom" You may bristle at the term.

I'm still a bit sensitive to it from time-to-time, but I've met Michelle Lamar in real life (oh alright, I love her). There isn't a mean bone in that woman's body (unless you're a member of the Muffia) so I know it's not a term meant to demean but rather to unify those of us who don't feel we fit into modern June Cleaver model.

Wait, you do? Why the hell are you still here?

I'm kidding. Relax. That's what being a "White Trash Mom" is all about.

I established yesterday that I never feel like I fit in. Do you think becoming a mother rectified that?

Hardly.

When my son first came to live with us at the age of three we were so green at parenthood that we took him to happy hour with us. That stopped with #2 because I was too tired to even consider happy hour.

What was our first son's first favorite song? Faithfully by Journey. You don't think he learned to love it by me playing The Wiggles in the car do you?

My youngest son has worn nothing but baseball pants every day for the past two years. Every. Day. I'm not phased because my middle son wore flip-flops every day for two years straight often on the wrong feet or mixing pairs for months.

Will my boys be permanently scarred by my approach to motherhood?

It's entirely possible, but pretty unlikely.

And it's not like they aren't going to dysfunctional adults one way or another. I mean look at our parents (of course, not you Mom). They grew up in the June Cleaver generation.

If the way I mother my boys qualifies me as a "White Trash Mom" according to Michelle, then RIGHT ON!

My oldest just made the Honor Roll, my second is reading ahead of grade level and my youngest has been helping me fold laundry.

Doesn't get much better than that.

This post was written as part of the SV Moms Book Club. Check out DC Metro Moms to see links to other posts about the book.

Your Blue Eyes

I have a feeling I'm only the first woman who will fall in love with those eyes of yours.

I don't know if it's their dark blue color, those ridiculously long eye-lashes or the ever-present sparkle that melts my heart every time.

Whatever it is, they will serve you well. Of course, you seem to already know that you little stinker.

A Spontaneous Trip

Today we were up with the birdies to head south for the last baseball game of the season. Waking up at 6:15 a.m. on a Sunday morning isn't my favorite thing to do, but the drive was beautiful with all the fall colors and it was just me and my boy.

It's not often we get to have that much time together alone.

We were done by 11:20 a.m. and ready to head home having just lost by one run in the bottom of the last inning. He just wanted to get out of there.

"I hate losing mom."

"I know but you got to get out there and play a sport you love with your friends. Think about M who played a whole season without winning and still had a smile after every game."

"Yeah, that's true, but it doesn't hurt to win every once in a while." "And you know what I hate about losing? It means we didn't do something right. We could have played better."

He was really okay. He doesn't take it as hard as some kids. And I love that he thinks about how he can make changes to affect the outcome next time.

Sorry--little bragging.

The terrific thing about living in Virginia is that we are surrounded by historical landmarks. How often do we take advantage of them? Not often. But we were up and out and it was still early and we actually had a Sunday afternoon with no plans, so I suggested a detour to Fredericksburg--just me and him--on the way home.

What a great day!

We visited Kenmore, the home of Fielding and Betty Lewis (George Washington's sister). It was built before the Civil War and is going through restoration right now.

Big A wasn't too psyched about the idea of taking a tour, but it was just the two of us on it and even without furniture in the house he was filled with questions.

He really was interested in how people lived, in how old things were, and had clearly paid attention to some of his history lessons being able to talk to the docent about Virginia history.

I walked around with a perma-grin the entire time.


Done with our tour, he then begged me to go over and visit the Fredericksburg Civil War battle site. How can you say no to a kid who wants to do more "hysterical" stuff as we joke in my family.

He could barely contain his excitement. He kept saying "do you think a confederate soldier stood here?" (I'd move one step to the left and say "no I think they stood right here.")

The Civil War has never been something that interested me greatly--until today. Walking along the trails and looking over the fields where thousands of young men were killed fighting to protect a version of their country, I was struck by how much we take for granted even in at a divisive political time such as this election.

It wasn't lost on me that those boys on that battle field could have been my boys. I owe it to those soldiers and the families who lost them to think of them and remember their sacrifice. And to be grateful for their passion to protect a country that really was still such a new experiment.

It's easy to forget sometimes.

There were plaques around the cemetery with stanzas from a poem(s?) (I still don't know which one, but will research it.) that say it better than I ever could.




I titled this photo above "hope." For the words are my wish for my boys, their children and their children's children.

A Proactive Apology

My kids won't find the embarrassing stories I share with the world if I do it on another blog.

Right?

Just in case they do, let me say this.

Boys,

I want you to know that I do remember what it was like to be a pre-teen and I'm not unsympathetic. It's just that I'm discovering there are certain traditions that are the rights of every parent. And when you become parents yourselves, I fully expect you to "torture" my grandbabies in the exact same way.

Please know my sweet things that the "fights" I put up to your attempts to fit in are only for show--and I am giggling in my head the whole time. For I know hormones are taking over your body, which is prohibiting you from exhibiting any normal sort of behavior--kinda like demonic possession without the projectile vomiting (there better not be any projectile vomiting).

Sharing some of your stories with my friends?? It's just that a mamma has to do something to maintain her sanity.

I love you forever,
Mom

Gov. Palin, Stop the Blame Game

The following letter was written by a friend of mine who is just so exasperated by Gov. Palin' that she fired off this letter off to our dinner group. It is reprinted here with her permission. You may often see her commenting on this blog as Harried Mom of Three. I'm trying to convince her to start her own blog.

Dear Ms. Palin:

As a liberal, feminist, woman, I am not upset that John McCain picked you for what your supporters deem my “opposition to a pro-life, spunky, good looking woman.” What I am opposed to is that you are a woman who seems to have gotten to the top for ONLY being pro-life, spunky and good looking and for not having any other substance.

My great hope was that when a woman was a hair’s breath away from the top office of the land that she would actually be able to handle the job. Over the last week, you have proved that you cannot handle even the largest softball of questions from Katie Couric of all people.

How, as an American citizen and a mother, am I supposed to trust that you’ll be able to outwit world leaders when you can’t even outwit America’s journalistic sweetheart?

And, please, please stop talking about journalistic "gotchas." We’re not giving you a pop quiz. We’re trying to figure out what you are made of and whether or not we want to select you for one of the most important job in this country. You should be able to answer questions thrown at you, including naming ONE newspaper from your great state that you might read in a regular basis.

I will admit that Barack Obama has never held an executive position in government--and I’m nervous about that. However, I’m willing to give him some leeway, because he’s proven on a regular basis that he’s thoughtful, intelligent and well read.

There’s a reason that “Joe Six-Pack” shouldn’t be (vice) president and it’s because it’s a hard job filled with lots of responsibilities and it involves making many important decisions.

Stop blaming the media for YOUR inability to answer questions, stop blaming liberal women for your inability to snow these voters into supporting you and stop blaming Gwen Ifill for being biased. If your running mate's campaign didn't know she wrote that book back in August when they agreed to her as moderator of your debate then I'm afraid they read the paper as infrequently as you do.

Love,

K

The Birth of the Peanut Butter Man

It was a pretty afternoon (every other hour it didn't rain today) and it started like this:


And as any parent might expect, it ended like this:

They Said It

Pardon this post for posterity, but I had to capture just a few of the lines that have been handed to me by the boys recently.

Little P (who is still 4)


Getting ready to leave for the pool:

LP: "I want a tan. I don't want to put any sunblock on so I can get a tan."

Me: "You have to wear sunblock to protect your skin. You'll still get a tan."

LP: "Not as tan as A."

Jay (his 6 y.o. brother): "Duh! You're not going to get tan. You can't be brown like A. It's how you're born."

The next day...

LP: "I still want a tan. I don't have to wear sunblock today, right."

Me: "You still need to."

LP: "No! I won't get tan."

Out on the boat watching whales:

Gramma Gramma: "LP, want to come over here and see the whales?"

LP: "No. They are very big and I am very small."

Jay (age 6)


Being ripped away from his brother's wrestling game on the PSP (which I DID NOT buy):

Me: "You know I don't like you to play that game."

Jay: "Girls just don't get sweat and blood."

Laying in bed last night:

Jay: "I love you mom. I'll love you even when you're old and dead."

Big A (who just turned 12)

*eye roll* "sigh" *eye roll* "sigh"

Everything I Learned About Baseball...

I learned through my sons.

Okay. Not really.

I mean I WAS the first girl in my hometown to play little league--information my boys find difficult to wrap their heads around and not because they don't play with girls now (they do) but because they don't seem to think it's possible that I know how to catch or throw (despite evidence to the contrary).

Baseball is all that is lived and breathed in my house. When my guys aren't out on the ballfield, they're playing it in my front yard or on the Playstation or watching it on TV.

They certainly know a lot about the game, its players, major events in baseball history, etc., but I have a sneaking suspicion that some of their facts may be questionable.

Case in point, our conversation over dinner last night:

Eldest Boy: Hey do you know what Jason Varitek* does when he's in a slump?

Middle Boy: What?? (he has a HUGE boy crush on Jason Varitek)

Eldest Boy: He wears a hot pink thong under his uniform.

And I'm thinking to myself, ouch! he's a catcher that can't be comfortable with all that up and down.

Husband: I thought that was Giambi* and it was a gold thong.

Eldest Boy: No, Giambi puts on a fake mustache. Haven't you ever seen how all of the sudden he has a mustache? It's not real. He keeps it on his nightstand.

Note to self: Explain shaving to eldest son.

*With my sincere apologies to the Jasons Varitek and Giambi. Trust me when I say my boys are big fans and at this very moment are probably considering sending me out to buy pink and gold thongs--and fake mustaches. Do you know where I can get some?

They're Just Preparing Me for the Big Injury

The Febreeze was left out after a nap-time accident.

Stupid parents.

Mr. 6 sprays Mr. 4 in the eye with the Febreeze--because what six year-old can resist a spray bottle?

So here's what I hear first:

Mr. 6: I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

One brother apologizing to the other? The sure sign something is wrong.

Mr. 4: Ow.

Mr. 4: He sprayed me in the eye.

Mr. 6 runs away.

Me: Mr. 4, you okay?

Mr. 4: My eye is wet (I'm guessing that's better than "it burns like a m-ther f-ckng jalapeno mom.").

Mr. 6: (from the other room) Well Mr. 4. at least your eye will smell good.

Do you know how hard it is not to laugh while you're trying to punish your child?

A Little Pomp in My Circumstance

You're the one "graduating" from sixth grade today, and yet I'm the one who is up early with a touch of the butterflies.

I have been your parent for eight years, but right now--right at this very moment--I know that I am and always will be your mom.

I love you buddy--with or without your curls of fury--and I couldn't be more proud of you.