For the days when you just can't...

It has been busy lately. Too say the least.

I have two kids graduating (you cannot imagine how much momming goes into a 5th grade promotion), two jobs, several volunteer positions, an event to plan, a dog, a cat, and six chickens. They're all vying for my attention. Plus my entire family is coming to visit in just a couple of weeks and my living room is only a quarter painted. My husband does his best to help me keep my sanity, but there is only so much he can do. He works full time, and the status of my sanity is pretty fluid anyway. My kids help too. They do the dishes, take out the trash, and pick up their dirty socks. They would also tell you they clean their own rooms. I would tell you that they try.

Even with the help of my family, I am the one at home all day. By default, this means that I am the one stuck in the chaos. And most of the time, I have to tell you, I just can't. I seriously cannot. I have absolutely no can left. With normal daily life and a couple of work-at-home type jobs combined with my inherent laziness, I am looking for some ways to cut corners. To lighten the load. To be able to not rush out to the grocery every evening or feel like I'm going to be swallowed whole by an overflowing laundry hamper.

If I'm looking for the corners to cut, and I'm in my house all day, I can only imagine what parents who have jobs outside the house feel like; who can't throw in a load of laundry between calls; who work until 5 or 6 and still have to have dinner ready before soccer or ballet.

After some extensive research (5 minutes on Google), I have found some things I think will make life easier. And, because I'm a helluva gal, I've decided I will test them out so you don't have to.

Worst case scenario: I will know better than to cut corners in the future.

Best case scenario: I will provide myself and other stressed out parents a few precious minutes of downtime.

 AMAZON FRESH: I'm not really sure what I've been doing with my life that has not involved Amazon Fresh. I'm not really sure at all. So many wasted days...

Basically, Amazon Fresh is an offshoot of Amazon Prime. For a Prime Fresh membership, it will run you $299 for the year. But they like to tell you it's something like $3.84 per week in addition to your annual Prime payment. Isn't it cute how they do that? Normally, I would laugh heartily at that price point and keep scrolling, but, guys, desperate times...and also, FREE MONTH TRIAL! They got me with that one free month. I love free junk almost as much as I love lasagna. I set up an alarm on my phone notifying me when to cancel my membership (Yes. I am that cheap.), and started shopping.

Right off the bat, I could tell that I had found my happy place. Browsing the virtual aisles of this grocery store from the comfort of my sofa with a sleeping baby on my chest? YES PLEASE. EVERY DAY. My goal was to get all the non-perishable things I need for the upcoming weekend, and to spend no more than I would at Ralph's. It was very easy to find everything, even the same brands I use, either through the search bar or scrolling through the different departments. The way the site is set up, it is actually difficult not to find (more than) what you are looking for.

I double checked my cart, and discovered that if you spend $40 or more, delivery is free. Who doesn't spend more than $40 per grocery trip? I spent $67 this time around. About $20 less than I anticipated spending at Ralph's. Not too shabby. I saved 20 bucks and never had to leave my living room!

On to booking my delivery time. Since I was a rookie, I didn't realize that you could set your delivery date/time before you start shopping. I highly recommend doing this. You set your time, and they give you 60 minutes to shop. Because I didn't check, I had no idea that there weren't any available times left for today. So much for instant gratification. I set my delivery time between 10am and 1pm tomorrow, and reminded myself that patience is a virtue. But, ughhh. Patience is hard.

All in all, this shopping trip took me about 10 minutes start to finish. That includes the time I took to start my free trial. When I factor in the time it takes me to drive, shop, wait at the register staring blankly at Kardashian headlines, drive home, and unload the car, I'm estimating this saved me about 50 minutes. 50 beautiful minutes. That's nearly an hour of bonus sweatpants time!

I can't imagine that I will ever pay $299 annually for this service, but for a crazy month like this one is turning into, it is absolutely worth the $3.84 per week.

SAUCEY APP: Have you ever had one of those days where you have baby vomit in your hair, no clean pants, a dirty dish mountain forming in your sink, your kids look like they're reenacting Lord of the Flies, and there is not one drop of wine in your house?

No? Neither have I. Because I always have my shit together. But if I ever did have one of those days, I would think that Saucey was created exclusively for me. Some kindred spirit in a mom group brought this service to my attention, and I thought it needed further investigation. You know, just in case my shit isn't together one day.

You can download Saucey for Android or iPhone. You can even use the link above and order from your home computer. Enter your zip to make sure you are in the delivery area, then start shopping!

First you click the cool little icon representing what type of booze you're looking for. They have everything. I am serving swordfish for dinner, so I shopped in the white wine. From what I can tell, it's safe to say you'll be over charged by as much as $5/bottle. I expected that. We'll call it a convenience fee. They have to make money... The nice part is that if you reach a certain dollar amount, I believe it's $35.00, delivery is free.

They have a "mixers" section too. As I have forgotten to buy ginger beer the last 89348574 trips I've made to the grocery, I took a look for that as well. And limes. Because a Moscow Mule doesn't sound too shabby. They had both, and so much more. Marg salt, pre-mixed concoctions, maraschino cherries. They even sell ping pong balls and Solo cups for all you classy broads.

I hit a little glitch about this time. I'm not going to lie. This very easily could have been user error. The first few times I proceeded to checkout, it emptied my shopping cart and I had to start over. Annoying, but not a deal breaker. I was only getting 3 things so it didn't take long to refill the cart.

After you checkout, Saucey sends you a text letting you know your delivery will be there within the hour. They also give you a play by play of the action through the app...

Roshawn is on the way, guys!

The only notes I have on this otherwise flawless service are that you can't place an order before 4pm, so do not expect emergency mimosa deliveries for your 11am brunch, and there is no information on the site regarding a tip. Because this is a delivery service with a local driver, not a shipping service like UPS, I think tipping is the way to go. In fact, I am of the mind that only savages and Trump supporters fail to tip people in the service industry. You choose your own path, but know I will be silently judging you if you stiff Roshawn.



I have more services set up for the future, but it would be insane for me to try everything in 2 days. I have thoughts on Ubereats vs. Grub Hub and EAT24. I will also be utilizing a cleaning service after I find out who will give me the best price to restore my home to its former glory (former like before we moved in). I have to tell you, for the price, even that $99 topless maid van is in the running...if only I believed they actually cleaned anything.

Try Something New 2016

Every year, leading up to my birthday, I try something new. It is my way of proving to myself that I'm not too old for new experiences. Also, it keeps me from being bored and/or boring. This year, my Try Something New has had me living on pins and needles for nearly the last two months.

In February, I heard about this show called Listen to Your Mother. They were looking for stories about moms, being one, or having one. I jotted the information down on the back page of something important in the pink binder I have become physically attached to, and decided this was it. My Try Something New. I scheduled my audition before I could think better of it, then I set out to write the perfect story.

Only there wasn't a perfect story. So I wrote a few okayish stories instead.

One was awful. (You will never read that one. It has since been lost to the abyss that is my MacBook's trashcan. But it used words like 'meconium' so we should all be ok with that decision.) One made me cry every time I read it. I ruled that one out through choked back sobs. One was about my kids doing basic kid things. It wasn't Shakespeare, but it was about being a mom. Good enough.

I write things all the time. People read the things I write all the time. Granted, they're usually reading them in the form of a school newsletter, but they read them nonetheless. So, I shouldn't have been nervous about reading this non-Shakespearean mom story to a couple of people. And I wasn't. At all. Because 'nervous' doesn't come close to the level of gut-wrenching, soul-crushing anxiety I felt that day. Nervous doesn't even live in the same galaxy.

I thought that would be it. My Try Something New. My goal had been to audition. And I did. I was so confident that I wasn't going to hear back, that I celebrated the conquering of my fear, my successful Try Something New, and worked to put it out of my head.

A week later, I was busy working and received an email that stopped me dead. "CONGRATULATIONS!" was as far as I read before my eyes started to tear. Was I excited? Terrified? Going to vomit? The answer was yes. At first I contemplated the very real possibility that a mistake had been made. Perhaps there were two Joannas? But more details followed. There was no mistake. I had somehow tricked those directors into thinking I was a competent person. They had faith in me. They complemented me. An early April Fool's joke? Probably. But they just kept including me in emails, then the table read, and the rehearsal. They even put my name on the flyers and programs. Nobody said "April Fool's!" so I kept going along with it.

THEY EVEN SPELLED MY NAME RIGHT!!

It wasn't until yesterday that I truly realized my Try Something New had morphed into Try Participating in a Nationwide Show Which has Included Actual, Real Live, Published Writers like Jenny Lawson. (YOU GUYS. I LOVE JENNY LAWSON.) It was too late to run and hide somewhere in the desert. Besides, I don't like being hot, and my family would just use Find My iPhone to locate me. I had to go through with it.


So, there I was. Standing backstage with a group of fantastically talented people. Trying to convince them (and myself) that I was not there by mistake. Trying to quiet the loud voice in my head that kept screaming "IMPOSTER!!" Trying not to barf. I refreshed my insane looking make-up, sprayed a smelly powder something in my hair, and steeled myself up to face the audience.

Me before the show, looking awkward in a dress. With several of the fantastically talented people mentioned above (Juanita Mantz, Angela Riggs, Patricia Willson, Ashley Alteman), who look decidedly less awkward.

Then it was my turn. Just me. On stage. All by myself. Alone. I temporarily forgot how to read. Took a breath. Remembered. Then, just like that, it was over.

For two months I've thought about that moment. I've panicked on it. I've faked confidence. I've even pictured myself contracting some terrible illness that would keep me bed bound the night of the performance. Two months of preoccupation and worry instantly replaced with relief, and an amount of pride that almost embarrasses me.

Me immediately after leaving the stage. This is 'relief' personified. Not a single worry in the world.

I did it. With my friends and family there watching, I slipped on some heels and jumped outside my comfort zone. So far outside that by the end of the night I was even hugging strangers. (That's correct. I let people in my hula hoop. On purpose.) It was a Try Something New I won't forget as long as I live. And I can't wait for an opportunity to do it all over again. Barfs and all.

Thanks to Suzanne, Taia, and every one of you who gave me kind words and encouragement leading up to last night. Especially those of you who gave me Snickers bars. I'll never find the words to be able to express what your support means to me. So, I'll just say thank you, and thank you again, until you get tired of hearing it. Thank you.

SBAC Testing a mom's last nerve

I wrote this about a year ago. My feelings on testing have changed very little in the time since. I still don't blame the teachers or the administration for the testing or for stressing its importance. I'm not naive enough to think that school scores and funding happen without taking SBAC test scores into consideration. The only thing that has changed in the year since I wrote this is me; my willingness to put my kids through the stress again, my failure to do something about it. So? I'm not going to deal with it this year. At all.

I'll be opting my kids out of testing this time around. I have no idea what they will be doing while their classmates are in testing sessions. Reading? Drawing? Sitting in the office? No clue at all. But, I do know they won't be having nervous tummies or worries about college.

I don't for one second even pretend to know what is best for your child, what pressure they can take, what is too much for them, but if your kids are like mine, and the testing is too much, I want you to know that it's not hard to opt out. I was a little intimidated by the idea of it at first, but after asking around, I discovered all I had to do was send a note. Our district asked for our principal's name, student name and grade, testing year, parent or guardian's name, and a signature. That's it. That's all it cost me....

April 14, 2015

Before anyone jumps to any conclusions reading this, I will say first and unequivocally: I love my children's teachers. I love their schools. I really do. And in the words of mothers everywhere, I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed.

As far as I'm concerned, we hit the educational lottery. The teachers in our schools are wonderful. The administration is supportive. They have always seemed to really understand the children (and the parents) they are serving. But then, Common Core and the subsequent standardized testing happened.

It's not their fault Common Core happened. It's not their fault that it wasn't introduced incrementally, or you know, in any sane kind of way. It's not their fault that they haven't received funding to buy all the new materials and books they need to implement it successfully. And it's definitely not their fault that after only one year of Common Core curriculum, our kids are being subjected to week-long standardized tests that they don't understand, and are almost guaranteed to bomb.

None of that is their fault. I understand that.

This is the second week of testing in our house since each grade tests during a different week. We went through it with Child Number One, and this is the first day for Child Number Two. I have approached this round of tests with an extremely laid back attitude. It's not because I don't care about their success. It's because THESE TESTS DO NOT MATTER. Our state has decided not to hold our schools accountable for test scores this year, so I have decided not to hold my children accountable for test scores this year.

Now, mind you, we are still doing the early bed time thing and healthy breakfast thing...blah, blah, blah...but I am not stressing the importance of the exam. Because, again, IT IS NOT IMPORTANT.

Which leads me to the focus of my disappointment: Knowing that this test means nothing, why are we still stressing the importance of THE TEST. Both of my kids were under the belief that colleges will look at their results. Are they actually supposed to think that their futures depend on doing a great job on dragging and dropping sentences, and clicking 'submit,' or 'next,' or whatever? That essentially they will be judged for their performance on this exam for as many as the next eight years??

No pressure kids!

At first, when this story came home to me in the form of a 13 year old boy, I thought maybe the educator who delivered the message was trying to prep them for high school. Maybe precedents were being set for things like the SATs, ACTs, or that California High School Exit Exam thing. So, I just reassured my kid that no college will care at all how he did on this particular test, then I let it go. Until my daughter woke up for school on Monday.

She was flustered and anxious. "Mom! I have to eat a good breakfast. I need to be my best! Testing starts today!" I told her the same things I told her brother, that she should always try to do her best, but this test really isn't the kind of thing we need to get upset about. My reassurances seemed to fall on deaf ears. I couldn't figure out why, until her friend came to walk to school with us. The nervous energy was palpable. There were even upset tummies. That's when I was told "colleges will look at this test!"

You've got to be freaking kidding me.

I couldn't really say what I wanted because I was talking to kids. I couldn't tell those two 10-year-olds that colleges will give exactly zero f***s about how they did on a test in 4th grade, but I did my best to convince them that they have plenty of years to worry about college. 4th grade is definitely not one of those years.

I don't think teachers have given the kids this impression on purpose. I don't even believe they actually said the words "colleges look at this test." I have no question that there was some adult to kid language that was lost in translation. I'm sure something like "when you're in high school, this is one of the tests that colleges will look at." was said to the kids, but they heard "if you don't do a great job on this test, you won't get into college." I am absolutely certain it was a misunderstanding. But it was two misunderstandings, at two different schools, with two different educators. That makes me think that aside from a misunderstanding, it might also just be a dumb thing to say to kids.

I am not against motivating children, and I believe they do need to know that there are natural consequences for not doing your best. However, I would contend that kids are stressed out enough already without our piling on. That is one arena where they really don't need our help at all. They have pressure to make fantastic grades, maintain their extra-curriculars, and play on sports teams that are ridiculously competitive. They have parental pressures and social stressors that, as children, we would never have been able to imagine.

My kids are perfectionists. They take things very seriously. They put so much pressure on themselves that sometimes it scares me for them. I love my kids' teachers. I know that nobody did anything intentionally to freak them out. No one needs to feel badly or apologize. I don't even think it needs to be mentioned again. In fact, that's more my point.

I would love it if we (all of the people who impact a child's life, parents and teachers alike) would calm down a little. Tone down the rhetoric. Let them play in the dirt without worrying what a college might think about it. That's as much a reminder for myself as it is for anyone else. I want the best, the most, and the greatest for my kids always. I want them to have everything. Everything except a prescription for Zoloft.

The Struggle.

I've been wondering a lot lately how it is that I can nanny like I'm Mary Poppins, but I can only seem to parent like Rambo. I hate it, but that seems to be frighteningly accurate.

With the little ones I lovingly refer to as my loaner babies, I am all snuggles and lullabies. My method of discipline is giving time to "think about it." I don't lose my temper, but I'm still able to uphold boundaries and encourage acceptable behavior. Limits are set and reinforced firmly, but I don't get frustrated.

Then my real babies (they're still babies, because they'll always be babies) come home from school...

No matter how calm I try to be, I find myself leaving a trail of scorched earth behind me as I parent my way through the evenings. I really don't mean to, and it doesn't happen every day. But it happens. It happens more than I would care to admit.

My theories on why are many, but the primaries are:

1) Puberty. OH. MY. EFFING. G. PUBERTY. (People warn you when you're cuddling your sweet baby that someday they may not be so sweet any more, and you're like "Whatever. My baby is perfect, and will love me, and snuggle me, and listen to everything I say. Always. Just look at this little face!" Nope. Not so, noobs. Prepare yourselves.)

2) Maybe, just maybe, I'm a control freak. Or maybe I'm a Bitch. With a capital B. (Those of you who know me are thinking 'WHAAATTTT?' But you guys, it's true. I like things my way. I am strong-willed. I can be a bit on the demanding side. I know this comes as a shock.)

My bitchiness and their puberty are a dangerous combination. Unchecked, they can ignite our family time like a powder keg. 

I am (fairly) certain I do a good job of reigning in my bossy behaviors (most of the time), and I know I can't expect them to reign in theirs. (That's the truly awful part of the puberty problem...if they had any control of themselves or their feelings at all, there wouldn't be a puberty problem in the first place.) I try to aim low with expectations, and pick my battles. Still, some battles must be fought, and some behaviors can't be overlooked.

I never in a million years thought parenting would be easy, but I didn't think it would be this hard either. I didn't think it would change me into a person I don't recognize. A person who may as well have horns and fangs. Who snarls things like "Leave this room. Now. I need 5 minutes without talking." Or who daydreams of a trip to the grocery store for a few minutes of peace. Or who (infamously now thanks to Facebook) hides in the car eating chocolate bars.

I'm not looking for pity here. Not at all. But it did occur to me that if I'm going through this, someone else might be too. There are tons of blogs dedicated to the horrors and hilarity of parenting toddlers, but nothing I have found relates to where I am on this motherhood journey. That makes me feel a little icky. Alone. Overwhelmed.

So, I'm outing myself (for the sake of others, and because writing this is cheaper than seeing a therapist): I'm the mother of two amazing children. They are beautiful, bright, funny, and kind. And sometimes I'm not very nice to them.

Hopefully, one day when they have kids of their own, they will understand why their mom was a maniacal shrew beast. It was because sometimes, as beautiful, bright, funny and kind as they were, they didn't leave her with many options. Sometimes diplomacy failed. Sometimes the nuclear option was all that was left.

So it goes. Through the generations. I should probably call home and apologize to my own mother. Again.

The point is, if you find yourself Rambo parenting, there is nothing to feel icky about. You are doing your job the best you can. You aren't alone. And if you're overwhelmed, pour yourself a glass of wine, and tell your kids that they're lucky, because I am a much meaner mom than you are. It's probably true. I take away video games. (GASP!!!)

How to Fight

In the wake of the Hobby Lobby Supreme Court ruling, I was angry.  When I get angry, I tend to do something about it.  Being completely powerless in this particular situation (I have not yet been chosen as a Supreme Court justice.  An oversight, I'm sure.), but still believing that dissenting voices should be heard, I posted something online.

Who cares, right?  Everybody posts things to social media.  That's why it was created.

It does make for a great tool, though.  It helps to let our representatives know the general feeling of their constituency.  It also helps to engage people in debate over issues that are effecting their lives.  Or not effecting their lives at all, if you just like to troll.  Either way, these debates have value.  Bringing attention to important topics, and presenting two well thought out and fact based sides to an argument is never a bad thing. Who knows, it may even lead to a more informed, less TMZ focused voter population.  (Hopefully.)

The point I'm making is this:  I'm all for speaking your mind.  I'm all for screaming your opinions from the rooftops, the soapbox, or the Facebook post.  Let your voice be heard.  Just don't be an asshole about it.

There has never been a time in our country's history when our citizens have had their voices silenced.  We can speak out against government decisions.  We can speak out against churches.  We can speak out against our neighbors.  It's a right we are entitled to.  And it's pretty awesome.

Regardless of the sides taken, I love that people are exercising this right.  I also love that you don't have to hold any qualifications to form your opinions.  You don't have to be an expert to share your thoughts.  And most of us aren't.  None of us knows everything.  Not one of us is able to divine the perfect answers to all the tough questions we're faced with.  Which is why I find it so odd that people resort to whining, calling names, and hurling insults while debating.  It's not helpful, and no one gains from it.

I've read some follow-up stories that have been published since the decision.  I've seen so many posts on the topic.  (Because I don't live under a rock.  Really.  Can this stuff be avoided?)

Some have been thought provoking:

When my daughter grows up, I hope she becomes a corporation.

Some have been less so:

I assure you, we aren't all thinking that.

I find this one from Planned Parenthood Action especially sad and unhelpful.  Here's why: the second you say you "deserve" something, you've basically resorted to that whiny voice kids use when they'd like to stay up past bedtime or want a second cookie.  "But moooom, I ate all my veggies.  I deserve it!"

People don't deserve things.  Ever.  People work for things.  Women don't "deserve birth control" coverage.  They've earned it.  It is compensation for doing their jobs.  Ladies, if you're going to fight, then fight.  If you're whining, you've lost the argument.

As for the insults, and there have been many, the most frequent I've seen in the comment sections of these articles, and everything ever published online actually, is "you're stupid" or ignorant, or dumb, etc.  (Only, let's be honest, it's almost always "your stupid" isn't it?  Those in glass houses...)  This seems to be an internet argument classic.  You're backed into an intellectual corner?  Come out swinging with a "You're so stupid!"  That'll teach 'em.

Holding a different opinion than someone doesn't mean the other party is stupid.  While failing to present facts or argue a logical point, and turning to insults may not mean you're stupid, it certainly makes you look that way.   If calling someone dumb is your ace in the hole, you've lost the argument.

I've also seen some insults that seem to only come from one side of the conversation.  That's the belittling of religious beliefs.  Weird coming from me, I'm aware.  I am a huge proponent of people keeping their religions out of my personal affairs.  I do not think religions should get to make reproductive decisions for everyone, just as I don't think that Jenny McCarthy should get to make vaccination decisions for everyone.  That doesn't mean that I don't respect the role religion plays in the lives of many people I know and love.  It's not for me, but that doesn't mean it can't be for them.  Calling deeply held religious beliefs "whims" is horribly insulting.  If you're belittling someone because of their religious beliefs, you are a bigot, and you've lost the argument.

Up to this point, the fan favorite of ineffective debating seems to be the name calling.  Or in this particular situation,  the slut shaming.  Seriously, America?  Women who are on birth control are all sluts who should just keep their legs closed?  Ask your mom if she's ever used birth control.  Ask your sisters.  Ask your daughters.  Then, if slut shaming is still all you have to contribute to the debate, shut up and read something.  If "just stop having sex" or "You're a whore!" (or implying that a woman's rights or opinions don't matter because they would like to have sex for reasons other than procreation) are the points you're trying to make, you've lost the argument.

Sadly, most of the name calling and insulting I've noticed over the course of the week has come from women.  I don't know why that is.  I don't know if there is some deep reason for it, like we don't teach our girls to be assertive the way we teach our boys.  I don't know if it's because women are more emotional, or if it's that the cause hits closer to home for women.  I really couldn't say.  But it's troubling.  

Personally, I feel that calling names and insulting people would only serve to make me look petty.  It would do nothing to further the conversation.  It certainly wouldn't help ensure contraceptive coverage for the women who work for Hobby Lobby and Conestoga.  And, it would do absolutely nothing to force people to take my voice in debate seriously.  

Its all too easy to disregard a woman's voice.  She's angry?  It's probably just PMS.  Before that it was Female Hysteria, which could be diagnosed simply by asking a husband or father if a girl had a tendency toward speaking out or causing trouble.  (Um???)  This is why I'm begging:  Please women and girls, please, fight like you mean it.  No whining.  No name calling.  No insults.  Use facts and logics.  Separate the issues from the emotions.  Speak out, but listen too.  Don't take things personally, and don't get personal.  Do not give people a reason to tune you out.  

In the Facebook battle I accidentally waged on Monday, I was debating two men whom I happen to love dearly.  Two of my favorite people on the planet, in fact.  They think I am terribly misguided, and I think they are as wrong as anything, but I respect them.  I don't think they're stupid.  I don't think they're evil.  I don't think they're happy that some working women in our country can't afford to buy birth control out of pocket.  I just think they have a different opinion than I do.  AND THAT'S OK.  It doesn't fill me with hate or rage.  It just means family dinners might be interesting.  That's all.

Their team won this time.  It's done.  We can explain rationally, and without vitriol, why we think the Supreme Court made the wrong choice.  But beyond that, there's not a lot to be done.  Except contacting your representatives...

Valentine's Day Survival Guide

I'm sort of a stupid-internet-article junkie. As such, I'm sure you can imagine the amount of advice I've read regarding the perfect Valentine's gift for the woman in your life. My unequivocal response to these is...NO.  

But fear not. On behalf of wives everywhere, I'm here to help. 

The most recent advice I've come across was in the form of a "10 best" sort of list from Yahoo. The very first suggestion is an (ugly) floral display and a teddy bear that hugs. Unless your wife is a seven-year-old, I would strongly caution all men to disregard this.  Do not get a fully grown, adult woman a teddy bear, unless she just had a baby or is expecting on Valentine's Day. Those are the ONLY exceptions. If your wife is anything like me, she has spent the last several years purging your home of unwanted stuffed animals. Just don't do it. 

Next we move on to the ever popular perfume. If your wife has a favorite bottle, and you notice she is running low, by all means get her a new bottle. And wrap it nicely. It will show her that you notice her, and that is wonderful. If, however, your wife has never worn perfume in her life, and you see a bottle that looks pretty when you're walking through the last minute, I forgot Valentine's Day aisle at CVS...keep on walking. Do. Not. Guess. Scents are very personal. A smell that you love may smell like week old trash water to her. 

And then we have the weird glass jewelry box complete with totally impersonal engraving. Think this one through. Does she have toddlers at home who will likely smash this gift into a million pieces? Does she even wear jewelry? Proceed with caution here. My husband would probably not be advised to purchase this. As much as I would love the thought, it would sit unopened in the top of my closet. Don't make your wife hurt your feelings. 

I could go on systematically dismantling the dumb gift ideas that seem to be conventional internet wisdom, but I realize that's probably not very helpful. For those of you who need a little assistance showing your lady how much you adore her, I'm going to try to give you some better ideas for a successful Valentine's Day*:

1. Strap on an apron and make her favorite dinner. DO NOT ask for her help with the dishes. 

2. If you have small children, handle the bedtime routine while she relaxes in a bath...with noise canceling headphones and her favorite bottle of wine. She'll be in a much more romantic mood if she doesn't have to read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom 300 times. I promise. 

3. (Warning: this one is very sappy...but girls love the sappy junk. You can thank Nicholas Sparks. He's ruined all of us.) Make a list of all the reasons you fell in love with her. Real reasons. Not "Your cooking tastes just like what mom used to make." In fact, avoid mom comparisons at all costs. This should be about her, and all the reasons she's special. Because she is. And you know it, even if you forget to tell her the other 364 days of the year. Throw in a box of chocolates for good measure. (Not the cheap waxy chocolate though. Go for the good stuff.)

4. Take the day off together. Couples massage at her favorite spa, wine tasting, walking through a book store. Whatever you like to do together, take the time to do it. Don't rush. 

5. Jewelry. But nothing featured in a Kays commercial please. Nothing says you're one of a kind like buying her something that is mass produced and marketed during breaks from Nick Jr. shows and NFL games. Don't go for the children's birthstones either. Save that for Mother's Day. She was your Valentine before she was your baby mama. (In most cases.)

Lastly, the most important piece of knowledge I can impart: Do not ever, ever regardless of circumstance or necessity, DO NOT buy her a vacuum.  I cannot be more clear about this. Nothing good will come of it. 

Keep in mind, Valentine's Day is about love. It's not about the price tag. If your girlfriend is annoyed that you didn't spend a lot on her, but you took the time and found her something special that reflects how you feel about her, well...your girlfriend kinda sucks. (I'm not including wives in that statement, because in general wives just want to know they're still your girlfriend too. Wives are easy.)

*You know your wife or girlfriend better than anyone on the internet. Take these and all suggestions with a grain of salt. Just be sure any gift you get comes from your heart. Woman are very powerful bullshit detectors...especially on Valentine's Day. 

If I was the president...

With the State of the Union and the upcoming President's Day vacation, I have overheard my beloved after-school study buddies discussing the presidency on several occasions over the past few weeks.  They agree that it would be "super awesome amazing!" to be president.  You would never have to make your bed or do homework.  But sadly, you would still probably have to do "real boring stuff" sometimes.

Keeping their chats in mind, I readied today's group project.  I asked the kids if they knew who the current president is.  After I pinky-promised them it was not Washington...or Lincoln (Eventually one of my girls proudly stated, "I know!  It's ARACK ARANA!"  Close enough.), I sat down with each child, and posed a question:  If you could tell the president one thing, what would it be?  It could be anything; a piece of advice, suggestion, criticism, something you want to change, anything at all. 

Some had an idea immediately.  Some sat deep in thought for a few moments.  Regardless of the length of time it took them, the little bits of wisdom they doled out are pure magic.

Originally, the idea was to write their thoughts on their own illustrations, and send them off to the White House.  And, I will still do that.  We're hoping for a response from President Arack Arana himself, fingers crossed.  But I just can't keep this level of genius between myself, and the White House staffers tasked with reading adorable kid mail.

"If I was the president, I would say, 'Girls are allowed to wear ties!'" --age 7

"Make peace with everybody in the world.  Right now." --age 8

"If I was the president, I would make sure everybody is safe.  Even the boys." --age 7

"Be more like Abe Lincoln." --age 7

"Thank you for making this a better place." --age 6

"BRING US DOUGHNUTS!" --age 7

"You are the nicest president.  But I don't know the other presidents." --age 6

"Be in charge of our whole school." --age 6

"You should take care of your family and your country!" --age 8

"If I was the President of the United States, I would rule the school.  I think you could probably rule the school too." --age 6

"I think you should give us cupcakes every day." --age 7

"I like how you gave your speech on TV.  You had a serious face.  If I did that, I would barf." --age 7

"If I was the president, I would make everyone wear purple.  It's my favorite color." --age 6

"Go to the North Pole." --age 6

"If I was the president, I would do things you don't get to do that often...like see a circus." --age 7

"Ban homework from the USA, and give everyone a dog to cuddle." --age 7

"If I was the president, I would run every restaurant in the world, and I would make everyone eat my food.  They would love it." --age 8

"I want to be president when I grow up too.  Maybe you could teach me?" --age 7

"I like George Washington more than you, because he makes quarters and fights in the army.  You don't do that stuff." --age 6

"You should change all the cafeteria food to macaroni and cheese." --age 8

Don't think of the preceding just as 20 cute statements from six to eight year old children.  Consider them as indisputable evidence that kids are better than us.  Children are a lot more worldly and wise than they are given credit for.  Clearly, they have their itty bitty fingers on the pulse of the nation.  They know the issues that matter.  They understand the problems of the masses, and they know exactly how to solve them:  With cupcakes, doughnuts, and macaroni and cheese.

There I am happy.

My house seems to have fallen victim to some new and creative biological weapon (and with the use of that phrase, I welcome all my new readers from the NSA), or a biblical plague, or maybe just bad luck.  Whatever the case, the stars have aligned, and they're not in my favor.

Over the course of the last seven days, the children have taken turns with sore throats, fevers, medications, hallucinations, allergic reactions, side effects, and projectile vomit.  Even the dog got sick.  Which means the parents haven't slept in a week.  We are dangerously close to reaching the exhaustion equivalent of a nuclear meltdown. 

My clothes smell like bleach.  I have barf on my favorite boots.  I'm spitefully jealous of my husband, because even though he only closed his eyes for 20 minutes last night, he gets to go to work today.  At this point, I am using almost all my energy not to turn into 120 pounds of pure hate. 

This is the side of motherhood that they don't put in the brochures.  This is the sweatpants, unbrushed hair, bad lighting, no Photoshop side of motherhood.  We all experience it at some point.  It sucks, but there's not much to be done about it.  We just keep our heads down, buy Gatorade and Clorox in bulk, and stumble our way through. 

Whenever I have a week like this...or whenever someone barfs on my favorite boots, I remember Friar Laurence from Romeo and Juliet.  (The secret is out.  I really am that much of a nerd.)  When Romeo thinks his life is over because he's been banished, Friar Laurence reminds him of all the ways he is lucky.  Basically, he tells Romeo to suck it up, quit whining, and stop acting like an idiot. 

I am big on silver linings, and sometimes I too need to be reminded to suck it up, quit whining, and stop acting like an idiot.

There are some silver linings to my forced, week-long confinement:  My kitchen is cleaner than it has ever been;  I have successfully managed to watch everything on my Netflix instant streaming list;  I finally finished crocheting the matching scarves for my little lady and her American Girl doll that I have been working on (blissfully ignoring) for months;  I've changed the color of my nail polish every day.  Fresh nail polish really compliments the sweatpants and unbrushed hair look.

But the ultimate silver lining is the quality time I've gotten to spend with each of my monsters.  I am all too aware that very soon they won't want me hanging around.  So if I have to exploit their sickness to snuggle up and watch hours of Doctor Who with my son, or to read every chapter of Prisoner of Azkaban out loud "in the funny voices" with my daughter, exploit I will.  I'm not above it.

I love my kids.  Love them.  Completely.  Their sticky, little, germy fingers have a vice-like grip on my heart.  I cherish every second I get to spend with them.  Even when they barf on my favorite boots.

Dads: It's All Part of the Job

I'm tired all the time.  I am constantly multitasking.  Cooking, cleaning, brushing hair, fighting the "Eat Your Vegetables" wars, volunteering in classrooms, and making time to be the wife my husband married.  They're all important tasks, but they're really no big deal.  I'm not special.  I'm just doing my job.  And nobody is surprised by this, because I'm a mom.

However, my husband is no different.  He's tired too.  He works all day, helps around the house, kills spiders, gives each child his undivided attention, shows them both a level of patience that I am personally not capable of, and spends time with me every evening.  It can't be easy for him.  But he does it.  And I don't think that's any big surprise either, because it's his job.

Recently a picture of a dad with his two daughters (one in a carrier, one getting her hair styled by dear ol' dad) has made it's way around the internet.  It has gone viral, been passed around everywhere, has a crazy amount of shares, likes, and favorites on social media sites.  What I truly do not understand about it is this:  There is not one remarkable thing about this picture.  (Or at least there shouldn't be.)  This guy is just doing his job.

The man who took the photo agrees with me completely.  This is the title of his blog post, "I have a Dream:  That People Will View a Picture Like This and Not Think It's a Big Deal."  He gets it.

I cannot believe the amount of support...and hate...this guy has received. 

At any given moment during my childhood, my dad could've taken this picture.  Only he had twice as many daughters.  He taught us how to braid hair.  He painted fingernails.  He dressed us for school and dance class.  He cooked us (sometimes rather unorthodox) meals.  He pretended to be Daddy Warbucks and danced with me down the steps of City Hall.  Though he may not remember this, he bought me a tube of crazy bright purplish lipstick, so I could look "just like The Pointer Sisters."  He did things like that all the time.  Because he was our dad.  And that was his job.

He also loved our mom.  Still does.  Unconditionally.  And he let us know it.  We knew exactly where we ranked, and it was not first.  Mom had an ally.  There was no divide and conquer.  They were a united front.  (I'll admit, that bit was sometimes completely infuriating.  Especially when we wanted to stay up to watch the end of The Cosby Show.)  Showing us that our mom was something to be cherished was his job too. 

Those things weren't special to me as a kid.  And I'm incredibly thankful for that.

I am glad I thought that a father actually parenting his kids was commonplace.  I'm glad I thought having an active dad was a normal thing.  I recognize now that not everyone had that experience.  

My dad's relationship with his daughters helped me in ways I cannot describe.  Even though at times I'm certain he thought he was raising a giant group of idiots, he never detached.  He was there.  All the time.  Even when he had the misfortune of being the dad of four PMSing teenagers...at once.

Of course he watched football in the recliner.  But, we were right next to him on the couch.  Of course he spent time with the guys he worked with.  But they became our family too.  Of course he enjoys a good beer.  And, now he and mom meet my sisters for a drink on Friday nights.  He did all the manly dad stuff.  But we were the priority.  And we knew it.  Because that was his job.

So I speak from experience to the dad behind the photo:  Keep doing your job.  Even if I don't think it's that special or remarkable.  Keep doing it even when it involves an infant puking down your back, or explaining something to a curious daughter for the 9283793485956th time, or doing that chore your wife hates just to make her happy.  Do it even if your girls don't want you to.

They may not think it's anything out of the ordinary now, but some day they'll thank you for it.  Because of the example you set, your daughters are likely to marry men just like you.  So your grandchildren will thank you too.

The Holiday Humble-Brag

We're wrapping up 2013.  It's a time for reflection before starting fresh with a whole new year.  In that spirit are the holiday letters our friends and families send in their Christmas cards.  I love these things.  Whether they're funny, serious, sarcastic or conceited, they are my favorite of all weird holiday traditions.  Though, I've never actually written my own for our family. 

The reason for this is twofold.  The first, I struggle enough with the idea of sending Christmas cards.  All I have to do there is sign my name, and I can't pull it together to do even that.  Number 2, my family is awesome.  Every year my holiday letter would be the size of the Encyclopedia Britannica.  No joke.  I'm not good at editing.  Those reasons (excuses) aside, I want to give the holiday letter a try this year.  But bearing in mind my editorial shortcomings, I thought it best to write our letter in Top 10 form.

Without further ado, I give you...

My Holiday Humble-Brag Countdown!

10. Medical Emergencies  Our children have required an inordinate amount of medical attention this year.  My husband and I could probably have retired in Tahiti with the amount of money we've spent on copays.  (Not really.  But we could probably have vacationed in San Diego for a long weekend or something.)  We've had a brain scan, 3 MRIs, countless X-rays, 5 months worth of doctors visits for the spider bite from hell, a surgery, and 2 broken arms.  2013 has been a somewhat painful experience, both physical and financial.

The latest visit to our orthopedist.  If I was the type to send Christmas cards, I would send one to her.

9.  Fairy Godmother  Over the summer, I became godmother to my beautiful niece, Evelyn.  Only I've insisted that I be referred to strictly as Fairy Godmother.  Because I feel the title suits me.

8.  The Bookworm  Our daughter has taken it upon herself to read every book ever published before she exits the third grade.  She knocked out the Wimpy Kid and Dork Diary books over the summer.  Captain Underpants is so last year.  So she's moved on to stories more suitable to her discerning tastes.  She's read Little Women, White Fang, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Tom Sawyer, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Journey to the Center of the Earth, Frankenstein, (the dreaded) Moby Dick, and she just finished Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone last night.  All this since school began in August.  We've got the makings of a certified nerd on our hands over here.  It's fantastic. 

7.  Outdoor Science School  5th grade provided my son and me with some seriously amazing opportunities.  We survived the wilderness, daily hikes, snow, questionable culinary offerings, and 3 minute showers at Outdoor Science School.  The boy survived life without constant parent intervention, and I survived life in a cabin with ten 11-year-old girls.  We survived.  And it was a wonderful experience. 

Final Day in Big Bear.  Happy to show off our certificates and to head home to take out and hot showers!

6.  Movie Trailers  My husband has had a busy year at work.  I don't think he loves it too much when I brag about how amazing he is.  (And frankly, I don't want it going to his head.)  But, this is a holiday letter, so brag I must.  The guy is responsible for all of your children forcing you to see Monsters University three times in the theater.  He's the reason your daughter wants that Elsa dress.  He's also why you walk around singing the Demi Levato cover of Let It Go even when your kids aren't home.  (That's not just me, right?)  You're welcome. 

5.  New Car  I got a shiny new Volkswagen Beetle in September.  All I had to do to get it was slam my old car into a minivan.  The daughter and I were ok after the crash, but my beloved Cabrio lost her life while valiantly protecting us.

Cabrio 2002-2013.  RIP

4.  New Cat  Princess Cuddlecakes was adopted in July.  We adopted her as a pet for our daughter, however my husband has claimed her for his own.  (Kittens are man's best friend.)  Not surprisingly though, I am the primary cat feeder, brusher, and litter box cleaner.  So it goes... At least she's cute.

3.  5th Grade Promotion/First Day of 6th Grade  The boy passed 5th grade with flying colors.  Perfect marks, perfect test scores, and the Presidential Academic Excellence Award.  He started 6th grade in honors classes, and is breezing through them.  He finished his first semester of middle school on the honor roll.  (I'll admit, this brag wasn't very humble.)

2.  Mommy's Big Mouth  2013 saw the birth of this blog.  Neglected though it might be, I love it.  And, it's far cheaper than therapy.

1.  The Addition  In May, construction was completed on the addition to our home.  We moved in on Mother's Day and are now happily living in 3 bedrooms.  I have my very own office space adorned with vintage toys, coaching plaques, and pictures of my kids being weirdos.  Most importantly, WE HAVE 2 BATHROOMS!  I cannot possibly overstate the importance of a second bathroom.  We lived with one bathroom for 9 years.  And though no murders actually occurred, they were trying times.  Two bathrooms might actually be the key to a happy family life.  Two bathrooms...and kids who clean up after themselves.

I think I did an excellent job summing up the year we had.  It definitely had moments that left me pulling my hair out, but overall it was a great one.  And as 2013 comes to a close, I'm secure in the belief that the best is yet to come.  Bring it on 2014.  Bring it on.

My return to the blog, and an elf named Cupcake

I made some promises to people that I would start blogging again over winter break. So here I am. It's not that I ever intended to stop writing, it's mostly that I've been busy. I haven't had the time. Not a spare second. 

No, I'm not one of those moms who busies herself with over-scheduled kid activities. When I say I haven't had the time, I mean I'm either working, spending time with my family, or watching Sons of Anarchy. I've been busy.

'Busy' is a relative term.

But now, the glorious days of winter break are upon us. No work, and Sons of Anarchy season 6 just wrapped up, so I've got some free time. 

Coincidentally, I'm making my great blog return on my absolute favorite day of the year. Today is even better than my birthday. December 23. The last day I have to worry about our elf on the shelf till December 2014. 

If you don't currently have an elf residing in your home, you don't know my struggle.

Our elf, Cupcake has caused me many sleepless nights this month. Mostly because I don't plan ahead. It's my own fault. I have no idea what to do with the guy, then I wake up at 4am in a panic. 

I've pulled it off successfully every time. Even if it's just under the wire. But, the stress it causes me is ridiculous. It's actual anxiety. Over a silly stuffed elf doll. There have to be more important things I should be worrying about. 

I've gift wrapped dressers, TPed bedrooms, covered myself in face paint, and decorated the tree with underwear. I've baked muffins, made messes, recreated movie scenes, and I've painted toenails while people were sleeping. 

I'm tired. And I'm almost out of ideas. 

However, as much as I hate the Cupcake stress, I'll keep doing it every year I'm able until my kids tell me to stop. And this is why: they love the silly stuffed elf doll. (At least my daughter does. My son just likes seeing his sister so excited. He's happy to help me on elf duty when I let him.) All the sleepless nights in December are worth it for just one of my daughter's giggles. It's a fair trade. 

I've made it through this elf season with little sleep and lots of coffee; a little Christmas spirit and lots of google searches for "fun elf on the shelf ideas"(non of which were particularly helpful). But, I made it. 

If this was your first season with the elf, you survived. I'm proud of you. And also, I'm sorry. You likely didn't know what you were getting yourself in to. If you're a seasoned elf veteran, you know what to do now:

Plan your last move, and pour some champagne. That sucker's going back in his box tomorrow!

Merry Christmas!

The Middle School Blues

The kid spent 5 hours on homework last night.  I'm willing to bet that most CPA's don't take that much work home with them during tax season.  5 hours.  We could've watched 20 episodes of Adventure Time!  We could've driven to Vegas.  We could've flown to Indiana.  We could've sat through a directors cut of Gone With the Wind...with a one hour intermission.  5 hours is a long time. 

Never ending homework.  That's part of our new normal, along with locker combinations, changing clothes in gym class, passing periods, detentions, and those amazingly awkward school dances. 

Middle School.  It's just as bad as I remembered it. 

I'll grant you, I have a slightly different perspective on the thing this time around.  Yet still, I think middle school is akin to one of those exotic rites of passage where 11-year-olds are forced to walk on hot coals, mutilate themselves, battle a wild boar, whatever, to prove they are grown.  The catch is that 11-year-olds aren't grown.  They aren't even a little bit adult.  At all. 

My kid mastered his locker on the first day.  He isn't humiliated in PE.  He has yet to have a swirly.  I guess I should be happy about that.  And I am, but I'm still not a big middle school fan.  

I'm a huge believer in the old African/Hillary Clinton proverb "It takes a village to raise a child."  The village we have built for our children is like a beautifully manicured, gated community somewhere in the hills, with security guards, supportive neighbors, and friendly old ladies who hand out king sized candy bars on Halloween.  Our village kicks ass.  The middle school fits in there too.  It's like the 'new money' neighbor down the road who throws loud parties, and doesn't follow the HOA guidelines.  Though it's lawn sculptures are uglying up the place a bit, I'm sure it serves a purpose in our village.  For the life of me, I don't know what that purpose is. But, I'm sure it serves a purpose. 

I know what you're thinking.  Middle school is necessary to prepare a child for the rigors of high school.  I know you'll tell me they are teaching time management, organization, and self-reliance.  (It's just like you to take their side.)  You'll tell me that they are fostering my son's independence.  I understand those things.  They're all important.  But he's 11.  And, it seems a little much.  

I think what bothers me most about middle school isn't the wasting of precious family time for mind-numbing assignments, or the lack of the one-on-one attention I'm used to from teachers.  It isn't that I'm worried about rabid 8th graders roaming the halls, or the giant decrease in parental involvement.  (Though in my head, those are all pretty sound reasons to hate middle school.)  It's that middle school is turning my little baby boy into an adult.  It's forcing him to brave the hot coals.  He's battling wild boars or whatever every day, and I can't help him.  I just get to hear about it later.  And for that, I hate middle school.  Just like I did when I was 11.  

Middle School Stole My Baby

We survived our first week back to school/work. We only have 175 days to go till summer, so we're celebrating at Disneyland. (If you haven't figured this out already, we will celebrate almost anything at Disneyland. The kids remembered to put their dirty socks in the hamper?  DISNEYLAND! Yeah. Anything.) 

My family is still sleeping, so I've busied myself with waving at passing joggers as I shove waffles in my face. I lead a pretty challenging existence, I know. Because I haven't written in a while, I thought I might take a break from the joggers to check in...the joggers, but not the waffles. I can multitask. 

6 days ago middle school happened. I know you're thinking to yourself, "Middle school?  That can't be right. Joanna is only 22. How can she possibly have a child in middle school?"  I know. I think that to myself too. But it's real. It happened. 

The first day, I loaded the kids in the clown car and drove through a fog of nerves and fear to the new school. The parents were told not to park and walk the kids up. We were supposed to park several blocks away, and let the kids walk in on their own. SEVERAL BLOCKS?  Several blocks presents a real problem to my overprotective, control freak nature. But, I gave it a shot anyway. 

The kid got out of the car, and my mouth went dry. I could feel the lump rising in my throat.  It was like I was swallowing little shards of glass. He looked back to me wide-eyed (this was going to be a tearful goodbye, I could just tell) stood there for a moment, then quickly said, "Bye mom!" before slamming the door, and being surrounded by a gaggle of 7th grade girls. 

 

I hate middle school. But my son loves it.

It's been hilarious hearing all his awkward, coming of age stories from the first week. Fighting with combination locks. Finding friends at lunch. Changing for the first time in the gym locker room (horror and humiliation!).  We've all had those experiences. I just wish I could have seen the humor when I was going through them. 

Overall, he's still taking it better than I am. He's becoming independent and self sufficient just like he's supposed to. And I'm standing on the sidelines watching, wondering what the hell happened to the little boy I dropped off at preschool who grabbed the gates and screamed "Don't leave me in this place!" Not saying that's the reaction I wanted him to have to middle school. But one little backwards glance wouldn't have killed him either.  

I guess he's a man now. And that's ok, because men still have mommies. 

Teachers are Better Than Me

School is only days away.  I have moved past the denial stage, through anger, bargaining, and depression.  I've made it all the way to acceptance.  This thing is happening.  Might as well embrace it. 

I've stocked up on hand sanitizer, juice boxes and granola bars.  I have tutors' contact info saved to my favorites.  Now I'm just waiting for my first day in a quiet house.  You see, I've got big things planned for when the kids are at school.  (Probably none of which I'll actually accomplish, but I'm planning them just the same.)  I'm going to read a book, use a spa gift card I've been holding onto for 3 years, take a nap, and maybe stop by the gym.  Maybe. 

I can't begin to explain how grateful I am for the people who will make those blissful moments possible. 

Over the course of my parenting years, I've spent a lot of time in classrooms.  A lot of time seeing what teachers are faced with daily.  It's not pretty.  Boogers, back talk, potty accidents, arguments...and then they get to deal with us too.  (I cannot fathom the level of patience a person would need to make it through 30ish parent/teacher conferences.  I am breaking out in hives just thinking about it.)  And the truly strange thing?  Teachers, really truly good teachers, seem to enjoy it.

Teachers are better than me.

When my kids tell me stories at home, my responses are things like "uh huh....yeah....cool..."  When my kids tell their teachers a story, I hear responses like "Then what did you do?  What did he say next?  What did you learn?"  They're better than me.

If my child falls at home, my reaction is a quick "Shake it off."  No kidding.  It could be a compound fracture, and without looking, my first response would be "Shake it off."  My kid falls at school, and the teacher is there to help them up with kind words, a hug, and an ice pack. 

When my kids forget to pack themselves a snack (They are 8 and 11.  Fully old enough to grab an apple from the fridge.  Snack duty isn't my job anymore), then tell me they're hungry?  Yeah, that's too bad.  When a child at school forgets their lunch on a field trip?  I've seen teachers give up their own lunch so the student won't go hungry.  I'm not giving up my lunch for anyone.  Not even to the child with the saddest, puppy dog eyes in the school.  Teachers are so much better.

Sometimes teachers sacrifice time with their own families to be there for ours.  They miss their kids' sporting events for parent nights.  They miss performances for fundraisers.  Some give up their evenings and early mornings to help kids who are falling a little behind.  I don't know that I would wake up an hour earlier than necessary to go over math facts with a child who didn't belong to me.  I don't know that I would wake up an hour earlier than necessary for a child who does belong to me.  I know for sure that I wouldn't miss seeing my son score a touchdown to answer questions at an open house. 

My home is full of love and laughs.  It's full of silliness and big personalities.  A teacher's classroom is full of that stuff too, but it's kept in nice balance with structure, discipline and learning.  That's a balancing act that I haven't mastered.  I've got the discipline thing, ok.  And I own books.  But structure?  Now they're just making me look bad. 

As you can see, there are many reasons I have not chosen to home-school.

I am not a teacher.  I could go to school, study education for years, and get a job teaching, but I doubt even then that I would be a teacher.  I'm fairly certain teachers are born.  Not made.  And as I said, I am thankful for all the teachers who dedicate their lives to providing me with peace 5 days a week throughout the school year.  (That is what they dedicate their lives to, right?  Whatever.  It's an added bonus, anyway.) 

Kate Upton, Just Stop

I have posted several times over the past few months about girls demeaning themselves and dressing like tiny, little tramps and making absolutely horrible decisions.  I know I am just one small voice in a sea of internet know-it-alls.  But today I will try again to get my point across, because clearly the people who should be taking notes are not reading my blog.

I'm standing tall on this soapbox yet again because of an article I haven't even read yet.  The Elle interview with the very beautiful Kate Upton. It would probably be smart to read it first and get all the details, but truly, just the highlights make me nauseous.  So let me just say this:  Kate Upton, just stop.  Please.

I have never thought of myself as a feminist.  That's not to say that I didn't love the Spice Girls.  I owned 2 copies of Spice World.  It's not that I think that women should be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, or speak only when spoken to.  I never thought of myself as a feminist because I never needed a label.

As far as I'm concerned, If a woman wants to stay home, and have a litter of babies, and bake cookies every day that's great.  (Especially if she gives me some of the cookies.)  And she can. Not because she's a woman, but because she is a patient, caring, determined person.  If a woman wants to work 15 hour days, climb a corporate ladder, and smash a glass ceiling that's great too.  And she can.  Not because she is a woman, but because she is a smart, qualified, determined person.

I never felt the need to be a feminist,  because I think women are smart and powerful enough to fight their own battles.  But now I'm thinking maybe we need a new kind of feminist.  An honest feminist.  So here goes.

The older I get, or more accurately the older my daughter gets, the more I see all the negative ways that women are treated and portrayed.  It scares the hell out of me.

We are belittled.  We are discounted.  We are judged by the shoes we wear, instead of the brains in our heads.  And sometimes, we invite people to value us by our bra sizes, not our IQs.  It's not only men who are the problem.  We are guilty of doing it to each other.  We hold a lot of the responsibility here.  And it's time we're called on it.  People will treat you exactly as you allow them to.

For example, right now I'm discounting Kate Upton a little bit.  Only I'm not discounting her because of her looks like she thinks I am...I'm discounting her because she's acting like an idiot. 

Honestly, I have absolutely nothing against the modeling profession.  I might wish models would eat a cheeseburger now and again so the rest of us wouldn't feel like shit for being normal.  Overall though, I've got no issue.  If that's your thing, do it.  But know, if that's the profession you choose, you will be judged solely on your looks, and not your ability to broker shrewd business deals.  It's the nature of the thing.

I understand Kate Upton's complaints.  I really do.  I don't want to be objectified either.  I am also not a toy.  So to illustrate that, I keep my posing in body paint and barely-there swimsuits in national perv mags to a minimum.  That's the only reason I haven't graced the pages of Sports Illustrated.  Really.  It's definitely not because I've had 2 children who left me with stretch marks that resemble a topographic map of the Rockies.  (Full disclosure: If I had Kate Upton's body, I probably wouldn't feel this way. I would probably walk around naked all the time. And if people wanted to pay me for it, that would be ok.  But I definitely wouldn't whine about it after.)

If she truly felt terrible about the way she was treated after her first SI swimsuit edition, why on earth would she do it again?  Twice.   If she really didn't want to be objectified, why would she do this and allow it to be posted for all the internet to ogle?  (Gentlemen, eyes back in your head please.)  Asking men not to objectify you after that is like asking fish not to swim. 

It's not their fault. (Well, it's not only their fault.)  They are guys. That's what they do. We need to own up to the fact that we are responsible for the way we're perceived. We need to put a little more importance on what books we read than what labels we wear. We need to teach our daughters that stupid isn't cute.  That smart is sexy. That their intellect has value. 

I worry about the way the world will view my own daughter.  I also worry about the way she views herself.  When I compliment her, I always tell her she's smart and kind.  Not just beautiful.  She is capable of much more than being beautiful.  Though she is absolutely, breathtakingly gorgeous.  (I may be a little biased.)  Kate Upton is capable of much more too.  But, as unfair as it may seem, she might have to put on some clothes and take her self seriously for people to realize it. 

Obama and Ice Cream

I had a full day of fun planned with the monsters.  A full day which at no point included standing in the street, watching for the President.  But that's exactly where we ended up.   I believe I was the only person who accidentally went to see the motorcade as it sped through the streets of our town.  I say 'accidentally' because it took a rather annoying chain of events to get us there, including bowling and terrible service at an ice cream counter. 

We weren't even on the same side of town as the motorcade when our ice cream mission began.  But because I was in a little bit of a snit with the woman at the bowling alley concession stand, we drove somewhere else.  (We'll show you!  We'll eat our Drumsticks elsewhere!)  We walked in, got our treats, and walked out to heavy police presence and some pretty serious crowds.  That was when it dawned on me that, blinded by rage and ice cream deprivation, I had driven right into the road closures.  We were stuck, so we made the best of it. 

We joined the throng of people waiting with iPhones up and Instagram open.

We stood on the curb, ice cream in hand, close enough to reach out and touch the cars as they passed.  I looked over to the kids.  They were properly impressed.  Convinced POTUS was waving back at them through the blacked-out, bulletproof windows of his Cadillac.  I assured them that's exactly what he was doing.  (Though, because I am currently addicted to The West Wing, I know better.  He was probably in the back prepping for The Tonight Show with his press and communications people, who are assuredly not as awesome as CJ Cregg and Sam Seaborn.)

The kids had tons of questions.  Why do they drive so fast?  Why doesn't the President want people to see him in the car?  Why are the police everywhere?  They had no idea that being the president is a dangerous job.  No idea that there are people who would do this man harm because of the office he holds.  No idea of racial intolerance.  They don't know about lobbyists, the Tea Party, Occupy or anyone in between.  I honestly don't think they would care if they knew.  Because they were seeing THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!  He was right in front of them.  For a moment, that's how I chose to see the world too.  No politics, no animosity.  Just history, wonder, and pride. 

My kids teach me lessons daily.  Some of the lessons are things like:  If you open a candy bar within a 3 mile radius of your offspring, you must be prepared to share it.  Other people don't care if you've had enough coffee.  And "I'm exhausted" isn't a valid excuse for anything.  But this one is important.  This one is worth passing on: See the wonder in things.  It rules. 

Kids are better than the rest of us.  That's a fact.  Some are rotten and bratty, sure.  But adults made them that way.  Even the rotten, bratty ones are better than the rest of us.  At one point we were better too.  We should try to get back to that.

T-minus 16 days

Here's something a little dumb to think about, school starts in just over 2 weeks. 

Yes.  16 days from now we'll all be standing in line waiting to meet this year's teacher.  Hoping our little ones didn't forget their #2 pencils, or Crayola Twistables.  Worrying that our big ones will forget their locker combinations, or have a run in with a man-sized 8th grader on their first day of middle school. 

All the kids will look nice and tidy in their new clothes with their hair done just right.  All the dads will be carrying bags filled with supplies, which cost roughly the same as the national debt.  The teachers will be cheerful.  The classrooms will be clean (at least for the first minute or so).  The Pinterest moms will be greeting each other, excited to plan the first class party of the year.

I will be on my 4th or 5th cup of coffee.  I'll probably still be in my pajamas, or maybe my gym clothes if I'm feeling fancy.  My messy hair will likely be shoved under a Colts hat.  With any luck though, I'll be wearing matching shoes.  Mornings aren't really my thing.  Especially on the first day of school.

The first day of school is not my favorite day.  I think that's because I am not particularly thrilled about my kids getting older.  I was perfectly happy when they were 2 and 5.  They were cute.  They thought I was amazing.  And, I understood their pre-k and kindergarten math homework.  Everything was magical.  At least that's how I remember it.

Now I'm dealing with 3rd and 6th graders.  Every year they age, I'm a little more out of my element.  Their math is difficult.  They no longer think I'm that amazing.  In fact, I secretly think that sometimes...every once in a while...they find me annoying.  I know, it's hard to believe. 

Even though they (very infrequently, I'm sure) find me annoying, I love having the kids home for the summer.  Though they fight with each other as naturally as they draw breath, I'm not in a hurry to send them back to the academic salt mines. I'll miss the monsters. But it will be nice to go to Target without them. 

Seven is the New Eighteen

I'm not having a great 24 hours.  Last night, I watched GI Joe: Retaliation.  (Jon Chu, you owe me an apology.)  Then this morning happened.  I am no longer fit to be around people today.  No amount of coffee can fix it.  I'm going to quit.  Lock myself in my bedroom, watch The West Wing on Netflix, and ponder a new business.  

Yes.  I'm thinking of starting a business.  I'll call it something like Bitch For Hire.  The name pretty well describes the service I'll provide.  Prospective clients can pay me to scream at their insurance companies.  I do it all the time for free.  I figure I might as well profit from my expertise.  I really do excel at being a raging, monstrous bitch.  It's almost a superpower.  The more timid percentage of the population could really benefit.

While you ponder this brilliant idea, let me back up and explain...

I spent the morning at the dentist with a completely freaking insane child.  My sweet daughter ceased to exist.  She was replaced with a tiny, little, human-sized mass of anxiety.  It was ugly.  She was absolutely terrified.  She was a maniac.  She wouldn't even allow the hygienist to take X-rays.  It was not the most fun I've ever had.  In fact, it was not fun at all. 

It's not like she's never been to the dentist before.  We go every 6 months.  The only explanation I can come up with for this borderline mental patient behavior is my daughter's new found total hatred and distrust for all people in scrubs or lab coats.  A little spider bite PTSD.
  
Our dentist didn't seem too invested in the battle, and surrendered fairly quickly.  She referred us to a pediatric dentist in another town. (That's how badly she wanted to get away from us.  She sent us to a dentist in an entirely different town.)  She said it would be best to have the girl sedated for the whole exam.  After what I had witnessed, I didn't think that was a terrible idea.  In fact, I kind of wanted to sedate her for the car ride home.  Or sedate myself.  Whatever.

I took the referral form from the receptionist, and we left the office.  The belligerent little angel was victorious over the evil hygienist, and my humiliation was palpable.  At least my son was leaving with sparkling teeth, and clean bill of dental health.  He was the only evidence that I have any control whatsoever over my offspring.  I may buy him a video game as a reward. (Kid if you're reading this, I love you, but I am not really buying you a video game.  Sorry.)

I called to schedule a new appointment from the car only to find that our insurance won't cover a pediatric dentist.  You see, according to the Mensa members who are responsible for planning out the terms of our medical coverage, you are an adult once you pass the ripe old age of 7.  7?  Seven??  S-E-V-E-N???  You've got to be kidding me. 

The receptionist at the office very patiently explained to me (Apparently she mistook my disbelief for stupidity.  She talked to me like I was Forrest Gump.) that I would need to pay out of pocket, and I'm not eligible for reimbursement.   Zero coverage.  None at all.  The visit, the X-rays, the nitrous and the IV would put us over $300 before she's even treated.  The treatment is additional, and they can't (or won't) price it out until these fees are paid.  Naturally, the treatment wouldn't take place on the day of the initial visit.  We would need to schedule another appointment several days later.  This is done to "make the patient more comfortable".  (This begs the question:  Can a person be uncomfortable in a nitrous haze?  Is it even possible?  I'm no expert, but I kind of thought that was the point.)  That means that we get to pay for everything, except the X-rays, twice.

How much do you think I could get for a gently used kidney?
 
All this brings me to my new venture.  Over the last 6 months or so, for a variety of reasons, I've made many, many calls to our insurance company.  (So many that I'm thinking of looking at properties in Canada.  I hear Saskatchewan is nice.)  This afternoon, yet another unsuspecting service rep will get to take my call.  I pity him/her on a personal level.  I'm sure they are actually nice people.  I'm sure they aren't medical despots lording over the sick and injured.   I'm sure they just needed a job, and only the insurance phone bank was hiring.  Hopefully when I'm done shouting, and cooler heads prevail, we can be friendly.  I'll explain to them that it's just business, and convince them to give my number to other people they're screwing over.  I could use this unfortunate situation to drum up some customers.  Bitch For Hire could my silver lining. 

Carlos Danger Strikes Again

Rarely do I have the time to write twice in the same day.  By rarely, I mean this is the first time it has ever happened.  Typically I would use this extra time to do something important.  Like paint my nails, or eat bon-bons.  But my nails are freshly manicured, and bon-bons make me fat.

I once said that I wouldn't write about politics.  And I stand by that.  However, I am all for dishing out life lessons.  I think this post falls more under the life lessons category than the political one.  But I blame Anthony Weiner entirely for this even being on my radar.

Sexting.  It's every parents' nightmare when we hand our puberty addled, hormone fueled adolescents cell phones.  I know your kid isn't doing it.  Mine isn't either.  Because they are innocent little flowers.  And we are amazing and vigilant parents.  But still.  It's a thing.

That must mean adults are the problem. (I'm excluding people in committed relationships here.  If you've been married for half of forever and still sext, good for you.  But ladies, until you get the ring, proceed with caution.) 

I'm talking more about the kind of guys who routinely tweet, text and email naked pics to unsuspecting ladies.  I've been on the receiving end of this, so I'm sure some of you have too.  (Since I logged onto Twitter for the first time, I've seen more naked Asian men than a urologist in Shanghai.  Coincidentally, this is why I don't really care for Twitter.)  I'm curious about these people. The Carlos Dangers of the world.  Why the hell would you ever send naked pictures of yourself to a stranger?  I get sex addiction is a disease, but surely there is a smarter way to be a perv. (Or perhaps I'm just a prude with trust issues.  I guess that's possible too.)

Aside from my curiosity, it also makes me worry that the young ladies involved don't have any kind of positive female role models in their lives.  Maybe no one has ever told them about the blocking option Twitter so graciously provides its users.  Maybe they don't realize you shouldn't sext mayoral candidates.  Maybe they don't know it's not ladylike to get intimate with married men.

So, all you 23 year old vixens with your finger on the send button, I'm volunteering.  I'll be your positive female role model on the topic (No other topics though, as I fear I'm unqualified).  Please read on:
 
Let's start with the basics. Do not send naked pics to anyone who goes by the name Carlos Danger.  Really, don't send naked pics to anyone.  You'll never fulfill your dream of becoming the first female president of these great United States (or whatever your dream is) if your junk is on display on an NSA desktop.  And as soon as you hit send, it will be. Believe it.  Big Brother and all that...

You might also want to take a break from tweeting about how hot you are.  Or that you want to marry your own legs.  Or that all you are is good make up, hair, boobs and tattoos.  Might as well add 'insecurity and attention seeking behaviors' to that list, because that's all people will see.  You are an intelligent, independent, beautiful woman with much to offer. I know you know that, so don't shortchange yourself.  Do not ever give people a reason to discount you. 

My most vital and urgent piece of advice:  Find a better group of girlfriends, because yours suck.  They failed you.  Badly.  Real girlfriends call you out when you're being stupid.  Sexting a married, serial philandering, former congressmen qualifies as stupid.  Even if he's your legislative hero.  Someone should have warned you.  

If all else fails...If you can't figure out how to block him, your friends don't tell you it's stupid, you can't help but tweet ridiculous and demeaning things, and you accidentally find yourself in a sexting relationship with Carlos Danger...well, my final piece of advice is to go get paid. Sell your story to the highest bidder. Use the money for good, or to buy shoes, or crack, or whatever.  Just cash in quick.  Because with any luck at all, nobody will remember your name by next week.