The Devil's in the Details

Anyone who's been a parent long enough for their kid to start talking has had to answer questions. Lots of questions. Loads of crap-you've-never-thought-about questions. Everything from "how did God make the world" to "where do babies come from?" Personally, I've gotten to answer everything from "do you think it would be hard to walk on the ceiling" to "what is that pink thing under my pony's belly that he keeps sticking out?" Every day is filled with questions, some of them unique and super important "teachable moment" questions, and some of them the same one I've already answered at least a million times.
This morning, one of my five year olds came into my bathroom and said what sounded like, "Mom, what's pee?" Oh, great. Here we go again, I thought. Another weird, never really thought about it, who cares what the answer is question to start my day. Maybe if I ignore her, she'll forget about it and go away. Yeah, cause that always works. In my dreams.
Daughter: Mom, what is pee?
Me: What?
Daughter: What is peep? (Side note: one of my girls has always called urinating "peep." Peep and poop are celebrities at our house. Toilet humor is big. Really big. Sigh.)
Me: What do you mean, what is peep? Like what's in it?
Daughter: No! Like what is it?
Me: (Deep breath here) Well, it's the liquid produced after your body digests what you eat and drink. It's the leftover or waste products of your diet. (Yeah, a scientific explanation with big words. That ought to shut her up! Good job, Mom!)
Daughter: MOM! I said, what is PETE? You know, on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse! PETE! That big fat thing that has hands? Is he a dog or something?
Me: Whew! Oh...um, yeah, sure. He's a dog. Sounds good to me! (Question answered, crisis averted. Hooray!)
Daughter: Oh, a dog. Okay. Then why does he have HANDS?
Me: (Silently: Dammit! I hate you, Disney Channel!) I don't know. Are you ready for breakfast?
Daughter: Yes! Can I have a Pop Tart?
There you go, Mom. Change the subject. That works every time! Okay, some of the time. Alright, alright, it almost never works, but this morning I got lucky.

The Funny One, aka Mr. Sunshine

It seems that after only a few short weeks of blogging, my secret is out. My husband is the funny one in this family, not me. He keeps me laughing every day, whether he intends to or not. When we were dating, a friend of the family warned me about "older men." I must be careful, she cautioned, because older men were more sophisticated and mature. They were looking for different things in a relationship than teenage boys.
Somehow, the wonderful man that is my husband missed the memo. Don't get me wrong. He is a hard-working, responsible person who does a fabulous job providing for our family. But mature and sophisticated? Not my first choice for adjectives used to describe my hubby. Cartoons, inappropriate jokes, fart humor, you name it. He makes me laugh until I cry almost every day. His ultimate goal is to make a drink come out of my nose, but it still eludes him. Keep trying, Babe.
The other day, a repairman in our home informed me that I could buy a new toilet (and no, not a Mr. Potato Potty) for what it was going to cost to fix the high priced one in my guest bathroom. It's not really broken, it just takes some effort to flush it. You have to push down hard on the handle, which my girls are not crazy about. Other than that, it works perfectly. Like all good husbands who don't want to deal with something, when the guy called him with the estimate, he said something along the lines of, "Whatever my wife wants to do. Just make her happy!" Sounds pretty sweet, huh? Yeah, right. I'm onto you, Buddy. Make me the bad guy.
I made the executive decision that we will limp along until the toilet breaks completely, because I have other things I would like to do with $100 than spend it on toilet parts. When Mr. Sunshine rolled in from work and asked what I had decided, I told him and here was his assessment: "Yep. Cheap toilets, cheap horses, and high priced women. That's how I roll!" How do you argue with that?
One of the most endearing things about Mr. Sunshine is the outfits he wears to the barn. I'm not sure which are my favorite, the summer or winter ones. I have to say, my personal favorite winter outfit was a pair of parachute (I mean, "athletic") pants, tall buckaroo boots, a goose down jacket, and a toboggan. Basically, he picks up what ever is on top of the dirty clothes pile to wear while he feeds the horses. Until we rented our guest apartment last summer, his go-to outfit was underwear and boots. I figured the renters' two tween daughters would be scarred for life if they busted him in his drawers, so we had to make some changes. Sacrifices, man, sacrifices.
A couple of mornings ago, he came into the house after feeding wearing a light blue scrub shirt, red Speedo, and boots. I'm totally kidding. It was a red pair of swim shorts, not a Speedo. But the mental image made you smile. I saw you. While a scrub shirt, swimsuit, and boots was not one of his most creative outfits, it was definitely interesting. I immediately said, "Have you been playing Baywatch again? You were running down the beach, I mean the pasture, weren't you? I knew I heard cars honking on the interstate." He immediately gave me a demonstration, which caused me to break into song. "I'll be ready..."
The other night I was running a bath when my mom brain kicked in and I remembered something I had forgotten to tell him about the barrel race. I headed into the kitchen half dressed and proceeded to tell my not particularly important story. Teenage boy, I mean husband, stared at my chest and pretended to listen.
Me: So what do you think? Isn't that stupid?
Husband (out loud): Focus, focus. I'm sorry what? Were you speaking?
Me: Yes, I have a head!
Husband: Not right now, you don't.
See what I'm dealing with?  

Mr. Potato Potty

This is one for the "things I've seen that were so strange I just had to tell someone about it" file. During my travels, I have had the occasion to visit quite a few gas station bathrooms. While they gross me out like nothing else, and cause me to ask the question, "Why, WHY do my kids have to touch every surface in there? Can't they just go pee and not touch anything?" Ugh. Gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it, although I have to say that gas station bathrooms are far superior to Port-a-Potties. I mean, being shut up in a tiny, 100+ degree room with other people's feces is enough to make my slight OCD issue a major  OCD issue. Throw in my claustrophobia and the imminent danger of suffocation and you will see why I avoid Port-a-Potties like the plague.
But the other day I saw something I've never seen before. I even had to give it a name: Mr. Potato Potty. Okay, okay, fine. I admit it: my husband came up with the name. But it was only after my fantastic description. And, yes, I freely admit that I should have taken a picture with my cell phone. Dang that "mom brain!" Why didn't I think of that? Oh, yeah, because my kids suck my brain out of my ears in tiny pieces at night. I almost forgot. I promise to do it the next time we stop there and post it right here.
Anyway, we were on the way home from somewhere that required us to pass through Houston (MS, not Texas. Did you really think we drove to Texas with my three kids? What are you, nuts?) So I headed inside to the bathroom, and here's what I found. A toilet assembled from what can best be described as...spare parts. This pristine round toilet featured a non-matching oval seat. Gross, but not such a big deal, right? Although my daughter did learn the age old toilet rule yesterday: an oval seat on a round toilet will pinch the back of your leg if you aren't careful! After the wails of pain and agony coming from the bathroom, I'm pretty sure the whole restaurant thought I was beating her in there. Just waiting on CPS to show up today.
Anyway, my favorite, never-seen-it-before part was the tank. Instead of a tank lid (guess the junkyard didn't have one of those,) someone had carefully placed a white laminate shelf (stolen from a bookcase, perhaps?) And since it stuck out a little on both ends, why not use it to display three lovely plastic plants?
Wow. A spare parts toilet with foliage. Now that's something you don't see every day. Almost made it feel like you were at home. Or not. And since my husband and I had just been discussing things that we had as kids that our kids don't, like Mr. Potato Head, when I described the art project, I mean toilet, he immediately christened it "Mr. Potato Potty." Made me laugh so hard I had to pee. Again.     

Times Have Changed

I knew that my children's childhood would be different than mine. This morning it hit me just how different their childhood is going to be when the repairman at our home asked me for a phone book. As I left the room to get it, I heard my child ask him, "What's a phone book?" I guess she's never seen one before. If her dad or I need a phone number, we grab a smart phone or look it up online.
I've tried to explain to them before that when I was really small, there were only three channels. I can remember when we got cable. There were commercials, and you couldn't fast forward them. If you went to the bathroom and missed the most pivotal moment in "Days of Our Lives," you just missed it! (On a side note, I swear you can watch that show once every five years and totally keep up with what's going on. I knew Will Brady was gay before he did. And talk about some well-preserved people. Wow! I don't know if they have a makeup artist or a mortician on staff at that show!)
I remember when we got a VCR. Very few people actually knew how to program them, and if you did figure out how to set it and then forgot to leave the TV on the right channel, you STILL didn't get what you wanted! But hey, at the time that technology was freakin' amazing! Video cassette rental stores popped up on every corner, and you had better rewind that sucker before you took it back OR ELSE! It seemed like the new releases were never in stock, and you could even get a reduced price if you would agree to bring them back the next day.
I can vividly recall the first cell phone I ever saw. Anyone else remember the giant phone purses? It was the latest, greatest thing...if you were willing to carry a small duffel bag everywhere you went, and you happened to be close enough to one of the two cell phone towers in the state, there was a possibility you could make a call. My dad had one for work, which was considered a huge step up from the lowly pager. Over the years, the bag and the phone got smaller, and before long you could plug the phone into your car. That opened up a whole new world of possibilities! Incidentally, I also remember the first hardwired phone I ever saw in a car. My dad looked at a BMW with a phone...which was basically a house phone, curly cord and all!
Then there was the first cordless cell phone, a giant brick-like thing that got so hot you couldn't hold it after a few minutes. Many models later, when the first flip phones hit the market, we really did think we'd made it onto Star Trek! Now my phone does so much, I really don't think they should even call them phones. They're just computers that can make calls. And I love mine. Apparently I talk on it often, as my baby will now hold any object up to her head and walk through the house yelling, "Hello!"
The invention of cell phones also brought about the phenomenon of cell phone manners (or lack thereof.) When reception used to be really horrible, many people were convinced that if they simply talked LOUDER, the person on the other end could miraculously hear them. Always reminded me of a tin can telephone. Now they're even talking about letting people use cell phones during flights, which I think is a horrible idea. Can you imagine the racket in an area that small if everyone's on their phone having a different conversation? Then I really am going to have to get some of those sound proofing headphones. Oh, who am I kidding? Like I'm going to be flying anywhere any time soon! Bahahaha.
Anytime I start pondering on how much things have changed since I was a kid, I sit down and have a conversation with my 84 year old mother-in-law. Now SHE remembers when times were different! I mean really, we've got everything now but the hover boards and flying cars from "Back to the Future," and those can't be far behind. Then I can really make myself sound old. "I remember when cars didn't fly and smart phones only did 50 things instead of 500!" Yes, indeed, times have changed! 

House"work"

Am I the only one who didn't realize until they were older and got married just how much mothers do around the house? Working moms, stay at home moms, or stay in the road moms like me...it doesn't matter. Just moms. They do the crap that no one else wants to do. I mean really, how do you walk past the same mess forty-seven times and not feel the urge to clean it up? And don't let the cat/dog/hamster/add pet here crap on the floor. That will cause every other person in the house to lose their ability to smell and become temporarily blind. It's just like Jeff Foxworthy said, "Let's pretend we don't see it and let Mom clean it up!"
 Moms deal with vomit, snot, poop, spit, pee, and any other bodily fluid or function you can think of. I have one child who becomes nauseated by the smell of clean sheets. To the best of my knowledge, the only place she's ever puked is in her bed, typically around 3 AM. Dealing with sheets and a child covered in vomit while still half asleep definitely falls under my least favorite parts of parenthood. Add to that the fact that my husband and I are both sympathetic pukers and you can see why the words "stomach virus" strike fear in my heart like nothing else.
Moms clean toilets, sinks, showers, and the refrigerator. God bless those of you with sons. My husband is very neat and remembers to raise the seat. I can't imagine what the toilet looks like in a house full of little boys. Although I do have to say, I have a hard time figuring out just how my girls manage to defile the toilet in some of the places I have to clean. Athletic little turds!
Speaking of boys, I have a friend who once wrote a blog post about finding her boys' booger wall. I'm not sure if they were saving them for later or having a competition. I wanted to puke just reading about it. And do you know what she did? She laughed about it and then cleaned it up. Oh, and took pictures so she could share it with the world. Thanks, Kelly. Thanks a lot! Your booger wall made my girls' crayon drawings on the windows seem practically boring.
Moms clean sinks, drains, and bathtubs. My children don't seem to grasp the concept that if you bathe in a dirty tub, you STILL aren't clean when you get out. Don't get me started on bathroom counter tops. How do you spread toothpaste all over an entire vanity? I mean, that takes talent. And those expensive towels you hung there for decoration, those are to wipe your face on, right?
Moms do laundry. LOTS of laundry. Laundry is the one thing you can do every single day and never finish, which I find more than slightly depressing. My children are the Stain Masters. You just thought it was a brand of carpet. When it comes to stains, I'm not sure which ones are worse, the ones I can identify (and avoid touching) or the mystery stains. The possibilities there are infinite, especially if they've been to school. Moms sweep and vacuum. If you are anything like me, this often happens in the middle of the night. Before I had children, I used to wonder why my cousin cleaned house at 11 PM. Now I understand that it was because that's when she had time to do it! Cleaning house with small children is an exercise in futility.
Would you like to know why it always looks like a giant wandered through our home vomiting toys? It's because my kids can drag it out faster than I can clean it up. Sweeping my kitchen is fairly pointless when the short people are spreading out my pile before I can get it in the dustpan. When a visitor showed up unannounced, I used to apologize for the condition of my home and then spend the whole visit cleaning up. Now I assume that if they have eyes, they can see that we have three small children. Sometimes it looks like a toy bomb went off in here. Okay, okay, most of the time it looks like a toy bomb went off in here. If it doesn't, it's because my children are gone or asleep. Just wait a few minutes. The toys will come back. They always come back.

Things That Go "Bump" In The Night

Sleep is a very valuable commodity at my house. The ability to do it soundly is something that I gave up when I became a mother. My husband and I are like superheros: at the slightest sound from upstairs, we can be up and on our feet in seconds. A few nights ago, we were both sleeping as soundly as we are able when we were both startled out of our slumber by the same loud thud. It's not unusual for me to wake up in the middle of the night, but it takes something pretty impressive to wake him up.
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest while I tried to deduce where the sound had come from. Maybe it was a dream. No, that can't be right. It woke him up, too. Oh my gosh, what if there's someone in the house?!
Me: What was that?
Husband: I dunno.
Me: Well, did you hear it?
Husband: Am I awake? Yeah, I heard it!
Me: What if there's someone in the house?
Husband: The dogs didn't bark.
Me: That's really what you're going with? (He has a lot more faith in that pack of "watchdogs" than I do!)
I swear, if a burglar walked up on our porch, the Corgis would ask him for something to eat and the German Shepherd would show him where the key was. So after some more convincing, my big, strong, manly man of a husband stumbled out of bed and retrieved the pistol from the closet. "Stay there." Um, yeah, no problem.
After what seemed like hours, he came back to the bedroom and announced that the doors were all locked from inside, all of the children were safe in their beds, and he could find absolutely nothing to explain the crash. "And all of the dogs are still asleep on the porch." Oh, good. I feel so much better now!
When I heard him coming back downstairs all I could think was: gee, I hope the kids didn't wake up. I'm thinking that waking up to a man in your bedroom wearing his underwear and carrying a pistol is probably something you will need to discuss with your therapist at a later date.
Naturally, I had trouble going back to sleep. I spent hours going over potential causes for the crash in my head. Thunder? A picture falling off the wall? Pots and pans falling off the rack over the stove? A thief who had hidden himself from my husband and was still in the house? A dream? No, not a dream, stupid. You both woke up. So it had to be something. But what? It was going to drive me crazy until I figured it out.
Obviously, we all survived the night. The next morning, I walked into our bathroom...and found the culprit! I am slightly ashamed and more than a little amused that my husband pulled a gun on a TOWEL RING. Several weeks ago, I bought some really cool wrought iron towel rings with silver stars. Trying to get them even, I stuck them to the wall with those 3M Command picture hanging strips. My husband has been promising to screw them into the wall for me. Apparently the weight of my cool towel ring overwhelmed its Velcro attachment...at 3 o'clock in the morning. When considering possible causes for my terror, I have to admit that one wasn't even on the list. Nothing like things that go bump in the night!

It's the China

There are lots of things you think about when you become a parent. What will I do the same way my parents did? A fairly extensive list. What will I do differently? Sometimes a much longer list. One decision that I made early on was that I would be upfront with my kids about their bodies, how I felt about what they should or should not do with those bodies, and the proper anatomical names for body parts.
With veterinarians for parents, they have probably seen a whole lot more than most kids their age in the way of reproductive organs of various shapes and sizes. After watching their dad castrate a horse for the first time, I asked what they learned. My daughter looked at me and said, "That horse tentacles are gross and they come out of their butt!" I'm thinking we are going to need to revisit that topic at a later date. I mentioned once that a woman in our church had prayed for a baby and now she was expecting. My child immediately deduced that babies come from prayer and you won't get one unless you ask for it. Yet another topic that is going to require some further discussion.
I confess that I fully expected a call from the kindergarten teacher asking me to have my children refrain from sharing the proper names for body parts with their classmates, but fortunately it never came. We did get more than we bargained for regarding our girls' education this year. The second day of school we learned that little boys pee standing up (and don't know how to lock the door on the class bathroom.) Thank you, Mississippi public education system.
I have had multiple conversations with the girls about what the parts of their bodies are called (not a big deal) and why those parts look different when we are adults (a less comfortable, but necessary conversation.) Ever tried to explain stretch marks to a five year old?
The other night the girls were in the bathtub with their baby sister. Now that she's old enough to defend herself, at least partially, she loves nothing more than to take a bath with the big girls. Naturally, the bathtub is where we have most of our discussions about anatomy. For instance, during a bath I was informed that "little boys and mans have a kenis, Mom, and that's why they can pee standing up!" Thanks for letting me know.
A few nights ago, as the three of them were sitting in the tub, the following conversation took place.
Sister 1: Look at the baby's little tiny brown breasts! Aren't they cute?
Sister 2: They are! I think that's what makes girls different from boys.
Sister 1: What is? Breasts?
Sister 2: No, that's not right. Mans have those, too. So what is it?
Sister 1: It's the china! That's what makes them different. Girls have a CHINA! That's what makes them different from boys, right, Daddy?
Daddy: Sure. That sounds right to me!
So between the kenis, the tentacles, and the china I guess they were sort of listening when we went over the body parts. I must say, girls, in my life I've heard it called a lot of things, but never a "china." Just can't wait for the sex talk. That one should be a doozy!

The Beast

Since I'm blogging from the horse sale in Houston tonight, I thought I would share a traveling story. A few weeks ago, my husband and I were at a team roping in Tunica. After he was done for the day, we went to Sam's Town Casino to eat. Really, to eat. Money is way too hard to come by for me to drop it in a slot machine. Plus, I am a barrel racer. I figure that I gamble when I pay my entry fees every weekend. Anyway, we found ourselves going out to dinner alone (a real oddity in our world) at Smoky Joe's Cafe.
As we were seated, I noticed a guy sitting alone at a table on a raised platform. Just like that, we found ourselves in the slightly trashier remake of the old John Candy movie "The Great Outdoors." A fellow about my husband's age was attempting the restaurant's eating challenge: a 64 ounce steak called "The Beast." The rules stated that a 64 ounce steak, a one pound baked potato, and a salad had to be eaten in 46 minutes. For accomplishing this amazing feat, he would get a free meal, a t-shirt, his picture on the wall of fame, and a 64 ounce Miller Genuine Draft. If he didn't finish, he would get a t-shirt and owe them $72.00 for his dinner. What a deal!
Naturally, it takes a certain type of individual to even attempt such a thing, but the really funny part of the equation was the guy's wife. She would periodically say things like, "Come on, baby, EAT! We're so broke. If you don't finish that thing, we gotta pay for it!" To which he would respond through a mouthful of steak, "Hey, why don't you shut up? You're not helping. Just sit there and be quiet!" There was a large clock with red numbers counting down right next to his head. His wife would shout out the time periodically, but she would lie, telling him he had less time than he did.
My husband and I were snickering quietly at first, but after awhile we had to get involved. As he was eating, the guy announced to the restaurant that he was a Marine. After a few branch specific cheers and noises, my husband chimed in, "Ruck up, Marine!" At least that's what I think he said. Then the Marine became Chatty Cathy. By this time, his wife had moved closer to the platform. Still being oh so helpful, she screamed out, "Hurry up! Eat, Baby, eat! Just shut up and put it in your mouth!" After he nearly choked on his mouthful of food, my husband yelled, "That's what HE said!" Sir Eats-a-Lot the Marine added, "Yeah, we know where's she's heard that before!" The large African American manager that had been coming by to check his progress and ensure that the rules were being followed laughed until she fell out of her chair. Literally. Dollars to doughnuts she had a big bruise on her butt the next day.
The longer this exercise went on, the more foul-mouthed the Marine became. After he dropped the fourth F-bomb, I caught the eye of the woman who was at the next table with her husband and three small kids. I expected her to be horrified, but then I considered the facts. She was eating in a casino with three little kids at 10 PM. I figure those kids had heard it before.
As the ordeal continued, I did become increasingly frightened every time the guy burped and then made a sound like a colicking horse. I knew that if he puked our meal was over. As time was dwindling down, he crammed the last bite of potato in his mouth and held it there. According to the rules, so long as it was in his mouth when time expired, he didn't have to swallow it.
I am proud to say that the Marine did indeed consume The Beast, and we were there to witness it. When we got our check, he was drinking his free beer and having his picture taken with all the waiters who had supported him. As we were leaving he yelled out, "Hey, hope I didn't ruin your dinner!" Nah, free white trash entertainment on a Saturday night. Who could ask for more?

Shikepoke

After my post entitled "Mama Said," my husband and I started talking about other things that our parents used to say. I have heard him call our kids a million times by saying what sounded like, "Come on, shikepole!" When I said, "Huh?" he always just said, "It's something my dad used to say." So the other night I had finally had it.
Me: "WHAT does that mean?"
Husband: "What does what mean?"
Me: "Shiechtpole, or shikepole, or whatever the heck you call my kids? What does it mean?"
Husband: "I dunno. Let's Google it and see."
Me: "Okay, how do you spell it?"
Husband: "How should I know?"
Me: "It's your stupid word! You said your dad used it all the time!"
Husband: "Well he didn't WRITE it at us!"
Me: "You really are a smart ass, you know that?"
So after I finished laughing until tears rolled down my face, I really did Google it. Hey, it had been a really long day. It didn't take much to get me laughing, as I had moved past "tired" and into "delirious." I know you can't take the suspense any longer, so here goes: "shikepoke" is actually a type of heron. It's a term that people used to imply that someone is tall and skinny, like a bird. I'm guessing it came about around the same time as "bird legs!"
I must say that, given the other expressions my father in law was prone to using (let's not forget that whole "skillet of hot pee" thing in my previous post) I was relieved to find out that a "shikepoke" was not something really inappropriate, although it can be used as an insult. That would have been embarrassing. I can hear it now. People looking at their husbands and going, "Why is he calling his daughter a rotten pineapple?" There are LOTS of possibilities there folks.
Someone once said that you are supposed to learn something new every day. There you go. A new word for your vocabulary. Call someone a "shikepoke" today. Betcha a dollar they don't know what it means! 

The "F" Word

Calm down, calm down. This post isn't laced with obscenities and full of adult content. Sorry to disappoint. It is, however, a discussion of one of my least favorite words in the English language: fair. As far as I'm concerned, it is THE "F" word at our house. Yes, yes, I know. We've got years to deal with the other "F" word. But for right now, the word "fair" is the bane of my existence. To say that my kids are into justice is a huge understatement. They fight over everything from who gets out of the car first to who gets the Rapunzel underwear. And God forbid there's only one of anything left in the pantry. That leads to those looks that say, "Why are you just standing there, woman? Haven't you gone to the grocery store yet?"
Earlier this year, I sent school supplies in the girls' backpacks. One child's sheet of stickers managed to slip out of her folder and was loose in her bag. When her teacher suggested that perhaps I'd only sent supplies with one of them, my child looked at her and declared loudly, "No. My mom wouldn't do that. It wouldn't be fair." I was secretly pleased she had noticed that I really do go out of my way to make sure no one child has the advantage. It's just really freakin' hard sometimes.
Being an only child, this whole "fair" thing was a foreign concept for me, but I am getting better at it, especially for someone who's making it up as I go along. Multiples come with their own special brand of mommy guilt. Speaking for myself, and several other twin moms I've talked to, upon changing one baby's diaper, I was immediately compelled to change the other one. If I held one child for a feeding, I had an unavoidable need to hold the other one for the next feeding. I guess it comes standard with a set of twins.
Maybe I created this "fair" monster. I am a lover of order and symmetry. I can't tell you how many house plans I looked at and turned down because the design wasn't symmetrical, which my husband thinks is totally nuts. I've always said that giving me twins was either God's way of compensating for my OCD or a really good joke. Want to see a baby puke? Dress her in the same outfit as her sister. It's better than Ipecac syrup. Works every time. 
My children really can smell injustice from a mile away. Or perceived injustice: sometimes it's actually something that's completely on the up and up masquerading as "unfair." This situation encompasses things such as, "I have two dresses in different sizes, but only one of them is pink. You have to wear the blue one, because the pink one is too small for you" or "Your shoes are pink and not blue like hers because out of the FIVE shoe stores I just went to, the only Twinkle Toes in your size were pink." While attending a Christmas party at my dad's house, my kids counted the presents under the tree and then asked if all the grandkids had the same number. To which the answer was "no." I had loads of fun trying to explain that one. Numbers are important when you're five.
Over the years, I have figured out that it doesn't really matter what the injustice is, big or small, it's always met with a loud, overly dramatic, soap opera actress worthy, "But that's not FAIR!" Yes, my little cherubs, I know. Life isn't fair. If it was fair, I could pee in privacy and our clothes would wash themselves. My husband's all time favorite response to the "F" word: "A fair is a place you go in the summertime." So clever, Daddy. And, no, they don't understand that one yet, either.
My dad's personal favorite was, "Life's full of little disappointments." I totally agree, but it's worth pointing out that when you are little, all the disappointments seem really big. A classic example: this morning at their school, awards were handed out in each class to the "Student of the Month." My children worked hard and did well in school; they hadn't had any behavior problems this year. I felt sure that at least one of them would be chosen. When they weren't, I sure wanted to know exactly what it was they had to do to earn that distinction. Hey, I play for blood, but I have to know what the rules are first. I would be a terrible soccer mom. I freely admit that.
After the program, I hadn't taken a step inside the door of their classroom when their teacher pulled me aside and explained that she had submitted both their names for Student of the Month in May, the last month of school. The office then informed her that she could only choose one student, not two. She went on to say that she couldn't pick just one, because it wouldn't have been fair. Reflexively, I opened my mouth to say, "A fair is a place you go..." but then thought better of it. I bet she hears the "F" word more than I do, and that's saying something.
In her mind, it was better to disappoint both of them by not giving it to either of them. In my mind, each of my daughters were penalized for having a twin sister. While I understand what their teacher was saying, I wanted to point out that my children are not a set. They are individuals who happen to have the same birthday. They are each unique, wonderful people who aren't always going to excel at the same things. I can already tell you several things that one or the other of them are better at. (And they know what those things are and exploit them shamelessly.)
Ah, yes, the "F" word. School's out, and I get to hear it all summer long. Hooray! You gals out there with just one child, think carefully before you upset the apple cart, or you just might find yourself at the "fair." Just remember girls: Mom's fair, life isn't.

Mama Said

An important part of any parent's job is imparting wisdom to the generations that follow. Keeping in mind that my children are very literal creatures, today I thought about all the things my parents used to say. There were the standards: "If you don't uncross your eyes, they're going to get stuck like that" and "If all your friends jumped off a a bridge, would you jump, too?" (To which the answer at that point in my life would have been, "Yes. Yes I would." Sorry, Mom.) Then there were things like, after the thousandth serving of my favorite meal, "You are what you eat, and you're going to turn into a chicken nugget" or "All that candy's going to rot your teeth out." I am overjoyed to report that I am not toothless, nor did I ever turn into any food that I consumed as a child. And another thing: I never did know why you couldn't go swimming right after you ate. I mean, really, what's the worst thing that could happen? A little puke in the pool never hurt anybody. It could have hung out right next to that pee that was "going to turn red, if you pee in this pool!" I have to admit that I used that one myself the other day. I could tell from the confused "well it didn't turn red when I did it" look on my child's face that she had something she wanted to confess, but she thought better of it.
I have to say that my favorite wise expressions came from my father in law, Hack Shumpert. He used to say that he and his wife, Dot, sounded like a pair of mules. "Go harness Hack and Dot so we can plow the field!" Hack would advise my husband to do things like "Go butt a stump" if he was being difficult. One of his particular favorites was, "You'd argue with a dead man and him layin' there stinkin'!" Ah, yes, memories. But the best Hack-ism of all time has to be the warning he would dole out when one of his kids was misbehaving: "Keep on and I'm gonna slap a skillet of hot pee outta you!" Wow. What does that even mean? The possibilities are endless. But it seemed to have the desired effect, as my husband is alive today.
I mentioned that my children are very literal. Once when the twins were small, a photographer told them she wanted to change the backdrop because it would "really make your blue dress pop!" My child immediately dissolved into hysterics because she didn't want her dress to explode. Apparently they have not been beaten enough in their lives, because when I told my daughter to "Knock it off, or I'm gonna tear you up" she looked at me for a long time and said, "Mama, what does tear you up mean?" My husband's personal favorite is, "Don't make me pull this car over!" He loves that one. I did however, have to point out that he's never actually pulled the car over and done anything, so at some point he's gonna have to make good on his promise. I'm just saying.
I've threatened to "knock you into next week" before, but my daughter didn't understand that one, either. Gee, for such smart kids they really don't get it sometimes. And don't get me started on sarcasm. My dad figured that one out the hard way, when he told my very young daughter to just stand there and wait for her clothes to jump on by themselves, so she did. They really don't get sarcasm.
My personal best however, has to be the night I couldn't get one of the kids to shut up and eat. I looked at her with my most stern expression, worked up my best "mom voice" and hissed, "SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND EAT YOUR SUPPER." And the really funny part was, my incredibly precocious child saw the irony in this statement. I watched her consider whether to point out that what I had asked her to do was physically impossible. but then she wisely decided against it and started eating. My husband, however, nearly wet his pants. He really does make it difficult for me to be a hard-ass sometimes.

Mother of the Year

I had a fantastic mother. I credit her for taking care of me until I was old enough to do it myself, keeping me alive (although some days I think it was just because she kept herself from killing me,) and ensuring that I obtained an education. She loved me, nurtured me, and told me I could achieve the goals I had set for myself. I understand now that she spent much of my life wondering how much longer she would be around. Having been diagnosed with melanoma in her twenties, when I was just 2, I know that surely her death was always on her mind. She was not, however, perfect. And I am beginning to realize that not being perfect is what made her a great mom.
Thanks to Facebook, I recently got in touch with a friend from my childhood that I hadn't talked to since junior high. When we started discussing what we remembered about being next door neighbors as kids, her exact words were, "I remember that you always had the sugary kid cereals, and your mom let you drink Coke for breakfast!" Her mom was a nurse, and sugar was a dirty word at their house. That brought back a flood of memories for me. I have to say that I turned out OK. I survived my childhood. I'm not morbidly obese, and my teeth have not rotted out. Yet. And while I have to say that breakfast for me is now a Shakeology protein shake, I still drink Dr. Pepper in the morning, and it doesn't look like I'll be stopping any time soon.
I confess that I do not allow my children to drink soda in the morning. I know, I know, if it was good enough for me, it ought to be good enough for them. But I can't help myself. The twins drank nothing but milk (because they wanted it) until their pediatrician told me to switch to the reduced fat kind, not because they were fat, but because they were 4. They immediately swore off milk forever and now drink water with breakfast. Thanks a lot, Doc. The baby drinks milk, water, and anything else she sees her sisters drink.
When the twins were little, they were on a schedule that I carried out with military precision. Woe be unto you if you messed with my children's schedule. Naps were golden hours of silence that allowed me to do things like sit down to eat and use the bathroom in peace. I freely admit that there were days when I felt like if I could just keep everyone alive until tomorrow, I had achieved my goal. I now know that I was experiencing some postpartum depression (NOT postpartum psychosis) but that is a topic for another day.
Anyway, as I was feeling the twinge of maternal guilt that I get every time I drive through a fast food restaurant, it occurred to me that I would never be mother of the year. I admit to the world that I let my kids stay up late on a school night from time to time. I let them eat fast food because they want it, or because I don't feel like cooking. I let them wear what they want to some days, even though it's too big or has a stain I just can't seem to get out. And in spite of all those things, my kids are okay. They are outgoing, do well in school, and are generally happy people.
Trying to be the perfect mother is exhausting, They say that with age comes wisdom, so here's what I've come to realize: I could spend the rest of my life trying to create the perfect childhood for my kids. I could work my fingers to the bone and give up every hobby I love to devote myself entirely to them. And when they are adults, I guarantee you they will find something I did that they want to do differently with their children. My mom wasn't perfect, but she was my mom. I understand it's just that fact that made her so special. She didn't have to be fantastically wealthy or a registered dietitian. She just had to be mine. I try to keep that in mind when mommy guilt sneaks up on me these days.
I let my third child do things I never would have permitted my big girls to do at her age. (Sorry, girls. Life isn't fair. Yep, I just used the "f" word. Yet another topic for another day.) Sometimes I admit, it's because I'm tired, or I'm desperate to get something done. I suspect that my mother felt the same way. I often let things slide because she's my "last baby" and I won't get to do this again. I know my mom experienced the same emotion, along with the additional pressure of "I may not be here to see her do this or that." I let my baby watch TV in her pajamas and have a sucker in the living room. I let her eat when she's hungry instead of on my schedule, and we blow bubbles in the kitchen. My big girls are already suspicious that we do all sorts of fun things without them while they are school. Fine, I admit it. Every day is a party until you get home.
These days, my hope for my kids is that they won't look back on their childhood and say, "It was perfect." My hope is that they will look back and say, "It was FUN! I knew that I was loved, that my parents wanted the best for me, and that they spent time with me because they wanted to. They taught me right from wrong, they made sure I got an education, but most importantly they taught me to enjoy my life, because I'm only going to get one shot at it."

You Can Have it All...Just Not All at Once

Women of my generation are in a unique situation. Perhaps I am alone on this, but I don't think so. As I was growing up, through a combination of the women in my life and the media, I got the message that a woman was supposed to be able to do it ALL. The feminists of the world would have you believe that you should go to college, have a fabulous, high-paying career, get married (or not,) have children, continue to climb the professional ladder (while complaining that you aren't being paid as much as the men you work with,) AND be Martha freaking Stewart at home. Whew! Just typing all that makes me tired. Here's the crazy part: I, a reasonably intelligent woman, BOUGHT IT, hook, line, and sinker. And I mean the sinker part literally. If you try to do all of these things at the same time, you will drown.
I read a popular post online yesterday about how to miss a childhood. To me, the quickest way to miss a childhood is to tell yourself when you become pregnant that "this baby's not gonna change my life!" If you listen to the media, you should push out your baby (or have an elective C-section, because really, who has time to wait to go into labor anymore,) put on your pre-pregnancy clothes a maximum of three seconds later, and drop the baby off with your mom on your way back to work the next week. Does anyone else agree that this is total BS??!!!
Now, I confess, when I was pregnant the first time, I knew that my life was going to change. What I didn't realize was that EVERY iota of my life was going to change. I pushed myself to get back on my barrel horse when my twins were three weeks old (because I had to get back to "my" life, right?) I freely admit that it was way too early for me. I'm sure that some women ride until the day they deliver and jump back on at two weeks out, but I was NOT one of them. I entered my first barrel race back when they were three months old, which was also too soon. I didn't feel good in my clothes, I didn't look good on my horse, and I certainly didn't ride as well as I could have, between sleep deprivation and raging hormones! Because of my upbringing, I felt this internal urge to go right back to doing everything I used to do before I was a mom.
So here's the take home lesson for the day: I would give ANYTHING to have those first few weeks and months with my babies back. I totally wish I had spent more time holding, playing, and napping with them, instead of being so worried about getting my horse back in shape. Please don't get me wrong, my babies were not neglected in any way, but I definitely could have spent more time just studying their little faces and watching them breathe.
I am proud to say, however, that I did learn something from my mistakes. Author Betsy Braun Brown calls the first child in a family the "practice child," because you use them to learn how to parent. I went into my second pregnancy thinking, "I can do better this time!" And in some ways, I have. I held our third child every single second that I wanted to. I breastfed her for 13 months, despite pressure and negative comments from within my own extended family. Which, by the way, was the BEST decision I ever made. I wouldn't take anything for the precious hours I spent cradling my child and staring into her face. Those were some of the most blissfully happy moments of my life. These days, when she wants me to hold her, I hold her. When she wants me to rock her, I rock her. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
I try to spend one on one time every day with each of my children. Some days it happens, some days it doesn't. The difference is, now I don't beat myself up about it. I have come to an important realization, maybe the most important realization: You can have it all, but not all at the same time. I could be a highly successful career woman. I could be a cross between Betty Crocker and Martha Stewart, and keep a spotless, tastefully decorated home that feels more like a museum. I could spend more time riding my horses, and maybe have a really good one someday. I could spend every free moment at my kids' school and work feverishly to be Mother of the Year. But I can't do ALL those things. I can do one or two of them well, maybe even really well. But not all of them. So my resolution for Mother's Day: I'm going to stop trying to be all things to all people and focus on the the things that really matter, like spending time with my husband, loving my children well, and taking care of their mother.
I have made some progress. As I was blowing bubbles in my kitchen last night, much to the delight of all my squealing children, my husband made an observation. He said, "Wow, you never would have done that when the twins were little, and we lived in that crappy apartment. Now we live in a cool house, and you're blowing bubbles in the kitchen." Perhaps I've relaxed my standards. There was even a bonus to the whole affair. As I was mopping up bubble solution off my kitchen floor with a paper towel, the light bulb came on. I'm wiping up soap on the floor. That counts as mopping, right?

The Freak Factor

When I became a mom, I also became a MOM (mother of multiples.) If you are going to have multiples, there is something to be said for having them first. So here it is: we were too stupid to be scared. We had no idea how much work one baby is, so the idea of having two wasn't all that frightening. It was really fun to watch our friends become parents of one child. Then the enormity of what we were going through began to dawn on them. Each of them would come to us and say, "I don't know how you do it." To which I say, "What were we going to do, send one back?"
I saw the most adorable set of onesies the other day. One said, "I was planned." The other said, "I was a surprise." Truer words were never spoken. If I had seen these when my girls were babies, we definitely would have owned a set. Actually, the word "surprise" doesn't begin to cover what I was feeling when the overly cheerful ultrasound technician pointed out those two little blobs. Two? Two what? "Two babies! See, one, two!" I began to bawl, and I confess that it wasn't out of pure joy in that particular moment. Add the ultrasound to the fact that my normally cheerful doctor was suddenly very serious and using words like "high-risk pregnancy" and "almost certainly a premature delivery," and I was just plain scared.
Veterinarians have a knack for having twins. Maybe it's because we think we're supposed to have a litter! I mean, that's what our patients do, right? But really, I know way too many vets with twins or higher order multiples. I'm sure there's probably some boring scientific reason that has something to do with older mothers who've been on birth control for years stopping suddenly and having a double ovulation, but I prefer the litter theory. And I hate the term "older" mothers. This year I officially reached "advanced maternal age." I realize it's just a scientific classification based on statistics and such, but still. You're calling me old and I'm supposed to like it? Not likely.
Once I told a friend who was a twin that I was expecting twins. She looked at me somberly and said, "I wouldn't wish twins on my worst enemy. I remember what we put my mother through." She never cracked a smile. At the time, I was offended. Now I am beginning to understand what she meant by that!
They should issue all new moms a pamphlet at the ultrasound visit when you find out you're having more than one child. They could call it "The Freak Factor." This is the part of having twins that will cause you to begin to feel like a sideshow attraction any time you take your children out in public.Now ladies, I realize that the freak factor associated with twins is nothing compared to triplets and higher order multiples, but it does exist for twins.
It started with my pregnancy. I was the same size as a full term pregnant woman at 32 weeks, a full month before my babies were born. A lady asked me in a gas station one day how much longer I had. When I replied, "About a month, I hope," her eyes got big and she said, "Oh, I don't think so." Well, gee, since you don't appear to be a doctor, and certainly aren't my doctor, how about a big fat, "Mind your own business!" That's what my hormones wanted to say. Add her to the touchy-feelies and it was enough to drive me crazy. Never at any other point in a woman's life would you, a total stranger, walk up to someone and touch her belly. Now I was huge, hormonal, and terrified that my babies were going to be born way too early, and you want to feel me up? Not a good idea, people. 
I have a 99.9% chance when I leave home with my kids that someone is going to ask me, "Are they tuhwinnnss?" Seriously. It's happened every time I've ever taken them somewhere, with very few exceptions. Doesn't matter if they are dressed alike or not. When you say "yes" people will tell you about their mom, themselves, their cousin, aunt, uncle, etc who is a twin. If they don't know any twins personally, they will tell you about the time they saw a set of twins. Then they will ask if twins run in your family. I get tired of explaining that there was one set a hundred years ago, one of which died, so not many people ever knew there were two babies. Now, I just smile and say, not too sarcastically, "Well, they do now!"
Next they will proceed to tell you how identical they are (whether they are or not.) My girls are fraternal twins. One looks exactly her dad in a dress, and the other one looks just like me with blue eyes. I have learned however, that it goes a lot faster if I just say, "Yep, they sure are." It's just not worth the trouble sometimes.
People will give you mountains of unsolicited advice. Yes, I know they do it to all new mothers, but when they see multiples, it's like they just can't help themselves. Everything from whether they would dress them alike (you know, if they were their babies) to whether they would put them in the same class at school. Then the mother with two kids who are close in age will tell you that it's just like having twins. I have to respectfully disagree with you. I'm not saying it's easier, I'm just saying it's not the same.
So how do you deal with the feeling that someone is staring every time you step out the door? You learn to grin and bear it, because the fantastic things about having twins far outweigh the ones that aren't that great. They come with a built-in playmate. The cuteness factor of two babies in the same outfit is extremely high. And you have two people who think you are the most awesome mom in the world! Plus, if you stop after the twins, you get two babies for the price of one pregnancy. What a deal! My girls are twice the effort, but I get twice as much return on my investment. I love you, girls, freaky or not! :)

You Go to School to Learn, Not for a Fashion Show

Who knew when I became a mom that my home would become a battleground? My dear, sweet, precious angels crawl out of their beds each morning and wage war with their mother over their clothes. Not surprisingly, all of my girls are highly opinionated. I have no idea where that came from. As with many parts of motherhood, I took for granted the brief, shining moment in their lives when I dressed them in whatever matching outfits I wanted them to wear and life went on.
So to you moms out there, I pose the following question: is it wrong to send them to school with a note pinned to their shirt that says, "I dressed myself today?" Then in smaller print, it could say something like, "My mother told me that this didn't match/was too big/has a stain/has a hole in it." The options here are endless. I mean, I never realized how much a child's appearance is a reflection on the mother until I had mine. Admit it. You don't look at dirty, barefoot kids with stringy hair in the grocery store and think to yourself, "Wow. Their dad sucks." Nope, you look at them and think, "Where is that kid's mother? And did she see that kid before it left home?"
My kids want to wear the same five outfits every single week. My husband was convinced at the beginning of the year that their teachers were going to think that they only had five sets of clothes. To which I said, "Hey Babe, I've been to their classroom. There are 23 five year olds in there. Their teacher can't possibly remember what they wore yesterday, because a lot of times, I can't either, and I'm their mother." They also had a striped dress that my husband hated. I mean REALLY hated. And naturally, it was one of their favorite items of clothing ever. They fought over who was going to wear it every week. When it was cold, they added matching leggings and he hated those, too. It was a little big, and will probably still fit in the fall, but I promised him I would tell them it was too small. Unless he pisses me off between now and then. Just kidding, Babe. I'll burn it if you want. 
My child (or my husband either, for that matter) totally doesn't get that their appearance is a reflection on me. How hard is it to understand that I want them to look like someone gives a crap about them? I suppose I should be grateful that one of them says, "I don't care. Pick whatever you want. How about a white shirt and khaki shorts?" My diva child, however, when asked what she wants to wear starts with her underwear. Hair bow, hairstyle, socks, clothes, shoes...she doesn't miss a thing! She's already complaining that I can't fix her hair differently every day. Both of them beg at least once a week to wear their hair "straight" which means with no ponytail and hanging in their face. Not gonna happen, girls. My babysitter is extremely talented with hair and braids, so naturally mom should be able to do it too!
The non-diva is convinced that if two items of clothing are in the same color family, they match and should therefore be worn together. A couple of years ago, someone bought them several shirts, pants, and shorts that they could mix and match. Plain Jane insisted on wearing the orange shirt and orange pants together because, "Mom, this matches. See, they are both orange!" Yes, my dear, but you look like a Push-Up! Too much of a good thing is NOT always a good thing.
Maybe she gets that from me. My husband informed me the other day that I was only slightly better than him at matching clothes. Then he added, "I mean, expensive clothes just aren't really your thing." Really? My ostrich boots beg to differ with you on that one. And by the way, I'm into expensive horses, tack, and furniture. Isn't that enough? I rest my case.
I personally love Gymboree, because they come out with collections of clothes that match. Pretty much anything within that group of clothes goes together. My kids have drawers full of it. What do they pull out of the drawer when left to their own devices? Anything that came from Target. And my daughter is definitely not sold on the idea that all of the items in a collection can be worn together. Yesterday I handed her a shirt and a pair of shorts, and she flatly refused to wear them because the shorts had a little monkey on them and the shirt didn't. I spend at least ten minutes every morning reassuring her that the clothes she has on do indeed match, and that the other kids are not going to laugh at her. Her sister strolled into my office naked the other night and asked me if she was skinny. My goodness. Why didn't you people with girls tell me that this crap started so early? Thanks for the heads up.
Children of my generation remember the song, "Parents Just Don't Understand." Personally, I think if my kids leave home clean, in matching clothes, hair fixed, with their shoes on the right feet, I have done my duty. Remember girls, "you go to school to learn, not for a fashion show." Yeah, right.    

Can a 5 year old have PMS?

As a mom, one of my least favorite sounds in the universe has to be the wailing of one of my kids from somewhere else in the house. Last night I heard THE noise start, and judging from the tone, volume, and panic components of said wail, I thought surely someone had lost an appendage, or at least injured herself badly enough that the next thing we would be doing is going to the ER. I have learned over the years that sometimes if I'll just sit very still and be quiet, the storm will pass. Not this time.
I jumped up and headed to the other room, mildly concerned that there might be blood involved. When I got there, I found my daughter sitting in a chair, sobbing as dramatically as an Academy Award-winning actress. Her face was red and blotchy, her eyes were swollen. She looked like she had a terrible case of Chicken Pox.
Me: What's wrong, Baby?

Daughter: Well, it's just that, I'm going to miss Miss Lynn and Miss Diane! (These are her kindergarten teachers. The girls finish their first year of kindergarten next week.) And I won't get to see them anymore! AND I'M GOING TO MISS THEM SO MUCH!

More wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Me: Really? Honey, you'll get to see them in the hall at school every day next year. And I promise you will feel the exact same way about your first grade teacher. I liked every teacher I had in elementary school. It's going to be fine.

Daughter: But I'll miss them over the summer. And it'll be like one thousand days before I get to see them again! AAAAGGGHHH!

Stifling the urge to giggle, I sent them to get ready for their baths. This child cried the entire time she was in the tub and for 20 minutes after. I'm hoping they are this attached to me. Anyway, she finally calmed down right before her dad tucked her in. After she had been in bed about 15 minutes, I went up to say goodnight. One sister was asleep; Sobbing Sally was wide awake. As I leaned over her bed, she started to cry again.

Daughter: Mom, I just heard a commercial on the radio that said that 30 babies DIED last year because they were left in hot cars. You HAVE to be careful and check the back seat or else you might leave Sheridan in there. Then my baby sister would DIE, and I would be SO SAD! I don't want my baby sister to die!

Even MORE sobbing and wailing here. I mean really, this kid was having a "Terms of Endearment" or "Steel Magnolias" kind of breakdown here. Which leads me to ask the following question: Can a 5 year old child have PMS? If any of you find yourselves looking for something to do today, pray that my husband and I survive when they are all teenagers. Sheesh.

Mama Doesn't Have a Job

I find it interesting that I have three names. Okay, people call me a LOT of names, but I have at least three in my own home. One child calls me "Mama," one child calls me "Mother," and the baby calls me "Mommy." And no, I couldn't pick a favorite if I tried. I suppose it's actually quite handy with three kids. I know who's calling me by which name they are using. Take into consideration the fact that I have at least three distinct personalities and I guess it all makes sense.
My big girls talk a lot about growing up these days. They are about to finish their first year of kindergarten, and at some point during this year they have figured out that there's a goal at the end of all this school, something that they are working toward. They have also figured out that once it is done, at least one of their parents is expecting them to leave home. (That would be me. My husband says they can stay here until they die. He doesn't care if they ever leave. I really think he means it, too. Sounds like a topic we'll be discussing in therapy at some point.) Anyway, they have both declared on different days that they never want to leave home, leave us, leave their stuff, etc. I think that one was my favorite. One child told me that she didn't want to got to college because she wouldn't have her bed, her toys, and her blankie there. Good point, but she's still going. Or else.
Our sweet babysitter who has cared for my kids since the twins were about 4 months old is now in college, so it's a pretty hot topic around here. The other day we were in the car, where we have our best conversations, when from the back seat I heard:
Daughter 1: "Dad, does everybody have to go to college?"

Dad: "No, I guess they don't have to."

Daughter: (In the whiny tone that I hold so near and dear to my heart) "Well does everybody have to have a job?"

Dad: "Um, yeah. That's where money comes from. It comes from work."

Daughter: (Very matter-of-factly) "Well, MAMA doesn't have a job."

My husband patiently explained that my job is taking care of them, that we share the money he brings home, and that he is able to go out and work hard because he doesn't have to worry about who is taking care of his girls. Have I mentioned that I love this man?
Anyway, to my dear, sweet, precious angel that I gave up my girlish figure, my sanity, and hours of sleep for: I sincerely hope that God allows me to live until you are a mother. When you call me complaining about how hard motherhood is, how you haven't had any sleep in days, how none of your clothes fit...I could go on for days here...I am going to gleefully remind you that you once said that I didn't have a job.
And it's not just my kids. People ask me all the time if I'm working. Do I have a regular job, or am I "just at home with the kids?" Maybe it's just me, but when I tell them that I'm a stay at home mom, people who aren't parents give me that knowing I-bet-you-sit-on-the-couch-and-eat-bon bons-all-day look. To which I say, "Have you ever MET my kids?" They have a sensor that goes off immediately whenever my butt comes into contact with a surface of any kind. Especially the toilet. Doesn't matter what else is going on in the universe, when my bare butt touches a toilet seat everyone (and I do mean EVERYONE) in the house wants to talk to me. And it's an emergency that I must attend to right now. I haven't made an unhurried trip to the bathroom in years. When I'm diagnosed with some as yet unheard of medical condition in the future, I'm going to blame it my kids rushing me in the bathroom.
I got an inkling of what was coming when I was pregnant with my twins. We lived over our veterinary clinic, in a loft apartment. I could hear everything, and I do mean everything that went on downstairs. I was on modified bed rest (three hours on my feet per day, including my shower) on and off throughout my twin pregnancy. Once when I was seven months along, I was doing my best to find a comfortable position with two other people squirming and kicking and pushing each other in my belly. (It started early and it hasn't stopped.) I heard a woman downstairs ask for my husband. When she found out he was out of the office, she asked loudly, "Well does his wife just not do anything anymore?" It took quite a lot of self control not to haul my hormonal butt up out of that chair and go crazy on her, but I didn't.
Not long ago, I heard through the grapevine that one of my classmates was wanting to leave her job. She told one of her co-workers that I should "just get off my butt" and come take her job, because I wasn't "doing anything but sitting at home with her kids anyway." See what I mean about people who aren't parents?
I've said all this to say: I love my "job." I have the most important job in the world, trying to teach the three precious people I gave birth to how to be productive members of society. I took time away from a career that I loved because being at home with my children was more important to me than being a veterinarian. And because I had a hard-working husband with a good job who agreed that this was where I should be. Loving, nurturing, playing with, and caring for them on a daily basis is the most important work I will ever do. It's not always easy, and it's definitely not always fun. But it's worth it. I love you, girls. You are the best job ever.    

Cancer is...funny?

The word "cancer" has touched my life early and often. Too often. It took my mother, my grandmother, and my great aunt. All different kinds, but cancer nonetheless. Do I worry about getting it myself? Of course. But I have decided not to go through my life waiting for the other shoe to drop. I try to really live. I love my family with reckless abandon, I try not to waste much of my time, and I make it a point to do the things that I want to do, for myself and with my girls. I try to enjoy my kids, each and every day, and if I want a deadgum cupcake, I have one. Or two. Maybe that's why my butt is so much wider than it used to be. My sweet husband reminds me that men love curves, but I think he's just being nice. Either that or he wants to sleep with me. Whatever. After ten years, butter me up if you want. I'm pretty easy to please. Mae West once said that you only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough. So here's to trying to do it right! 
Not too long ago, cancer touched my life again in the form of my friend, Beth. In my opinion, she's the most awesome kind of friend, with or without cancer. She's tougher than anyone I know. She's noble and strong, and all that other crap people say about people who are sick, but she's also FUNNY. Really, really, laugh out loud funny. I mean, she gave my kids a book called "The Adventures of Captain Underpants" that I am now forced to read aloud to them. She makes me laugh when she's not even here.
I make it a point to go and visit her now, which I should have done before she got sick, so shame on me. But I tell people that I go by to check on her and see how she's feeling, when in reality I go see her because she makes me laugh. EVERY time. Side-splitting, tears rolling down my face laughter.
I also get the chance to discuss things with her that I never talked about with my mom. All of the details about her diagnosis and treatment were considered too much information for me, so as a child I was often left to sit alone and wonder what the heck was going on. I hope that by sharing my recollections about that time with Beth's daughters, they won't feel the way I did. I also get to do the things that my 18 year old self was too stupid to realize I needed to do for my own mother. Boring things, like cooking dinner so that her family won't have to go out and she won't have to smell it cooking. Cancer patients get extremely nauseated. I do remember that about my mother's illness.
I hope that Beth gets something out of being friends with me, but I think it's pretty clear that I get so much more out of being friends with her. I've never been around someone who could look at something as ugly as cancer and find the humor in it. I mean, really who makes jokes about something so serious? I had never heard someone use the expression "play the C card" until I started hanging out with Beth. She is the most awesome example of  "do what you want to" ever. When I asked how she was one day, she looked at me and said, "Well, lying around, sleeping all day, lots of good meds for pain...it's a pretty awesome gig if you can get it." When my kids ask her (again) why she has no hair, she smiles at them and says, "I just got so tired of brushing it, and washing it, and putting bows in it. So I cut it all off. Want me to do yours?"
She has good days and bad days; I've caught her on both. Some days we talk about positive things and positive thinking, and some days we talk about how bad the whole thing sucks and how unfair it is. All the stuff I never really did with my mom, because I didn't have the chance. I assumed I would have more time to do all that, and we all know what assuming does! Mostly I sit there and think that this woman should write a book. I can't think of another group who needs to laugh worse than cancer patients and their caregivers. And who better to write it than someone on the inside? Beth, if you're reading this, you should write a book!  
My favorite "Beth" story ever has to be the one she told me the other day. I had made it a point not to ask too many questions about her situation. I figured if she wanted me to know something, she would tell me. Therefore, I didn't know that she was the lucky recipient of a double mastectomy. I'd never asked; she'd never told. I didn't feel like it was any of my business. So the following story took me by surprise, and it left me laughing until my sides hurt.
Beth: So I was having my treatment the other day, and I usually wear a stretchy tank top so that they can access my indwelling port without me having to take my shirt off. As the nurse was working on me, she lifted my shirt up a little and I noticed the guy sitting in the chair next to me looking at me. I mean, really looking at me, like he was trying to see something. (I guess even men who are cancer patients still want to see something naked.) So I looked over at him and said, "Hey, Dude, there's nothing to see here."
He smiled, and his face turned a little pink. Then in a minute, I saw him looking again! So I said, "No, really, Dude, there's NOTHING to see here." And I lifted my shirt up over my head! Yep, flashed the whole room. I mean, there's nothing there. I didn't think that was lewd or anything, do you? Bet that dude thinks twice before he does that again!
So after I picked myself up off the floor and was able to talk again, I agreed that he would probably be scarred for life. But she gave the nurses a good giggle, and I bet those are hard to come by in an oncologist's office. I for one am hoping that she keeps me laughing for a VERY long time to come. Carpe diem!

Cover your eyes!

As is often the case in parenthood, today I had something happen that has never happened before. My family had a conversation that ended with us laughing until we cried about...wait for it...fungicide. My daughter started this whole cascade by complaining that her toes were itching. Dr. Mom had a look at them, made a clinical diagnosis of athlete's foot, and off we went to the pharmacy for fungicide. On the drive home, her dad mentioned that he had bought her some medicine. As this particular child has a severe aversion to any oral medication, when she heard the word "medicine" she started freaking out.

Dad: Hey Babe, it's not something you swallow. It's a spray. You spray it on your toes, and it makes a big POOF and you'll feel better. See, it's in a can.

Daughter 1: Well, okay...POOF it, Daddy! I want to see it.

Both daughters, in perfect unison:  POOF IT! POOF IT! POOF IT! We want to SEE IT!

Dad: Hey girls, it's not frickin fireworks! It's a spray can of fungicide.

Daughter 2: (From the third row of seats in my Suburban, mind you) EVERYBODY COVER YOUR EYES!

Daughter 1: How are you gonna see it if you cover your eyes?

Dad: Good point. I ain't gonna spray it until we get home!

Daughter: (going into cheerleader mode) Why not? Puff it! Spray it! I want to SEE it!

I had no idea that a can of athlete's foot spray was so entertaining. Sadly, the poof was rather a let down when it actually happened. Hey, life's full of little disappointments. It was however, interesting enough that the other child insisted on having her non-fungus infested foot sprayed as well. I mean, because if we didn't, it wouldn't be FAIR. Being an only child, I have little experience with the F word. As a mother of three, I have become intimately acquainted with this four letter word. I despise the F word, and it WILL be the subject of another lengthy post. Just to give you a heads up.  

Focusing Ain't Your Thing

I am not a morning person. I admit this gleefully and with pride. I have never been a morning person, nor do I have any plans to become one. This morning I was standing in the kitchen fixing lunches and my super delicious protein shake breakfast simultaneously when my husband came in from feeding horses. He asked me a question about something totally unrelated to lunches or breakfast, so off I went to the bedroom to find the answer. When I came back, here's how the conversation went:

Me: Here, I found what you wanted to know.

Husband: Thanks! You're such a good mom.

Me (suddenly noticing that I have put my daughter's lunchbox in her backpack without its ice pack, as said ice pack is still sitting on the counter): Thanks! I'm such a good mom that I forgot to put the ice pack in Savannah's lunch. It probably won't stay cold without it.

Husband: Well, that was my fault. I came in here and distracted you from what you were doing.

Have I mentioned how much I love this man?

Husband: I mean, let's face it, focusing ain't your thing.

Me: Excuse me? (Picture non-morning person face here.)

Husband: I just meant that you have a lot of distractions in your life these days. Makes it hard to focus on any one thing.

Oh, really? So he, too, has realized that there has been some collateral damage from this whole motherhood thing. Fascinating. I honestly believe the short people climb out of their beds, sneak down the stairs, and suck microscopic amounts of my brain out through my ears while I sleep at night. I also believe that they multiply in the closet, but that's a story for another day.
Fine, I admit that my attention span was never going to set any world records, as evidenced by the fact that the only thing I ever got in trouble for in Kindergarten was talking to the person next to me. And lying to my mom about how many times I got in trouble for talking. But again, I digress.
So I colored my picture faster than the other kids. I was done. I was bored. Get over it. I managed to rein it in often enough to graduate a few times, which I consider a major accomplishment.

When I stumbled blindly into the mother "hood" I had NO idea what I was getting myself into. Remember, I lost my mom at 18. We had barely discussed my wedding, much less pregnancy, childbirth, and all that other crap people don't tell you about becoming a mom. I could write for days about the physical damage alone.

Carrying multiples is not for the faint of heart. I completely blame my husband for our twins. I mean that in only the nicest way. The day I told him I was pregnant, his first words were, "I hope it's two! Maybe we'll have one of each!" In his mind, he was thinking, "and that way, we'll be done!" To which I said, "You better bite your tongue. There's not enough room in this body for one other person, much less two!" To which I say: we plan and God laughs. My stretch marks have stretch marks, nothing is where it used to be, and there are multiple issues that are not going to be resolved without general anesthesia, a scalpel, and sutures. Lots of sutures. I get to answer fun questions like, "Mommy, why is your bellybutton deeper than mine? And all blurry?" I now have a much deeper understanding of why the women in National Geographic look the way they do. I thought it was because they didn't wear bras. NOPE! It's because they had babies. Lots of babies.
A couple of years before I got pregnant, I went shopping with a friend who was expecting twins. As she was trying on clothes, she said, "I'd let you come in the dressing room with me, but you don't need to see this. You might not ever want to have kids!" Maybe I should have insisted. After a third child, she has either had plastic surgery or looks good enough to make people think that she did. More power to her!
I suppose I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that my body would change. And, yes, the first time around I was one of those people who were stupid enough to think that having a baby (or two, as it turned out) wouldn't change every facet of my being. But I never figured on the mental part. I have forgotten everything, from the very mundane to the really important things since my kids were born. I have to say, I consider the fact that I can do just about anything with a screaming kid or someone saying, "Mom, mom, mom, mom..." in my ear to be pretty remarkable. Hey, maybe my ability to focus isn't as bad as I thought! What was I talking about, again? Oh yeah, the mental damage motherhood inflicts. Anyway, if I forget your birthday or show up somewhere with all of my makeup on except my eyebrows, think nothing of it. Apparently I left my modesty and my memory on the table in the delivery room. 

On your mark, get set, go!

I can't remember a time when I didn't want to be a writer. Like all good stories, my life and my plans took a few detours along the way, but the voices in my head telling me to write just won't shut up. They say the rule is that you should write about what you know. So here goes: I know a little about a lot of things and a whole lot about nothing.
 I know about being a motherless mother. I know about trying to raise three kids without your mom's advice. I know about finding yourself in a situation you feel totally unprepared for. I know about being a veterinarian who decided to give up a career that I loved to stay at home with my children. I know about depression, postpartum and otherwise. And, last but not least, I know about horses. Barrel racing is the passion I pursue when my life allows.
So this blog is an outlet for me, a place where I can remind myself and others that no one's getting out of this thing alive. We may as well learn to laugh at ourselves and enjoy the ride. I hope you will get a giggle out of my adventures in motherhood. I promise to share the good, the bad, the ugly, and the positively insane.
My children are the greatest source of joy in my life. They are also the reason that I find myself looking around and wondering, "How the hell did I get here?" Before I became a mom, my body was my own. When I was tired, I rested. When I was hungry, I ate. When I wanted to ride my horse or travel, I just did it. There was no need to plan a trip weeks in advance or hire a small army of babysitters. I could sleep and pee in peace. I didn't forget things every single day. I could listen to a news story and move right on to the next thing without thinking, "What if that were my child?" There are things that happen to you emotionally and physically when you become a mother that no one can prepare you for. I don't care how many hours you've spent babysitting Sally Sue down the street, it's not the same as being a parent.
And while we're on the subject, to my girlfriends who had kids before I did: you all SUCK. None of you warned me about the things that were about to happen to me. None of you explained that I would now be losing control of my own body, not just for 10 months (and it is TEN months, by the way) but basically for the rest of my life. No one told me about all the "joys" of pregnancy. You know, things like your body doesn't just snap back into shape like a rubber band after the baby is born (and if yours did, trust me, I don't want to hear about it.) Or the fact that when someone calls their child a "pain in the butt" they meant that literally. For those of you who don't know what the previous sentence means, have a baby and you will. I read "What to Expect..." Here's my version: Expect to be reduced to a ball of quivering human goop. Your body, both literally and figuratively, is about to become human jello. This tiny, precious newborn who has already begun to suck the life out of you will continue to do so slowly until you die. Congratulations!
All that said, please understand that I am MORE than grateful for my three healthy children. Becoming their mom is without a doubt the best thing I've ever done. But anyone who says that motherhood is all rainbows and butterflies is a fan of modern pharmacology.

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Sending a test post from my phone. If this works you will be subjected to ALL the craziness in my life. Scary.