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!

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