Mother's Day 2016

It's Mother's Day again and so far, it's been a weekend to remember. First, I got to spend yesterday morning with my boys at a pancake breakfast and car show/farmer's market. That made my heart sing. Then, we spent the afternoon doing little things around the house. The younger two helped their dad with the yard work. The older one helped me with dishes and laundry. But what comes next will ASTOUND you! (Okay, not really, but hey, I had to try!)

Last night, everybody was exhausted. One of my boys passed out while reading, one was asleep by 8:15, and the other one was watching television with me. My husband had gone to bed early. 

At 9 o'clock, I was tucking in my kids when one decided he had to go to the restroom. That's pretty normal around here. Bedtime equals potty/need a drink/need cupcakes for the school district....you know this drill if you're a parent. 

As soon as I got everybody in bed, someone else needed to use the facilities. As they flushed, I heard "UH OH!" and walked in to see water rising to the topic the toilet bowl. DAMN! And no plunger in the house. Ours bit the dust last week. (I have a houseful of kids, it happens.) 

I tried a couple of tricks to get the problem solved, after I mopped the floor...with bleach...and tossed the mop...Nothing. I told my husband I was headed to the store to get a plunger. (Woke him up to tell him. You're welcome, honey!)

All the way there, I cursed under my breath. I had on my pjs and no makeup, and never even looked at my hair. Wally World, here I come! 

I arrived and went straight to the plumbing section where I found the grand-daddy of all plungers! This sucker was HUGE, with a bizarre-looking handle, a little snake thingy that helps move clogs out of the way, and a price of about fourteen bucks. I'm in! I grabbed it, turned to walk away, and stopped. I went back and got another, less scary plunger, just in case. Armed with my two plungers, I was ready to go!

The whole time I was in there, I kept thinking about how I'm in my pjs and I NEVER do that. It drives me batty when people do that! I looked for the shortest checkout line--yeah, I know, on a Saturday night at 10 o'clock, in Wally World. (No, I wasn't drunk!) My checker was a sweetheart and told me to "Have a happy Mother's...have a better night!"

I came home and got to work clearing the problem. Success!!

This morning, I got up and looked in the mirror. My pjs were on inside out. Inside out. In-side freaking out!  That explained the weird smiles and looks last night. It also explained why my pockets didn't work...DOH!

Happy Mother's Day! 

A Letter To My Prepubescent Child

Dear Child,

Yes, this letter is for you, the child who rolls your eyes and lets that "tone" creep into your voice; the one who tells me "no" when I tell you to do something, after I've asked you nicely before resorting to the "do it now" command. I'm going to impart some wisdom here. Pay attention, because I will NOT repeat myself. 

When you, my darling child, decide to behave like a little shit, you might want to remember a few things. 

First, I am your mother. I will be your mother for the rest of your life. You're ten/eleven years old now. You've got at least eight to ten more  years at home. That means you deal with me. Every. Single. Day. For. The. Next. Decade. Think about it. 

Second, although I'm more tolerant than my mother, I do have a breaking point. You have passed the point, my love. That is not wise. 

Third, you should understand that all of the electronics, toys, and other assorted crap you have, are privileges that can disappear faster than an unguarded birthday cake around yours truly. 

And finally, you will be a parent one day. And I sincerely hope I'm around then. If not, I will leave a detailed list of all of the bullshit you pulled for my grandchildren. Why? Because that's the way I roll, my sweet. And be warned, the apple does not fall too far from the tree. How do I know? Because you're just like...your dad! (You didn't think I'd say me, did you?!)

Love,

Mom

A Typical Summer Morning

4:00 A.M. My husband's alarm STARTS ringing. Every 15 minutes thereafter, it rings and he hits snooze. 

I should buy a sledgehammer. 

5:30 A.M. My twins are "quietly" talking and doing construction in their room. 

I really love my kids. 

I should buy melatonin. 

6:00 A.M. "Mom, Mom, Mom, he won't give me the remote!"

"He's lying! It's MY turn! Mom, Mom, are you even listening?!"

I have one eye partially open watching the coffee pot. I should buy earplugs. 

6:30 A.M. My oldest child wakes up, slams into my chair, causes my coffee to spill in my lap. "Sorry, Mom."

"Yeow!"

I should buy burn cream.

6:45 A.M. "You boys need to have breakfast and take your medicine."

Silence and no movement. 

"And what do you want?"

Silence. 

I hate these cartoons and video games. 

I should disconnect cable. 

7:00 A.M. "What do you want for breakfast because we need to take medicine and if you don't eat you are not going to have your medicine on time and then I have to deal with you bouncing off the walls and I really do not want to do that and OUCH who left the Legos on the floor?!?"

I should buy steel toed boots. 

7:30 A.M. Finally, the boys are eating breakfast! 

"Mom! He looked at me, really he did, he looked right at me and made a face."

"Mom. Mom. Mom. He pointed at me with the BAD finger! MOM!"

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it now!!"

I should buy wine.  

8:00 A.M. "I'm going to get a shower. Do NOT: open the door, stand on the furniture, stand on each other, jump on or off the furniture, jump on or off each other, touch each other; hit, kick, look at, breathe on, or point at each other."

"What Mom?"

Arrrrrgghh!

I should buy a case of wine. 

8:15 A.M. I step out of the shower, with shampoo dripping in my eyes, grab a towel and clutch it around me as I run to investigate the screams and crashes coming from the family room. 

I should get rid of the furniture and pad the walls. 

8:20 Shampoo has dried in my hair and my eyesight has been permanently damaged from the shampoo. 

I should buy dry shampoo. And call the eye doctor. 

8:30 I get the boys dressed, tell them to get in the van. We have to go to the bank, grocery store and to pay the water bill. They fight all the way to the bank. The bank is 10 minutes from my house. 

I need a soundproof glass behind the front seat...or earplugs. I need to call the car dealership. 

9:00 Bank trip done, bill paid. Next stop, grocery store. I remind the boys that we're on a budget and must stick to the list. 

Add a case of wine to the list. 

10:00 No less than three dozen fights separated in the grocery store, a cart full of groceries and one exhausted mom later; shopping done. 

When did I put ten boxes of cookies in the cart?! Ah, there's the wine!

11:00 Groceries put away, children ready for lunch and quiet time. 

I forgot to buy the earplugs. But I've got wine!

Attack of the Elvi!!

Many years ago, two dear friends and I went on a road trip. We drove to Tupelo, Mississippi.  Tupelo is where Elvis Presley was born.  Now, I'm a born and bred Southern girl, with a love of a lot of things Mississippi.  Elvis is NOT one of those things.  I know, I know, I'm going to hear from haters on this one.  But after years, no not years, decades of hearing Elvis' Blue Christmas blasted over department store sound systems all winter, and radio stations that played all Elvis all the freaking time on or near his birthday, I sincerely cannot stand him.  (I will say I liked him and his movies when I was much younger, but time changes many things.)

One of my friends was from Tupelo and thought it would be a treat for us to see his childhood home and other various homages to all things Elvis.  There was lots of wine, so I was happy enough.  We stopped at his childhood home, toured some other Elvis-related places, then headed to the casinos in Tunica, Mississippi.  We walked in the first casino and saw Elvis posters and statues.  Elvis was blaring over the stereo system.  Heaven help me!  But there was wine. 

After a day and evening of casinos, Elvis and wine, we slept a few hours and headed to Memphis, Tennessee.  I was dying to hit Beale Street.  Bars, wine, music...I forgot about one thing-- Graceland.  The friend who'd arranged this trip had paid for admission for all three of us to Graceland.  But still, there was wine.  Lots of wine.  Have I mentioned I had a fondness for wine?

We headed into Graceland for the tour.  Deep breath.  We walked through a sea of Elvi.  There were short ones, skinny ones, tall ones, chubby ones, blond ones, just about any ones.  I needed to drink more wine.  Actually, that isn't true, I'd had more than enough wine.

When I drink alcohol, I get chatty.  And loud.  And I find myself to be very amusing.  I can't help it if others don't appreciate my humor.  As we walked through the grounds, touring his plane, his home, his memorial site, I began to comment on various things. 

"Attack of the ELVI!!" I screamed, as we traveled through the throng of Elvis impersonators.

"Shhh!" said my friend. "You're going to get us hurt!"

I kept up commentaries throughout the tour.  And when a guide yelled at me for using a flash camera, I held up my hands and said, "Nope! Empty hands here!  I'm not a fan!"  Shortly after that, we left.  I think it had something to do with threatening looks, words, or something from the fans.

It was a fun trip with good friends, good wine and good memories.  Okay, the crowd of Elvi chasing us away was a little freaky, but...

Catching Flies

My momma always told us, "You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."

Now, I don't know about you, but I don't care for flies.  And why in the name of goodness would I want to catch them?!  I know what it means: you can get farther/obtain more by being nice than not.  I'm not saying Momma is wrong, but I'm not so sure she's right either.

I've been nice--that bend-over-backwards, sweet-Southern-belle, sugary-sweet, gagging nice.  (Don't laugh!  I really have!)  And frankly, all it got me was being a doormat.  I've gone the other direction--in-your-face, shut-the-hell-up, kiss-my-grits bitch. (You can disagree here...I'm waiting...still waiting...oh, never mind!) All that got me was trouble. 

Here's where we hit the happy medium, walking that line somewhere between sweet little angel and total bitch.  I like to think I do okay at it, but it's a struggle.  It goes against my nature to be argumentative and blunt.  STOP LAUGHING!  I really am uncomfortable in that role.  I SAID STOP!  But there have been times, many times that I've been forced to be that woman.  And then, I feel that Southern belle guilt.  It's like no other.  I promise you, if you've never experienced it, it's worse than the guilt that makes you want to buy your kid a pony because you made him cry.

I'm not sure if we are born with that guilt or if it just seeps into our pores after a while.  Nature or nurture?  Anyway, I digress.  I just know it's there.  Some keep it buried WAY down deep.  Some let it out more than we like.  And then there are the ones like me, who become sarcastic.  REALLY sarcastic.  (I know, I've shocked you again!...Have you recovered?...Are you okay?)  In fact, you could say the struggle between "catching flies" and full-on bitch mode, leads to sarcasm.  (Don't you like how I justified that?) 

The moral of the story?  Don't try to catch flies with honey unless you want to join the Sarcastic Society.  Just kidding, I don't believe there's a society named that yet... But when there is, I'll be president!

Happy reading!  Keep smiling!

Thunder, Lightening, and Earthquake: AKA My Children

One of my twins is notorious for having tantrums. And I don't mean crying, begging, whining tantrums. His tantrums are legendary. Kicking, screaming, biting, scratching, foaming-at-the-mouth tantrums are his specialty. He can bring down an entire building. People come from miles around to see him. Get the picture?

Let me say, this child is beautiful-- as are his brothers-- but when these tantrums start, he turns into Linda Blair in The Exorcist. I have never seen such a transformation. His big blue eyes glow, his lips poke out, his cheeks puff up, and he opens his mouth as wide as he can and lets out the loudest, blood curdling scream he can. He could shatter glass with this scream. He reaches volumes that you can't believe are coming from a 49 pound body.

The most recent tantrum occurred in the grocery store. He wasn't especially tired or cranky at the start. I have learned to be wary of that. But he went from angel to full-blown hellion in a matter of seconds. It all started with the word no.

He and his twin asked if they could both push the cart. I said yes. Then they proceeded to push the cart straight toward a display of expensive liquor. Now, I may have wanted this liquor by the end of the grocery shopping fiasco, but at this point I was still in denial. I very quietly, but firmly said, "No, we can't do that. Let's just step aside and let Mom push the cart, please." I know you're thinking I couldn't have been that calm or the tantrum wouldn't have started. But I kid you not, I was.

It began. They both refused to let go of the cart. Then they started fighting against me, getting closer and closer to the display. The liquor was starting to look much more appealing to me now. I pried fingers off the cart and let them know we were done. We were leaving without groceries. Then the madness truly began.

Twin 2, whom I shall refer to as Lightening, because he causes the most damage, threw himself to the floor and started screaming. I attemped to talk to him. That was SO not happening. I picked him up and called to the other two to follow me. Twin 1, whom I shall refer to as Thunder ( because he's loud but is, for the most part, just a lot of noise) started crying and saying he wanted to stay in the store. My oldest child, Earthquake got "that look" in his eyes. I stopped, looked him in the eyes and reminded him he wasn't in trouble YET. Thankfully, he backed down. Thunder continued to cry, but followed me out of the store. In the meantime, Lightening was kicking, screaming, slapping me, and calling me names. I had him in a tight grip and continued out of the store and into the parking lot.

Keep in mind, that no less than a thousand or so people were witnessing this (okay, a slight exaggeration), including some people who knew us, and NO ONE offered to help. (And in all fairness, I didn't really expect them to. I mean, Linda Blair was scary in this role, but Lightening is pure horror.) I was trying to decide if I REALLY want to be a mother at this point. I mean, they have that law so you can return them to the hospital, right?

I finally got them to the car and ordered, yes ordered, the other two to get in their seats. By this point, I was so NOT calm and reasonable. I'm not even sure I remembered what those words meant. I was angry. No, not angry. I was MAD!! I fought with Lightening for around 30 minutes, trying to get him into his seat and strapped in to no avail. I finally resorted to a pretend call to the police to assist me with this deliquent child. (I know, not the best move, but at this point I was mentally, physically, and emotionally done.) It worked. He stopped fighting, got in his seat and strapped in.

My clothes were soaking wet, my arms and legs shaking, and THEN these lovely children wanted to know if we could go get a milkshake for a treat. They HAD to be joking, tight? We went straight home. I know, you're shocked. Milk shake, my eye.

On the way home, Lightening started to amp up again. When I pulled into the garage, my husband heard the screaming all the way in the house --the child, not me. I was on my way around to get the little DARLING out of the van, not sure if I'd bother with the door or just aim him out the window, and Dad came out and offered to get him out. Good idea, VERY good idea.

We got all three boys inside and two of the three settled down. Lightening, on the other hand, was still going strong. He was put in his room and calmed down after about 30 minutes. Tantrum done and so was I.

(Copyright 2010, Linda Rosendale)