Advice From An Unreliable Source

I was told by a well-meaning friend that, if I want to drive more traffic to my obscure and seldom read blog, that I need to add practical content.  Apparently, my rants about motherhood and cleaning out the trash compactor (which was seriously going to be my topic for the day) aren’t helpful in any way.  If I really want readership, then I have to give usable advice—a terrifying prospect considering the fact that my advice is sketchy at best.  But, thankfully, I write on the internet where all content is questionable and generally begins with, “I read somewhere,” rather than citing a credible source.  So I’m going to jump into the advice pool with both feet and the warning that following said advice could leave you wet.

Things you should do in September:

1.      Stock up on school supplies—but make sure you hide them on the top shelf.  It’s true that pens, paper, notebooks and even staplers are the cheapest they’re going to get this time of year.  The problem with stocking up is that my kids will burn through all those supplies until we’re left digging under couch cushions for broken pencils before spring break.  So you have to hide them and ration them like a communist with cheese.

2.      Buy plants because you know that they’re going to die.  I’m just like you.  I lose interest in my yard by the time school buses start circling the suburbs.  I have to start bribing my kids to water the plants and I have to threaten horrible repercussions if they don’t mow the lawn before the cats are unable to make it back to the house.  That’s probably why half of my expensive spring shrub and flower purchases are now dead.  If I were you I’d stock up in the fall when nurseries and Kmart mark down the plants by 80%.  Plant twice as many for half the price and by this time next year, you’ll have the same yard and half the price (assuming half die).

3.      Give up on having a date night until November.  Summer dries up my flower beds, my cuticles and my date nights.  We’re surrounded by children, projects, and family reunions that just don’t let up.  So, I’m always super-excited when the kids start school because I think that I’m going to get back my date nights once the routine shakes out.  Wrong-o!  Fall brings sports, which breeds practices, which spawn jam-packed nights.  If you don’t have kids in sports, then you have the televised variety—which is just as destructive to date nights.  Do yourself a favor and give up.  Plan a date night in November when his favorite team is out of the playoffs and your kids have moved on to writing out their Christmas lists.  You can guilt him into taking you to one of those award-winning films that you love by reminding him that you haven’t had a date since May.  It’s a total win.

So tell me.  How’d I do with the advice?  I probably had better research “usable advice” before you answer.

The Power of The Smurf

Last weekend’s movie box office left studio execs scratching their heads.  It seems that the family film, “The Smurfs” tied the hyped sci-fi thriller, “Cowboys versus Aliens” for gross weekend revenue.  A pleasant surprise for the studio behind “The Smurfs,” and a disappointment for the studio that had sent the stars of “Cowboys versus Aliens” on every morning news program and every talk show for the past two weeks to make sure that we all knew that their movie was opening and that it was the place to be.  The only way I knew that the Smurf movie was opening is because Nickelodeon plays on every television in my house from the time the kids wake up until they leave for practices or play dates. 

Despite non-stop advertising, “Cowboys versus Aliens” got their bootie kicked by a bunch of blue pixies running around Central Park with no plot line.  I watched as Harrison Ford was offered a stuffed “Papa Smurf” toy by Conan O’Brien so that he could take his aggression out on the person responsible for the disappointing turnout for his movie.  He ripped the head off and then told Conan that he was going to give the headless body to his son.  My kids would not have liked that present, but who am I to judge a 66-year-old father of a 10-year-old boy? 

But, I digress.  The point is that everyone seemed absolutely stunned by the following of the Smurfs.  They couldn’t understand how a cartoon that really hasn’t been shown since the eighties could do such big box office—and these are men who are paid big-bucks to figure out exactly what we want to watch while stuffing our faces with buttery tubs of popcorn.  Jeez!  Every mother in America can explain it.  Put simply, it did big box office because mom-guilt has kicked into high gear.

It hits about the time that teachers send out letter introducing themselves and giving you a list of supplies, such as hand sanitizer and tissues, that are critical to your child’s success in the upcoming year.  That’s when I realize that summer is almost over and I haven’t done anything fun with our children since school let out in the spring.  I review the past 80 days and realize that they have been playing Playstation for about 70 of those days—and I didn’t stop it because it meant that they weren’t bothering me.  Gone are the plans to teach my six-year-old how to ride her bike before school starts, or to take my kids on a spontaneous road trip to see giant balls of string or dinosaurs made out of plywood.  That leaves me with—“The Smurfs.”

So, Hollywood execs take note.  Release any animated film that looks even remotely funny at the end of July and it will be a hit thanks to lazy moms like myself who always get blindsided by the start of school.  Mom guilt—it gets us every time!

Where Vacuums Go To Die

My closet is filled with vacuums. I have to keep them all because I don’t have a single vacuum with all running parts. One of them works for floors, but it can’t be turned off because there’s a short in the on-switch. I had to superglue it otherwise you have to hold the button down with one finger and push the vacuum around with your other hand. It made for a pilates-style workout but I can’t get my kids to try it.


My other vacuum won’t do floors because my kids tried bouncing it down the stairs claiming that the unit was too heavy to actually carry so the bottom broke off. When I questioned my kids about it they claimed that they had no idea that the plastic bottom could break like that. I’m not sure what schools are teaching these days but I’m scared. This vacuum naturally has the only functioning hose unit for crevices and cat-hair. It would be nice if it had an attachment so that I could do the stairs, but the tubes have been used as swords by my boys and the attachments somehow disappeared in the heat of battle.

My other vacuum is a mini that works great on stairs, but it would take a month to vacuum a room with it, plus you’d have to be put in traction after bending over for that long.

The most ironic thing about all of this? My house never looks vacuumed. Next year I’m investing in new, lighter colored carpet rather than another vacuum.

Aging Sucks and It Requires "Stuff"

We just got back from an extended lake vacation which translates into “being stuck on a too-small boat with all our children for a week.” Bear in mind that we could have been on Beyonce’s yacht and it wouldn’t have been big enough, but that’s beside the point. We watched our cooler eat $5 blocks of ice at an alarming rate, and our smallest children cover their bodies in mud at least six times per day. Just last year all of this seemed normal and even enjoyable but things have definitely changed.


Now I have to trek out for a long back-float in greenish lake water under a full moon because the night sweats have overcome me and they are determined to rob me of all hope of sleep. Since that sleep generally occurs between 2 am, when the breeze finally dips below 100 degrees, and 6 am, when the blasted sun comes up, I’m basically forced to take a swim when I’d rather be happily dreaming of Patrick Dempsey.

It’s gotten even worse for my husband. Never-mind the fact that he is freckled as the day is long but still believes that real men don’t wear sunscreen and therefore has to nurse second degree burns by the end of the first day out, but now he wants “creature comforts.” This includes a full kitchen on the back deck of the boat, an air conditioner that can run 24/7, and some way to keep the rain out of the boat without having to zip on the sides. In other words, he wants to feel like he’s home even if he’s really in the middle of a lake.

This is a new development in our lives. For more than 20 years I’ve been married to a man who spends ridiculous amounts of time fixing things and building things. Now he wants air conditioning and a boat that won’t spill his drink as we cruise 40mph down the rough waters of the main channel. It scares me a little—I won’t lie—because I find myself wanting better “stuff” too.

I don’t like sitting at a campfire anymore. The smoke kills my contacts, makes my bathing suit smell like a barbeque sandwich, and obscures the fact that my kids are getting dangerously close to poking each other with sticks that are burning at one end. I want cold drinks—ice cold—the kind that require actual ice, not blocks of ice pressed up against it in the cooler. I also need naps, in the afternoon, especially after being out in 100 degree heat for a few hours. And I want those naps someplace where a cold breeze is blowing directly on me the entire time. I don’t like chasing the sunshade across the beach when the wind randomly decides to carry it away anymore either (although this problem might already be solved since the sunshade disappeared without a trace while we were gone one day.) I want internet access and I want to be able to order books on my Kindle as soon as I need one—not just when I can get a signal. But I don’t mind not being able to get calls though—who knew?

All I know is that there’s a reason why empty-nesters sell off the SUV in favor of the luxury car and start taking cruises rather than dragging around a camper trailer with a canoe tied on top. They’ve done it and now they’re done with it. The only problem is that we’re not empty nesters—not even close. Thanks to modern medicine we still have 15 years of camping and family car trips to go. I really shouldn’t have waited to have my children, but then I wouldn’t have gotten that great picture of my husband trying to nap in our rubber raft on the shady side of the boat—hilarious!

Reflections on My Birthday--What I Know For Sure

I recently got the opportunity to celebrate my birthday with my family. Apparently they were more excited than I was about turning a year older, but the experience taught me some things and reminded me of others. Here’s what I learned after driving, shopping and sitting with my family for four hours in a row.


1. Children should never be left alone in the car—even if they are old enough to unlock doors and too old to sit in car-seats. Once they are left alone in a car, they will find something to amuse themselves and I guarantee it won’t amuse you and will result in a broken console lid.

2. Children shouldn’t be allowed to wait outside the car while your husband runs into the store to exchange something. They will run in circles in a crowded parking lot and other drivers will beep their horns at you. On the upside, the presence of crazed children generally deters drivers from choosing your row for parking.

3. Children shouldn’t be allowed to ride in your car unless you ultimately plan to turn it into a cargo-carrier, police car or other vehicle that doesn’t require upholstered seats, door handles or windows that roll up.

4. Children shouldn’t be allowed in stores containing adult-only sizes or merchandise that does not appeal to a child on some level. If you take them into such a store, you will find your daughter behind a clothing rack standing on top of your son screaming at him to “cry uncle.”

5. Children under the age of five have no business being in a movie theater. Granted, my children are all past that age but it doesn’t stop other well-meaning parents from thinking that it’s a good idea to take a two and three-year-old to an animated film. Little kids can’t sit still, eat anything chocolate without spreading it everywhere within a three foot radius, or need to go pee less than four times an hour. They also tend to scream “Don’t touch me Daddy!” repeatedly when a parent tries to contain them in a big theater seat.

6. Children do not deserve a single bite of your birthday cake. They will tell you it’s gross and complain about the variety you chose, assuming that their opinion mattered when picking out your birthday cake. Let them it leftover nuggets and stale Oreos.

7. Don’t plan a tryst with your husband unless your are absolutely, positively sure that your children are asleep and your bedroom door is locked. That is not the best time to discover that your door has been broken and the knob just spins in circles.

Rules for Surviving Summer with Your Children

We are exactly one day into summer vacation and I’m already feeling completely insane. My children are draining me like a jumbo jug of KoolAid on a hot summer day. They bombard me the minute I walk into the house with demands for new summer clothes and jobs that I’m willing to pay roughly four-times the going rate so that they can earn some money. They want me to buy them brand-name shorts and shoes at the same time that they want to be paid $15 to mow my pathetically small lawn and $25 to wash my car without the benefit of drying it or cleaning up the soap bucket.


The house is a wreck and my kids are allergic to vacuum cleaners and feather dusters. Today the cat followed me around the house meowing incessantly, and driving me further up the wall until I realized that she hasn’t had any food for the past two days. When I confronted my children about it, they spent 20 minutes arguing about whose job filling the cat dish belonged to—and I wound up having to feed her. I wonder if it was easier to get children to help out when you could credibly say, “If you don’t help me can these vegetables then we’re going to starve over the winter.” My kids can’t even fathom starving—let alone opening the freezer to find that we’re out of Popsicles.

Still, I think the role of motherhood is destined to send us all to the Looney-bin and summer is a crash course. Ever since I gave birth to my first child I began thinking irrational thoughts such as, “Wouldn’t it be easier to find work as a parole officer?” I’ve also considered entering a convent or becoming a roadie for Guns ‘n Roses—they just seem like more productive career paths than trying to get a two-year-old to pee in a toilet consistently. I’m also tired of feeling invisible (selectively invisible is more accurate) because my kids can see me fine when they need money or a ride to the movies, but they can’t see me or hear me when I repeatedly call them for dinner or ask them to unload the dishwasher. If I’m asking for help then I might as well be yelling into the wind for all the good it will do me.

So, I’m working on my list of summer survival tips. Please feel free to add to the list—I’m sure you’re a much savvier mommy than I am.

1. Hiding underwater at the bottom of the pool works just as well for moms as it does for kids.

2. Keep the Popsicles in the freezer in the garage—then you can just scoop up all the wrappers on trash day rather than having to deal with them every single day of the week.

3. Chore charts are complete garbage—they’re useless and they will do more to make you crazy than they will to get your kids to help out.

4. Pioneer children ran around barefoot so it can’t possibly hurt your kids to do the same—especially once they’ve lost their third pair of sandals this summer.

5. It’s okay to sign your kid up for summer soccer camp even if it’s going to be 105 degrees every day—just think of it as a mommy-cation.

Mother's Day Isn't For Cowards

I hate Mother’s Day. I know hate is a strong word but it’s the right word. It all began years ago when I learned that my mother hated it. I didn’t understand why, until I learned what went on behind the scenes of a typical Mother’s Day in our home. This is what I saw; a Saturday afternoon delivery of flowers followed by us all attending church where the children would get up and sing songs about loving their mothers and the speakers would quote touching thoughts on the divine art of being a mother. Most women, like my mom, would be decked out in macaroni necklaces or tissue-paper corsages. Upon returning home from church, my Dad would wrap his arms around Mom’s waist and ask if he could take us all out to dinner. Mom would then tell him that she already had dinner underway—usually a delicious rack of ribs with several side dishes. I could never understand why she didn’t love that nice day. Then I learned the truth. Mom doesn’t like cut flowers—she never has—she considers them a waste of money and yet, every year, that’s what Dad bought her. Naturally he would charge it on his credit card so that Mom could see just how much money he wasted on her present. She also doesn’t believe in shopping or dining-out on the Sabbath, so eating out was completely out of the question but she also knew that everyone was expecting a nice dinner on such a “special” day so she would spend hours getting the meal together and cleaning up afterward.


Now that I’m a mom, I can totally relate to her hatred of a day for mothers that’s made for everyone except moms. If it was really mother’s day, then I wouldn’t have to clean up the pancake mess my kids made trying to surprise me with breakfast in bed. I would go to church, but I wouldn’t have to be reminded how short I fall when measured against women in the Bible. I would also get to wear my own jewelry—preferably something that doesn’t bleed on my shirt when it starts to rain. If it was really my day, I’d make sandwiches for dinner and I’d get sole custody of the remote control. My husband would take my kids for a bike ride and not even consider asking me to tag along. Then I’d take a long nap while they were gone.

This year for mother’s day, my friends and I planned Saturday night out without husbands or children. I know there were men who were disappointed that they wouldn’t be taking their wives out for pizza and an animated movie to celebrate, but the women were more than happy to break from routine. We ate amazing food that we didn’t have to cook or clean up, we saw a chick flick, and we stayed up way past our kids bedtimes—leaving the men to handle that chore. It was wonderful, and I’m already planning next year’s bash.

When I got home from my night out my husband asked me what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day. I gave him the stink-eye and said, “Absolutely nothing.” Imagine my surprise when he actually listened and gave me my (almost) dream Mother’s Day. I still had to listen to guilt-inducing talks on women of moral character, but when we got home my husband made me a big plate of nachos, tucked me under a blanket on the couch and sat down next to me. “I love you. You’re a great mom,” he said, then he handed me the remote control and asked, “What are we watching?”

I guess I don’t have to hate Mother’s Day anymore.

Motherhood Minus the Soul-Sucking Guilt

I’m about to wrap up my first year navigating a new decade of my life. When I entered my forties, I read all these articles about how liberating this decade is for women. Apparently, it’s the time of life when you feel most like yourself and when you let go of regret and behaviors that hold you back. I think those concepts are a bit high-minded because, in my experience, we just let go of the guilt that ran our lives in our twenties and early thirties—which makes us even more selfish than we were earlier in life (just go with it for a minute—I promise I’ll explain.)


When I first became a mother, I sort of melted into the role. I started baking, even though I didn’t know the difference between a scone and a pancake. I put on some happy weight and bought clothing with pictures embroidered on them. I pureed baby food and cried for a week after I’d made the decision not to breast feed because I had read all of the articles and knew that my kid could turn out to be a slow-learner with allergies because of my decision. I bought scrapbooking supplies by the ream and subscribed to parenting magazines. But, after a while, I missed me. Or maybe I just got lazy—I’m not sure which, but either way, by the time my third child arrived I no longer felt the need to get on the floor and play or to justify my dependence on bottles filled with Similac.

Playing the role of mother just seemed too exhausting, so I became just my kid’s mother.



And my kids have a flawed and often selfish mother, but they’re used to it and they know better than to complain because it won’t change anything. My kids know that the Toothfairy is notoriously unreliable and that Santa’s presents will disappear from under the tree if I’m woken up before seven on Christmas morning. They also know that I will not “play” with them. I will, however, read a book nearby while they play. I also have no problem confiscating the homework computer so that I can mindlessly surf the web. They know that I love bedtime best and that if you forget your homework or your lunch you’re on your own to figure out a solution. I nod my head when they speak to me, even though nine times out of ten, I’m not really listening and they know that they will have to repeat the important stuff at least three times before I’ll actually hear it. They know that Dad is the fun one, but Mom is better with homework.

Years ago, this behavior on my part would have sent me into a guilt-ridden tailspin. But I’ve lost the guilt. I subscribe to “In Style” magazine and so, I have no idea how to interpret a baby’s facial expression. And, most selfish of all, I really don’t care to know. What I do know is that I love my kids. I love their fierce individuality. I love the fact that my kids have strong personalities, strong opinions and enough guts to express those opinions. I love that we can talk about almost any subject openly and honestly. I am nothing like the picture of motherhood I embraced years ago but I’m also not riddled with guilt by the fact that I can’t be that mom. But I am a mom who wants what’s best for her kids—and I have to believe that I was sent my children because I was the best mom for them—even if I don’t believe in slumber parties.

A Squished Heart

My daughter has been having friend troubles. It’s hard for me because she’s only six and I didn’t think I’d be dealing with this until Junior High at least. The boys have been relatively easy so far. They gather huge numbers of kids together to play or “hang out,” depending on their age, and most days it works pretty well—except for the days when someone accidentally draws blood. But either way, they’re all still friends the next day.


The other morning, while I was getting my daughter dressed, she told me about how her friend has started giving her dirty looks and telling her that she doesn’t want to play. Then, she told me the thing that broke my heart, “when she does that, it feels like my heart goes squish.” Her little hands made a clamping motion as she said it.

It’s so hard to watch my kids deal with heart break. I generally have an answer for most things, but not for that. There’s no manual on how to help anyone feel better when the people around them are mean. Thankfully, she came up with her own solution. We were at a local carnival when she suddenly got excited and started pointing. When I asked what was going on she said, “Mom, that’s my new friend—and she’s so nice.” We walked over and said hello. The girls had huge grins on their faces and immediately held hands and skipped over to the bounce house together.

There’s nothing like a friend to fix your heart when it gets squished. It’s just too bad we can’t keep hearts from getting squished in the first place.

It Must Be A Full Moon

I’m not sure what day it is on the astrological calendar, I’ve been too busy to track the supply of eggs and milk in my fridge—let alone to track the stars in the firmament, but based on the craziness that has taking place around me I’d say we’re having a month of full moons.


It all started when Dad came over for a visit, which always ignites a flurry of excitement since my daughter hopes that he’ll play Barbies with her (that’s a negative unless you count him holding Ken and nodding his head while watching golf on T.V.), and my boys count on him for “In and Out Burgers” at all hours of the day and night. But we knew his visit had turned unusual when my husband wound up helping him build a better mouse trap for his sister’s dryer vent once he discovered a nasty infestation had moved in while she was staying at one of her other homes. It involved chicken wire and nail guns and, I’m sure, a whole lot of cussing. I never saw the finished product, but based on the hours of effort, I bet it was impressive. Then he decided to help me with the dishes—and I now have proof that my mom has always been in charge of dish cleaning. He started my automatic dishwasher with liquid dish soap. When the bubbles overtook the kitchen and two sheet-sized bath towels, he defended his actions claiming that the soap bottle read, “dishwashing soap” and is therefore safe for dishwashers. I guess the nuance was lost on him, but the funniest moment came after I had opened my dishwasher and was determining how to dissipate the mounds of bubbles that were stuffed into the machine. Dad said, “just run the rinse cycle.” Again, while I understand that bubble baths are generally the domain of women, I was just a little surprised that he had never thought about how bubbles are made—namely put in the soap and add water.

Normally cleaning my son’s room is a mundane job—not so this week. I was picking up papers and shoes, as I normally do, cursing under my breath at all those moms who actually know how to get their children to clean, when I found a folded note written in pink ink. I began unfolding it when my son walked into the room and discovered me holding it. Without any warning, he knocked me off my feet, piling driving me into his bed. “That’s private, Mom, you’re embarrassing me,” he said as he locked his legs around my waist and started fighting me for the paper. I shifted directly into worry-mode, wondering what horrible secret was written on that paper to make him act like a crazy person to keep me from reading it, and now I’m not about to let go. My husband finds us ten minutes later, sweaty and tied up in a pretzel with my hand high in the air holding the note. He walks in, plucks the note from my hands and starts to read it aloud while my son’s face turns beet red. As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about—just standard girl notes about how cute he is and how nice it was of him to share his lunch. But it still felt a little like the Twilight Zone since I wasn’t even aware that we’d crossed over from the “girls are weird” into the liking girls territory.

I’m hoping that some normalcy will return soon, although I’m not sure why I’m hoping for something I’ve never had before. Currently my daughter is sitting on my lap, shedding crocodile tears because I cut her hair too short. You see, I trimmed off half-an-inch of split ends recently, but it’s the end of her life because she wants to grow her hair as long as Rapunzel’s. I think I’m just going to let her cry because I don’t want to explain to her why growing out her hair isn’t going to make it magical whenever she sings—that’s a conversation I’m not mentally prepared for.

Why Am I Here?

Spending long hours in front of the computer entering tax information has led me to ponder the big questions in life, but my addled brain hasn’t been giving me any reliable answers. Mainly I’ve been wondering what I’m doing here. What am I here for? My daughter thinks it’s to wait on her—to get her cups of milk and make her hair look nice and, if I don’t do one of these tasks quickly, then it’s my job to apologize and do better. My sons think I’m here to buy them things—mainly electronic things, or to come up with chores they can do that pay really, really well so they can buy these things themselves. They think that mowing the lawn is worth fifty dollars and dusting is worth at least twenty dollars—per room. A reality check is coming, but hopefully they’ll be far away from me in college when that happens.


All I know is that I hope I’m not here to do tax returns and my family’s bidding. But it feels like that’s why I’m here. I’m pretty sure most moms feel this way. There’s something about the fact that our kids arrive as chubby, soft babies who smell really good that lures us into becoming their wait-staff. I’m just not sure how to get out of it now that I’ve set this dangerous precedent.

It’s not that I don’t want to help my husband or children, it’s just that there’s only so much time in a day and I’m tired of being left with a deficit at the end of it. I used to have dreams and goals and the time to work toward them. Now I’m busy using my free time putting together a science fair project.

I’m sure there’s an intelligent answer to this predicament. And I plan on figuring it out—just as soon as I have some time to myself.

I Am The Moving Van

My daughter has started traveling with a menagerie that includes a stuffed bear, a stuffed rabbit and a very large and very fluffy stuffed duck. She carries them everywhere. They take up all the room on the couch so that the rest of us have to squeeze onto the loveseat when we watch T.V. We’ve tried to explain to her that we will hold her babies on our laps, but she insists that they just don’t like lap-sitting—at least not on our laps. When it’s time for bed, we have to line each of her babies onto her pillow, praying that there’s room enough for her too. She has fallen out of bed a couple of times now, because she’s afraid of squishing her kids.


Her birthday is coming up and she has settled on wanting a bigger bike—but only if it comes with a bigger basket on the front. Currently, her bike-basket only fits two of her children. The duck has to be shoved into her backpack with its head sticking out the top if she wants to go along for the ride. When I asked her why Ducky can’t just keep riding on her back, she told me that Ducky doesn’t like it when her hair blows in Ducky’s face.

The thing that worries me about this strange behavior is that it’s just a precursor for the rest of her life and she seems awfully young to be dealing with the logistics of getting kids where they need to be. I want her to have a nice long break from having to worry about a bunch of little kids—at least until she has ones that aren’t made out of plastic, fabric and stuffing.

I remember the first time I had to take my newborn out into the world. I had run out of diapers and formula and I had to go to the grocery store to stock back up. First, it took me thirty minutes to strap my child into the dizzying array of belts in his car-seat. Then I had to bundle him up, insuring that not even a single finger would feel the frigid air that was blowing outside my front door. Then I had to pack a diaper bag that would have been easier to manage had it been on wheels. Finally! Off to the store. Car seats are heavy and don’t rest in the grocery cart well and you can’t fit much in your cart when the diaper bag takes up half the space, but all in all, it wasn’t a bad trip. It was just short. In all my preparation I’d forgotten to feed him.

I’ve been blissfully free of diaper bags for several years now, but I can assure you that baseball bags and football pads take up far more room than a diaper bag ever did. It seems like it’s a mother’s destiny to cart children and their paraphernalia everywhere. I do have hope that my final trip with my children’s belongings will be when I drop them at college, but too many adult children live at home these days for me to get too excited about that prospect.

The point is that, as women and even as little girls, it seems like we know that it’s our responsibility to cart out children wherever they need to go. My daughter has her sights on a larger bike-basket. I’m thinking a van might come in handy—but then I’d have to crawl in the back to clean up the juice boxes and the grass left behind by cleats—of course, cleaning up after them is another responsibility altogether.

Just Call Me Mushy Brain

My brain is mush. It’s oatmeal that’s been left to harden in a cereal bowl. It’s a puddle after a big rainstorm and a jar of baby food—mashed peas probably. In fact, my brain is so tired that all I seem to be able to produce are metaphors describing it. I’m capable of incoherent babble and not much else. Tax season always does this to me and my children can’t quite figure out what’s wrong. I can’t follow the plot line of a half-hour sit-com or sing a bedtime song without lapsing into a tuneless hybrid humming mumbling thing.




I think my son is secretly hoping that I’ve become a zombie. Actually, he’s hoping I’ve become a trainable zombie. I caught him testing his theory yesterday when he tried to convince me that I had promised to take him shopping for new shoes. I had my purse on my shoulder before I realized that I had just bought him shoes the week before. I’m not sure why children with rapidly expanding feet need sixty-dollar shoes, but I’m pretty sure that historians will trace the price increase of shoes to the decline in the size of the average American family. He also tried to sneak off to school wearing jeans with huge holes in the knees—as if I wouldn’t notice that! (Truthfully, I didn’t notice until I was dropping him off at the school and I was running too late to take him back home and make him change.)

The zombie thing is working pretty well for him so far. I’ve agreed to watch brainless comedy movies and make pancakes for dinner—all at his suggestion. Truth is that I don’t really care. My brain is too tired to do battle. I’ll work on fixing meals that contain foods from the five-food-groups when I can remember what the five-food-groups are. In the meantime I’m counting on my husband to keep his head in the game—the only problem is that his head seems to be lost in the basketball games. It really is March madness!

The Food Wars

The food wars are on at my house and, if you didn’t know better, you’d think that we had been living in a bunker for twenty years and were down to battling over the last of the Twinkie supply. That’s because my kids are constantly fighting over food, hoarding foodstuffs under their beds and behind their dressers so that their siblings won’t eat all the cheese doodles or ding-dongs.


It’s making me crazy, but I don’t know what to do about it. The way my kids clash over food you’d think that we have no access to grocery stores or that I’m stubborn and only buy food once a year—but that’s not the case. In fact, I feel as if I live at the grocery store. I spend at least two of my lunch hours a week rushing around the store pushing a grocery cart in high heels so that my kids won’t have to go without milk on their cereal the next morning. Plus I do a full-on grocery run every single week, stocking my rather large food storage room with a surplus of taco shells, cake mixes, cereal, canned goods and Spray ‘n Wash.

My son told me that the problem revolves around “snack food.” Apparently, I just don’t buy enough. If I would just buy more snacks, then he wouldn’t put his brother in a choke hold for eating one of the granola bars or pop tarts that he has claimed as his own. In my defense, I do buy “snack food.” I just consider oranges and strawberries, yogurt and string-cheese snacks. My kids obviously disagree.

What they don’t realize is that I’m not about to increase the supply line just to end the battles—mainly because it wouldn’t work. Last month I got Ritz crackers on sale for a great deal so I stocked up—eight large boxes all nestled on a shelf in my storage room. Normally I buy a single box of crackers that my kids devour in one mindless snack-fest while zoning out to hours of video games. But this time they managed to eat all eight boxes in that same time frame. Since that time, the deprivation argument just hasn’t worked with me.

So, the food wars will continue—a never ending civil war with no winners. Just don’t let my kids know that I have a stash of peanut butter cups in my nightstand. I’m okay to deprive them of “snack food,” I’m just not that keen on joining them.

The LeBaron Family Oscar Awards

In honor of the Academy Awards, I’ve put together a few family winners in a variety of categories. I don’t actually watch the Oscars, probably because I generally have to watch movies like “Barbie and the Fairy Kingdom of Elves,” or some sci-fi flick that requires my boy’s whispering the plot in my ear for me to keep track of it. So I don’t know the movies that are nominated and I generally don’t really care. I’m also not fond of the whole red carpet thing because the last formal dress I can remember wearing was my wedding gown and it would take a whole team of special effects artists to get me back into it—ever. I’d rather not watch wafer-thin actresses sashay across the carpet—but that’s just me.


Anyway, it’s time for the awards. Here goes.

Best Achievement in Sound Editing. We live on a mountain that creates a natural ampetheater, so all sound from my backyard reverberates across the neighborhood. One day last summer my five-year-old daughter was swimming in the pool with her brothers and she had apparently picked up a naughty word that she liked from one of the boys because she began bouncing up and down in the water, yelling the bad word each time she came up for air. Because she had her eyes closed as she plunged in and out of the water, she couldn’t see me waving my arms or hear me yelling at her. Needless to say, I had to bonk her on the head with the pool skimmer to get her to stop. Sound edited—finally, although I’m pretty sure my neighbors were wishing I had a four-second delay and a censor button.

Best Musical or Comedy. As I said before, sound travels well from my house and one summer night we were having a barbeque with another family. It was a Friday night and we were enjoying the company, with the adults talking and laughing while the kids ran around the backyard. So imagine my surprise when, at 9:30, my neighbor appeared at the edge of my yard wearing a housecoat and slippers. He was carrying a flashlight that he shined in our faces as he told us that it was time for us to “knock off that racket” and that “people are trying to sleep.” Bear in mind that the summer sun set at 10:00 around here. I’m not exactly sure why he needed that flashlight but it was tough not to laugh.

Best Performance in a Leading Role (Also Best Performance in a Supporting Role)

When I came home from work the other day, my son approached me with a smoothie and a list of all the chores he’d decided to do because “he knows I’m busy and that I could use some help around the house.” At first I thought aliens had abducted my children and replaced them with Stepford children (not that I’d object immediately), but then he sweetly began to explain why it would be best for him to have a Kindle. He even produced a list of reasons, many of which involved school and future scholarships to Ivy League schools.

Then my youngest boy came into the kitchen as if on cue to tell me about all the reasons why it would be beneficial to the entire family if his older brother had a Kindle. I didn’t even know he knew the word “beneficial.” But it was the first time I’ve seen them work together as a team—and that is quite the achievement.

Best Picture. My daughter learned how to ride a two wheeler this week. It was so fun to watch her tentatively start out pedaling her little bike up and down the street and wind up speeding along with confidence a short time later. Then she decided that the cat needed to see how fun it was to ride a bike too. So she wrapped the cat around her handlebars and took off. The cat was less than thrilled and climbed up her shoulder and onto her head. For a split second my daughter was riding her bike with a cat perched on the top of her head before the cat screeched and jumped off, disappearing into a bush. Best picture. Too bad I didn’t catch it on camera.

Can You Make A Career Out of Being Loud?

I take comfort in the fact that my son will never be able to successfully pull off a burglary. It means that he’s going to have to look elsewhere for his career opportunities, although I’m not sure what those may be. He’s the loudest person I’ve ever encountered. The minute he sits down at the kitchen table, it suddenly sounds as if we’re in a really crowded Applebee’s during the Superbowl. He talks loudly and repeatedly flips the television to Spongebob (completely annoying all by itself), while my husband repeatedly turns it off. This generally escalates until the remote control is shoved under my leg where my children would never dare venture. He also teases his sister as if it’s an important homework assignment that he make her cry, and he likes to interrupt the conversation with strange little comments that make his brother say, “Oh, my gosh—you are so stupid,” at which point a shouting match ensues.


Car rides with him are unbearable. If he’s not doing battle with his army guys (and those army guys love loud bombs), then he’s kicking the armrests down because he knows it with annoy his sister. He likes the music up loud and he’s always trying to get me to pull into a drive up for food.

On my day off, my husband and boys were assigned to put flags in front of all the neighborhood houses for their Boy Scout project. They were planning on sneaking out of the house early in the morning to get the task done while I slept in. So, of course, promptly at 6:30 I hear the banging of the cupboards in the boy’s bathroom followed by my son asking for help with his hair (like anyone is going to see his hair at six in the morning on a holiday.) I hear the mumbles that must be my husband’s reply, but I can hear absolutely every word my son says—two flights up. Finally, after much pounding and a strange bumping sound that must have been when he dropped his shoe and it bounced down the stairs, I hear the doors slam (several times) and I’m left to “sleep in.” Naturally, my daughter crawls into bed with me moments later crying about some loud noises waking her up.

Now that I’m wide awake, I’m wondering what this loud boy will do for a living when he grows up. I know that he won’t be able to work in a lab, office, or airplane or do anything with live TV. I picture an announcer for professional wrestling or monster truck shows, but who knows? It’d be nice to see him make money off being loud because he’s very, very good at it.

I Loved You Before I Knew You

Tonight we had to go to one of those awards ceremonies for one of our children and every time I attend one of those functions I’m always amazed that we’ve made it this far. I remember years when I didn’t think any of my children would learn to tie a shoe, put a dish in the dishwasher or flush a toilet. So I couldn’t begin to imagine a time when they would accomplish something noteworthy that required concentrated activity on their part. When they were little I thought I’d never get passed the mountains of diapers or the tears that seemed to turn on and off as easily as if they were on a switch. And, before my brain could even process it, we’re on to the part where they want freedom and they really, really don’t want to admit they might need you for anything.


It’s so strange to find that now there are times when my children are embarrassed by me. I’m a cool mom—at least I think so, but my kids often disagree. It’s difficult for me because I have loved these little beings since they were the size of misshapen peanuts in my belly. And I can’t walk passed a picture in our hallway without smiling and being flooded with the memories of life with little ones. Not all the memories should bring me smiles. I remember a long, long dry spell where we couldn’t eat out—no matter what. About once a year we’d give it another try, but it was always tragic—especially for the waitress that had to clean up after us. No tip was worth waiting on our table. Usually we’d wind up begging for doggie bags before we’d even worked our way through the appetizer. But now my kids have too many commitments to have time to eat out. We’re lucky to sit down to dinner together at all.

Still, I treasure those moments because the children changed me. Before them I was just me and after them I was a mom. It’s like they made me into a butterfly and gave my life depth and meaning that it just didn’t have before. I never would have guessed that having a baby could disrupt my life so completely or enrich it so much. Before them I spent every evening working on selfish pursuits, not knowing that in a few short years I’d have to do my writing in the middle of the night, practice my piano during my lunch hour, or exercise before the sun had even thinks about getting up. But having to fight for the things I want to do gives them more meaning and one of the things I fight to do is to have as much time as possible with my children.

So, this is my Valentine to them. They’ve upset my life and changed it forever and I’ll always be grateful—I’m just not going to let them read this for a few years. I’m afraid they’d use it as leverage to try and get me to buy them a new video game.

Someone To Rely On

This morning my kids were upset at me. It appears that I was making them late by making sure that I had my purse, keys and my teeth brushed. Never mind the fact that they’d be really late if I decided not to drive them. So they ran downstairs tossing, “We’ll be in the car,” over their shoulders. I did the adult thing and double checked to make sure that I had everything I would need for my day and headed down to the car.


As I’m dropping my kids off at the bus, my daughter slides out of the car and looks up at me in surprise, “Mom, I forgot my shoes.” She wasn’t upset or sorry or emotional in any way. She just forgot her shoes. The boys were angry, but she just hopped back in the car and expected me to drive her back home, pick up her shoes, and get her back to the bus stop on time. And I did, because that’s my job.

And I realized that I want someone like me to have my back. I’m tired of being perpetually responsible, always thinking three steps ahead to make sure that I’m not blindsided by something unexpected. I want to spend just one day doing whatever I feel like doing, without worrying about what I’m forgetting while I’m shopping for cute shoes I can’t afford or watching a movie in the middle of the day. Wouldn’t it be fun to be five again, just for a day? To have someone to rely on so fully that you don’t even have to remember your shoes. I wonder if it would be as restful as it seems. I’ve tried the bathtub, but it’s not nearly as relaxing as I’d hoped. By the time I’d answered math questions under the closed door and had my daughter cry outside the door, begging to get in the bath with me and accusing me of hating her because I locked her out, I wasn’t enjoying my soak. It’s a nice fantasy, but that’s all it is. Parenting never ends—just ask all those Grandparents that are raising or tending their grandchildren. But it’s kind of nice to be that person that my daughter can rely on. Makes me feel like a good parent, and kids often make you feel like a bad one. They’re pretty good at that.

The Writing on The Dirty Window

I know that some people can predict the weather by washing their car. My dad claims that particular gift. If he washes the car, then it’s going to rain within the next twenty-four hours—regardless of the fact that the weatherman just predicted seven days of sun. He has also claimed that if he has his truck detailed that it will hail immediately after but I think this is just hearsay. For years he owned a business where hailstorms brought profit storms, but I don’t recall us having very many banner years. Either that or Dad doesn’t get his truck detailed very often. My gift is somewhat different. Washing my car predicts all sorts of crazy behaviors. This morning, after having washed my car, I watched from my office window as a man fanned across the courtyard with a leaf blower, except that it’s the middle of winter and leaves are long gone. So why the leaf-blower? Apparently so he could blow the dirt off of the courtyard and straight down the sidewalk into my car!!! When I walked outside to give him a piece of my mind, we had a bit of a communication problem since I couldn’t speak his language and he apparently couldn’t speak mine. But I’m pretty sure he said something like, “I not sorry and I gonna laugh with my buddies about you at poker night tonight.”


I’ve also washed my car and immediately encountered a street sweeper spitting muddy water at me. I know, I know, I’m the only person in the city that’s actually seen a street sweeper and I can tell you that they are real—they aren’t myth. I, however, haven’t ever seen a street sweeper on the road leading up to the school where a gravel grenade is launched at my windshield every single morning by some newly-minted teenage driver spinning the tires of his mother’s ten-year-old Camry.

My friend washed her car this weekend and came out to find all her children and her nieces and nephews hanging from the van like a pack of wild monkeys. Fingerprints clouded every window and both of the side view mirrors. I can’t confirm the existence of blow-marks where the children made fishy faces against the window but I’ll bet they were there. My daughter always jumps on the running board of my truck and kisses the window as I frantically shake my head and turn purple before she flits away.

I’ve come to the conclusion that parents just aren’t supposed to own cool shiny cars. Our kids keep us too humble to handle a cool ride. Just the other day a woman at Walmart stopped me in front of my fingerprint covered SUV and said, “We’re you aware that ‘My Mom Sucks’ is scratched into the dust on your back window?” And to think, I always thought I was the cool mom.

It's Groundhog Day

I’m a huge fan of the 1993 movie, Groundhog Day with Bill Murray mainly because I can relate to the main character, Phil Connors, who has to repeat a single day over and over again until he gets it right. He gets stuck in this day for years, continually screwing things up, while the universe hits the repeat button every time he fails. I can relate because it takes me multiple failures and multiple repeats to figure things out. Phil was stuck in Punxsutawney for years and I could easily have been stuck right there with him.


For example, I’ve been a mother for fourteen years and I still don’t have a working system for making sure chores are done and that my kids get paid for doing the work. We’ve tried everything. I’ve made dry-erase charts, charts with stickers, and charts that spin in order to track responsibilities and progress, but they all last about a week before I decide that it’s more work than it’s worth. I’ve purchased programs on infomercials promising me “accountable kids” that involved flip charts and weeks of micromanaging my children—a chore that I complain about. My son’s favorite tracking method was a paper chain that hung from his ceiling. When the chain reached the ground, then he earned a certain amount of money. The only problem is that we spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to work out how many links a chore was worth. My children obviously have a distorted sense of what work is worth in the real world since they think cleaning toilets should pay twenty bucks. At this point I just make my kids clean stuff and when they want to be paid I tell them that they’re being paid with a roof over their heads and DC shoes on their feet.

Phil Connors manages to learn piano, save everyone who would have died that day, make friends with every single person in the town, rob the bank, die and return for nine more lives and fall in love. I haven’t accomplished nearly that much. I still don’t balance my checkbook, organize my closets, or wash my car until someone draws messages in the dirty windows. I can’t cook Asian food and I send my daughter to school with unbrushed teeth and a minty piece of gum. But thankfully I don’t have to repeat days—that would just be depressing.