just keep your mouth shut

I have horrible memories of elementary school pictures; of standing in the line of the lunchroom/gymnasium (because my school was cool like that, multi-purposing, Iowa-style), of smelling the fish sticks from yesterday's lunch along with the adolescence sweat of playing dodge ball, and of just hoping that ketchup didn't get on the upper half of your outfit before that darn photo got snapped.

You stood in line with your best friends comparing what 'package' you got. My parents almost always purchased the cheapest one: F (like in failure, whereas the biggest package was A; yep, just like the grade and who doesn't really want an A). I convinced my parents once and a while to buy bigger packages, probably by complaining to them that they thought 'I wasn't cute enough for the bigger packages' when in all reality those picture packages are stinkin' expensive and you bet, just like my parents, Henry got package 'F' too.

When you're finally stand next in line to get your picture taken, the Assistant grabs a comb from the box of black, plastic combs sitting on the folding table, she puts your chin in her hands and combs your hair.

Correction, she re-combed my hair.

If I could go back to the second grade, on the day of school pictures, I would have been like: “WTF? (Just kidding, I didn't swear until the fourth grade) That's my hair, I just looked at it in the bathroom mirror like 20 minutes ago and it looked fine. Now here you go, Assistant to the Photographer, messin' with my do! I wasn't going for the granny style, I was going for the hip/cool second grader look. Do you even know what 'cool' means?”

Of course in real life, I didn't say anything. In fact, I would be mortified if the second grade me said anything that rude to another person. So I can assume this is exactly what happened to Henry as he stood in line, attacked by the Assistant to the Photographer with one of those cheap, black, plastic combs,

he kept his mouth shut,

literally.

Every time I look at this photo I find myself physically trying to sweep his hair over to the side, like it was suppose to be, like it was when I did his hair that morning.

I love you, but I don't like you

From the moment you wake up in your crib and throw your body down on the mattress because it's me and not Dad until I sing to you in the darkness of bedtime and you respond, 'shut the door', my days are filled with you crying. Crying about wearing pants instead of shorts, crying about me giving you the wrong spoon, crying about ripping your paper towel in half, crying about you spilling food on your shirt, crying about forcing you to wear shoes outside. Every day is punctuated by you breaking down and picking yourself up, only to be repeated some unspecific amount of time.

It would be so much easier if I could hand you off to someone else, someone else to take care of you, someone else to deal with you. I know that there are those that would do anything to be in my shoes, but right now, I'm screaming to be in theirs.

I can write this because I know I will someday delete it, that you will not need to know just how frustrating you are to me at this moment. I can write this because I really do know that I'm a good mother, that I and you will survive this. I can write this because I know that there are other people that are feeling exactly like I do now. Thank God for that.

the waiting game

Dearest Dad at the bus stop,

Man, is there anything worse than waiting?

Umm yes, it's having someone who comes in the nick of time and doesn't wait. It's the adult version of budging in the hand stamp line at the end of library story time, when the rest of us have been patient, stood in line and well, waited.

Today, you had your best time yet, arriving possibly 30 seconds before the bus pulled up. You turned the corner in your pick-up, gave me the manly nod-of-acknowledgement, whipped a little U, put your truck in park and just like that, the bus appeared from behind the hill, your daughter jumped down the bus stairs, climbed into your truck and you both were gone.

Don't you know that you are suppose to be there 5 minutes before the bus arrives? In my head, I had this whole scenario of your daughter getting off the bus, me telling the bus driver that (I'm an awesome mom who follows the be-there-five-minutes-before-the bus-gets-there rule and that) 'I'll wait with her' and when you sped around the corner, your little daughter with tears streaming down her face, she would ask 'why weren't you there (five minutes before) like this (fabulous, really cutely dressed) mom, (who waited)' what will you say then?

But like I said, you pulled up 'right on time'. I gave you my meek, half wave from my rolled down window, but really I wanted to give you my little birdie friend gesture for your adult budging, yet again.

I followed you home (not in a creepy, stalker sort of a way, we both just happen to be heading in the same direction; really, I'm serious). I saw that you had the Iraq War Veteran plates on your truck. I started to feel (a little guilty for the giving you the bird thing in my head and) like maybe you just had this school bus ESP, that your special armed forces training was directly related to being 'just in time'.

I guess I'm trying to say: I'm sorry. You go right ahead and not wait. I should have never questioned your ability to know right when to get there. But if your daughter is ever left waiting in turn for you, I can tell her 'don't worry, he'll be here soon' and that 'when you are sixteen; you take all the time you need doing your hair, picking your outfit, etc...cause it payback time'.

Sincerely,
Anti-Supermom

who put the 'fun' in fundraisers

Who put the 'fun' in fundraising, cause it sure the heck wasn't me.

I'm not new to fundraising, I mean, I was a Girl Scout after all, but I was horrible at selling those cookies; the only people I had buy from me were my parents and myself (whatever I could afford from my allowance, just so I could hide them in my nightstand drawer and eat those caramel and chocolate cookie deliciousness in bed while reading the latest installment of the Babysitters Club. By the way, where were my parents when I was doing this? ). Anyway, I sucked at fundraising.

Apparently this tradition carries on. Flash forward to this weekend.

Me, walking timidly up to the door of our neighbors house, hoping maybe the lights were on as a precautionary measure, that they might actually be on some month long vacation in Greece, and lucky for me, I'm off the hook.

(knocking on the door ever so lightly; it opens... darn)

Hello (insert neighbors name if I just happen to remember it). I know it's been a while since we've seen each other (minus the daily waves from my windshield to yours). We are here asking you to help Henry's school. He's going to Chinese Immersion.

(I nudge Henry to the front).

I put him on the spot, trying to prove that their dollars would be going towards something exceptional "Say something in Chinese, Henry".

Henry backs away, moves closer to the door in a desperate desire to get out of their house. He shakes his head and looks down at the floor.

Pressing on and giving him the you-better-do-it-now-death stare, he comes up with a quiet little "Ni hao".

Oh yes, good times. We made it to 4 houses total, 1 of which wasn't even home.

Of course, as the good neighbors that they are (and because we have been subjected to their own children's fundraisers in years past when Henry wasn't in Kindergarten, i.e not fundraising) they paid the $20 cash for their own awesome little coupon book to be delivered in 4 to 6 weeks.

I can't wait to deliver those and I definitely can't wait for the next month's fundraiser.

I think fundraisers should be called 'makes-me-feel-like-crap-raisers' or perhaps 'suck-dry-your-neighbors-raisers'.

top 10 reasons... a giveaway

David Letterman style: The Top 10 reasons you should enter my Boogie Wipes giveaway:

10 - 'Boogie Wipes' are way more fun to say and much less painful than an n1h1 vaccination (I'm joking, now go get your kiddo(s) a shot and come back here).

9- They are made by moms and since we all know how 'well' the stay-at-home-mom position pays, we should support a mother, yo!

8- As much as I love to knock my children out with drugs to ensure a good night's sleep, these are drug free, alcohol free, saline-infused and the magic menthol ones smell really yummy and actually help clear out their nasal passages.

7- The grape scented ones totally remind me of slushies - minus the calories; you could sniff all-day-long and not gain any weight.

6- The individually-wrapped Boogie Wipes can be put back into the package, meaning no more 'snot rags' in the pocket of your jeans when you are at the park. Love this.

5- As my two-year-old says: "I got no dollars". Are you in the same boat? Enter my giveaway, it's free.

4- You can take your love affair with the mail carrier to the next level by actually have him knock on your door with a package of Boogie Wipes that you won or that you bought

here.

3- No more chapped noses, meaning more chances that people will think your children are 'cute', meaning you will get a 'free pass' at Target for having a cart full of screaming, albeit cute, children.

2- Made in America, it way better than what the Europeans came up with for getting crusty boogers out of your little kiddo's nose.

1- With Boogie Wipes, you will not accidentally suck boogers into your mouth, nuff said.

Comment to win (2) 30-count packs, a few sachets and a couple $1 off coupons. Follow me for an additional entry... you know the drill.

(I think this is where I'm suppose to put up some disclaimer but you guys are not idiots; yes, they gave me product to review that I'm keeping, no, I wasn't paid and if I didn't like them, I wouldn't do a review. Disclaimer that.)

back off the bangs

We went back to Iowa for a wedding this weekend. I wasn't prepared for all the comments that I would be getting on my 'new-to-them' hairstyle, after all, everyone back home had seen it at a friend's birthday party in April, but perhaps the 'whiskey goggles' and fact the that it was a bonfire birthday had something to do with them not really 'seeing' the new do.

I had to laugh off many, many Pulp Fiction references to my hairstyle. Friends were on the sidelines of the dance floor gesturing the sideways 'V' fingers running across their eyeballs with a big smirk on their faces

(looking for a photo for this post, I see it totally didn't help that I wore a white blouse to the wedding...)

or the Cleopatra jokes, going on and on about 'how she was a man-eater' and (nudge, nudge) that 'perhaps I just might be one too'

or that I look more 'mature' (which, by the way, is not at all, a compliment, it's like saying, 'yes, I can see those crows feet much better with this hairstyle, you really outdid yourself this time!').

I've known most of these people since I was in high school, when my bangs were combed up, way up, like in I-had-a-barrette-in-my-hair-to-keep-it-up-like-this style. I loving referred to my own hairstyle as 'bubble bangs'.

(don't you love the back lighting on my hair, just the right touch in emphasising the 'bigness' of my do).

See, change is good.

Now back off the bangs.

gone bananas

I get bananas almost every week at the grocery store. (Granted, I'm cursing the genius-supermarket-marketers that have made getting your produce first 'the standard in grocery shopping experiences'. Why, because we like squashed grapes, we like trying to make room in the seat somewhere between a toddler's butt and the side of the cart for our delicate, over-priced fruits? Call me crazy, but maybe picking out produce should be last, right before the check out lane? Am I crazy? Yeah, don't answer that.)

Back to bananas.

I'm standing in front of the freezer, door open, making a mental note of the things that we have in there. I push over the frozen peas, look beyond the frozen pineapple, check off frozen waffles and pancakes (yes, we like our frozen foods), knock over the four empty ice cube trays and throw back into the back of the freezer the frozen deer meat (We have deer in our freezer, there I said it; animal lovers come strike me dead, but as some consolation, it is nearly six months old and we haven't touched it. What can I say, we just aren't one of those couples that come home and say 'Hello Dear, how about some deer for dinner?', so there the deer sits and oh yes, it was a gift.), so just right to the deer meat is this black mass that I guess I have been avoiding.

The frozen bananas.

I have 10 frozen bananas or should say had 16 frozen banana but 6 of them were at the point of being freezer dried and deemed trash can worthy.


Are these 16 frozen bananas a metaphor for the type of mother that I am? Are these an example of my good intentions on getting things done, but just not making it 'past the peeling'? Think of all the metaphorical 'baby food, banana bread, banana muffins and smoothies' that my children have missed out on because I'm just too lazy.

Make me feel better, go count your bananas.

PS- I'm running with the assumption that other people put bananas in their freezers too. This isn't just a 'me' thing, is it?

PSS- I realize that in my hoping that other people may have more than 16 frozen bananas in their freezer, I'm setting myself up for further disappointment.

Are You There God? It's Me, Anti-Supermom

Dear God,

I'm so happy to see the you will be at Oktoberfest this year! Cold beer, juicy brats and the Divine Being all in one place. Awesome. In case you have been a little busy and missed the ad, here it is: Beer, Brats, & Mass, not necessarily in the order.



FYI, there will be 'No Cover Charge' if you arrive before 7PM, but being God at all, the omnipresent thing will probably work in your favor, that and being able to pull the I'm God/I'm famous-card, but the rest of us will have to bring the cash if we're missin' the mass.

You should probably make a point of printing this ad out, by the way, because it's worth a free brat or beer (nudge, nudge; you know which one I'm choosing, don't ya, God). I'd love to pull up a pew with you and drink a few to the 'good times'. Also, you better clear your dance card because I've got my dancing shoes on, after all it is Saturday night.

Looking forward to a fun night with ya, God.

Sincerely,
Anti-Supermom

PS- Will you be wearing your lederhosen? Just wondering, I don't want to miss you in the crowd.

wind in the willows

So, we were geocaching Monday (no, it's not one of my made up words... seriously, it's not). If you don't know, geocaching is where you head off to a participating park and using a GPS, (provided for free at the park or use your own) you play this high-tech game of hide-and-seek. It's pretty cool. It's also slightly dangerous in the hands of a five-year-old that is watching the arrow of the GPS move instead of where he was walking and tripping every quarter of a mile or so, but I digress.

We were on the second clue, heading out about half-a-mile with our coordinates and our clue: 'listen for the wind in the willows'. While Henry and my husband were programming in the next clue's coordinates, I was watching these few kids standing at what seemed to be mid-river. There was a tide coming in, it just rolled over the sand and the kids tried jumping over the tide. It was breathtaking, it was calling me.

I persuaded the rest of the family to go (well, Wu didn't need much persuading since he was already ready to take all of his clothing off and jump right in) and we walked in that direction. The sand was sticking to my sandals and rubbing my toes, but it didn't matter, the tide was calling me.

I led our little pack. As we neared the tide, I was the first to turn the corner and suddenly stopped, dumbfounded at what I saw. Along with a few families, was this woman; sitting up, reading her book beside her friend, topless.

Her willows were in the wind,

for everyone to see,

at a state park.

I quickly turned around and told everyone that 'the sand was gross; it was muddy, full of weeds and honestly, a little bit stinky.'

All of us walked back, I waved my hand for my husband to come over, whispering "There was a woman over there, topless!"

He responded "Well, did they look good?"

funny.

As witty as him, "No, they were tiny. They might be not be pancaked to her body like mine, but tiny."

My husband started to pretend-stretch his neck, like this might provide some opportunity for a sneak at his own personal 'cache' - the half naked woman behind us.

I called him out on it: "I told you, perky but tiny."

Disappointed, my husband gives up with a little shrug and an even smaller "OK."

Poor guy, I took the wind right out of his willow.

*

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I'll take what I can get.

little white lies

The little white lies I tell myself:

-Eating peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon is not really eating.

-Pajama pants actually do make me look thinner.

-My hair looks good in this partially up, partially down, hair half way in a ponytail, the rest hanging out of the sides look; that I must look like 'someone' famous who can pull off the 'just rolled out of bed' look.

-I don't actually need to have coffee with caffeine in the morning; no, decaf is just fine.

-I don't refresh my yahoo page 'that often'.

-The phrase "goin' all Gosselin on (fill in with whomever you are currently freakin' out on)" is a cool phrase and that I should try to incorporate into daily conversations.

-Rolling down the windows and turning up the radio allows me some 'me time' even when the kiddos are in the backseat fighting over some stupid empty coffee cup.

-It's my shoes that stink, not my feet.

-My laundry doesn't need to be folded because I'm just going to wear it and it get dirty, I have to wash it and it end up right back at square one, the laundry basket.

-Not stepping on the scale in the morning makes me happier therefore healthier.

-Not making my bed is actually better than making the bed, it's just a waste of my time and I'm not just being lazy. (Ha, this one is true, I just googled it; yes, about me being lazy but "something as simple as leaving the bed unmade during the day can remove moisture from the sheets and mattress so the (dust) mites will dehydrate and eventually die.")


Score one for me.

Mock Spock

Wyatt's hand-me-down pile is starting to look more like a trash bag full of garage sale rejects. My poor, little second-born child.