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.

ASSuaging the Guilt

Hold it right there, bub. This is a two parter all about my bodily-fluid-filled Live Nativity experience at church last week. If you haven’t read the first part, click here.

Back so soon? So I can assume that you are up to speed then? You get a gold star, sugar. Let’s continue then, shall we? And now, the riveting conclusion to Urine Angel: 

So, as you can see, I was feeling purdy dang guilty about my poor, sweet, six year old daughter “Klepto” shivering in a pool of her own pee pee and tears for possibly 15 minutes or more, alone, uncomfortable, and scared in a church powder room while I was outside learning my part as the Behind The Scenes (BTS) Mom for the Wisemen/King Herod scene. Well, my Mama didn’t raise no quitter, and I’m fixin’ to do the same with my brood. So I took my baby home, peeled her wet costume and multiple layers of clothes off, stuck her in a steamy bubble bath with a mug of hot cocoa, promised her it would all be better in the morning, and smothered her with love until she drifted off to sleep. The next morning I called the director of our Live Nativity, told her why Klepto missed the dress rehearsal the night before, and requested that I be reassigned to scene # 8, the big finale to the Live Nativity in which Klepto was cast as an angel.  

The director was more than happy to recast me so that I could be with my Tinkling Angel in the stable. But apparently that clever crusader for Christ had a hidden agenda, which I learned the hard way a few hours later. 

You see, once she got wind of my ability to clean up a messy situation, she knew I’d be the perfect person to supervise the stable scene.

Cue the baby donkey. 

That’s right, people. We had a real live baby donkey in my scene. 

I didn’t know much about donkeys before that night, but I do now. 

For starters, I now know that donkeys like to kick. Pair that character trait with a stable full of animal loving children and you have yourselves a perfect storm in the making. I pretty much spent half the night keeping the kids from getting their teeth knocked out. I swear, if I had a nickel for every time I said, “Girls… please don’t hug the donkey from behind. She’s gonna kick you in the head,” I’d have at least enough for a Venti Latte.

The other main thing I learned about donkeys that night is that they poop A LOT. Good Lord Almighty… they surely are the most regular mammals I’ve ever encountered up close and personal. 

So, in addition to running defense for ass-kicking in the literal sense, I also found myself on perpetual-pooper-scooper duty. You see, donkey poop is very stinky. I’m talkin’ STANK, ya’ll. And that cute little donkey would just lift her tail ever so slightly and let about a dozen or so sugarplum-sized balls of poop fall right out of her ass-ass and then she would stand right there as if nothing ever happened, stepping in it and thereby wafting the fumes everywhere. I was thinking that the donkey might end up kicking one of us at some point, and I didn’t want one of us to get kicked with a donkey-poop-covered-hoof, so I felt like it was the clear course of action. I’d much rather be kicked in the teeth with a clean hoof, than a poopy one, wouldn’t you? I mean really. But also, it was stench management. I just couldn’t have my audience focusing on the donkey stank and not on the message of our joyous scene! 

DOH! Watch your step, Little Angel!

Now, the two teens playing Mary and Joseph were just as cute as can be. Mary especially just captured my heart. She was so sweet and wholesome and good with the little angels.  She would get up between scenes and high five the little ones and give them sugar cookies that she had baked at home and brought with her to share. But as cute and sweet and good as she was, there was no way on God’s green earth that she was gonna stop her texting and get anywhere near that beast of burden or his donkey-doody. And Joseph? Fahgetaboutit. He was all, “Uh, excuse me, Miss Iris? The donkey, like, pooped…” and “Uh, like, Miss Iris? The donkey totally, like, pooped again…. ” So clearly, it was me or nobody. And honestly, once you have a few babies, a little donkey poop is nothing. In fact, I’d venture to say that picking up after a donkey was perhaps the least repulsive thing I’d done all day. Yeah, motherhood… those with weak stomachs need not apply. 

But here’s the thing, like most parenting tasks, picking up donkey dung is tricky. I did not want to have MY pearly whites knocked down my throat by this ass while I was doing the dirty work, no-siree-Bob. So, I had to hold the donkey by the head, turn her around, and scoop with one hand while I held her head with the other. That takes skill, I tell ya. Who knew I was such an ass-whisperer? And all of this had to be done quickly, in between scenes, while keeping the little angles from wandering off or spilling hot chocolate all over their white sheets. Oh, did I mention that I did all of this with a kitchen towel on my head and a bathrobe over my coat so I would blend in with the cast and look like a shepherd? Shoot… if my life were any more glamorous, I’d be signing autographs at the Piggly Wiggly.  

My daughter and I were out there for 5 hours, freezing our tails off and bringing joy to the world. Between the tinkle trauma the night before and the mountains of mule mess, it kinda sucked for me, actually. But Klepto loved it, and that’s what it’s all about. We totally bonded, we got to experience the thrill of not giving up when things got messy, and we got to learn about the real meaning of Christmas and even more about donkeys. By the way, donkey coats are surprisingly soft. I would have thought that they’d feel kinda wiry or coarse. But no. Soft as a bunny. Just a joy to touch and a nice natural hand warmer too. 

My family members who did the guided tour said that our scene was by far the best, and then they swore that they weren’t just saying that because Klepto and I were in it. I’m so glad I signed my baby up for this and got to be there with her to see her shine in her little halo and make the audience giggle when she upstaged Mary every time with her enthusiastic singing and improvisational dance moves.  We’ll definitely do it again next year and now that we’ve survived it once, we’ll be even more prepared. Of course, with my luck and skills, they’ll probably throw in a couple of spitting camels and some sheep with irritable bowel syndrome, but that’s fine… it will just make me feel more at home. Bring it on, beeotch.  

I hope ya’ll are having holidays filled with joy and love and the kind of messes that make family time so memorable and funny for years to come! Seasons Greetings to you and yours!

with love,

The Bearded Iris

©2008 The Bearded Iris

Urine Angel

Desperately seeking a way to make Christmas more meaningful to my kids this year, and flat out refusing to buy one of those trendy “The Elf on the Shelf” thingies, I signed up my kids to be in the Live Nativity at my church this year. 

In hindsight, maybe not such a good idea. 

But in theory, it seemed like a great opportunity at the time. 

My church does it every year. They set up 8 different scenes outside and a guide leads groups through a candlelit tour of the Christmas story. The thing lasts for 3 and 1/2 hours as groups are ushered through the 8 scenes, one after another. Last year over 700 people waited in line for upwards of an hour to be lead through this dramatic recreation. It is a huge deal at my church, and throughout my community in general. The newspapers usually come, as well as people from other parishes near and far. 

Until this year, the powers-that-be have cast only high school students in all the roles. This is the first year they opened it up for the whole parish. So naturally, I jumped at the chance for my overly dramatic six year old daughter, “Klepto,” to be in the choir of angels celebrating the birth of Jesus in song. I was totally fantasizing about the cute pictures and videos we’d get of her hanging out with Mary and Joseph in the stable, her little wire halo askew. And I thought she would LOVE it. This is a girl who loves the spotlight. She sings more than she talks. Her natural form of locomotion is a sashay/kick ball change. And isn’t it our job as parents to give them experiences that will help them discover and develop their natural talents? 

But maybe six years old is not developmentally ready to stand outside in the bitter cold for 5 hours dressed like an angel and singing Joy to the World over and over and over. Yes, over the past 48 hours I learned precisely why this event has been limited to teenagers in the past. 

First, let me just say that we are having a record breaking cold spell here in North Georgia. Two days ago it never got above the freezing point – all day. That is very rare here, and one of the reasons I have chosen this area for my home. Bitter cold… remember that now. It’s important. 

So Klepto was assigned to the final scene (#8)… the big climax when Mary and Joseph are in the stable, awaiting the birth of Baby Jesus so they can place him in the straw-filled manger. For whatever reason, the director of the event assigned me to be the “behind the scenes” adult for scene 5, in which Kind Herod tells the Magi to report back to him when they find the newborn King. I don’t know why I didn’t insist that I be assigned to the same scene as Klepto, except to say that when we arrived for the first practice three days ago and I saw what a hectic, disorganized cluster fuck this whole production was, I didn’t have the heart to make a special request to the clearly overwhelmed director who definitely had her hands full. Did I mention that there were 108 people involved in the show and that there were going to be live animals in some of the scenes? 

Yeah. So, we showed up for the first practice on December 21st, which was just an indoor script run through. I figured I’d be pretty close by if Klepto needed me, and that the director must have had a reason for separating us, so I didn’t challenge it. Mistake #1. 

That night we braved the mall crowds to purchase a halo and wings at a local party store. Shopping at this time of year is NOT for wimps. Further proof that crazy, overcompensating parents like me will do anything for our children. Oy. 

The next night, December 22, we had our one dress rehearsal. I knew we would be outdoors from 5-7 PM and it was below freezing, so I dressed my little angel in lots of layers. Naturally, we were running late and I was scrambling to grab everything we needed and get her in the car with her white sheet and wings and halo. We were very rushed. This is nothing new for my kids, and they constantly impress me with their ability to quickly transition from one thing to another without fuss. They are pretty used to compensating for their crazy Mama. Really good kids. 

So we got to the dress rehearsal and had to wait around for a long time in the social hall until our two scenes were rehearsed. We were totally overdressed in way too many layers to be inside, but I didn’t want to take any layers off since we’d be outside at any moment with snot-cicles forming from our noses. We were hot. We were cranky. And we were surrounded by about fifty other hot, cranky, undersupervised children running amok while their stage-motherish moms sat and gossiped and yelled things across the room like “Tyler! Stop hitting your brother with that stick! It is a shepherd’s staff… not a light saber!” It was pretty chaotic, and quite an anticlimactic “hurry up and wait” period of time. 

At one point Klepto asked me, “What if I have to go to the bathroom?” To which I inquired, “Do you?” and she emphatically said, “No. Just wondering.”

“Are you sure? Because I can take you right now. There is a bathroom right over there. This would be the perfect time to go since we are just waiting around.” 

“No Mama. I’m fine. I don’t have to go.” Mistake #2. Here’s a parenting tip for those of you as stupid as I am: never, never, never “ask” if they have to go when you have a calm minute before the storm. Just take their stubborn clueless ass into the nearest loo and force them to go. And if they ever randomly ask you anything potty-related, they are clearly thinking about it and therefore probably have to go. Duh. Still can’t believe what a moron I am. You know where I’m going with this, don’t you? 

Well, my scene was coming up, so I asked another Mom I knew there to keep an eye on my little angel while I was out blocking my scene, and she said she would and that her 11 year old daughter would help babysit. I introduced them all to each other and thought I had done my parenting part for the time being. 

I went outside when my scene was called and stood around with the adorable Magi with the towels on their heads and the arrogant, uncostumed teen who played King Herod and didn’t even have the decency to know his lines or even have a script nearby from which to read. Sheesh. The “We Three Kings” CD that I would have to start and stop on cue wasn’t ready, the lighting wasn’t ready, and the kids were all very cold and unenthusiastic. We’d be doing this scene LIVE the next night for three and a half straight hours. I was definitely having my doubts as to how we would be able to pull this off.  

I was only gone for about 20 minutes. 

As I was walking back into the social hall the mother I had asked to keep an eye on Klepto approached me in nothing short of a panic. 

“I’m so sorry!” she blurted. “I had to step out for my scene and my daughter didn’t realize that your daughter was in the bathroom.”

“What happened?” I tried to ask as calmly as possible. For Chrissakes – spit it out, woman! WHAT HAPPENED! 

“Well apparently your daughter is in the bathroom crying. She’s been in there for about 20 minutes. She wet her pants. Poor thing, couldn’t get the angel costume off in time. She’s pretty upset.” 

Oh shit.  

I quietly knocked on the bathroom door and walked in, and there she was, standing above a puddle of pee, shaking and crying so hard that she was having a hard time catching her breath. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks were completely tear streaked and snot was running down her face. Her angel costume was completely in disarray, like she had truly put up a good fight trying to get it off so she could get to the toilet. I could see with one glance that she was utterly and completely humiliated.

My heart broke. Literally, I felt it seize up and shatter into a million little pieces. 

I hugged her and rocked her and did a quiet “shh-shh-shh” in her ear for what seemed like a lifetime, brushing her hair out of her wet face with my hands and kissing her red cheeks. Her pants and long johns and socks and shoes were completely soaked through. She was cold and uncomfortable and frustrated. I wiped up the puddle on the floor as best as I could with paper towels and calmed her to the best of my ability, and then we exited the little powder room into the main social hall. The Mom I knew rushed up and apologized profusely. Naturally, I knew I didn’t have a change of clothes in my car, so there was no way to just clean her up and go on with the dress rehearsal. Besides, this poor little lamb was so far gone and distraught that I just wanted to get her home and into a hot bath.

Oh my God, the guilt. That poor child. She must have been so scared, standing alone in that bathroom for that long. How could I have left her like that? Why on Earth didn’t I have her go potty before we left? Why didn’t I insist that she go while we were waiting for our scenes? Why did I consent to be in a different scene from her? Why did I think that a six year old could handle an epic dramatic production? Why did God allow someone like me to breed? It is moments like this that make parents question everything.

Did Klepto recover? Did we return the next night to fulfill our destiny as part of the cast? Will I ever forgive myself for being such a shitty parent? Will I bring a tray of Vulva Candies to the cast party? Tune in next time for the dramatic conclusion to this intriguing tale of wonder and faith… The Bearded Iris’s Christmas Spectacular on Ice!

To read part 2 of this crazy tale, ASSuaging the Guilt, click here.

The Elf on the Shelf… a.k.a., aww HELL to the NO.

Lordhavemercy… what’ll they think of next. First the Webkinz. Then the Pokémon. Now there is a new THING that my children are DYING to get their grubby little mitts on. “Everyone has one already, Mom!!” Oh, my poor babies are so dang deprived, don’t you know. 

This latest craze that I am puttin’ the big kibosh on is called “The Elf on the Shelf.” Looks like this:

If you’re reading this over your Crackberry or drank too much tonight and can’t see the picture very clearly, I’ll describe it for you: it is a very cheap looking, semi-creepy, Made-in-China, Christmasy Elf doll (most likely lead-based, highly flammable, and definitely not from sustainable materials). It’s packaged in a big ol’ “keepsake” box with a cheesy looking hardcover book. No big whoop. Honest to Pete. So why are the children threatening to throw themselves in front of a bus if they don’t get one? Well, here’s how one reviewer describes it:

The Elf on the Shelf is a great family Christmas Tradition in a box!  It is based on a tradition that Carol Aebersold began with her family in the 1970’s, and includes a children’s book that explains that Santa knows who is naughty or nice because he sends a “scout elf” to every home.  During the Holiday Season, the Elf watches the children during the day and reports back to Santa each night.  When your kids wake up the next morning, the Elf has returned from the North Pole and can be found hiding in a different location, making it into a game that both you and your kids will love!

The Elf on the Shelf usually makes his debut at the beginning of the Holidays (we plan to start on Thanksgiving this year) and by the second or third day, your kids will be tearing out of their rooms to see where the Elf is hiding that morning!  Plus, I just have to mention the fact that it really helps with behavior for kids during this really awesome yet really crazy time of the year!  Each Tradition-in-a-Box™ comes with its very own scout elf, a hardbound, cleverly rhymed children’s book and a keepsake box for easy storage.

PS — need a little push to get into the Holiday Spirit?  Visit the Elf on the Shelf Website — it is completely interactive and a blast to visit — you can even see the North pole!

Wow. I suck. I wonder if she’d adopt my children and give them a shot at a normal life. She sounds like such a good Mom, doesn’t she? Such enthusiasm! Here it is, December 3rd, and I don’t even have a shopping list STARTED yet, not even in my cluttered mind. My front stoop is still adorned with a Halloween doormat and I’ve got a dirty Thanksgiving table cloth on my dining room table, under my laptop and a sky-high pile of bills and catalogs, even as I type this. 

Look. I just calls it like I sees it. This is a racket. This Elf on the Shelf thing is nothing but crazy crazy bullshit for overburdened, guilt-ridden parents who are desperately trying to create traditions for their kids to help them make sense of this topsy-turvy over-commercialized world. But people – don’t you see? You are making more work for yourselves! Hellooooo? As if we need one more task plunked onto our To-Do Lists… particularly at this time of year when their are so many cookies to bake and trees to trim and gifts to buy and presents to wrap. Where is my Xanax, anyway? 

And to prove my point, lo and behold, I just received an email from one of my local homegirls, asking: “Do you have Elves?…they are all the buzz and another fucking thing for us to do in December… Tyler told Zach that he could catch one with a lolly pop trap and he wants one so bad that him and his brother both set traps tonight!!!  guess I gotta get a damn elf!!!”  Oy. See that? The pressure. Holy shit – the migraine inducing pressure. This poor Mama/Sistah/Friend of mine is totally up against the wall. What is going to happen when those little boys of hers wake up and there is no Elf in their lollipop trap? Shoot… what if there is a big old stinky dead hermit crab in that lollipop trap? Or a rat? Damn. There is no way in fucking H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks that I would put out a sugary-food-based-trap in my home… on purpose. Lord knows what I’d be looking at eye to eye the next morning. But do you see where I’m going with this? The kids. They talk. They talk at school about who’s Elf is the most mischievous and adventurous. Then the kids come home and tell their Moms who’s Elf did what the night before and the Moms totally get it. It’s just another feather in the Über-Mom cap. But ladies, make no mistake about it, we totally get who is overcompensating for something dark and sinister by having the most rambunctious Elf in the whole darn subdivision. It may look to the innocent children like there is two tons of fun to be had in your home with your Elf, but don’t kid yourselves, we all know what you’re hiding. We. All. Know. 

"I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. And gosh-darn-it, people like me."

I asked some of the Über-Moms in my hood about this phenomenon a while back… for research, and yes, because my oldest started hitting me up for an Elf about a year ago. You would not even BELIEVE the things these Desperate Housewives stay up at night doing… with the Elves I mean. One mom unrolled all the toilet paper in her house and left it in huge piles all over each bathroom. Uh, excuse me, NO. Uh-uh. First off, I have a toddler. If I want to see unrolled piles of TP, I can just leave the bathroom doors open. I do not need to spend $29.99 on some ugly toxic doll and then stay up late making my own messes to clean up the next day. That is just retarded, people. And not very hygienic, green, or time-wise. 

I’ve heard of other mothers who purposefully make a bunch of cookie crumbs and put the Elf near the cookie jar before they go to bed. Well, tee-hee-hee! Isn’t that a HOOT! Wouldn’t that just tickle your funny bone to come downstairs for your first cup of joe and see a swarm of ants and/or cockroaches feasting on all those crumbs with that mischievous Elf?! Nothing says Christmas like a cluster of disease carrying vermin on your granite. Didn’t we cover this already with the whole lollipop trap crap? It’s crazy talk, I tells ya. 

"Well, well, well! What do we have here?"

 

Or, how about this? Some Moms sprinkle fake snow or glitter all around their homes in a trail-like formation! Then the kids track down the Elf the next day by following the glittery fake snow trail all around their otherwise immaculate open floor plan! Oh yes please! Gimme some of that! Shoot, I don’t sweep or vacuum enough as it is. Last thing I need to do is intentionally ADD to the funk on my floors. Actually, in my home, the Elf would certainly get lost in a dog-hair-tumbleweed and we’d never see him again. Ever. Or with our luck, the devil-dog would find him first, eat him, and poop out his mangled head for the kids to find in the yard one day, scarring them for life. No thanks. 

And what’s up with the hiding of the elf every night and the kids having to find it in the morning? Again. Toddler in the hizouse. I can’t find the phone, the remote, my keys, various sippy-cups, and my ginzu knife set any given day of the week thanks to my sweet little Bucket Head’s predisposition for stealing and stashing loot. I certainly am not about to hide something on purpose. Highly doubt if I’d remember to do it anyway. Good Lord, my middle baby lost her first tooth the other night and I totally almost forgot to do the deed. My first born saw that coming though, because apparently he wrote his own little Tooth Fairy note for my daughter and put two of his own quarters under her pillow just in case. He’s only 9. Already overcompensating for his slacker Mama. Good kid. 

Other moms use the Elf as a bargaining tool. “The Elf is always watching!” (Ewwww!) “Clean your rooms or the Elf will tell Santa and you’ll get coal in your stocking!” Oh come on now. Really? This just burns my biscuits, ya’ll. It’s like those reading programs at school where the kids have to read for a certain number of hours and they win a prize like a ticket to a hockey game or Six Flags, but really all the record keeping falls on the parents. Look, in my house, the prize for reading is: READING. Yep, reading IS its own reward. I’m not gonna bribe my kids with an external motivator to do something that I expect them to do and get satisfaction from anyway. Again. Dumb. My kids will clean their rooms because they know if they do they will get the best prize of all: the opportunity to continue living here. Geez m’knees… this is what is wrong with kids today. They need to be bribed to do everything! Gimme a break. I don’t need no stinkin’ Elf to get my kids to clean their rooms. Lordhavemercy. I just tell them what my crazed single working mother shouted to me and my brother numerous times: “I swear to GOD… I will call Santa and tell him not to come. Is that what you want? Is it?! ANSWER ME!” Hey, it worked. Santa always came. 

OK, one last story. I saved the best for last. Just asked my good friend Lindsay if she had any good Elf stories for me. She is a professional photographer and blogger extraordinaire, and gets full credit for any decent photo you ever see on this blog. She also is the very reluctant owner of one very lazy, sordid Elf and she was kind enough to photograph him in several compromising positions for this post! Thanks girl! So anyway, she emailed me this little gem: 

the craziest Elf story?

an uber mom I know called me frantic and out of breath

the kids were at AWANA and they were en route home

she said… go into my house

here is the code to the alarm

mess up both my kids rooms

throw their underwear around (I said WTF?  a pervert elf… gross?!)

she was dumping shit out all over the house all for the sake of convincing kids that a made in china piece o’ crap was beamed here directly from santa.

she was so panicky and jittery! 

weird people in this town.

weird people.

Oh, sakes alive. I can just smell the panic in that Über-Mom’s pits. God help her for forgetting to muss up those rooms before church! Good thing Lindsay was on stand-by to save the day or those poor kids would have had the disappointment of a lifetime. 

Look. I know my limits. I can totally see why this could be a very cool thing in the hands of a competent parent. But for me, it would be just one more thing that I would have to do and most likely wouldn’t do very well. I guess “to each his own” is fitting here. If you can do it, great. Sounds like the kids really dig it… just like they dig Scooby Doo, WONKA® Lik-m-aid® Fun Dip™ candy, Ernest movies, and lots of other things for which I have no tolerance. But for the rest of us who feel compelled to “just say no” and focus our energies elsewhere, that’s OK too. We all do the best we can with the drugs we have. 

And me? Well, if I can ever log off this crazy thing and get caught up on the laundry, I intend to keep The Christ in my Christmas and The Elf on the Shelf…of the store. Happy Holidays, ya’ll!

©2008 The Bearded Iris

  

Grab and Go

Ya’ll, I’m busier than a one-legged woman in an ass-kickin’ contest today, what with all the holiday Room Mom requirements, and Thanksgiving cleanup, and the fact that if I don’t grocery shop my family will surely starve to death. 

But it is Tuesday. And you know that when I’m not busy trying to keep my children alive, I like to share practical tips you can use in your own homes to make your lives all that much better than mine.  It’s a little thing I call “Just the Tip Tuesday.” Catchy, don’t you think?

So here’s my tip:

Don’t you just hate when you are trying to leave a place and your kids dig in their heels and say “Hell no – we won’t go!” And meanwhile, your hands are totally full with a diaper bag and a poopy diaper that you need to toss and your cell phone and your purse and a Tupperware container full of the leftovers that your Mother-in-Law insists you take with you? Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. Next time you get some attitude from a stubborn child and don’t feel like investing any more of your precious energy verbally enticing them to get in the damn car already, transfer all your stuff to one arm. Then, without warning, silently walk up behind them, grab the back of their overalls, pick ‘em up, and just start walking. Like so:

 

Now before you call Social Services, I’ll have you know that no toddlers were harmed in this process. First of all, his diaper was probably totally saturated with urine, making it a very fluffy cushion for his goody basket. Secondly, he was so surprised by the maneuver that he said “WHEEEE!” I know, I know, not exactly the negative consequence needed to teach a life lesson. But sometimes a mama’s gotta do what a mama’s gotta do. The point is, this move shuts ‘em up and gets ‘em out. Then, when you get home, you can sit them down for a little “Come to Jesus” talk and let them know that if you ever, I mean EVER, have to physically extricate them from a social situation again, it will be the last party they ever attend. To which they will certainly smile and giggle and say something like “Mommy. More. Kiss.” and totally miss the point and melt your heart all in one fell swoop. 

But still. It’s a good move to try when your last nerve is on the verge of being severed in public. Now this is important… there are several key ingredients to being able to pull this off:

1.) Always dress your toddler in overalls when you are going somewhere that you suspect might be difficult for them to leave peacefully. A t-shirt just won’t cut it. You’ll rip the shirt and/or choke the child. Not OK. Also, these are little humans, not cats, so don’t just grab ‘em by the nape of the neck or someone really will take your children away, and that is never good.  

2.) Have an escape route mapped out. This move works best when you remember where you parked the mini-van and can get there without having to stand in line at a Chuck-E-Cheese security checkpoint apologizing to the other parents. 

3.) Make sure you are in decent physical condition before you attempt this move. Arm strength is important here, but the actual lifting should always be done with your legs. Trust me, nothing says “the party is over” like a toddler with a concussion and a frazzled Mom flat on her pimped-out-pooper with a back spasm from hell. Or so I hear. 

So yeah. Parenting. It’s not for pussies. Give this tip a shot the next time you need an emergency escape plan, and remember, you heard it here first. Giddee-up! 

©2008 The Bearded Iris

Seeing Red

As if we parents don’t have enough to think about on a daily basis, it is “Family Safety – Red Ribbon Week” at the elementary school, the purpose of which is to educate students and their families about how they can keep themselves safe. Well, isn’t that nice?! And to make it super fun for the kids, the school is asking that the kids wear or bring something special every day this week! Wheeee!   

You know what? In theory – great idea. I’m all for keeping kids and families safe. Good on ya, school. However, in practice… this is a lot of extra work for a mom like me. My plate is already overflowing… and one more drop of bullshit casserole is going to make the whole damn paper plate spill all over my ill-fitting Mom-Jeans. I swear. I am a woman on the verge, ya’ll.  

Think I’m exaggerating? Here’s a rundown of the super fun extras I am (was) supposed to do this week:

Monday: Internet Safety Day – Surfing the Internet Safely!
Students are asked to wear their tropical Hawaiian shirt today.  
Oh, suck it.  We don’t have tropical shirts and I am certainly not buying two now for you people.  

Tuesday: Red Ribbon Day – Say No to Drugs.  
Students are asked to wear RED today.  
Ooops.  Missed that one. Too bad… because I might have actually been able to do this with minimal effort. We have some red clothes somewhere around here, and also a large assortment of pink socks and underwear that accidentally get washed with the red stuff on a semi-regular basis.  Oh well. 

Wednesday: Bicycle Safety Day – You’re Bright and You Ride Right!  
This day will feature students wearing their Brightest Colored shirt to signify their “bright” ideas about bike riding safety. Dammit. I missed this one too.     

Thursday: Fire Saftey Day – Only YOU can Prevent Fires!  
Students may bring a STUFFED BEAR today!
Uh-oh. 
Wait. It reads, “Students may bring…” That means it’s totally optional, right? Eh, nooooo.  
In my house, from now on, we’ll be calling this one – “Scar Your Child for Life Day!” 

Friday: Stranger Danger Day – Wear strange socks to help you remember to always follow your rules for Stanger Danger.  
Oooooo-kay. If you say so. But I’m thinking these poor little children will be so busy looking at their feet that strangers will be able to slowly drive right up and duct tape these downward-gazing children into the backs of their vehicles with no resistance whatsoever. Great – sounds like a winner. I definitely want my kids to associate pedophiles with wacky footwear.

I really just have one thing to say to school administrators about this program: “ARGHHHHHHHH!” If keeping kids safe is so fucking important to you, I suggest that you NOT stress out the parents with this kind of crap. Seriously. How safe do you think it is in my house this week with Mommy having to do all this extra shit when I’m already overwhelmed with Halloween costumes and cookies and parties and pumpkins? Seriously. It is a war-zone here right now. Don’t ask me to find matching strange socks and remember to place them on my kids on a specific day. Please. I beg of you. Wanna keep my kids safe? Quit adding to my never ending “to-do” list with menial tasks.  

As fierce as that may sound, I have not yet actually been brave enough to contact someone at the school and bitch about this stuff for fear that I am the only person who feels this way and that my lunacy will be taken out on my children. So I try to keep up with the constant stream of special requests to the best of my ability and pretend that I am not drowning in a sea of PTA induced clutter. I even have some systems in place for managing the constant influx of information. I placed the notice for this particular super fun week long hassle on the inside of my front door with a magnet, intending to remind myself each day what special item to dress my kid in or pack in their bag. Not a bad plan. At least it wasn’t buried under a pile of school papers somewhere on a spaghetti-sauce-dripping-kitchen-counter. But you know what happened? The flier got covered with a Cub Scout Popcorn Sale Order Form and I just plum forgot (although I did have a stellar week of popcorn sales, thank you very much).  

Yep, I forgot all about this stupid Red-Ribbon Safety CRAP until today, Thursday, when I got to see with my own two eyes how painfully neglected my poor children are.  Yes, I went into my kindergartener’s class this morning to volunteer and witnessed first hand how painful it is to be my child.  Poor Klepto was the ONLY KID in her class without a stuffed bear for Fire Safety Day.  OH THE SHAME!  

I was just sitting there, minding my own beeswax, cutting out construction paper rectangles and quietly gluing them onto bigger pieces of paper when the teacher announced that it was “time to get our bears and come sit on the rug for story time!” Uh-oh. This is gonna get ugly.  

“Look busy,” I told myself, head down, scissors frantically snipping away at those rectangles. Maybe she’ll just head over to the rug and sweetly ask another child if she can share with them. Nope. No such luck. Suddenly I heard Klepto shriek at another child: “STOP IT! LEAVE ME ALONE!” One of her friends was apparently asking her where her bear was. Confronted, like a wild animal in a corner, Klepto lost it. First the scream of frustration, then I could see the lower lip start to quiver, then the tears spilled forth and she tucked her head into her arms on her table. Within seconds she was literally racked with sobs. All the other kids were sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the carpet with their cute little stuffed bears in their laps, and Klepto was totally isolated at her table, body convulsing with sadness for being the only child without a bear… the only child with such an obvious loser of a mama who could not even manage to pack one, just one, of the three gazillion stuffed animals that are cluttering up the house. 

And there I sat, quietly cutting and gluing, feeling a lump slowly rising in my throat, thinking, “Damn. I suck.” 

There is nothing like disappointing and bringing shame to your child in such a public forum. My heart broke for that girl. 

Luckily, Klepto has the most amazing teacher who just so happened to have an extra stuffy on hand and was able to eventually persuade my child to pull it together and accept the substitute bunny. It was not an easy sell. And yes, I do suspect that part of the theatrics from Klepto was for my benefit: “Take THAT Mom! Can I have some candy and watch Hannah Montana NOW?” But even if I had not been there, she still would have felt that shame and embarrassment of being the only child without a teddy bear.  

In the heat of the moment, witnessing my child lose her shit over my inability to send in a random object, I was unable to feel anything but mortified.  I promptly finished my volunteer duties, averting eye contact with the other moms, and snuck out of the room after quickly kissing my red-faced, tear-stained daughter goodbye. Then I went to my car and cried. I cried long and hard. It sucks to feel like even your best just isn’t good enough, like you can’t keep all twelve balls in the air…eleven, maybe…but not twelve. It especially hurts when your negligence causes such emotional distress in one of your own. It is my job to love and nurture her, not cause so much heartache.  

But wait just a mother-fucking minute, people.  I was THERE. Volunteering. Cutting rectangles! Taking pictures for the school yearbook. I made her Halloween costume this week. She had clean underpants on every day this week. She ate multiple servings of fruits and vegetables every day and I read to her for 20 minutes every night. I brushed and flossed her and supervised her fluoride rinsing and kissed her goodnight… every night. I am a good mother and I will be DAMNED if I am going to let this unwelcome serving of bullshit casserole make me feel otherwise. Fucking school. Look out, my caffeine just kicked in and someone is going to have hell to pay.  

But wait, it gets even better. Last night, I asked the kids what they learned about Fire Safety yesterday. “Nothing.” Really? Well what about bicycle safety, Internet safety, saying NO to drugs? “Nope. Nothing.” Hmmm. It turns out that Nature Boy was also one of the only kids in his third grade class without a teddy bear yesterday, and the teacher did an academic lesson involving measuring said bears, and since Nature Boy didn’t have one, he couldn’t participate. WHAT?! Oh, no. You mean to tell me that my kids are being made to feel isolated and bad and miss out on academic instruction because their mother didn’t send in a teddy bear for an optional program about safety topics that aren’t even being taught? Excuse me, I have a phone call to make. 

It’s funny.  There were two other moms there with me for the volunteer shift, cutting and pasting and making small talk. Before the “I don’t have a teddy bear!” incident, we chatted about how times have changed, reminiscing that when we were in Kindergarten so many years ago, it was only a half-day program, with time for a nap everyday.  We didn’t have such complicated curricula.  We learned our letters and numbers and colors and shapes and Moms were allowed to bake homemade treats to send in for “Halloween Parties”…not “Autumn Centers.” And none of us remembered our mothers sitting in the back of the room each week cutting out rectangles. Both of these moms volunteer one morning twice a month, and both seemed embarrassed that it wasn’t enough. What is going on here? Why isn’t anything we do ever enough? Something is very wrong here. And you wonder why so many mommies drink.   

Well, on that note, I suppose I better quit writing and start baking. We’ve got pumpkins to carve and pumpkin shaped cookies to decorate.  And I have a new big ol’ box of wine callin’ my name. 

And just so you know, I did dig up some crazy socks today so my kids wouldn’t be ostracized or kicked out of class for being disruptive with their non-conformist ways. And I instructed my son to wear one of his crazy socks like this: 

Take THAT, fucking school. Now quit stressing me out and teach my kids some math for Chrissakes. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

So the bartender says, “We don’t serve your kind,” and the mushroom says “Oh come on! I’m a fungi!”

Oh for the LOVE OF GOD. I am now on a first-name basis with the receptionist at my pediatrician’s office. When I called yesterday she recognized my voice, greeted me warmly, and asked how little Bucket Head was doing, what with his third ear infection this month and the chicken pox and all. I told her I was actually calling on behalf of one of my other spawn, Klepto. Yes, this time it’s my 5 year old female middle child, the one with a penchant for petty crime, who is up to bat. The very same child who had that ugly stomach bug a few weeks ago and showered every square inch of my messy master suite with her stomach contents like a lidless-blender-full-o-cheeseburger-smoothie.

Long story short, Klepto has:

wait for it…

wait for it…

still with me?

it’s totally worth the wait…

but, brace yourselves…

it’s really gross…

she has:

RINGWORM!

Eeeeeeeek!  

This just might be the dung-covered straw that breaks the camel’s already swayed and achin’ back.  I mean really!  What’s next?  Lice?  Flesh-eating bacteria? A fifteen-foot tapeworm singing David Lee Roth songs? Get me outta here. This is really killing my buzz. Damn!

Wait, do you want to see it?

I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

Oh, alright. Fine. I’ll just show you mine. I’m not a very good negotiator. We’ll just consider this a 68 (you know…I’ll do you, and you can owe me one).  Check this shit OUT, ya’ll: 

She’s had this spot for a couple weeks…it started out much smaller though. I thought it was a bug bite. Then I noticed that it was getting bigger and not healing. (Note to self: bathing children is good for more than just odor abatement.) 

Good news – it is not actually a worm.  It’s a FUNGUS.  Ewww.  There’s a fungus among us…I’ve always wanted to say that outside the context of a mushroom festival. Loser. I know. But get this – it is the same fungus as athlete’s foot and jock itch!  Double ewww.  Bad news – it is contagious.  I need to wash all her sheets and clothes with hot water and apply a prescription anti-fungal cream on the spot twice a day for 2 weeks. Great. One more thing to do. One more straw on that poor old camel. My sad little humps are being crushed under all this stinky straw, yo!

You know what I really need? (Other than help teaching my children the fine art of proper hand washing, obviously)… a vacation. First person to send me a one way plane ticket ANYWHERE wins the prize: me.  I’ll start packing.  I can be ready in 20 minutes. I’ll bathe in bleach first. Seriously. Let’s go. Anywhere. Please? 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

School Bus Bonuses

Parenting. Oy. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.      

My two older kids ride the school bus to and from school.  I consciously choose this for MANY reasons:

1.) it is very convenient.  The bus picks them up in front of my house every morning and brings them right back to my front yard every afternoon.

2.) it is environmentally friendly. One bus services my entire neighborhood, as opposed to all the Über-Moms who send thousands of tons of toxic fumes into the atmosphere everyday while they idle in the car rider line. 

3.) it is economical.  I don’t waste any money on gas driving to and from school or waiting in the car rider line. 

4.) it is practical.  I don’t have to wake up my toddler early and load him into the car to take a 20 minute round trip ride to school and back.  Nor do I have to wake him prematurely from his afternoon nap to then jockey for a good spot in the car rider line half an hour before school is dismissed, and then listen to him scream in his car seat while we emit toxic fumes, burn gas we can’t afford to waste, and lose precious minutes that I could be spending folding clothes, scrubbing toilets, or BLOGGING like the dirty cyber whore that I am.  

5.) it is encouraged. The school system WANTS us to use the school buses.  They don’t want the car rider line hassles (which require police assistance for directing traffic!), or tardy students who disrupt class, or elevated carbon monoxide levels in the atmosphere.  And I like to please, as you know.  So, for the most part, I do what authorities tell me to do. (Note to husband: dress like an authority figure and boss me around tonight…I will obey and you will like it.)

So basically, it sounds like the right choice, doesn’t it?  I mean, it’s easy, green, cheap, smart, and preferred by 4 out of 5 dentists school officials to let your kids ride the bus.  Right? Right. 

Then why do so many moms in my hood opt to drive their kids to and fro in their ginormous gas guzzling suburban tanks??  

“Ask and ye shall receive.” I think I just found this one out, the hard way (my favorite learning style).

Last night my oldest son, Nature Boy, asked me, totally out of the blue, why the worst swear words “are just random strings of letters.”  I asked him what he meant, and he said “… you know, like F-U-C-K… it isn’t even a word, but it is the worst swear word.”  GULP.  I asked him where he heard that one and he said it was on the bus… the “big kids” (5th graders) say it. Fuck, is right. That’s what she said (in her head… she, being me, of course).  So, good news, my kid has no idea what “fuck” means (phew). Bad news, he’s hearing other kids say it on publicly funded modes of school transportation.    

But that is not the only issue.  Recently he also asked me what “gay” means.  Dude.  Gay.  He just turned 9 years old! He’s only in the third grade! WTF?!  Apparently, the hot bully move du jour is to force a kid to look at your hands while you do some dorky random hand signal like this:

If you can get some cooperative younger child to stare at your hands for 5 seconds, then you say, “Now you’re going to go GAY!” (“go GAY!”… as if… like going bald or going crazy).  

So my sweet little Nature Boy says to me, “Mom, these kids on the bus made fun of me and told me I was going to go gay because I looked at their hands for 5 seconds.” 

I was stunned. Not only because I don’t think it is appropriate for a kid like Nature Boy who has yet to ask me a single question about sex to be learning about it from 10 year old rednecks…but also because I had no idea he was being exposed to this kind of hatred. 

“And what did you say to that?” I asked him. 

“I said, ‘So what? What’s wrong with that? Like on the Flintstones Song: ‘You’ll Have a Gay Old Time!’…it just means happy!’  I’m proud to be happy.  Those big kids are dumb.”

WOW. See what I mean, that this child was clearly switched at birth?  There is NO WAY I could raise a kid this cool.  So, I let him believe that gay means “happy” for about ten minutes, and then I decided that knowledge is power, especially when dealing with hateful bullying good ol’ boy idiot kids. 

So I explained to Nature Boy that it is also called “gay” when two boys (or two girls) love each other and want to be together as a couple.  I told him that it is something that people either are or aren’t, but that you can’t “go gay” because someone forces you to stare at a random hand signal, or because you like to dance, or wear pink, or sing show tunes, (what? don’t look at me like that!) or whatever else the bullies say. I told him that there is nothing wrong with being gay, and that people who make fun of gay people (or people of different races, or genders, or religions) are just bullies who are afraid of things that are different. And that smart, educated, kind, loving people are not afraid of differences – we celebrate them and value them.  

And this led to a very interesting discussion about right-wing conservatives their fear of homosexuals and gay marriage (except of course when soliciting gay sex in airport bathrooms…although we didn’t discuss THAT) and what a hypocritical thing it is for them to want to protect their freedom to bear arms, but deny others’ freedom to love whomever they choose.  And he got it.  He is such a great kid.  

But then he asked, “Mom? If both of the people in the couple are men, who has the babies?”  GULP.  ”And if they are both women, do they both have the babies?”  Oh boy.  Here we go.  Deep breath.  And…

“Well honey, great questions.  Gay men have to adopt babies, because only women can get pregnant. And gay women can get pregnant, but only if they have the help from a man because it takes a man and woman to make a baby.”

“Oh. OK. “

Phew.  He is only 9.  He still thinks girls are gross.  He doesn’t need to know about the more graphic fluid-based details. Yet. All in due time.  

But in the meantime.  You know what?  I’m still going to let my kids ride the bus.  Because my kids are great kids and they are learning really important life skills on that smut bus, like dealing with bullies, increasing their vocabulary, and becoming citizens of the world (thanks LL)!  Thankfully, our home is one in which our kids are comfortable talking to us about issues like these, and we listen and try to help them make good choices about how to handle them.  Pretty good strategy, if I do say so my own damn self.  

And as for you Über-Moms, sheltering your kids from school buses, bullies, and words like FUCK and GAY…. well, remember when you got to college and were out of your parents’ home for the first time and you drank every night until you either barfed or blacked out?  And remember how you shagged every dude in your dorm because it was like a free-unsupervised-all-you-can-eat-buffet? Well, that’s not going to be my kids. Good luck with that. 

In summary, and in accordance with my “Just the Tip Tuesday” promise, talk to your kids. Loosen the reigns, let them live a little, and create an environment where they want to talk to you.  You’ll all be better for it.  And while you’re at it, do what Jesus would do and teach them to love others. Your cooperation in this matter will make other kids’ bus rides so much more pleasant, and the world in general a better place for all. Thanks, sugar.  

Iris and two classmates on the first day of Kindergarten, 1975.  
Bus Riders, yeah-boyeeee.

(I’m not going to tell you which one I am…you’ll just have to guess.  
But how ’bout the shoes on that tall drink of water on the left?
Did she think she was on her way to Clown College, or what?)

© 2008 The Bearded Iris 

Just the Tip

Many of my readers have been asking me for parenting and housekeeping tips, since I clearly know a thing or two about both.  So to keep ya’ll happy, I am instituting a new regular feature here at The Bearded Iris called “Just the Tip Tuesday.”  From now on, every Tuesday, unless there is some kind of family or political emergency that needs to be addressed ‘a-sap,’ you can check here for some practical advice on everything from spouse management, to wrangling your nekkid toddler,  to do-it-yourself-exterminating.  I do it all. And usually in heels and a Wonder Bra.  

 

And since playing “Just the Tip” is probably how my sweet baby, Bucket Head, came to be, it is only fitting that my first “Just the Tip Tuesday” post be all about how I am managing his antibiotic schedule for the Double Ear Infection from Hell.  Have you ever been around an 18 month old with a double ear infection?  I believe I can best sum it up for you with a limerick (and thank you to Bernie B. for the inspiration!).  

There once was a baby in pain.
From shrieking he could not refrain.
His fever — extreme.
Now where’s my Jim Beam?
Vomiting sure leaves a stain.   

So yeah, I’m pretty sleep deprived right about now.  Hung over too.  

Alright.  Enough of my caterwaulin’.  Here is my hot parenting tip of the week: the key to antibiotics is consistency.  Lord knows I am not a fan of antibiotics.  They totally fuck with your digestive track, and everyone knows that a good daily dump is the secret to lifelong happiness.  But there are times, like when your sweet baby has a DOUBLE GOD DAMN EAR INFECTION, that you just don’t have a choice.  I don’t want this angel to suffer any more than he already does having me for a mama.  

Now, most of my life is just a hot, steamy mess.  I am not very organized.  (Who has time to tidy up when there is all this blogging to do?)  But I found out the hard way that if I don’t have a system in place to record medicine doses, I will forget to medicate my baby and then he won’t get better.  And that is how I came to invent my handy dandy Antibiotic Sticker Chart!  Here is what it looks like, for you visual people:

You will notice in my chart that there are 10 rows, one for each of the 10 days the little sicko will need to be medicated.  Each day has an AM and a PM sticker box.  Alls you do is give the child his dose of medication and then give yourself a sticker for being such a good parent!  Wooo-hooo!  It is that simple, honey.  Because I am such a giver, I’m gonna give you a copy for your own damn self.  Be right back. 

Shoot ya’ll, I don’t know a PDF from a PDQ.  Just make your own damn chart.  It is not that hard.  Truly.  

Look closely at this photo.  In addition to my kick-ass checklist, you’ll also notice a few alcoholic beverages. Please note, these are for the parent, not the sick child.  Trust me, a few libations can do wonders for pain management (again, for the pain of the adult, having to comfort the shrieking toddler all hours of the night, not for the pain of the infirm minor).  

In conclusion, keep lots of booze on hand, some stickers, and a medicine chart the next time you have a sick baby.  And remember, this too shall pass.  See you next week for another installment of “Just the Tip Tuesday!”  Please be sure to let me know if there are any particular topics you’d like to have covered in the upcoming weeks.  Thanks, ya’ll.  

Crafty Dog

 

This is my dog.  

As you may recall, he looks nothing like Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina.

This is my jar of Crayola Crayons.

Isn’t it pretty?

And this is what happened when the two got together for a little intestinal par-tay.  

Not my favorite way to start the day.  

At least this time we didn’t have to go to the vet.  My vet is on speed dial because of this dog and his dietary habits.  

Listen, this dog is trouble. He eats ANYTHING. Socks. Little People. Cat litter. He has a special affinity for dirty tissues….he’ll watch you blow your nose or wipe a kid’s nose and he’ll follow that dirty tissue with his chocolate brown eyes.  Then he’ll wait until you are distracted and he’ll snatch that booger-bundle right out of your hand.  He can wiggle his snout into the tightest or deepest of pockets for a tissue.  Then he’ll gobble it up and poop out a folded swan napkin the next day.  Not really sure how he does that, but it is a sight to behold.  

That reminds me of the time the kids and I were stringing popcorn garlands to hang on the Christmas tree. Oooh-weee, that makes me sound like such a good Mommy, doesn’t it?  Well don’t kid yourselves, I was probably drunk while we were doing it.  Anyhooo, we were using upholstery thread and real sewing needles and listening to The Chipmunks Christmas album (which is probably why I was drinking), and the next thing I knew, Klepto starts crying, “Mommy!  My popcorn is gone!”  That dog was stalking her…like a lion on the savannah, waiting patiently for her guard to be lowered, and then, the pounce and the dash.  That so’mbitch swallowed her whole garland: popcorn, thread, and needle, faster than you could say “Turn that God-awful music down and pour Mommy some more eggnog!”     

When I called the vet I learned that the needle wasn’t really the most dangerous part of this equation…it was the thread.  Apparently, if your pet doesn’t pass the thread all at once, it can cause the intestines to bunch up and lose blood flow.  If that happens, the animal will die.  So there are two choices, poop out the thread, or perform surgery.  Time is of the essence in a case like this.  It has to be passed within 24 hours, or the risk goes way up.  And intestinal surgery is risky at best due to the high likelihood of infection (poop = bacteria).  The vet advised that I “watch the dog closely for the next 24 hours and if part of the string comes out, no matter what, DO NOT PULL IT.”  Um, yeah.  Santa is practically on his way and Dr. Doolittle wants me to drop everything and study my dog’s ass?  I believe my reply was something like this:

“Hmmm, interesting idea.  Or, how ’bout this.  Why don’t I bring him to YOU and you all can watch him for the next 24 hours while I wrap presents and bake cookies.  It is five days before Christmas!  I have more important things to do than wait for this asshole, pardon the pun, to poop out my Martha Stewart Homemade Christmas Garland.  I’ll see you in five minutes.”  

Lord, I know that sounds very insensitive, but seriously, I didn’t ask that dog to eat the string and I shouldn’t have to be held hostage by his butt hole five days before Christmas while we wait to see if he is gonna live or die.  That is not the Norman Rockwell painting I envisioned when we adopted this dickwad from the Humane Society.  

Long story short, we got our Christmas Miracle that year.  The dog passed the garland: thread, needle, and all. He didn’t die.  And that was a “Good Thing.”

In summary:

Microwave Popcorn:  $2.49

Upholstery Thread: $0.99

Sewing Needles: $0.49

Vet Exam and Radiographs: $128

Not having to study my dogs ass or tell the kids that the bastard died 5 days before Christmas: Priceless.