Kids? Tyrants? Gremlins? You decide.

My children have got the crazy-making thing down.  I mean, they are professionals.  Little ornery agents of chaos, stalking me everywhere I go.  (Seriously.  Everywhere.) 


I have compiled a list of some of the random shit my children have come up with in their never-ending quest to watch me unravel.


1.  Refusing to wear coats.  This may not sound serious, but when it is 16 degrees outside and you can barely get your kid to wear shoes, you've got a problem.  And you might think this is no big deal, but it is a big deal when you know it is not actually a dislike of outerwear, but probably a plot designed to get Child Services called.  They are sneaky, I'm telling you.


2.  Calling me "Mommom."  They never just say "Mom."  It's always "Mom. mom. mom. mom. momomomomommomom."  I believe this is to keep me off balance, always looking over my shoulder for additional mothers.


3.  Throwing my own words back at me.  For instance:  After taking a healthy dump off the front porch, my then 5-year-old looked at me with a straight face and said, "What?  You told me to go outside if it was an emergency." 


4.  Drawing pictures of me at school.  I don't mind the flattering ones, but seriously?  This?

The journal entry for this said, "I ate too much candy and my mom got mad at me.  She got so mad at me, her head almost exploded."


5.  They do not show an appropriate amount any appreciation of my dancing, singing, or joke telling skills.  In fact, they claim unbelievable things like I am "lame" or "not funny."  Pssh.


6.  They are always pointing out my mistakes, like when I put the milk in the cabinet or the toothpaste in a lunch box.  And then they tell other people.  What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas; the same should apply here, only with less drugs and strippers.


7.  They are always wanting food.  ALL the time.  Like, every day.  I think they all have tapeworms.


8.  They FaceTime or Skype with people without telling me, so random teenagers see me in my pajamas talking to the cat.


9.  Goading me into playing video games and then mocking my mad skills when my guy is always the one stuck in a corner or aiming at the sky.


10.  Telling their friends that I'm not helpful with studying because I always laugh at answers like "Titicaca."  (That shit is funny.  Don't tell me it's not.)

I could go on and on, but I'm exhausted from trying to stay a step ahead of the little gremlins, so I'm out.  Don't worry, I learned long ago to sleep with one eye open.

It's a disinfectant kind of day.

It's not even noon and I've been covered in a small human's urine twice already.

This is motherhood, people.  Think on it.

I've got to go clean up after my cat, who has apparently decided that her litter box may only be used one time before she has to go in the floor to teach me a lesson.

If Cleanliness is next to Godliness, then I am currently living in the Devil's asshole. 

She got that class from her mother.

So my daughter is 4.  She occasionally does stuff and I'm like, What The Fuck?  Where did that come from? 

Because, although you couldn't tell it by my blog, we're actually pretty strict parents.  Anyway.

She's started doing this thing where she wiggles her butt and sings "shake it, baby."  It's a little disconcerting.  I could not think where she might have seen this.

Then I turned on my cleaning music today, and started shaking it.  Yep.

I think knowing all the words to California Love at just four years old shows great memorization and lyrical skills.  Not to mention all the exercise she gets "shakin it."

For anyone unfortunate enough to not be hip to the 90s rap, here you are, and you're welcome.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eDZ961xhNEo 

Limit four.

It turns out that the number of humans I am capable of keeping in some semblance of order is four.  That's unfortunate, because after my three children and my husband, I make five. 

This means that while my daughter went to school freshly bathed and brushed and wearing matching clothes, I worked in my pjs until about 15 minutes before I had to leave the house. 

That was when I realized that although I had showered within the last week, I could not remember the last time I had attempted to brush my hair.  Which is long.  And thick.  And now partially in dreads.  Actually, that should be singular.  A dread.  I have one nappy snarled twisted mess right smack-ass in the middle of my hair. 

My husband is now referring to me as Marley.  I'm not sure what the next step should be here, other than maybe hiding all his socks.  (Oh, wait, I already did that.  Ha.) 

But seriously, I was under the impression that people cultivated dreadlocks, not that they just appeared if you maybe slacked off on personal hygiene for a few minutes months. 

Clearly it is time for a new goal.   Actually, goals, while I'm at it.

1.  Stop eating so much damn pity pie.  Pity pie is NOT your friend.
2.  Brush your goddamn hair, you dirty hippie.
3.  Fuck it, that's enough.  Those are pretty lofty goals; I'm worn out and a little hungry already.

Back to school. *sigh*

The kids went back to school today. I started freaking out about it Friday and proceeded to organize everything in my house, like it would somehow protect them from bullies, mean teachers, yucky food, and head lice.  If everything was in just the right spot, what could go wrong? (I realize this is nuts.  Thanks.)

I think I did pretty good at hiding my back-to-school and sending-my-baby-to-Pre-K anxiety from the children. I was all hearts and flowers and “It will be SO MUCH FUN! Aren’t you EXCITED?!” But inside I was like “Waaaaa! My babies.”

I’m not alone in this.  My husband has called me three times this morning, the last time to ask if he “should just go take a peek and see how she’s doing.”  No.  That’s frowned upon.  I know my limits, so I’m just staying away from that school. If any of the three kids even wrinkled a nose at me, I’d have ‘em packed in the car and the homeschool books ordered.

It’s not that I’m against public schools.  It’s not that I think my local school is a bad school.  It’s just that I love my kids the way they are.  I hate how rigid the schools are and how every child is expected to be just like every other child.  (My middle child is certainly well on his way to teaching them different.)  I mean, c’mon, do ALL the pencils have to be plain yellow #2 pencils? If my kid, who hates school with such a passion, wants a freaking green pencil, I’m fine with that.  My little one (who has been home with me since she first wiggled in my belly) was so excited to take her tiny little backpack today.  No.  No backpacks allowed.  Because Lord knows what a 4-year-old might smuggle into school in a 6-inch My Little Pony backpack.

I see the pros of school.  Interacting with peers, learning to follow rules, getting along with others, learning how to deal with assholes – these are all things children need to know.  But not every kid is a yellow #2 pencil.  I don’t want my purple-striped, glitter-covered, shiny-polka-dotted, maybe-chewed-a-little-bit pencils sharpened down until they match all the others.

Crafting by the seat of my pants.

So I like to get crafty.  In some areas of my life I’ve been told I can be a little OCD, but not when I’m making something.  I love using found items, because I’m super cheap.

Example:  I just took my son shopping.  He wouldn’t get out of the car.  I said, “I’m buying YOU clothes, come on.”  He looks around suspiciously and says, “Is this a thrift store?”  (It was not.  It was a going out of business sale.  Everything was 70% off!)

Right now my obsession is painting old, crappy furniture so that it looks like old, crappy furniture.  But I keep forgetting to take “before” pictures, so I show people and they’re like, “Great!  What are you going to do with that?”  and I’m all, “Um, I already did it.  Asshole.”

But don’t get excited.  This isn’t that kind of blog.  I’ll never be able to do one of those tutorials because:

a. I’m very forgetful (see above about the pictures.  Also, I was just repainting a bookshelf with only three shelves.  I’d paint, go to dip my brush, and forget which shelf I was on.)

b. I don’t do anything the right way.  For instance, I’m painting this bookshelf.  I’m using house paint, because I found it and therefore it was free.  I’m using tiny paint brushes my son got with an art set for Christmas approximately three years ago.  I don’t sand anything.  I barely even wiped it off before I got started.  I was ready to paint, dammit!

c.  I am currently in the middle of about 15 projects.  Seriously.  My tutorial would go something  like, “You will need 25 river rocks all the same size and shape, 5 skeins green yarn (used), some white vinegar, and….oh to hell with this, I can’t find my glue gun."

That's just good parenting.

We had family game night last night.  I didn’t want to, because I had a ton of work, as I explained to my ungrateful children.

Me:  Can’t.  I have a ton of work and I don’t want to be up all night trying to catch up.

9-yr-old: OMG ( actually saying Oh Em Gee), mom, why didn’t you get your work done this morning?

Me:   Oh Em Gee!  Because I was too busy twiddling my thumbs and smoking crack.   I have been working ALL DAY!

13-yr-old:  Where are you going?  It’s time to play a game.  No.  If you don’t have time to play a game with us, then you don’t have time for that. (Physically blocking my speedy exit, because the little shit is bigger than me.  Uncool.)

Me:  Alright, fine, I’ll finish my work and then we’ll play.

After much debate between my husband and two sons, they picked Cranium, which is actually pretty fun.  Kind of like a Pictionary/word game/scavenger hunt/thing.  With kids.

It went pretty well. My oldest and I were on a team against my husband and 9yrold.  We totally stomped them.  So much so that during the second game, my husband started saying “nipple” when it was our turn, to distract us.  It worked.  A 13-yr-old cannot focus on the task at hand (or stop laughing) when he hears the word “nipple.”
Turns out, neither can I.