The Sins of the Mother

Oh Lordy. The results are in for the first Principal Pal awards of the school year. And I just have one question: who do I have to fuck to get a Principal Pal magnet on my car? 

Seriously. 

I’ll do it. Just point me in the direction of the person or committee or farm animal who decides this thing and it shall be done. And I’m pretty sure my husband will support me on this, if for no other reason than to get me to stop whining about it. 

Honestly people. I swear, I may be driving the only mini van in my neighborhood without one or more of these hideous magnets plastered to the side of it celebrating my children’s excellence. Oh, the shame! Clearly, my kids and I totally suck. 

For real, yo. Neither of my school age kids have ever, EVER gotten one of these awards and it is totally burning my biscuits. 

My neighbor Tammy’s little boy wins one of these God damned awards EVERY FREAKING YEAR like clockwork. And you know what she says every month when I call her in tears to say that once more, I am destined to wander this lonely planet without a Principal Pal magnet on my car? She says, “Oh honey… you want one of mine?” I swear. And she is my best friend. Imagine what people who don’t like me say. Besides, if I just wanted the magnet, I would have stolen one (or four) of Tammy’s by now. That’s not the point.

The point is… I want what every parent wants. I want my kids to be excellent at something and for them (and me) to be recognized in a very public way for it. Is that so wrong? Oh, a full night of sleep and the ability to poop in private every once in a while wouldn’t hurt either, but let’s focus here. 

Look, I totally get why my first grade wild child “Klepto” hasn’t ever received this award. She is a force of nature and not easily tolerated by those with weaker constitutions. In fact, for the second year in a row, Klepto has been assigned to a teacher who has recently been named “Teacher of the Year” at our school. This is no coincidence, people. But poor Klepto, she has no idea. She thinks she is just the most randomly lucky kid ever. Kinda cute, actually. Shhh…. nobody tell her, OK? 

But Nature Boy? My 4th grade, first born? The kid is a saint. Seriously. Ask anyone. He is truly the kindest, gentlest, most empathetic person I’ve ever known, regardless of age. I have no earthly idea how this child could possibly attend this school since first grade and have never won this award even once. I’ll do the math for you. Three full years, with approximately 10 months of school in a year, plus one month so far this year… that is 31 times he has NOT been chosen. THIRTY ONE TIMES. The poor kid! But really, HIS POOR MAMA!!!

Look at it this way, if every class he’s been in so far had about 20 kids, and there are 10 awards given per class each year, that means he has had a 50% chance to win it sometime each year. Three years running now. 

But no. Never. 

AND IT IS KILLING ME. 

Here’s a snippet of the email his teacher sent out today:

Congratulations to Amanda B. for her selection this year’s first Principal Pal! With such a great group, narrowing the choice down to one classmate is not easy! However, due to Ms. Amanda’s consistent hard work, good citizenship, and generous nature, her peers were very happy to recognize her accomplishments. We’re proud of you, Amanda! 

Damn. It. To. Hell.

I’m not proud of you Amanda. I’m jealous and bitter. I mean, what does Amanda have that my Nature Boy doesn’t? 

Does Amanda’s mom volunteer more than I do? Probably. 

Does Amanda’s family donate more money to the PTA? Most definitely. 

Last week when the PTA newsletter contained an obscene typo indicating that children and parents should “Service one another,” (it was supposed to say “Serve one another”… BIG difference!) did Amanda’s mom slam the PTA and notify everyone in the free world about it with her Tweets and Facebook updates like I did? No. Probably not. 

Oh dear. It’s my fault, isn’t it. I’m the reason my children suffer.

Have mercy on them, PTA. Judge not the child for the sins of the mother. 

So, instead of continuing to torture myself, it looks like the best course of action for me is to just accept the things I cannot change. Gee, that sounds familiar… where have I heard that before? 

And speaking of higher powers… you know who else never got chosen for Principal Pal? 

Jesus. 

So at least there’s that. Although, in his case, it probably wasn’t because of his crazy mother. 

In closing, please pray for my children; they clearly need all the help they can get. And if you happen to have an “in” with the principal of their school, do me a favor and put in a good word for Nature Boy before I get arrested for petty burglary or lewd conduct… again.

Thank you kindly!

Sweatin’ with the Oldies

Know what I hate more than anything about going to the gym? It’s not the pain, it’s not the time out of my busy child-rearing/husband-wrangling schedule, it’s not even the increased risk of contracting necrotizing fasciitis… it’s having to socialize while I’m tired, sweaty, stinky and nasty. Shoot, if I wanted to do that, I could just stay home and have sex with my husband. Nothankyouverymuch. 

But alas, it’s almost swimsuit season and I’ve got to firm up these buns and thighs before someone tries to throw me on the grill and baste me at the Memorial Day Pool Party.  Besides, my extensive team of psychiatric advisors tells me that daily physical activity is good for all that ails me. And by daily physical activity, they mean more than just lifting my wine glass to my mouth repeatedly and/or kicking my dog. Dammit. 

So on Monday, I shoe-horned my ginormous post-partum goodie basket into a pair of high-waisted yoga pants and headed off for the YMCA… a.k.a., the “Y-ABC,” according to my scrumdeli-icious toddler “Bucket Head.” And after a very concentrated and effective 30 minutes on the elliptical and three sets of “ow-this hurts” on the machines, I managed to make it almost all the way to the front door without having to chit chat with anyone while pretending there wasn’t a big ol’ pool of sweat collecting around my camel toe, when what did I hear but, “Iris? Is that YOU?” 

Fuck. 

Oh, of all the people. It was Saint Margaret. She is seriously, no joke, one of the nicest people I have ever met in my whole life. And for some unknown reason, she likes me. She really likes me. And we hardly ever see each other anymore, what with all her volunteer work, and church-going, and tennis lessons and my rampant alcoholism, and clutter hoarding, and therapy appointments. 

But there we were, sweaty face to sweaty face, doing the “So, what’s new with you?” dance. I was clearly in a hurry to skedaddle and extract the lycra from my crotch, so she suggested we meet again later this week and do a class together.

“Uh… I don’t really do the classes, Marg.”

“How come?!”

“Well, the last time I did one, it totally kicked my ass. I couldn’t walk for days. And not only that, but it was humiliating. I couldn’t keep up and I was embarrassed. I ended up slinking out before the end of the class with my tail between my legs.” 

“That’s why you have to do the classes! The peer pressure forces you to go further than you normally would on your own! And if you do it with a friend, you will be less likely to sneak out before the end of the class! You’ll see results so much faster!”

“Ugh… really?”

“Yes. Do a class with me. It will be great! Only three more weeks until summer!”

“Oh…kay.” (with a heavy sigh) 

And so less than 48 hours later, there I was, back at the gym with Saint Margaret, walking into a class called “Stability Ball.” 

I know what you’re thinking… but don’t worry, apparently being stable isn’t a requirement. And they supply the balls. 

Neither of us had done this class before and had no idea what we were getting into, but we guessed it was going to work our abs and I’ll do anything to reduce the size of my stretch-marked-muffin-top… well, anything except refrain from eating an entire bag of Boy Scout “Unbelievable Butter” microwave popcorn every night in a reclined position while The Gatekeeper flips back and forth between Law and Order SVU or SUV or SUX and Law and Order Criminal Intent and Law and Order Mail Fraud Division. Whatever.  Just fucking shoot me. 

Now this next part is going to sound a wee bit agist, and it is. So to my more mature readers, I apologize in advance. When Saint Margaret and I got to the class, I noticed a few, ahem, “older” ladies getting settled in. With the exception of seeing their varicose vein covered legs ballooning out of their lycra short-shorts, having them there gave me a great deal of comfort. If the cast of Cocoon can hang with the Stability Ball class, hopefully, so could I. Maybe I wouldn’t have to sneak out halfway through and spring for a new tube of Ben Gay.

Anyhoooo…. two things. First off, I now see why they keep the music up so loud in these classes: to disguise all the noises coming from the vajayjays in the room. Seriously dudes, can’t someone design some workout clothes for women that include some kind of cork-like apparatus for the hoo hoo? No? Too misogynist?  Well then, how about some soundproof yoga pants? Hey, that is a great idea! I need to patent that. You heard it here first, peeps. 

And number two… why do instructors save all the really hard moves for the end of the class? It started off so easy… we were each sitting, SITTING, I say, on a big rubber exercise ball, lifting little three pound weights up and down, up and down. I especially liked the sitting part. Piece of cake! Then we were doing sit ups with our backs on the ball. Also, not so bad. I was hanging in there! But then, the class got a little bit harder. No more sitting, we were suddenly on our bellies, rolling forward on the ball, doing PUSH UPS with our hands on the floor and only our feet on the ball. I kid you not. You know you are doing something dangerous when the instructor says: “Watch your faces!” Yikes! Excuse me, but any kind of exercise where I have to watch my face is not eligible for the Bearded Iris Seal of Approval. 

I was pretty impressed with myself that I could hang with the modified pushups. I looked at the clock… only ten minutes left! YES! I was going to make it! And then, we entered the Sudden Death Round. Seriously. After 45 minutes, who has the energy to take it to the next level? This crazy bitch instructor (who could not only do all these moves while talking, smiling, and squealing “Whooop-Whoop” to the music) told us to lie on our backs, hold the balls straight up in the air with our feet, and pass the balls back and forth to and from our hands, like inverted jack-knives opening and closing. I never felt so stupid in all my life… including Senior Prom Night 20 years ago, but that’s another story. Nor did I know that I could sing the Star Spangled Banner with my other lips, but apparently I can, and this was just the move to prove it. 

To add insult to injury, not only could I not do the ball handling jack knife move, but one look in the wall-to-wall mirror showed me that everyone else in the class was doing just fine with it, including the one who looked like Kathy Najimy and the three Golden Girls. I’m only 39 years old, and every single person in that class could have kicked my ass with one liver-spotted arm behind their back. Dammit. No wonder my Wii Fit Age enables me to receive a virtual AARP discount card.

But am I a quitter? Especially with the end so near? You betcha. Once I realized there was no way in hell my arms, legs, back, abs, and hoo hoo were going to cooperate with that jack knife move, I snuck outta there faster than you can say “queef.” I was like the old timers at church on Sunday who take communion and keep walking… right to their cars… you know, to avoid the traffic. I’ll just tell Saint Margaret that I sprung a leak and had to go change my Poise Pad. Maybe if she thinks I’m incontinent, she’ll be less likely to invite me to another class and I can go back to exercising the way I like it: alone and without shame, pain, or embarrassing noises. If you don’t hear from me for a while, just assume I pulled a muscle and am nursing myself back to health. Later, taters! 

xoxo,

-Iris

©  2009 The Bearded Iris

Wonder Years

Hey ya’ll… sorry I’ve been away for so long. I haven’t thrown in the towel, I’ve just been airing it out a little. You’ll thank me later. Nobody wants a musty, stanky towel all up in their biscuits. 

Things around here have been crazier than a soup sandwich lately. Here’s just a sampling of some of the bacon-infused side dishes overlapping on my cafeteria plate the past few weeks: 

• The Gatekeeper and I were called in for a “conference” about Klepto’s behavior with four of her Kindergarten teachers (including Art and P.E.), the Assistant Principal (i.e. “Bad Cop”), and the school counselor. Turned out it was actually an invitation to a “Let’s all complain about how much we can’t stand your evil child” bitch session. Yikes. It was bad ya’ll. I cried afterwards and I wasn’t even riding the cotton pony that day. 
• Klepto (the very same 6 year old girl middle child) was diagnosed (for the second time) with Sensory Processing Disorder. Totally accounts for all her wacky antics over the years. Who knew there was a medical explanation behind sticking ABC gum to your twat? 
• Klepto had a friend over to play who picked at a scabby wart on the back of her knee and bled all over Klepto’s dress up clothes, my sofa, and the carpet. Let me tell you something… nothing puts a damper on a play date like hearing your child scream “MOM! Amber’s BLEEDING!” No, wait… there is one thing worse… it turned out that the bleeding “wart” was actually an infectious disease known affectionately as Molluscum Contagiosa. Nice. Thanks a lot, bitch. And my kids wonder why I don’t schedule more play dates. 
• My perfect first born stole a Lego Star Wars Storm Trooper head from our friends’ house and then lied to me about it. As if my world needed to crumble any further. Is nothing sacred? Poor thing, he’s so damn attention starved. 
• And speaking of petty theft, Klepto stole something from her art class and was ratted out by her peers. Assholes. Yep, got a conference call from the teacher and the assistant principal that day. Ah, good times. I’m pretty sure this poor girl is being profiled. She can do no right at that damn school. 
• Flew to Miami with my husband for a weekend without the kids! Lord have mercy… my knees are still wobbling from all the Mojito inspired hotel sex. That town is crazy, ya’ll. 
• My baby turned two years old a couple days ago. Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset… seems like just yesterday I was holding an ice pack up to my battered hoo hoo, cursing the day I drank too many margaritas and let The Gatekeeper play “just the tip” without a rain hat. Memories. Time sure flies when you’re fighting the axis of evil (aka The PTA and The Ultra Conservative Fucknut Neighbors proudly toting their anti-Obama bumper stickers) and trying to raise a family of non-hydrogenated global citizens. Sigh. No wonder I drink. 

So anyhoo, I’ve clearly been too busy to attend to things like my hygiene, my taxes, and my blog. Sorry about that. Especially for you fellow suburban hostages who rely on my Mommy Smut for your cheap, voyeuristic, daily “Oh Thank God My Life Doesn’t Suck as Much as Iris’s” fix.

Hopefully it won’t be so long between posts, but I can’t make any promises. Shit, if things don’t calm down around here soon, I may be writing my next post from the Betty Ford Center. Do they have Wi-Fi there? 

One more parting thought: don’t look back… you never know what you’ll see. 

Kiss kiss,

Iris

Helicopters-R-Us

Oy vey iz mir, ya’ll… I am turning into one of those mothers. 

You know exactly what I mean… the kind of mothers I frequently write about in less than flattering terms. In my neck of the woods, we call them “Helicopter Moms.” In other words: mothers who hover. They are as common in suburban Atlanta as Loblolly pine pollen spores, and about as appealing too. But now that I’m fixin’ to become the spokesmodel for Helicopter Moms International, I’m thinking that the hovering mother archetype is about to become a whole lot more interesting. 

It’s funny. I used to pride myself on my anti-hovering ways. My children are pretty independent… mainly because they have to be to survive (“Hey, put that homework down… this cocktail isn’t going to refill itself you know.) But suddenly, I’ve been backed into a corner and the Mama Bear in me is coming out with a vengeance. That’s right people… the tide has turned. One of my children is in danger at school. That changes everything. Helicopter Mom? Uh, no. Try an AH-64A Apache Attack Helicopter armed with AGM-114 Missiles & Hydra Rockets.  How do you like me now, muthahfuckah?!

The Apache Military Helicopter... or what it looks like when a foul mouthed, easily provoked, booze whore with anger management issues becomes a "Helicopter Mom."

How did this happen? 

Well, you may recall that my middle child, Klepto, is a bit of a, oh… shall we say… handful? If you’ve spent more than 30 seconds perusing my smutty blog, you are already well acquainted with some of her antics. If you are new to my world, you might not realize that in the past six months alone, this child has: 

• stuck a wad of nasty chewed bubble gum that she found on an arcade floor into her panties
• trashed every pair of shoes she’s owned within minutes of placing them on her feet
• stolen numerous insundry items and lied about them
• started a dog-riot at the animal hospital and then told my vet that I had diarrhea

and there are probably more that I either couldn’t bear to write about or have unconsciously blocked out of my mind because they were so horrid. 

Now listen up, because this is important: it is totally acceptable for ME, her mother, to say these things and label my child “a handful,” but if someone else does that… they better prepare to have their limbs ripped from their body and shoved up their ass. 

In the interest of brevity, I’ll spare you the gory details for now; but let’s just say that Klepto is struggling with some mild behavioral issues at school and I am less than satisfied at the approach the teachers and administration are taking to support her. More details to come, but just prepare to be disgusted with the failings of the public school system. Don’t get me wrong, public school is perfectly fine for some, maybe even for most kids, but it is not working for my Klepto, and I’m definitely not the kind of woman to stand by and idly watch that happen. Look at me… do I look like the type of person who does anything half-ass? 

Thank you. I rest my case. This is just how I eat a piece of fruit on a balmy summer day… imagine how I’ll take on the superintendent of education. 

The silver lining is this: through these trials and tribulations of motherhood, I am becoming a more compassionate person. Instead of continuing to feel so annoyed, and yes, threatened by these mothers in my town who seem on the surface to be so over-involved, I am finally starting to adopt a “live and let live” attitude. We are all just doing the best we can for our kids. Each child is different and who am I to make assumptions or judgements about what those mothers are choosing to do to care for their kids? In fact, I think I might even have to change my tune about homeschooling. Shit, for me to say that, you know that things are really bad for my poor daughter right now. But also, I have a couple of really good friends who have recently embarked on the homeschooling journey. These are phenomenal, well adjusted, balanced women… not your typical Helicopter Moms.  And they made this choice due to the shortcomings that they found to exist in their local public schools and the frustrating untapped potential of their children that they alone are uniquely qualified to recognize and develop  in their own loving homes, at their children’s own pace. I salute these women and I pray that if the time comes when I need to make a similar decision that they will guide me with their wisdom and experience and ample supplies of humor, organic produce, and tequila. 

And so, I’m off to learn the ways of the Helicopter Moms. Look for me in the carpool line, at the cafeteria, and volunteering in the classrooms on a weekly basis. You can’t miss me, I’m the potty-mouthed woman in the cute apron feeding my children organic fresh-baked goods and fighting with “the man” to change the world one fucked up school policy at a time. See you on the side-lines, fuckahs. 

Peace out,

Iris

©  2009 The Bearded Iris

The Valentine Blues

Valentine’s Day is not my fave. 

If you love someone, you should tell them all the time… not just on one over-the-top day. Just sayin’. 

I told my husband this when we first started dating back in 1995 as part of my “I’m really low-maintenance… you hit the jackpot with me, pal” façade. Mistake. Big mistake. Now the man thinks he can just skirt through every holiday without giving me cards and flowers and candy and jewels. Dammit. I had no earthly idea that in less than a decade I would become an invisible vessel for grandkids and PTA sponsored fundraising. That changed everything. I am definitely no longer as low-maintenance as I was 10 years ago… and not just because of all the new hormone induced facial hair. I need some attention, fuckers. Is it me, or can you relate, ladies? 

Maybe I’m just bitter because I didn’t get a single Valentine this year. Yeah yeah, I know, I’m being a hypocrite. That whole “T’is better to give than to receive” thing is a load of crap, sorry Jesus. I want to receive. And by receive, I’m talking about more than just a bean burrito dinner followed by falling asleep farting in our Snuggies watching You Don’t Mess with the Zohan (note to self: must reorder my Netflix queue to coincide with holidays more appropriately.)  Mama needs some romance. And for the record, “Are we gonna do it later, or what?” doesn’t really get the juices flowin’, if you know what I mean. 

Unlike their bitter mama, my lovey-dovey kids really dig this Hallmark holiday. So, for them, I did my darndest to hide my “cupid-is-stupid” ire and rise to the occasion. Awwww. I helped them make their Valentine’s Boxes and cards and we even whipped up a fabulous and funky Valentine  Tree, which took near heroic measures since I absolutely abhor crafting with children. Don’t get me wrong, I love crafting. I’m crafty. I can make pretty much anything. Anything. Seriously. But bring a kid into the equation, and I’d rather donate a cornea or two. 

Isn’t that just fabulous? Klepto and I decoupaged tissue paper onto an old plastic flower pot we found in the garage. I cut the branches off a big old fallen tree limb that was cluttering up my yard. And Klepto made a majority of those ornaments herself with crap we had lying around the house. My friend Jennifer says I have no right to be making fun of “Über Moms” when I have a homemade Valentine Tree like this in my house. But Jennifer, I gotta tell you, not only was I probably drunk as a skunk when we made it, but I am pretty sure I made Klepto cry five minutes into the decoupage process when she got bored and started to decoupage her hands to the table with the glue. So no, drunk screaming lunatics and Über Moms are mutually exclusive groups, in my humble opinion. 

Speaking of being crafty… I am learning how to crochet. My BFF/neighbor Tammy (you remember her… the one who always one-ups me and tries to improve my recipes and then take credit for them?) gave me the most amazing birthday present last year. She cleaned out her overflowing craft closet and put together a lovingly recycled “Teach Yourself to Crochet” basket containing an instruction book, a bunch of crochet needles, some yarn, and a few handfuls of stale Easter candy that was calling her name a little too close to swimsuit season. Bitch. Anyhooo, the thought behind this gift was extraordinary. She knew that I had always wanted to learn to crochet and she gave me a gift to help me achieve that goal. That’s a good friend, ya’ll, stale candy or not. 

The only problem with trying to teach yourself to crochet from a book is that it is really hard. I tried and I tried, but I just wasn’t getting it. Oh, I’m left-handed too, which makes everything harder, except making obscene gestures out my window while I drive. I do that with excellent dexterity and enthusiasm. 

But you know what they say… when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. About a month ago, a lovely muse named Lara appeared on my doorstep. She and her groovy husband are my kids’ music teachers. They come to my house once a week and fill my home with song and love and a variety of talents. Lara can crochet like nobody’s beeswax. She sat down with me and showed me how to do some stitches and instilled me with confidence that crochet is really not that hard. Reading crochet patterns is not for pussies though. I still can’t really do that. 

But Lara also taught me something phenomenal. She taught me that you can learn pretty much anything you ever wanted to know on YouTube. And the coolest thing about it is that you can start/stop/repeat lessons until you get it and not have to worry about annoying your teacher to death. 

Want to learn how to use a Neti Pot? How about Body Party Math?  Would you like to rewire a lamp? Learn to do the splits? Be prepared to deliver a baby in the backseat of a taxicab? (Check out the giant rubber teaching vajayjay!!!)  Learn Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” dance moves step by step? (OMG, “The Spank It” and “The Pump Walk”… these are must-have-moves for any dance repertoire!!!)  Or hey, aren’t you the least bit curious about what happens when a goat licks an electric fence?  You can learn all this and more on YouTube. 

Me? Well, after I mastered all that stuff, I taught myself how to crochet a heart for my sweet little girl. I even found a crochet heart tutorial for left-handed mamacitas like me! YouTube rocks, ya’ll. See? I did it!

 

Bet you didn’t know I was such a crafty beaver, did you?! Well I am. Get over it. Don’t worry, I can combine all my favorite things and still be the same slutty booze whore you’ve come to know and love.  Next, I want to learn how to make one of these:

No, it’s not a papoose in a canoe. It’s a hand-knitted vulva I found on the Internet. God bless you, Al Gore! Wouldn’t that be the most darling change purse?! Imagine the looks you’d get at church if you pulled that out when they pass the basket!  Or how about a set of vulva coasters or beer can coozies? See, with all this crafting to do, I won’t have time to feel sorry for myself that I didn’t get any Valentines. And for those of you who missed the boat this year, you have a whole year to shop. Buy me some yarn, would ya? I’ve got some vulvas to knit.

A Night to Remember

So, I know you are on the edge of your seat waiting to hear all about the “Pure Romance” smut fest I hosted for ten of my craziest (and apparently, randiest) girlfriends the other night. Sorry it has taken me so long to post this… I’ve been awfully busy trying out all my fabulous new products, ya’ll! 

Good golly Miss Molly – there was so much laughter, and surprisingly, so many “Aha Moments” of sex education, that I honestly don’t know where to begin. Perhaps the form of a list would be most efficient and readable? Giddy Up!

Iris’s Top Ten Favorite Pure Romance Party Moments 

10. Learning about “The Bowling Ball Hold,” also known as the “Inverted Half Pike Come Here” maneuver. So THAT’S how you get the G-Spot! Who knew? (Apparently several of my sexy girlfriends and their hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin’-loves at home. Dang. Lucky bitches.)

9. Having not one, but TWO of my friends call and say they couldn’t come at the last minute because they were either working on their sons’ Cub Scout Pinewood Derby cars for the next day’s race or that they wanted to get a good night sleep so they could be well rested for this crucial race. I found these excuses particularly enjoyable since my 9 year old son, who is also a Cub Scout, was not even going to this race. That’s right people, we never got around to building Nature Boy’s Pinewood Derby car this year. And yet, I was able to invest quite a bit of time and energy over the last few weeks into planning and preparing for a raunchy, booze filled “girls’ night in” Pure Romance Party… time that I surely could have spent helping my sweet little Bear Cub get ready for the Pinewood Derby. Ah, priorities. Go ahead and submit your “Mother of the Year” nominations for me right now (as if you didn’t already the time I shared my tip for how to carry an uncooperative toddler). 

8. Playing “Pass the Pickle” to disco music a la Musical Chairs style with a vibrating green glow in the dark vibrator, using only our thighs and knees. 

7. Witnessing beyond the shadow of a doubt that women, as a whole, are very practical and resourceful creatures. For instance, when our Pure Romance consultant demoed a product called Between the Sheets, a spray for instantly drying and deodorizing a wet spot on your bed, one of my very witty friends asked if it could be used for kids. I’m totally envisioning her giving each of her kids their own spray can and teaching them that if they wet the bed, just spray it and get back in. No need to wake up Mommy, ok honey? Right on, sister friend! Always using that noodle! (I’ll take a case of that too, please.) Another example: vibrators are great for massaging all kinds of body parts… not just the fun ones. 

6. Having Mr. Dependable, a gigantic, purple, suction cup mounted, jelly dildo stuck to my chest. Ah, good times. 

"Look Ma! No hands!"

5. Experiencing “first hand,” the important benefit of good lubrication during a fun little game I like to call “Finger vs. Fist.”  Sounds more painful than it really is… kinda like, oh I don’t know, unmedicated childbirth. Speaking of which, for those of us who have expelled multiple 10+ pound babies through our vaginal walls, lubrication might not be as important to have in the nightstand drawer as a miraculous little alum based shrinking cream called Like a Virgin. Several of my friends and I ordered this snake oil in bulk… I’ll have to get back to you about its effectiveness. One word of caution ladies, do not use this with the lights out… you definitely do not want to mistake this for Time in a Bottle and accidentally slather shrinking cream on your man, unless he’s John Holmes, and then God help you. Whatever works, honey.

 

4. Experiencing the very realistic feel of a “pocket pussy” with our fingers and then watching a majority of my friends purchase them for their husbands. Nothing says “Not tonight hon, but I still love you,” like handing a BJ Betty and a tube of Whipped to your man as you turn up the volume on Thema and Louise, readjust your Snuggie, and start crocheting a new Granny Square. 

3. Winning a tube of lipstick during an icebreaker game that just so happens to be a gorgeous color on me and, oh joy, it is shaped like a tiny little purple penis. Can’t wait to put this on at church one day! 

2. Practically peeing my pants anytime my friend “Filet o’ Fish” opened her mouth or played with some of the merchandise. Ya’ll, this girl is like an instant party. She puts the “O” in Karaoke. Seriously, if you are not already friends with this vixen (and you might be… she’s very extraverted), call me and I’ll introduce you. She should be at the very top of your guest list for any soiree where you want people to unwind and laugh ’till it hurts. In fact, I received several emails from other guests after the party telling me how much they enjoyed meeting and partying with this hot mamacita. Well, here… see for yourself. 

 

 

Vulva candy, anyone?

 

 

1. And the number one most memorable moment of the evening: (drum roll please)…. mixing up my free samples an hour before the party and mistakenly putting the Bosom Buddy (a tingly lip and nipple balm) on my clitoris instead of the Ex-T-Cee (genital safe) arousal cream. Lord have mercy! Can we say, “fire in the hole,” people? Honest to Pete – I have had episiotomies with tin-can lids that were less painful than this. Here’s what it looked like when I was retelling the story for my party guests:

By the way, the Bosom Buddy and the Ex-T-Cee, when used correctly, are both awesome. Definitely try some… just be sure not to mix ‘em up like I did. Der.

So, all in all, it was a very fun and memorable evening, acid-burned clitoris not withstanding. If you are looking for a fun way to get your girlfriends together and share some laughs and empowering info over a few cocktails, I highly recommend an evening in with a Pure Romance party. Their toll free number is 1.866.Romance. Give it a try – and tell ‘em Iris sent ya. 

© 2009 The Bearded Iris

And so it begins…

You would think that with three kids I would have experienced it long before today, but no. Today was my first time. My first time stressing over getting my kid into the right school. Preschool to be exact. 

Wait. Let me back up. 

You see, I wasn’t stressed about getting him into the right preschool because I want him to go to the right elementary school, which will lead to the most competitive high school, which will put him on the path to the right college. No. Nothing like that. 

For me, it was all about proximity and cost and convenience. Oh, and if it is a good school that builds a solid academic foundation, all the better, but honestly, not my priority. Oooh, can I say? Does that revoke my membership in the Good Mommy Club? As if. 

I have never waited in line before to enroll my kids in school. I picked Nature Boy’s Montessori school out of the phone book. It was close. They had openings. I took one. Klepto was next, so she just went where her big brother went. Not rocket science. And now it is Bucket Head’s turn, but in this economy, I am looking for something a lot less expensive than private Montessori school, and also, I’m just not ready to put little Bucket Head, my baby, my last baby, in a 5 morning a week program. I can’t do it. Not yet. 

 

 

So I want a two or three morning a week preschool that is extremely close to home. Oh, and it would be nice if that school doesn’t have a track record for children choking to death on hotdogs or being sexually abused by the staff.

Now, how to pick a preschool… hmmm. There are a handful of preschools near my house. I’ve heard good things about all of them. I need a sign. 

Wish granted! Last week as I was driving to the liquor store, of all places, I passed a local church with a sign that said their preschool registration was February ___ at 8 AM. I remembered hearing some of the über moms at my subdivision pool talking about how they had to literally sleep out over night to get a spot for their kid at this particular preschool… its reputation is that good. I never considered this school before because frankly, I have no desire to work that hard. But, feeling kinda lucky that I had randomly driven past the registration sign, I decided to call the school and find out what the registration process was like. If you know me, you know that I don’t usually call ahead and find stuff like this out. I usually just wing it. So the fact that I made this call was huge… another sign. The stars were aligning. Fate was driving the bus and I was strapped in and enjoying the ride. 

The school politely informed me that there were only two spots available for the 2 year old Mon./Wed./Fri. class, but that there were about 30 spots for the Tues./Thurs. one. They then told me that they no longer allow overnight camping out for getting a spot in the program. Instead, they have a lottery. All I had to do was be there at 8 AM, not one minute later, and they would let whoever was in line at that time pull a number from a basket. The numbers would determine the order for when we could approach the registration table and apply for a spot in their program. Wow – how civilized! 

But, uh-oh. First of all, I’m never on time. Secondly, I never win lotteries or prizes of any kind. I learned to accept this fact long ago and comfort myself in the idea that perhaps God already feels that I am plenty blessed in my life and that it wouldn’t be fair to others to also win random drawings and lotteries. Whatever. It’s less painful than believing I’m just an unlucky bastard. 

So the cards were already stacked against me, in my opinion. However, still feeling the power of “the sign,” and the need to think positively, I decided to go. What did I have to lose?

Naturally I was running late. Being anywhere at 8 AM is a big stretch for me. But I hustled the best I could, cut some corners in the personal hygiene department, got Bucket Head dressed, grabbed a sippy cup of milk and a cereal bar for him to eat while we were in line, and set off to be a part of the preschool lottery.  

Now, have I mentioned that I live in the ‘burbs of Atlanta and that most of the stay-at-home-moms here are crazier than shit house rats? These bitches play to win at everything they do, and preschool registration is no exception. 

My first hurdle would be to make it there on time, and miracle of all miracles, we did. I found a rock star parking spot with no problems, found the correct entrance to this enormous church/preschool right away, and walked in the door holding Bucket Head in one arm, my giant purse slung over my other shoulder, and in my two hands: the sippy cup of milk, a 12″ stuffed Big Bird toy, and my keys. We walked into the multipurpose room where the registration lottery would take place and immediately every eye in the place turned and focused right on us as if so judge and say, “We’ve been here for hours! Who do you think you are walking in just under the wire?” It was 7:59 AM. There were about 40 parents in line. You could tell immediately where the front of the line was because there were about 8 chairs lined up and the women sitting in them were the most smug and obnoxious passel of professional pissy-faces I had ever seen. At that moment I was SO glad I had called ahead and learned that it didn’t matter how early I got there as long as I wasn’t there later than 8 AM! Ha! So there, early birds! Take that worm and suck it! 

A couple of minutes later, the administrators were ready to begin the lottery. The head of the school got out her microphone, I kid you not, and said: “If you are here with another adult… a spouse or a friend, you may only draw one number for your team.”

Oh. My. God. People cheat at this! I never even thought of that! These people are sick, sick fucks. What a shitty thing to do… bring a partner, pull two numbers, and then use the lower number to go up and register so you improve your chances of getting a spot in the program. Holy shit. This is the major leagues. I hope President Obama doesn’t ask any of them to be in his cabinet. Hear me now kiddies…. cheaters never win. 

The Head Cheese started down the line with the basket. A majority of the people ahead of me were actively peering into the basket and looking at the folded slips of paper as they drew their numbers. MORE CHEATING! Jesus! When it got to me, I just closed my eyes and reached in and grabbed the first thing that grazed my fingers. I was going to let fate be in charge. It was fate that drove me past that registration sign on my way to buy booze, it is fate that is going to determine if I get my child into this program. There is no cheating fate.

8:05 AM. A harried mother comes running into the room. “I’m sorry Ma’am. We’ve already conducted the lottery. You are too late. You are welcome to stay and be the last one to register, if there are any spaces left (which there definitely won’t be), but you can’t draw a number.” GULP! Oh, praise Jesus that that wasn’t me. Yowza. 

With that little spectacle out of the way, it was time to see what number I drew. Deep breath. I slowly unfolded my slip of paper, feeling like Charlie carefully peeling the wrapper off his Wonka Bar. Would I find the last Golden Ticket?! I took another deep breath and looked at my number. 

4

Holy Shit! That is my lucky number! And, it is low enough that I might actually get a spot in the highly coveted MWF 2 year old class!!! Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful if Bucket Head could go to preschool three mornings a week instead of just two? It would be perfect! Three mornings a week for him to learn and grow and play with kids, and three mornings a week of freedom for me! Oh, it’s too good! Wait, don’t get ahead of yourself girl. Just be grateful you’ll probably get into the school at all. 

“One and Two – please come to the registration table.” The process was quick. The first two women enrolled their kids within minutes and then they called my number.  I gathered up my child, his sippy cup, the remains of his cereal bar, his Big Bird, my purse, and my Golden Ticket, and approached the table. 

“How old is your child?” the registrar asked. 

“He’ll be two next month.” I replied.

“There is one spot left in the MWF class. Would you like it?”

Oh. 

My. 

God. 

I got it. I got the spot. The one of two spots that people have slept out on the sidewalk in previous years to get. And I got it. 

“YES!” I blurted, feeling like she had just asked me if I would like to continue breathing… as in, der. 

That was it. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. I filled out the enrollment form, wrote my registration check, and left… walking on air and totally in shock that I, the most unlucky, most unprepared, least punctual person I know would walk in and out of that room in fifteen minutes holding a Golden Ticket for next Fall. All is right with the world today.

Hopefully it is a good school. Oh who cares?! I’m in! It’s close. It’s way cheaper than Montessori school. And I have one more item on my To-Do List done. And all because I drove to the liquor store and saw a sign. Shoot… like I need any more motivation to shop there.  

Until we meet again!

-Iris

© 2009 The Bearded Iris

Verbal Diarrhea

No, I haven’t been trapped under something heavy, unfortunately, thanks for asking. My husband does need to lose a few pounds, it’s true, but he’s been steering clear of my sniffling-sneezing-coughing-aching-stuffy head-fever-I need to rest-ass lately. Long story short: I’m sick. (ach-OOOOOOO!)

YesireeBob. One of my spawn brought home a wicked case of some hideous viral infection that feels an awful lot like the flu…ten days ago! Only I know it isn’t the flu because I actually got a flu shot this year and so did the kid who gave me this bug. So, it’s just a cold. A very bad cold. And now it has turned into what I suspect is a double ear infection. I’m heading to the doctor today to confirm this, if I don’t stab myself in the ear with a knitting needle first… the pain is that bad. Geez Louise, now I know why babies with ear infections cry so much. This is bad. And you know what is the worst? Being this sick and having to also take care of a gaggle of kids. I’m starting to think those kooky bigamists in Utah are totally on to something. Communal living sounds like a really smart survival technique at this point. 

But before I go and get all loopy on pain pills and antibiotics, I just had to share what may have been one of the single most embarrassing moments of my life, compliments of my incredibly articulate six year old daughter, Klepto. ”Out of the mouths of babes…” This is an expression that I know all too well. Lordhavemercy, that girl just has a natural born knack for embarrassing her Mama in public. 

So here’s the dealio. I had to take the dog/cuisinart to the vet a couple weeks ago for a nasty rash on his belly. I was worried it might be ringworm since Klepto’s pediatrician said that kids can get this lovely fungus from pets, and as you may recall, darling Klepto had a nasty bout of it last fall.

It was a rainy winter holiday vacation day and I wanted to get Little Miss Ringworm out of the house and share the parenting load with The Gatekeeper, so I brought her with me and the rashy dog. 

I guess I’m a slow learner… and as if I needed further proof of it, I’m a slow learner that I’m a slow learner.  I keep taking this child out into the world with me thinking it will be nice mother-daughter time together and that we will strengthen our bond and resemble a Kodak commercial as we walk hand-in-hand, smiling with glee everywhere we go. But that never happens. Never. When she and I are out and about, I usually spend our entire time together doing one or more of the following things:

a.) whispering “stop it.” 

b.) hissing “Stop It.”

c.) shouting “STOP IT!”

d.) apologizing to others for her behavior and/or my shouting.

Well, this little errand was no different. 

I knew it would be difficult for me to control our very strong and disobedient black lab AND also actively supervise my very curious and impulsive child, so I laid the groundwork before we even got out of the car. I told her I needed her to be on her best behavior and help mommy with the dog. “No running. No shouting. No hiding. No touching things. Just stick with Mommy and we’ll go get a treat when we’re done if you do a good job, ok?” “OK Mommy!” she enthusiastically agreed. 

Yeah. Right.

The nano-second we got through the front door of the vet’s office, Klepto made eye-lock with and promptly raced over to a box of dog toys that were for sale near the pet food and bath products. It was like her spider-senses told her “Ooooh, contraband – 8 o’clock. Abort mission! Abort mission! MUST. RUN. AND. TOUCH.” I’m not exaggerating when I say I hadn’t yet crossed the threshold of the entry door when every person and animal in the building was assaulted by an indescribable cacophony: a deafening chorus of squeaking rubber chickens, conducted by none other than my darling daughter, who was grabbing two and three at a time in each hand and squeezing them repeatedly in various rhythms.   

Naturally, since the rubber chickens were designed to be dog toys, every canine in the waiting room (and beyond) started to go berserk. My dog took off running toward the noise, practically dismembering my right arm and flying me behind him like a 5′7″ kite. I slammed on the breaks, growled “NO” in my best Cesar Milan pack leader voice, and yanked his choke chain with all the strength I could muster while simultaneously commanding Klepto to “Drop the chickens and have a seat, please.” Honestly, with kids and dogs like this, it is no wonder I bark things like “DROP IT!” to the kids and engage in baby talk with the dog. Frankly, it is a miracle I can form sentences at all anymore, let alone in multiple languages like dog and baby. 

I guess the receptionist is trained to recognize which kinds of dogs (and kids) can handle waiting in the reception area and which ones need to be separated from the pack, because we were immediately ushered into one of the exam rooms. I’d like to call it “Rock Star Treatment,” but in reality, it was more like solitary confinement… a punishment, not a reward. Either way, I was happy to be able to sit down and rub my shoulder while Klepto and Devil Dog went about exploring every nook and cranny of the 8×8 cell exam room. 

Naturally I was forced to discuss the rules with Klepto (again), but this time I had to specify about not touching the vet tools and exploring the contents of the trash bin. Ewwww.  ”Honey, there could be very dirty things in there… dangerous things that could make you sick. We never never never reach into trash cans. Especially in a doctor’s office. Gross. Double gross. Got it?” “Got it!” I’m guessing that this is where a more competent mother would pull something fabulous out of her purse like some sugarless gum or finger puppets or a stack of origami paper and a book about how to fold origami doll house furniture, but alas, I couldn’t even find my ringing cell phone in the feedsack I call a handbag (and note to self… change ring tone from “Superfreak” to a more innocuous ring.) Perhaps this would have been a good time to do something like tell a story or sing a song together or play a game of I-Spy… but I was too stressed out from the rubber chicken melee to regroup. So I sat there. Just waiting and hoping I could think of something positive to praise Klepto for rather than have to tell her “no” or correct her one more fucking time that hour. 

Fortunately, less than a minute later, a very handsome vet-tech walked in the door. I’m going to guess he was in his mid-twenties. He was tall, with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. He smiled and said hello… and I noticed that he had dimples in both cheeks… ugh, my weakness. Then he knelt down in front of me to pet the dog and we were face to face. He smiled again and we locked eyes. Wow. He was adorable. I’m a typical frumpy housewife and mother of three, so I don’t get this kind of attention very often. In fact, I’ve recently been called “Sir” on more than one occasion by various store employees… so hear me when I tell you that having a gorgeous young dimple-cheeked thing flash me a courtesy smile was enough to make me want to do a little jig… or perhaps a full-fledged lap dance. 

A minute or so passed as the vet tech hypnotized my devil dog (and me) with his attention. I was a little jealous, actually, of the fervent belly rubbing the dog was getting. Lucky dog. Klepto broke the spell though when she loudly announced “LOOK! The dog’s PENIS is red!!!  It looks like a cherry popsicle!” Gulp. The vet tech and I both laughed nervously and looked away from each other, and I had to quietly explain to Klepto in front of this cute man that “that’s just what happens to boy dogs when they are happy. Just ignore it. And NO… don’t touch it, please. That is the dog’s ‘privates.’ No touching.” Nice. But that is not even the worst part. 

The vet tech started examining the rash on the dog’s belly and asked, “Any vomiting or diarrhea?” 

To which Klepto enthusiastically replied: “YES, both my Mom and my baby brother have diarrhea today.” 

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God. 

I honestly don’t remember what happened after that. I think I may have passed out. The last thing I remember was the look on the guy’s face. It was something along the lines of what a face might look like after suddenly smelling a rotten egg or some week-old road kill on a hot day. Not a good face. The magic was gone. 

The vet tech audibly cleared his throat and left the room with the dog to update his shots and I was handed a bottle of antibacterial spray that I have to put on the dog’s belly a few times a day. Turns out, it isn’t ringworm… just a rash, possibly allergies. 

So that was our little errand. Just another banner motherhood moment! Good life lesson there though… I guess I should probably not be discussing my bowels with my children anymore. Hey, it could have been so much worse. At least she didn’t say: “My Mommy had a #6 on the Bristol Stool Scale. It was double gross,” and then break into the Diarrhea-Boom-Boom Song. That would have taken the cake. Kids. Dogs. Diarrhea. Like the Molotov Cocktail of parenting… probably best not to combine those ingredients… especially in public.  

Well I’m off to overmedicate. Wish me luck. Until we meet again,

-Iris

 

Mommy is the Root of All Evil

Two bloggers. Two different hemispheres. One vision (largely impaired by too much clutter, dirt, and booze). Exposed for all the world to see as Housekeepers of Ill-Repute, Proprietresses of Dubious Maternal Instinct, and Woefully Neglectful Wives.

Here they are, flashing their dirty bits yet again in the second of three simultaneous postings. Click here to read the sister-post. 

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One time I admitted to the women in my babysitting co-op that I let my kids watch SpongeBob SquarePants. Oh, the horror on their faces! You would have thought I said that I let my kids watch snuff films and porn. (Which I hardly ever do… anymore.) 

So I refilled my wine glass and attempted to defend myself. I’m not a huge fan of cat fights or confrontation in general, so I probably should have just kept my mouth shut… but I didn’t. It was not pretty. 

They unanimously rallied that SpongeBob (and to some, the Nickelodeon channel in general) teaches bad values. “There are bad words like ’shut up’ and ‘idiot’ on that show!” they tutted.

“Well, same with every damn Disney movie!” I argued. “At least there is a strong female supporting character on SpongeBob… you know, Sandy?! The flying squirrel who is a deep sea scientist and martial arts expert? Sha! . . . and another thing, Disney Princesses are HORRIBLE role models for girls! I hate them. Hate them all.” 

“Focus Iris. We’re not talking about Disney. SpongeBob is violent!” they needled.

“Have you seen BOLT yet? The opening sequence has exploding helicopters and a chase scene that makes me want to put a nitroglycerin tablet under my tongue.”

“[We] just don’t like how the characters treat each other and talk to each other on that show. It is disgraceful!”

“Have you even watched it? SpongeBob is the single most optimistic, loyal, and moral friend, neighbor, and employee on TV right now. He is a beacon of light and hope! And the show is hilarious. My kids get it. We laugh a lot when we watch that show and I will actually watch it with them, as opposed to Barney or Dora the Explorer which make me want to poke my eyes out and stomp on them.” Oh shit… I’m crossing the line. I’m like a Pit Bull with lipstick now… only I can’t see Russia from my house, probably because my windows are so dirty. 

“Fine. Suit yourself. But please don’t let my kids watch it when (if ever again, doubtful, but if) they are at your house.” 

“Fine.” (Gulp, gulp, gulp, breathe, think of something witty to retort, refill, dramatic pause for effect, and…) “Then don’t teach my daughter that her VAGINA is called a ‘down-there’ when she is at YOUR house. Deal.” So there! Pththththththththth!

Ugh. 

Why do we do it to each other? Why must we judge each others’ parenting like this? Is it because we need to feel competent or superior to someone else in order to feel better about our own work as parents? Or is it just human nature to compare and judge? I honestly know of no other role in which people feel so entitled to act so “holier than thou.” It is an epidemic among mothers in my circle.  

I don’t have the answer, but I know I’m equally guilty of being judged by my neighbors and friends as I am of judging them in return. We’re all still friends, but don’t kid yourself, there is judging and finger pointing going on here. 

The SpongeBob thing is just one of many examples of ways that my parenting style differs from some of my friends’ parenting. More often than not, I seem to be the one who is doing it “wrong.” I am not a model parent. I think my kids thrive in spite of me, not because of me. But I try. I get out of bed everyday and I try. I fail a lot… if you read this blog often, you know that already. But I also laugh a lot and I think the laughter is good for the kiddies… at least it compensates for the chaos. I’m not structured, I don’t provide routines or systems or much consistency, but I’m good at first aid, bodily fluid cleanup, celebrity impressions, and loving my babies unconditionally with all my heart and soul.  

I recently spent a lovely evening at a friend’s house with my kids. While the adults were gabbing away at the table, my 6 year old daughter and their 7 year old son came running to us with some kind of monumental problem. The boy was clearly frustrated and felt that he was the recipient of a grave injustice, which is his achilles heel, and he very begrudgingly started to cry. It was heartbreaking to watch his face struggle with trying to keep it together. My daughter, “Klepto,” is the kind of kid who, I hate to say it, is frequently the reason why other kids in her vicinity cry. We have a pattern and I’m not proud of it, but when someone around her bursts into tears, I instinctively ask her: “What did you do?” Wait – don’t judge yet. There is a history there. She is a very passionate, physical child and she has a well established history of age-appropriate violence… probably from watching all that SpongeBob.

Well, there we were, guests in my friends’ home, and me not wanting to take the lead in resolving or helping the kids to resolve the issue. Plus, my friend is one of the best parents I know and I wanted to see what she would do and learn from her. So I sat there in silence while she suggested that Klepto and Carson go sit down with “The Peace Rock” and talk. 

WHAT? “The Peace Rock?” Are you fucking kidding me? Dude. Why not get out “The Peace Pistol” or “The Peace Nunchucks,” I teased my friends. I was very skeptical. They know my daughter; they know she can be somewhat explosive, impulsive, and physical. They are smart people and amazing parents. But what works for their kids is totally not going to work for mine. Come on… look at us… we watch butt-loads of TV and eat trans fats by the kilo. So, I’m sitting there, biting my tongue, thinking, “OK, your house, your rules. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” And my friend’s husband left the room to facilitate The Peace Rock protocol while I sat there listening for screams and imagining how the court case would go when they sue me for damages. 

Long story short, The Peace Rock totally worked. I was SHOCKED… not about the success of their method, but about it working with my daughter who I have clearly labeled and underestimated. The Peace Rock is a great idea. It teaches listening skills and respect and conflict resolution. But I’m guessing that the first time a kid tries this move on the playground, they are going to get their ass kicked and their head dented by a rock. I think it worked the other night because there was a loving adult right there facilitating it. That probably wouldn’t happen in my house. I would yell across the yard, “Klepto, quit crying, get The Peace Rock, and work it out with your brothers!” while I did a diaper change, stirred the slop, chased down the dog who was running with the remote control in his mouth, and answered the phone to discover that the Assistant Principal would like to schedule a meeting with me, again, to discuss Klepto’s behavior on the playground today involving, you guessed it, a rock. I know myself. I could never pull this off. But kudos to my friends who do. Maybe I could try The Peace Pillow… no, smothering risk. The Peace Sock? Hmmm, maybe. Oh who am I kidding? I am lazy. I’m just gonna keep using the The Peace Earplugs…a.k.a. Ignore-It-Until-The-Whining-Stops-or-Someone-Is-Bleeding. 

I have a sneaking suspicion that anyone who knows me blames me for Klepto’s battles with socially inappropriate behavior… after all, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Some probably point their fingers and whisper things like “I wonder where she gets it!” and “Well, you know they watch SpongeBob and eat partially hydrogenated oils!” I’m pretty sure about this because I do the same thing. I judge my friend Tammy for letting her 9 year old son watch Drake and Josh, and I ask her not to let my son watch it when he is there. We still love each other more than our luggage, but we don’t always approve of each other’s parenting or Vulva Candy decorating choices. I judge my friend Carol for letting her toddler drink Diet Coke. And I’m gonna bet that my Peace Rock loving friends shake their heads in pity at my obvious lack of parenting tools. See that? There is a continuum. Like a spectrum of parenting evils… trans fats are bad, but at least I don’t give my kids aspartame! I yell at my kids, often in fact, but at least I don’t beat them with a belt or make them kneel on rice in the corner. See the reasoning? We all do it… we all compare and justify. If you don’t, you are either Jesus Christ or a fucking liar.  

It is the toughest, most important job there is, but one thing I know for sure about parenting: right, wrong, or somewhere in between, we are all just doing the best we can. The bottom line is that we all love our children and we all feel terrible when we make mistakes. When I’m not busy blaming my parents, I like to fault technology for the crazy state of the world today. We are all so inundated with information about the right and best and most *whatever* ways to do everything from feed, to discipline, to potty train our kids, that we must instinctively rely on needing to feel superior at something as a survival technique… a way to keep doing it day after day and not feel like an overwhelmed failure so much of the time. Or, ahem, maybe that’s just me. I just wish we could all be better at supporting, nurturing, and educating each other instead of being so quick to compare and judge. It’s something I’d like to work on. Join me, won’t you?

By the way… my daughter did tell me to “shut [my] half-wit pie hole” once — just once. She was four and it was out of context, but as soon as I picked my jaw off the ground, stopped trying to stifle my simultaneous urges to giggle and throttle her, and was able to form a sentence, I demanded: “WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT?” “Squidward said it to SpongeBob,” she spat. “Hmmm,” said I. So we watch it together now and talk about how inappropriate Squidward can be at times and strategize about things he could do to be a better friend. Not all the time. Just sometimes. But clearly it is making a difference… Carson’s head is not dented by “The Peace Rock,” and I have some good friends who love me and my daughter in spite of ourselves.

The Booger Heard ‘Round the World

Two bloggers. Two different hemispheres. One vision (largely impaired by too much clutter, dirt, and booze). Exposed for all the world to see as Housekeepers of Ill-Repute, Proprietresses of Dubious Maternal Instinct, and Woefully Neglectful Wives.

Here they are, flashing their dirty bits in the first of three simultaneous postings. Click here to read the sister-post. 

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It all started with a booger.

A single booger, which I found stuck to a semi-freshly painted wall in one of my kids’ bedrooms. 

What? Can’t see it? Oh sorry… let me help you with that:

It was the proverbial straw that broke this camel’s back. That wall is painted with Behr Premium Plus paint in Shortgrass Prairie, 760D-5. It is my favorite paint color in the whole house. My husband and I lovingly painted that room as a peace offering to our oldest child for having to switch bedrooms when our third and final baby was a few weeks shy of  becoming a “fire in the hole!” 

I noticed that booger the other day and bitched about it via email to a fellow mother/blogger friend I had recently met through the wonders of the Internet. “Not Drowning Mother” or “NDM” was very empathetic. “Kids are disgusting,” she agreed. Even Australian kids, it turns out. She said “I’ll see your booger and raise you a whole Wall of Mysteries, showcasing a full range of human excretia.” And thus, a plan for a tell-all “simulpost” was hatched.  

However, there was so much material that we decided it wasn’t fair to only focus on the kiddies and their nastiness. We would have to out ourselves as well. And in addition, why stop at only housecleaning (or lack thereof)… we also found loads of common foibles in the areas of child rearing and husband tending. But for simplicity, we decided to break it into three separate simultaneous, intercontinental, photo-filled posts.  

So here is my portion of part one. A photo-essay on the squalor in which I live. Some of it is kid-induced. Most of it is my own damn fault. All of it is bad enough that I actually did apply to be a home on “Oprah’s Clean Up Your Messy House Tour,” and they actually ARE considering me as a potential guest for the show. No lie. But I don’t want to jinx it, so let’s just leave it at that for now. 

Oh, one more thing. You may be wondering why on Earth we would choose to air our dirty laundry like this, and why now? It’s simple, really. A new year begins tomorrow. A new year filled with the promise for change. I am always abuzz with excitement at this time of year! Excited for the potential for living a better life and creating a better life for my family. But I am also a real fan of using one’s talents and treasures to help others. Thus, if I can help even one overwhelmed woman to feel better about her life by comparing herself to the trainwreck that is my home… well, so be it. You are welcome, overwhelmed woman! You are clearly not alone. But you better get on the stick, lady… because I am seriously going to get my shit in order this year. I fucking mean it this time. And once I do, you WILL be alone. So join me, won’t you? Let’s turn over a new leaf (or scrape an old booger off the wall) together. 

And now, more proof that your home is cleaner than mine:

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, my kids fingerpaint with toothpaste to have a ball!"

 

...but why stop at mirrors? Every surface in my home is a canvas for dirty, sticky fingers.

 

Every surface is an equal-opportunity canvas. Yeah, that's a permanent marker. Good times.

 

never a dull moment, or surface...

Alright, let me explain. I was worried that NDM was going to show me up with her Wall of Mysteries, so I went on a fact finding mission to locate anything of equal nastiness. It didn’t take long. Here you see a permanent party favor from Klepto’s not-so-recent bout with the stomach bug. Yes, friends, that is the “popcorn” ceiling in the master bathroom, and the stains you see are the remains of her regurgitated cheeseburger. Beat *that*, NDM! 

 

But they don't only create messes... sometimes they help me clean too. See? No rinsing required.

 

Typical kitchen counter any given day... notice clothes, crafting supplies, dirty dishes, an iPod, food...

 

... the aftermath of letting Bucket Head help me unload the dishwasher. This should really be filed under "Good Parenting" and not "Kids are disgusting."

 

... poor Ernie: drowning in a sea of dog hair and dust bunnies.

 

... my "craft corner" in the basement... only it is too messy to work in, so I have taken over every other horizontal surface in the house. You can see where my kids get it... bad Mommy. Bad, bad Mommy.

 

... underneath this mountain is our dining room table. Who has time to put things away with all this writing and crafting and present wrapping and booger scraping to do?!

Wow. That’s impressive, even for me. Who else do you know with a six year old plaster casting of her breasts and pregnant belly just sitting on the dining room table? I’d love to take credit for the gorgeous Mermaid-Nymph painting on that belly, but I commissioned an incredibly talented artist/sistah/friend to do it. I have BIG plans to turn that sucker into a night-light for Klepto’s room. Yeah, plans that have been in my head for 6 years. Sigh. Which reminds me…

"Iris, telephone! It's Oprah."

“Take a message, dammit. I’m writing.” 

Yeah. Right. Happy New Year, ya’ll! And happy cleaning! 

©2008 The Bearded Iris