Chased by Children

My Valentines: Mitzy, Lippy, Tipsy and The Eastsider

Mitzy drove. 

She makes a minivan look HOT! 

She even drove around and picked us all up (even before she heard about my accident she'd agreed to this).  On the way to dinner she warned us about the dangers of asking one of your offspring to look up an unknown word on google (sometimes you all learn something that you would rather not know).  In fact, the word (and what we learned about it) was so thoroughly disgusting and disturbing that I will not share it with you here.  This is a family show.  What?  Shut it.

Poor Lippy.

About 5 minutes into the evening, she figured out that she was in over her head with this group.  To say that she was shocked by the aforementioned google word would be quite the understatement.  However, by the end of the evening she was sharing all her secrets with us (well, technically they were her husband's secrets but.... whatever).

 Tipsy fell on the ice getting out to the car but didn't let it dampen her enthusiasm for cold beer and chicken wings. I sincerely admire that in a human being.  During the evening she was advising me on "dating" the second time around.  Her theory is that you start a list.  She did this after her divorce.  Her list was built after she'd gone on a few bad dates:

1.  He must have his GED.

2.  He must have no criminal record.

3.  He must own a car.

4.  He must have shorter hair that me.

5.  He must know more than 10 words.

I think I will keep her list and just add to it.  That's nothing if not a good start.

The Eastsider took a lot of crap from the rest of us about her choice of "going out" clothes.  She wore a Saint Whotheheck sweatshirt that said MOM across the chest.  Mitzy kept saying she would have to take it off when we got up on the bar to dance because we wouldn't want anyone to know where we were from....always thinking that Mitzy.  Tipsy commented that it was the perfect sweatshirt because when the Eastsider looked down it said "WOW". 

Such a great Valentine's Day date.  It was a hoot. 

Whats with all this "Interactive" Homework?

Tonight all three of my kids had homework that required my input....ME!  I was never good at homework.  I just didn't enjoy the mental gymnastics....I always preferred real gymnastics. 

And, by the way, MiMi's teacher calls it "home-fun".  WHO is she kidding?

I had to be interviewed by CoCo about bullying I witnessed when I was a kid (I'd forgotten how heroic I often became in the face of bullies...or that's how I told it tonight).

LuLu and I  each had to come up with the answer to what my "dream" is and write it in the middle of a dove.  She said she wanted to be a Marine Biologist....I said I wanted to win a Nobel Prize for Economics.  What?  Shut up.

And I had to write a sentence (that a kindergartener can read) about my childhood.  "It was all a boozey blur".....how's that?  Yeah.  I should still stick with the real gymnastics. 

Delayed Gratification

Okay so rather than treat myself to the nervous breakdown that I so richly deserve I have decided to keep on with my life. per say.

Today, I took the day off work because it's Catholic Schools Week and Saint Whotheheck (where I've found very supportive people in this crisis) was asking parents to come in for lunch and then some afternoon shenanigans involving math and spingo (that's spelling+bingo for the uninitiated).

So, in the time that I had this morning before the fun I decided to get some highlights.  I didn't have time for Shana to finish my "blow out" so my hair was still slightly wet when I arrived at school.

I ducked into LuLu's classroom first.

She said, "Mom!  Why did you wear your crazy hair?"

That nervous breakdown is going to feel GREAT when I get around to it. I just know it.

WHY are they so nice to me?

Like Stie at These are a few of my favorite things, I've moved around a bit.  You may already have known that because of this and this. 

But I've finally landed somewhere that is home.

I've talked ad nauseum about the lovely women in Stepford...and probably will again but today I would like to talk about the gals in my faith community of Saint Whotheheck.

They have rallied around me during my "work gig" crisis.  They make me feel like we are all in this together.  Bella regularly updates me on what's going on (after she's already cared for and fed my children).  Micha calls me and listens to me vent about work (and occasionally my children).  Putty offers to help my kids with gaps in their "mommy at school" time. There are many others who are just being supportive by giving us all extra hugs and asking what we need.  And they are all praying for us.  It's just so great.

So, in case you don't already know this Saint Whotheheck moms.  I really appreciate you and thank you so much for making this weird time in our family lives sweeter, better, lovelier, and less traumatic.

I couldn't do this without you.  I wouldn't even want to try. 

Bella's Influence

Bella is my dear friend from Saint Whotheheck who takes my kids home with her from school two days a week (now that I'm busy making bacon). 

Bella is teaching my kids things that I'm not sure it's good that they know:

• An oven is for cooking food -- not pan storage.
• Yesterday she gave them macaroni and cheese for SNACK.  And then fed them dinner later.  Around here macaroni and cheese is DINNER... on a good night.
• She helps with homework.  My idea of helping with homework is buying the pencil sharpener.
• She hugs them and fusses over them when they get hurt instead of telling them to "suck it up, sparky".

My poor children will someday have to return to normal life....and sadly they probably won't want to...

Thankful

A friend had a stroke last night.  She's 40 years-old with three kids and a full-time job.

She'd been diligently caring for her mother for the last year or so when her mother passed this fall.

Her husband had a huge corporate job but the company was acquired and while the new company kept him on for a few months they eventually gave him a package to go... since then it's been hard for him regain his old salary and eventually the package dried up, which is why she's back working full time.

As we enter this hectic season I ask that you pray for my friend, L.K.  She's an unbelievable person, full of faith and humor.  I love her and wish I could lift this incredible thing that's happened to her off of her shoulders.

And be thankful, today, right now for the life that you've been given and the blessings you have. 

The Man Yelled at Me

Today is my birthday.

Last night King George took me and our offspring out to a nice restarurant for dinner.  We don't usually take the girls to this particular restaurant but since the King has a hockey game tonight he wanted to get the celebration out of the way. ahem.

Anyway,  we had a pretty nice dinner.  Unfortunately, the kids were kind of loud and obnoxious.  We were trying our best but it was one of those perfect storm situations were nobody was in a great mood and so there was a lot of, "Hey, that's my crayon!" and some stacking and re-stacking of bread plates and some general nonsense.

I did notice a diner a few tables away give us a stern look at one point when Princess MiMi was doing her silverwear slide of hand and stealing all of the spoons on the table but since he was still waiting for the rest of his party I just assumed he was sternly wishing they'd show up already.  We'll call this guy Stern. 

Eventually the rest of Stern's party did arrive (six in total) and since the restaurant wasn't crowded they were a comfortable distance from us.  (by comfortable, of course, I mean they weren't in danger of getting any of the milk spilled directly on them).

We were finishing up and starting to get our coats on when Stern's father turned toward us and shouted, " Jeeesus  Christ!"

Stern then said to his father, " Yeah, they should really go to McDonald's if they want to eat out."

Okay.  I was immediately angry.  However, because I'm mature and classy and unflappable I did what I knew I had to do.  I sent the King and the Princesses to the car so they wouldn't witness the carnage. 

I sat in the very large booth alone for about 3 minutes wrestling with what I should do and say to these two grumpy older men.

After several deep breaths and some prayer (mostly that their insurance would cover their injuries from the can of whoop-ass I was about to open verbally) I decided that making them feel worse about themselves (I was confident that I could make them feel pretty bad about the use of J.C. in front of my children) wouldn't be something that would make me feel better.

How sad a little man do you have to be to shout across a room at a family celebrating Mommy's birthday?  Pretty sad.  I decided not to add to his suffering.   

Pummeling the Eighth Graders

Heh. Heh. Heh.  Tomorrow is the day that I live all year for...  Coaches/Teachers against the eighth grade volleyball team at Saint Whotheheck.

Who started this cruel, cruel tradition?  I don't care, they are my favorite human being on the planet.

It's a fun game, right?  Yeah, yeah, whatever.

As a nearly thirty-eight year-old aging and ever-expanding woman I get very few chances to be truly competitive.  As a coach at a Catholic school you have to be a good sport (I'm a role model).   As a consultant you have to be very non-competitive with the people you are working or they will forget your number (I need money).  On our once-a-month volleyball games (for coaches and other recovering athletes) you can compete but only until someone's knee gives out.

But tomorrow in front of my own awestruck little princesses...just for fun.  We kill 'em.  We take no prisoners.  We beat them like a drum.  We set (that's a volleyball term for setting the ball up close to the net so someone can strike it with such force that someone on the other side is injured) only the truly gifted "hitters".  We overlap the weaker teachers so they never have to touch the  ball.  We play to win, baby.  It's so wrong (on soooo many levels) but it feels GREAT!

So, tomorrow say a little prayer for the eighth grade girls at Saint Whotheheck, they are the sweetest girls ever.  But tomorrow I will crush them on the volleyball court because moments of glory are few and far between these days.  few. and. far. between.

The Days are Long...the Years are Short

  Some days I feel like I work at my children's school.   I'm a hot lunch lady (which is more fun to say than actually be), I do the Meet the Masters program (which is presentations of art and artists and demonstrations of things like how to glue your fingers together), and I coach volleyball and basketball.  I also serve on various committees for events.  I've stopped doing more than that because of scheduling conflicts (laundry).

I'm not alone in this.  At Saint Whotheheck the volunteer corp is full of women (and two guys) who do a lot every single day.  I'm told this phenomenon is not limited to parochial schools.  My public school friends also seem to have schedules full of planning meetings and events and reasons to wash their hair on a week day (don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about).

I get tired sometimes.  I feel like I do all these things for very little appreciation. Especially, when a lot of committees have things going at once and I start to feel STRESSED about VOLUNTEER work.  I bet some of you know that feeling.  And sometimes it's tempting to say, "the hell with it".

However, they are only in grade-school for such a brief fleeting portion of their lives. I love being involved (in a non-homeschooling way) with my kids during their day.  I like getting a mid-day hug and maybe a giggle.  They are still at that age when they are genuinely glad to see me.  Their eyes light up and they run (I know Mrs. S - they shouldn't run) to me.   I like that they see me serving at their school in a way that is important to them.

And while you all know that I wait for that Freedom Bus all summer long I have to admit that I like seeing them, and being involved with them, and serving them and their schoolmates.   I like them,  I really like them.   And that's why I spend my shoe shopping time pushing corn dogs.

Room Mom Olympics

My darling friend over at sAy AnYtHiNg used this as her last line yesterday.

"By the way, this seems like a good time for a reminder to all the "Room Moms" out there.  Being a "Room Mom" is neither a competitive nor a contact sport."

I laughed and laughed and laughed and then..........I stole it.  Are you seeing a theme here lately?  Don't worry, I'm headed to confession right after this.

Since we've moved around quite a bit and have been at several schools I have been able to study the "school mom" phenomenon from many perspectives.  I've always been active at my kid's schools because I spend much of my day worrying about what they are doing.  My anxiety about what sorts of trouble they could possibly get into is assuaged somewhat if I get to spy on them.

Anyway,  the war criminals still missing from Hitler's regime have taken up residence in several lovely towns across America.  I personally have seen these Nazis (in drag) in Indiana, Minnesota, New Hampshire and Illinois.  These women are evil.

There is a group in an established suburb of St. Paul, MN that runs the whole school out of a weekly "scrapbooking" get-together.  How do you break into the volunteer corp at that school?  YOU HAVE TO GET INVITED TO SCRAPBOOK, then you will be considered for  a role other than the death defying "direct traffic at much personal peril" job every day after school.  I never broke into that group and so risked life and limb for a whole year.  Oh how I wanted to help with Brownies or run a game at the fun fair....it was not to be. 

At a school in New Hampshire we had one mom who did EVERYTHING.  Well, that is a bit misleading.  She just wanted to lead, chair, preside over everything.  She didn't really do any work other than lead meetings to determine WHO was going to do the work.  It didn't help that she was 6" tall.  She had the people skills of Attila the Hun.

I could go on and on but why would you want to read that?  In summary, it seems that some frustrated "Type A" stay-at-home moms are determined to ruin it for the rest of us by running roughshod over other people in the name of "getting things done".   I hope that this ebbs at some point but just to remind you: 

"By the way, this seems like a good time for a reminder to all the "Room Moms" out there.  Being a "Room Mom" is neither a competitive nor a contact sport."