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. 

Dusting Off My Megaphone

The back to school, crazy busy time of year is here again.  I'm off to pick up the middle school enrollment packet this morning. (Barf.  Middle school.  I have a kid in middle school.  That means I'm old, doesn't it?  Don't answer that.)  While I'm not actually in any big hurry to send my kids back to school, I do love the fall sports.  And they start tomorrow.

I have filled out a staggering number of forms.  I've purchased the necessary equipment.  I've sent team emails.  I'm ready to go.

It's funny what youth sports turn parents into.  You can be in mid conversation with other moms at a game.  A completely calm, normal conversation.  And it's commonplace for at least one mother to start screaming, "Don't just stand there!  Run for the ball!"  "Ref!!!  What game are you watching?!?!?!"  or my personal favorite, "TOUCHDOWN!!!!  WOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH!!!!"  Then she'll step right back into the conversation without skipping a beat.  These are my people.  The football/volleyball/soccer/baseball/hockey parents of the world.  It's good, if not loud, company.

We understand each other.  We cheer the loudest.  We wear matching team shirts.  We paint our faces.  We bring snacks.  We always bring snacks.  Our cars are loaded with equipment, coolers, smelly sneakers, and those astonishingly comfortable sports chairs.  (I have managed to shove all this, and an outdoor propane heater for those chilly night games, in the trunk of my tiny clown car.  It's like Tetris in real life.)

Even though we love it, we have been known to complain about different sports programs for kids.  Either they are too competitive, or not competitive enough.  Either the coaches are too strict on the kids, or they're not strict enough (I usually fall in with the latter.  In my head, football practice should be run something like a military boot camp.  R Lee Ermey should be shouting cadence as the boys run drills.)  But all that is white noise.  The only important detail is seeing your kid's smiling face when he/she makes a big play and looks out to find you in the crowd.  I know, I'm a sucker. but it gets me every time.  (I can answer definitively: Yes, there is crying in baseball.  But it's usually just some proud mother in the bleachers.)

There are those few individuals who give all sports parents a bad name.  Those parents or coaches who punch a ref...or a coach...or a kid...and end up on CNN.  Those people are not sports parents.  They are assholes.  And, not because youth sports made them that way.  They were born like that.  They're likely the same people that cut you off on the freeway, and don't hold doors for old ladies.  The people that I've met through our 7 years of nonstop kid leagues are some of the most caring, involved parents I could ever hope to know.  And I love the time I share with them.

I cannot wait to get this season started.  As a coach, a spectator, and as a tired, overworked parent who kind of needs a break.  Tomorrow afternoon, we will run from volleyball practice to football practice with time for a little snack in between.  It gives me a valid excuse to spend a couple hours with my best friends drinking coffee and gossiping (not that we gossip).  Also, the busy afternoon will leave me with very tired children.  Which will provide me with a peaceful evening, where the kids can't wait to crawl into bed.  I haven't had an evening like that since last season.

Thank you organized youth sports.

(I Really Tried to be) The Best Mom Ever

Yesterday was the big day.  The surgery day.  It would seem that the parents involved had a much more difficult time than the child actually having the operation.  I guess that is not surprising.  After all she had Turtle Power, we didn't. My daughter out of her mind on Versed and anesthesia is something I never want to see again for as long as I live.  But, we got through it.  She was home by yesterday afternoon.  Destroying a giant pan of mac and cheese by yesterday evening.  She's still in pain, but according to her "I've taken medicine for 4 months.  I'm not taking any more."  So no pain killers.  She's kind of a bad ass.

She got completely spoiled rotten from our friends and family yesterday.  New dresses, books, coloring books, flowers, cookies, candies...We tried to spoil her too.  I say tried, because thus far I have failed to follow through with our spoiling.  But it's not due to a lack of effort.

The only thing she wanted in the aftermath of the surgery was the new Crayola Marker Maker.  (Thank you so much Disney Channel for playing that commercial 938456984596 times a day.  You're the best!)  So, we went out last night to get her one.  Toys R Us doesn't carry them.  We went to Target.  Nope.  Looked online to discover it is a Wal-Mart exclusive.  Awesome.

 Something you may not know about me:  I believe, while Wal-Mart may not be the root of all evil, it is definitely one of them.  It is the worst place imaginable.  I would rather be locked overnight in a Claire's Boutique with 50 bedazzled tweens, high on cheap nail polish fumes, screeching about One Direction, while listening to dubstep, than have to step foot in a Wal-Mart.  But I love my daughter.  And I promised her the marker maker.

Is this really worth the trouble?  Probably not.

This afternoon, I called to confirm that they were fully stocked with marker makers.  Then I loaded the girl in the car and drove to the arm pit of Los Angeles to the soulless retail giant with high hopes of being named "the best mom ever!"

Everything about the trip was a mistake.  Even Siri didn't want me to go there, as she gave me the wrong directions several times.  We finally found it, and after walking the gauntlet of aggressive panhandlers, made it inside.  It was everything I knew it would be.  Hell on earth.

We put our heads down and muscled through to the toy section.  No marker makers.  We tried the back-to-school Crayola section.  None there either.  We asked for assistance from several people who didn't speak English or were just rude.  (Some of both, I think.)  We finally found someone to take us to the stationery department, where they kept the shelves "fully stocked" with marker makers.  Except there were absolutely no marker makers.

The girl was disappointed, but settled on a $3 dress, which I'm fairly certain was handmade by Chinese orphans in a one room shack with a dirt floor for 19 cents per month.  I feel a little guilty about it, but my daughter looks so cute in coral.

We left Wal-Mart the same way we came, through the obstacle course of panhandlers and methed out homeless ladies who were probably 23, but looked more like 90.  Drove all over the place, because Siri refused to get her shit together, and because I am unfamiliar with the Arm Pit, Los Angeles area.  We finally made it back home after an hour in the car.  

We have decided to order the marker maker online, and possibly never leave the house again.  And it's all because Crayola decided to sell a Wal-Mart exclusive.  At least The Spider Saga is over...

The Spider Saga Continues

I am completely preoccupied today.  This morning, I tried to make coffee without water.  Then I fed the dog the cat's food.  I'm out of it.  But, I have an excuse.  For the last 2 weeks or so, I've been dreading July 18.  Now I'm less than 24 hours out, and I have no idea what to do with myself. 

Those of you that know me, or followed me on social media pre-blog, already know the saga of my daughter's spider bite.  The CliffsNotes version:  She was bitten (the doctors say it was a black widow, but for the purpose of this story, we'll call it a venomous, 8-legged, hellbeast) during an egg hunt on Easter Sunday.  And, just about every waking second since then has involved wound care, medications, doctors visits, pain management, and tears.  109 days of this, and the bite still will not heal. 

I hate spiders.

Tomorrow morning, the saga continues.  She will go into surgery to have all the damaged tissue removed.  Hopefully once this is done, the area will heal on it's own.  No more medicine, no more hot saline soaks, no more tears...from either of us. 

I should be happy that we're so close to the end of this story.  But, if I'm being honest.  I am freaking terrified.  The idea of strangers wheeling my unconscious child away from me is just not appealing.  At all.  This is the first time in my 11 years as Mother-in-Chief that anyone besides myself, or my husband, will be in control of one of my children's well being.  I'm driving myself nuts about it. 


I'm a mess of nerves.

And I hate spiders.

My daughter, on the other hand, is handling it like a champ.  We avoided telling her about the surgery, thinking that telling her in advance would just give her more time to worry about it.  I finally had the conversation with her yesterday.  She asked some pretty smart questions (about how much it will hurt after, and what happens if she wakes up while they're working), then she went to watch TMNT.  She's fine.  She's not excited about it or anything.  But, she's anxious to get it over with.  She's ready to have her arm back.  And, she's thrilled to be able to eat all the Reese Cups her grandmother sent her when the surgery is over. 

She's even planned the outfit she's wearing to the hospital.  She's going in full Ninja Turtle regalia, so that everyone there will know that she is tough and brave.  (Yes, I know.  My daughter is awesome.)  She asked me if she's going to act like this kid when it's over.  I promised her that if she does, I'll take video so she can see it.  I think that's what she's hoping for, so at least she'll have a funny story to tell.  The apple doesn't fall far...

I know most of you have been through some sort of scary situation with your kids.  It happens to all of us at some point, and every parent is sensitive to the absolute helplessness of having a sick or injured child.  It sucks.  We all know it.  But in an effort to make it suck a little less, I would love to hear from any of you who have been through something similar.  Or any of you who dread going through something similar.  Words of encouragement, tips for tomorrow, questions I should ask, or maybe there is something you've thought of that I've forgotten to panic about.  I'll take them all and be grateful.  

The Lemonade Stand

Today I endeavored to teach my children an important lesson:  The more junk you want to buy, the more money you need.  The more money you need, the more you have to work.

Kids always want the newest, the latest, the most sparkly.  They can't help it.  I mean, I always want the newest, the latest, and the most sparkly too.  It's human nature.  The trouble is that kids don't have any concept of what it takes to acquire these things.  You have to work to get the money to buy the sparkly stuff.  (Unless, of course, you have a husband who does all the work, so you can stay home and blog all day.)

With this noble lesson in mind, we decided to have a lemonade stand.  I thought a few hours of sitting in the sun, hustling passersby for pocket change would do them good.  I thought they might finish the lemonade themselves then come in with $1.50 to show for their efforts.  I thought after a day of hard labor, they would instantly become grateful for all the things we buy for them.  I thought wrong.

Here's how things really went down:

First, I went to the store to get the plastic cups, sugar, and the missing ingredients for cookies by myself.  The kids stayed home to play with the neighbors.

Then, I picked the lemons and squeezed each one by hand (Enough to make 3 gallons of lemonade.  Around a metric ton of lemons.) by myself.  The kids played video games.

Next, I made the cookies by myself.  The kids ate some.

Then, I moved the tables outside and set up the stand by myself.  The kids colored a sign.

Next, I Instagramed, tweeted, Facebooked, and texted to get the word out.  The kids sat down, and raked in the money. 

When it was all over, I cleaned everything up while the kids counted their earnings.  They divided it up evenly, giving me 0% of the take.  And, because of the sugar expenditure, I ended up in the red.

All told, the kids had a great time.  They made some spending money for the arcade, or the candy store.  It was a fun way to spend an afternoon, made even better with celebratory swimming after.  But, I am pretty sure the only person who really learned the value of a hard day's work was me.