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There is a saying from the late, great Stephen Covey that goes, ‘The main thing is keeping the main thing the main thing.’

Tricky to understand yes. Even trickier to follow through with for two reasons. (more…)

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Part of my goal here is to provide resources from other sites that I have perused that can help with saving money while still eating well and having fun. (more…)

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My seven-year old daughter sees a counselor at school. She’s got a lot going on in that wee brain of hers, and I encouraged her to go to help sort out the whole mess that is the divorce, dad, and life in general.

She loves this counselor and so do I. This counselor rocks the child play therapy world.

Yesterday when the young lassie came from school she had a card for me. ‘You made me a card?!’ I gasped and placed my hand to my chest preparing to cry.

There’s nothing like it in the world, when a child puts time and energy onto paper for a parent. This is truly one of the joys of being a parent.

‘Yes. I made it when I went to see Laurel. I said the words, she wrote them down. This picture here is of you and I holding hands.’

This was gonna be good. I felt the need to read it out loud so I could listen to the praises my daughter wrote.

‘Mom, this is something important I want you to know.’ Oh, a deep card.

‘You swear a lot. I don’t want to hear those words. Please try to use pretend words, not real words.’

Wha- the hell is this? I read on, but not nearly as excited as I started out.

‘My teacher said we could say funny words instead, like ‘OH, BARNACLE BILL!’

Barnacle Bill? Really? Somehow, that doesn’t seem to have the same impact as a few other choice words I can think of.

I’ve known for a long time that I swear like a sailor. Even my mom told me once, ‘you swear a lot.’ I looked at her and said, ‘Gee, I can’t even imagine where I might have learned that.’

She gasped, ‘well, not from ME, you didn’t.’

‘Mom,’ I laughed, ‘you used to play a card game where you would yell BULLSHIT at the other players. That was the actual name of the card game.’

I’ve tried toning it down around the kids. I used to be able to do that around my parents and I’m still pretty good at it, but every now and then the F bomb gets dropped around them.

My kids, on the other hand, well, I just can’t seem to control it around them. My husband can turn it off completely around the kids. Even in the worst situations. The other night he stubbed his toe in our bedroom and muffled the F bomb. My son turned to me as we sat in the front room and said, ‘I think you’ve taught Dave how to swear.  I just heard him swear. He is picking it up from you.’

Damn. Everybody is getting down on the white girl.

The thing is, most of the time when the words come rolling off the tongue it’s because I’m pissed and it’s usually the kids that have thrown me down that road. I figure it’s either that or roll heads and I don’t think I’d do well in jail.

I start off pretty cool in situations, and can stay cool for a bit. But there ain’t nothin’ that can get on the nerve of a parent quicker than two kids going at it.

‘We don’t hit in this house. Don’t call her stupid. Don’t tell him to shut up. Whose socks are these? Who didn’t flush the toilet after pooing. AGAIN. Why is this here? Whose crap is this? Don’t shove her. What did I say about doing that to your brother? PUT THAT DOWN! What the….?’

THAT’S IT. EVERYONE TO YOUR FUCKING ROOMS!

*sigh*

So, now I’m doing my best to curb my swearing. It’s hard when it packs such a punch. The kids know it’s about to go down when I bring out the inner mommy-bitch. They scatter. They snap out of their snottiness for the moment and get it together for a bit.

What’s a mom to do? What’s your way of keeping it together without swearing? I don’t want my kids, when they are grown and in therapy, to say, ‘The thing I remember most about childhood is how much mom used to swear. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have such dysfunction in my life now if my mom didn’t swear when I was a kid.’

I’ve already given them enough reasons to need therapy for the next twenty years, I don’t want them to have that one too.

My friend used to use other words like, ‘Fetch’.  My opinion is, if the intention is behind the word then just say the damned thing. Otherwise, if you are aching to say the actual word and you use an alternative, all these swear words will get bottled up and eventually we get turrets, and profanity will spew forth at the most inopportune times. Such as, in front of your ultra right winged fundamentalist Christian mother in law. Just a guess.
But I’ll give it a go. Why the hell not, right? Oh, oops, shit. D’oh, Damn! DAMMIT!

*sigh*

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This is a powerful blog post by a fellow mommy blogger called “Meet Penny”.

Please take the time to read it.

 

http://www.meetpenny.com/2012/09/mommy-rage-recovery-part-1-my-anger-story/

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Good for a Friday chuckle….

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I May End Up Going Pro

 

In the last, oh, four months or so, my son said something that stopped me in my tracks. I don’t remember where it was, I don’t remember what we were doing, or why he said it but what I do remember is it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Whatever I was doing he looked up and said, ‘Mom, stop it. You’re embarrassing me.’

I literally stopped in my tracks, dropped my jaw intentionally, and gasped.

‘I what?’ I said, putting my hand to my chest.

‘You’re embarrassing me. You do it all the time. Stop it.’ He replied and continued walking.

One small part of my heart broke, I’m pretty sure. My son and I have always been tight. He can be a pain in the ass, but I love him like crazy. He’s my first-born. He’s the one who taught me what love really means. Every parent with their first child knows that feeling. It’s so deep and powerful and unexplainable it’s almost overwhelming at times.

And now, this child, the child who was two weeks late for his own birth; this child who decided to not come on March 31st, or April 2nd, but April FOOLS Day; who didn’t sleep all night until he was well past two years old and continues to this day to challenge my wits every day, is embarrassed by me.

ME. The cool mom. The mom who stays at home and makes chocolate chip cookies, and rice crispy treats, and bakes cakes for their birthdays. ME.

And I was stoked. I leaned in towards my boy and whispered, ‘Son, you ain’t seen nothing yet.’.

He kept tromping forward.

Since then, I had not heard another word about it from him. Until yesterday. There’s not much in Target that you can truly embarrass a boy with except one thing. The lingerie department. It didn’t even dawn on me until he said something.

‘Hmmm,’ I said out loud, held the bra up to my chest and faced my children. ‘What do you two think of this one?’

My seven-year old daughter was too busy looking at the underwear hanging next to her. ‘Mom, this underwear has superman on it. This one says ‘Wonder Woman’. Mommy, get one of these!’

I looked at her, ‘Lani, that is the batman logo, not superman. I don’t think I want that on my undies.’

I turned to my son. ‘Honey, what about this one? Isn’t it nice?’ He just stood there. Mortified. His eyes were closed as if he was hoping by doing that he would shoot off to another universe where mothers didn’t hold bras up to their chest.

‘Ian, what do you think? Pretty?’ I smiled.

‘Mom!’, He hissed under his breath. ‘You are embarrassing me. Stop it.’

Hold everything. Did I hear the word, ‘embarrassing?’

‘I’m WHAT, honey? I can’t hear youuuuuu.’ I got louder. ‘Do you like this brassiere, or this one, son?’

He was shrinking back into the flannel pajama rack. I started to giggle. I looked over at my daughter. She had a giant colorful bra on her head so the cups looked like soft, pushed up ears. She walked around the lingerie department with it on her head pointing out other items and saying, ‘mommy, this would look so pretty on you!’

There are certain things that, as a parent, I’ve looked forward to. Things like the first day all the kids were in school full time, or their first sleep over at their friend’s house. I’m still looking to the day when the kids hit puberty and want to sleep all day. It’s the little things that make me happy.

I remember vowing that, one day when my son is a teenager, I will go into his room at 3 am, wake him up and say, ‘hey, you know what sounds good? A glass of milk. Would you go get me a glass of milk? Are you awake? I’d like a glass of milk now. Right now. Right this minute, it sounds so refreshing. A glass of milk is what I’m craving. Can you go get it? Are you asleep?’

Some people may think this is mean, and that sleepless nights comes with the territory. I’ll never forget the advice people gave me when I was pregnant and it’s the same advice I give expecting mothers: Sleep. Sleep like there is no tomorrow. Sleep so much that you become sleepy from it. Because when that child comes it is going to rock your world and you will never sleep the same again. Ever.

So if I decide to give my child a taste of what it is like to be awakened at what-the-hell-thirty in the morning, I consider it doing him a favor. Hopefully it will deter him from having kids until he is out on his own and I am old enough to be a grandmother.

In the meantime, with the whole ‘mom you’re embarrassing me’ phase, new doors have opened for some fun that should allow for enough dysfunction in his life to give him stories to horrify his friends with when he gets older.

I can see it now. He’ll be twelve or so.  You know, that real gawky stage. He’ll be at a sleep over birthday party and they’ll be slurping down sodas and shoveling pizza into their mouths. They’ll be complaining about us parents and how dorky we all are, and my son will scoff at all of them, lean in and whisper, ‘You think you’ve got it bad? When I was, like, nine or so my mom took me shopping for her to get…..*shudder*…underwear and bras. It was the worst day of my life.’

On the other hand, even now, I’m walking around telling other parents about how I was able to embarrass my son so easily. I tell them the story and get high fives by other parents. ‘Nice one!’ they say and congratulate me on a job well done. Then they share their stories and we exchange ideas and thoughts on the subject.

Ah, parenting and childhood. Does it get any better than this? I can’t wait to see what comes next.

 

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A few weeks ago, we had yet another milestone occur in our household. My seven-year old noodle lost her second top tooth. Let’s face it, when the first four or eight baby teeth come in, it’s miraculous and bittersweet. When they lose those first four or eight for adult teeth, it is just as bittersweet.

I did my part by having her write a note on the envelope for the tooth fairy as I shoved my husband out the door to run to the store. In our home, the tooth fairy brings a dollar and gum and we had no gum.

Between three kids, ages seven, eight, and nine years old, it seemed that teeth were falling out all over the place and for some reason, the tooth fairy never had gum on hand.

The next morning, my daughter came out of her room, chomping on gum and waiving her dollar about (which she lost almost immediately. My guess is, it’s in the boy’s piggy bank).

‘How does the tooth fairy do it?! When does she come in and get my tooth? Why does she give me gum?’ She asked in between chomping on her gum and handing pieces of it out to everyone.

The middle noodle piped up. ‘When I lose my tooth up in Oregon, I get FIVE dollars. Why do we only get a dollar and gum here in California?’

FIVE BUCKS?! Good grief, who does that?!

The middle noodle spends the school year up in Oregon with her mom. She comes to us during the summer and all school holidays. I chalked it up to divorced mom’s guilt. Fortunately for my pocket-book, I was not one of those moms.

The youngest looked at her pack of gum and then looked at me waiting for an answer about the five bucks. I just shrugged my shoulders and started picking lint off my sweatshirt hoping she’d drop the subject and go away.

A day or so later, when the middle child was back in Oregon, I was driving with my kids; the youngest girl started in again with the tooth fairy.

‘Mom, why does the tooth fairy collect teeth? Why does she give money? Where does she come from?’

I’d had it. I couldn’t stand it anymore.

‘Hey, you guys? Umm, about the that tooth fairy. Uh….’ I let out a big sigh.

Holy God here it comes, one of the ‘big’ talks in a kid’s life. I threw out a quick prayer hoping they wouldn’t be devastated. I had heard the stories of kids saying, ‘when I found out about Santa, the tooth fairy, and the easter bunny, that is when my childhood ended. It was all downhill from there.’

I cleared my throat. ‘I’m…….’

‘THE TOOTH FAIRY!!!’ My nine-year old son blurted out.

I let my breath out. ‘Yes. Does that upset you?’, I said, rather defeated. The response time was minimal.

‘AWESOME!!!’ My son did a little chair dance in the back seat.

‘YOU’RE the Tooth Fairy?! REALLY?? My daughter exclaimed.

‘Ya. It’s me.’ I said sheepishly.

‘Well, that explains a lot.’ My daughter said as she sat back. Everything became clear for her.

‘And about the Easter Bunny….’ I figured things weren’t going that badly, I may as well lay it all out. Kind of like ripping a band-aid off fast instead of a little at a time. One swift, but painful, movement. But at least it got done with quickly. Then the healing could begin.

‘NO WAY!’ My son yelled.

My daughter’s eyes grew wide. ‘You’re the EASTER BUNNY? YOU put the candy out?!’

Oh lord, I thought, I’m ruining her childhood. No more dreams to dream. No more joys left to experience. The boy seems ok, but I’m crushing her spirit! This is how people become addicts! Oh, God take the wheel!!’

‘Mom’, She said enthusiastically, ‘that SO rocks!’

‘Huh?’ I said. I looked in the rear view mirror. The kids were bouncing up and down in their seats. Could it be they were actually excited I was the tooth fairy and Easter bunny? Had I read them wrong? What else had I hesitated to tell them for fear of crushing their spirits?

Then, it came to me. The big one. The mother of all discoveries in a kid’s life. I didn’t even have to bring it up.

‘Mom, you have to tell us. Are you……Santa Claus too?’

I had struggled with telling the kids this one for a year or so. The story just didn’t sit right with me, and yet, I loved the idea of Santa. I loved the magic, wonder, and innocence of it all. Would I be able to keep the magic of the holidays without the story of Santa?

At the same time, I didn’t like lying to my kids. Not even this one. I let out a sigh. I crinkled my nose, as if to say, ‘do you hate me, children? Am I absolutely the worst mother ever in the history of mothers? I am worse than the mother who had a crack baby, aren’t I?’

What could be worse than lying and then having to come clean about Santa?’

They understood the look I gave. The furrowed brow combined with the sucking in of my breath through my teeth causing a hissing sound as if I had just stubbed my toe. I waited for the inevitable; the heartbreak, the crocodile tears, and the sadness of childhood lost.

Instead, loud whooping cheers, excitement, and laughter exploded in the back seat.

‘Aren’t you upset?’ I asked?

‘Upset? No way!,’ My son exclaimed, ‘Our mom is Santa Claus!! That is awesome! You’re Santa! We can just come to you instead of writing letters! I’ll start telling you what I want now.’

My son has always preferred to go straight to the source to make his wishes known.

‘How did you do it? How did you get all the presents under the tree without us seeing?! You’re really good at that!’ My daughter asked.

I smiled; got a bit smug over the kudos coming from the back seat.

‘Well, it’s not easy, you know…what, with all the buying and wrapping. It takes a lot of work…a lot of hard work.’

‘I can’t wait to go to school tomorrow and tell everyone that my mom is Santa!’, My daughter squealed.

‘Yes, child, I am…..wait. What? Well….I do, do a lot of work….’ For a brief moment, I owned Christmas. ‘No, wait…no….I’m not THE Santa…I’m not their Santa….I’m your Santa. Everyone has their own Santa, Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy. I’m yours.’

The kids settled down a bit.

‘So, you guys really aren’t upset over this?’ I shyly asked.

‘Heck no!’ my son answered for the two of them. ‘This rules. I can’t wait to tell Cassidy.’

Uh-oh. I had not thought of the middle noodle. My husband and his ex-wife had not told their daughter about the infamous three characters and their true identity. My husband had a problem with having to continually convince his daughter about the myth of Santa, but not enough of a problem to burst her childhood bubble with the truth.

I tried to explain to my kids why we couldn’t tell their step-sister.

‘Ok, listen up, guys. It’s not our job or responsibility to tell Cassidy about this, ok?’, I said firmly.

‘Well, someone needs to tell her that you’re Santa.’ My daughter replied.

‘I’m not the Santa.’ I re-iterated, ‘I’m your Santa. Her dad and mom are her Santa and it’s up to them to decide when to tell her. Not us.’

‘Oh. Can we tell her you’re the Easter Bunny?’ My daughter jubilantly asked.

‘Well,’ I thought a moment, then realized how quickly my own kids put two and two together. ‘No, we better not. Let’s just keep it between us and allow other parents to decide when it’s the best time for their own kids to discover the truth, OKAY?’

I emphasized the ‘okay’ part, because I needed them to acknowledge we were in agreement. Otherwise, the moment their step-sister walked in the front door, they’d be all over her with the news.

‘ya, ok.’ They both agreed.

The rest of the drive home was relatively quiet, except for the random burst of giggles as the two kids talked about the biggest secret they have ever held in the palm of their tiny hands. It was a good one, I’ll admit.

I tell people this story and they are blown away at my kid’s responses.

‘Wow, you nailed them with all three huh? Gutsy.’ They say. ‘How could you do that to them, all three truths at once?! Were they totally crushed?’

These are the war stories of parenthood, and so the responses are filled with the same type of emotion.

‘I told my kids when they were about 12.’ A woman told me, looking remorseful, ‘broke their pre-pubescent hearts right in two. They cried for a day or so. They’ve questioned my actions since.’

‘You are so lucky.’ Some parents say, looking at me all wild-eyed, wondering how I did it. ‘I never told my kids. I just couldn’t. They figured it out at some point. But I could never bring myself to telling them. Too heartbreaking.’

I guess I am lucky. Parenting is the hardest thing I’ve ever taken on, and my kids get all tweaky at the small daily stuff. Sometimes, I do too. Actually quite often.

Thankfully, the big stuff doesn’t seem to faze them too much. Maybe that’s the secret to parenting. Make the little stuff into big stuff and the big stuff into little stuff. Nah, it can’t be that easy. There is no reason or rhyme to it. That’s what is frustrating. Once we figure one thing out, that one thing doesn’t matter anymore. It becomes obsolete, because there is another thing to figure out..  Never ending. And this is why gray hair, or hair loss, or early death comes along.

Ok, maybe not but it sure feels like that’s why.

At least I have navigated this storm and ended up in unexpected calm waters. At least for now.

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