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  1. Moms are Superhuman Too

    April 9, 2013 by admin

    Becoming a mother is kind of like becoming Spiderman. Only instead of being bitten by some radioactive arachnid, you’re injected with…well, presumably you know what you’ve been injected with and I SO totally don’t need to go there. But the end results are similar: Superhuman Powers. Because let’s face it, once a woman begins to GROW ANOTHER HUMAN BEING INSIDE HER OWN BODY, everything changes. I’ve been a mom for nearly eight years now, and the side-effects of motherhood still never cease to amaze me. My abilities – like all moms I know – are endless and constantly evolving. Spiderman may be able to sense danger, cling to skyscrapers and possess cat-like reflexes, but here’s some of the things I can do.

     

    • I may not be able to crush a car with my bare hands, but I can carry six grocery bags, a gallon of milk, a cup of coffee and a writhing toddler from the car to the front door with no casualties.
    • I often moonlight as a human lie-detector, able to detect kid bullshit with almost 100 percent accuracy. (One percent fail rate due to 4-year-old’s recently-aquired and surprisingly powerful ability to fib.)
    • I can decipher who has not flushed the toilet by quick visual analysis.
    • I possess superhuman focus, and by that I mean I can tune things out as well as a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. Applicable “things” include cries, whines, screams, screeches of terror (obviously fake) and other obnoxious noises, plus ridiculously outrageous pleas and requests, bickering, tattling and many other forms of verbal diarrhea. This power is used only when absolutely necessary and when no one is in imminent danger.
    • When not picking up, trying to donate or hide old toys under leftover pasta in the trash, I sometimes use my superhuman Toy Detector power to help the kids find things.

     

    – “Mom, where’s that microscopic Lego headlight that goes on my 2,000-piece Lego race car that keeps falling off into random and hard-to-find places?”

    – “In between the left and middle cushions on the smaller couch in the family room, honey. Under the dirty sock and banana peel.”

    (This power also works for finding additional things, such as articles of clothing, homework assignments and other school-related things and sports equipment.)

     

    • When not cooking an actual meal (which admittedly is more nights than not lately) I have the unique ability of presenting food in such a way as kids still think they are eating an actual meal so that the next time they do, in fact, eat an actual meal, they won’t know the difference. (Please, please comment if you get what I’m saying here.)
    • Despite how weird it sounds, being shameless is a special Superhuman Mom Power too, one that I most definitely possess. Since bearing three children, shame has totally gone out the window. Thank God too, because how else would I be able to walk my son to the bus stop in my pajamas or scream like a banshee from the stands at a Mite hockey game?
    • The ability to always make my kids laugh. Am NOT adverse to using potty humor when necessary. But other tricks include:

     

    Making random faces and asking if they’d let me volunteer at their respective schools looking like this:

    image

     

    Showing them funny pictures of their baby sister, like this:

    image

          Dancing uncontrollably across the kitchen floor, like M.C. Hammer on Crack. (Definitely no photo available of that.) Admittedly, this method sometimes backfires and I end up the victim of comments like, “Mom, you are so weird.”

    • The ability to be in a thousand places at once. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but you know what I mean. School, grocery shopping, errands, activities, practice, games, work. The liquor store.  That kind of commitment takes more than just a GPS. 
    • I’m about to get serious on you with this one: I have the ability to comfort my children when no one else can. A tight hug. A soft kiss. A gentle pat on the head or brush of the cheek. Three little words. I love you. Coming from a mom, nothing is more powerful. Not even Spiderman swinging between skyscrapers.

     

    Moms – and Dads, because they have superpowers too – what amazing abilities have you developed since becoming a parent?

    Category Family Life, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , | No Comments

  2. J.C. has Risen and so has my OCD

    April 2, 2013 by admin

    As we all celebrated the resurrection of J.C. on Sunday with chocolate bunnies and cream-filled eggs, something from my own past was also brought back from the (almost) dead.

    OCD.

    I should have known it was going to be an interesting day when our 7-year-old woke at 4am, strolled wide-eyed into our room and asked if it was time to hunt for eggs. His excitement for Easter this year was…weird. He didn’t even wake up that early on Christmas morning. But in the days leading up to Easter, he was all hyped up, talking about the Easter bunny and what he was going to bring. I said, “Easter is not like Christmas, you know.” “I know, mom,” he said. “I just like to hunt for the eggs around the house.”

    (As an aside, the day before Easter, said 7-year-old asked me if I knew why we got presents on Christmas. “Why?” I asked.  “Because we’re celebrating Zeus,” he said. “And Zeus got presents.” “We get presents on Christmas because of a mythical Greek god? I think you mean Jesus,” I said. He sort of laughs as if he actually knows the mistake he’s made. “Yeah, Jesus,” he said. Perhaps it might be time for a little ad hoc religious education.)

    Anyway, after we demanded he go back to bed, Braedan visited our room every 15 minutes or so (no lie) until we gave in at about 6:45 and told him “Yes, Yes. Hunt for eggs!”

    Everything gets a little hazy after that, but from what I can piece together, in no time at all, all three kids were up. The boys find their Easter baskets, which I realized only the night before were totally disproportionate, but thank goodness the 4-year-old doesn’t notice things like that. They oohed and ahhed over the baskets’ contents for a few minutes while our baby girl squealed in excitement about her stuffed chick, rubber ducky and board book.

    AriaEaster

    Then, before I knew it, the boys were commando rolling all over our tiny house and body checking each other in the race for eggs, while poor, tiny Aria was left to waddle around and eat the gold fish and animal crackers from her special eggs, the ones that were “hidden” directly ON HER HIGH CHAIR and which had already been cracked open in the fray, off the floor. Not that she seemed entirely upset about that. But I begin explaining (yelling) about the difference between the eggs anyway, and that surely the Easter Bunny left the Hello Kitty and Elmo eggs for the baby, and would you please beat on each other in the next room so that your sister can eat her treats off the floor in peace.

    So the boys are racing around the house, both screeching “No fair” when the other finds an egg. I’m beginning to wonder how on earth I could still be campaigning for a fourth child. And my husband is sitting in the rocker in our daughter’s room with his eyes closed. “Don’t you want to witness all the festivities?” I ask. “It sounds really fun,” he says. But he doesn’t move or open his eyes.

    Once the egg hunt is over, the boys commence a fresh argument about who got the coolest stuff in their eggs. Braedan found the golden egg with the $5 bill in it, but is complaining anyway because Colin opened an egg to find a 25 pesatas piece with a hole in it, which, according to Braedan, is the “coolest thing.”

    Now, it’s time to start thinking about getting ready to leave for brunch in Rhode Island, which I am excited about, but am also dreading because at least one child has already been awake since 4am. Against all odds, the kids go out for a bike ride and then, albeit an hour late, we all shower and get ready. I even iron my pants.

    We leave.

    I am fidgety in the driver’s seat (I always drive because my husband can’t stand my back seat driving if I don’t).

    I should turn around now, while we’re not too far from home. 

    We get gas.

    Do it now. Before there’s no turning back. 

    We pull out and are about to turn onto the highway, when I turn to my husband.

    “I am not entirely sure I unplugged the iron.”

    I say this even though I am pretty sure I did, like 99.9 percent sure. But then there is that chance that I just thought I did. Shit. How can I enjoy waffles and cabernet when there is so much uncertainty?

    “Should I go back? I have to go back.”

    “Brilliant. That’s going to take 10 minutes. I want to see Grammy,” my son says from the backseat of our minivan.

    Now I want to pull over and drop-kick my 7-year-old before I go home to check the iron.

    Anyway, we make it back home and, of course, the iron is unplugged. But I feel so. much. better. The house most definitely will not burn down while we are away for the day. At least not from a plugged-in iron.

    Off to R.I. we go.

    The day goes off without a hitch. The kids are surprisingly well behaved. The food is great. And the company is welcome.

    Then I tell my family about the deal with the iron that morning. My brother and husband laugh knowingly.

    “I sometimes use you as an example in my psych class,” my brother, the high school teacher, says.

    “Nice.”

    He tells his class about how I used to check my alarm clock about 20 times before getting in bed. “AM-PM; AM-PM.” I’d say this over and over while pressing the button on my alarm clock to prove to myself that I had actually set it up so that it would go off at 6am rather that 6pm, as if I’d sleep for 20 hours straight through. My brother says his students were baffled to discover there were people out there who actually behaved like this.

    High school students are idiots.

    Then my husband chimes in about how before we were married and I used to stay at his apartment – shocking, I know –  I would turn on the stereo to help lull me to sleep. I’d settle down into bed only to discover that I’d turned the music up just a little too loud. So I’d turn it down and settle back in. Too soft. Again. Too loud. Too soft…It could go on for many minutes. I never could get it just right.

    “And you stayed,” my brother says to my husband.

    Then I think about all the other things I used to do. Turning around and driving home to blow out candles I may or may not have lit. Or to make sure the oven was turned off. Checking light switches multiple times before leaving the house. And some others that just make me sound completely crazy.

    I don’t do those things nearly as much as I used to. I just don’t have time with three little kids, I guess. Nowadays, I am just concerned with getting out of the house dressed and wearing matching shoes. Which I DID manage to do yesterday.

    But at least my resurrected OCD made for good conversation.

    Category Family Life, Uncategorized | Tags: | 1 Comment

  3. So you think you’re the shittiest mom in the world

    March 27, 2013 by admin

    To all my fellow moms who sometimes feel like the shittiest parents in the world:

    Stop.

    You’re good enough. You’re smart enough. And Goddammit, your kids love you.

    Okay so maybe not as much as the mom wearing her see-through lululemon yoga pants and studying Pinterest until the wee hours for this year’s most adorably impossible way to craft THE perfect Easter basket. (Hint: it involves some up-cycled doodads, a glue gun, organic fabric, six hours of free time and at least two Target bags filled with plastic crap and candy.)

    But still, you’re not so bad.

    Your kids at least like you.

    Appreciate you?

    Respect you?

    Talk to you as you pass them on the way to the bathroom?

    It’s not as bad as all that here, but the past week or so I have felt like a pretty shitty mom, just not on top of my game. It might have to do with me being sick, exhausted and incredibly grouchy. Or it’s the fact that I’ve served frozen chicken for dinner more times than I’d like to admit in the last seven days. The truth is, it’s pretty easy for me to lose confidence in my parenting abilities during any given week nowadays. And it’s even easier for me to dwell on all of the things I think I’ve done wrong or at what I’ve come to believe is at a subpar standard. Usually it doesn’t take much to send me into a tailspin of temporary, but extreme mom-guilt. This week, it’s frozen chicken. Next week it could be a forgotten library book. Shoddy  hygiene. Or frozen chicken. Again.

    But the absolute worst is not keeping my temper in check. Yelling at my kids can make me feel guilty for days, especially if it’s right before school. (But really? 15 minutes to change out of pajamas? Ain’t nobody got time for that!) Walking to the bus stop angry. Kissing my son’s tear-stained cheek right before he climbs on the school bus. Seeing his sad face in the window as it drives away. It’s enough to make me want to go home and write a script for a Hallmark Movie.

    But sometimes parenting is just so. damn. exhausting. And we’re only human. And humans – most of us anyway – have breaking points. And if anything or anyone can break you, it’s kids. Oh, and other moms. With constant updates of all the great things everybody else is doing for their kids via Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest, our collective notion of the pinnacles of motherhood are evolving to fit a new set of unrealistic and somewhat skewed priorities. Making things bigger. better. Giving more. Doing more. Being more. And then, letting everyone know about it as soon as you can get to a phone, ipad or computer. Motherhood has always been competitive, but suddenly, the competition is on a stage that we can’t escape even in our own homes. And it’s overwhelming, frustrating and frankly, a bit annoying.

    Whatever your tipping point may be, when we lose it or feel incompetent – whether real or perceived – all we can do is move on and make the next day a better one, or at least try to be a little easier on ourselves.

    • So you yelled at your kid today. He’ll survive. (Or tell his teacher you’re the absolute worst mom in the world. But still, he’ll survive.) And most likely he’ll get off the school bus at the end of the day like nothing ever happened. Kids have horrible memories for a reason.
    • You served frozen chicken for dinner. Again. Well at least you fed them.
    • The children watched three hours of television so you could organize your linen closet. They’ll be okay. (As long as it wasn’t Caillou. Anything but Caillou.)
    • For lunch your child ate white bread, non-organic cheese crackers and drank three juice boxes. They will still grow up healthy and strong.

    The point is that we don’t screw up our kids nearly as much as we think we do. We can’t be perfect. And despite what you may have read or heard, no one can. And besides, perfection is so boring.

    Mom 1: Hey, how are you?

    Mom 2: Perfect. Just perfect. You?

    Mom 1:Yup. Perfect too.

    Mom 2: How’s Johnny doing in school?

    Mom 1: Perfect. Teddie?

    Mom 2: Perfect.

    (If you hear a conversation like this at the playground, run. Run as fast as you can.)

    While it’s so easy for me to take note or write about all of the things I’ve done wrong as a mom, I usually pay little attention to the things I’ve done right or really well. Self-depracation is much more socially acceptable, makes for better conversation and, most importantly, is much less off-putting than mommy-bragging. Nevertheless, I’m going to try a little experiment. And I think you should too. When you’re feeling a build-up of parental inadequacies, wallow in them for a bit if you wish, but then think about all the great stuff you do for your kids, big and small, or all the ways you don’t screw up. Sit with those things in your head for a minute, or write them down. Visit them often as a reminder that you are doing one of the hardest and most important jobs in the world.

    Category Uncategorized | Tags: | 3 Comments

  4. Boycotting the Leprechaun

    March 18, 2013 by admin

    It’s Saint Patrick’s Day and no, a damn leprechaun didn’t visit our house and leave green piss in our toilet or give the kids presents or candy or pots filled with fool’s gold (the thing my 7-year-old said was supposed to happen). I didn’t bake a green cake, dye the kids’ milk green, make corned beef and cabbage or bring the family to an Irish pub for a Guinness.

    We celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in our own quiet way, some Celtic music over breakfast sandwiches and a Shamrock tattoo on my oldest son’s cheek for his hockey game.

    I don’t begrudge anyone their celebrations or traditions. At all. I am the first to admit that I LOVE making a big deal about holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, even Easter (though I have no idea why I buy the kids cheap toys and hide eggs to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection): I love to do little things for the kids to make the day special.

    But when did St. Patrick’s Day become another one of those holidays?

    “I wish the leprechaun had come to visit our house,” my 7-year-old lamented St. Patrick’s Day morning. “Some of my friends were getting fool’s gold. That’s what I want.”

    “Sorry,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

    I was caught between feeling guilty (surprise, surprise) and peeved that yet another holiday is becoming (or maybe it always was and I just didn’t know it) about the kids getting something and making it a big to-do.

    I am still recovering from last year’s elf on the shelf. Thirty whole days of moving that creepy-looking thing all around the house, trying to bedazzle the kids with new feats of creativity. You just can’t be the lame ass mom who leaves the elf on the mantle or God forbid, A SHELF, every morning. It has to be swinging one-handed from a chandelier or writing a Christmas card in Latin or baking a cake with almond flour and organic eggs. And now I am supposed to pretend a leprechaun visits too?

     

    image

    Before you say anything, I know this would not be a huge, time-consuming endeavor. A little drop of green food coloring in the toilet. Some chocolate-covered coins. But, as one Facebook friend put it: “Since when does EVERY holiday have to be a dog & pony show??”

    Because when you think about it, most of them are. Christmas. Easter (“Now, the Easter Bunny is a Jr. version of Santa, according to my kids,” said another Facebook friend). Even Valentine’s Day has become about what we can buy and do for our kids. And lots of times what we can buy and do for our kids turn into Facebook photo ops or  Pinterest boards that other moms can look at and see what we buy and do for our kids and feel guilty and think to themselves, “Wow, I should have done that.”

    I am definitely not immune to this mentality, and I know that if I look back through my own Facebook timeline there are pictures of present-engulfed Christmas trees, food cut into the shape of hearts and ridiculously decorated party rooms. Because in the end we are all moms who are just trying to make our kids happy. But I’m determined now not to let it totally take me in.

    Why can’t St. Patrick’s Day just be about listening to some Celtic music over breakfast and wearing a Shamrock tattoo? In our house, it will.

     

     

     

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  5. End of the Week Roundup – A Hodgepodge

    March 11, 2013 by admin

    Saying very little with a whole lotta words. 

    It’s Sunday night and I am spent. The kids are out of whack because of the Friday snow day, daylight savings and three straight days of pizza eating. Presently, my toddler is shaking the side rails of her crib like a monkey in a cage who wants out. She knows it’s really only 9pm, not 10pm like the clocks say, and she won’t be sleeping for another hour and is letting me know that she doesn’t appreciate the smoke and mirrors. At all.

    Anyway, this is what has gone on in our house the last few days.

    • The big news is that my son’s hockey team won the Larry Fournier Tournament for their division. I never thought I’d be that parent cheering wildly in the stands, ringing a cow bell and shaking pompoms. But I am. And I’m okay with that. The kids were on fire and words can’t describe how proud I am of the Newburyport Clippers Mite 2 team and their efforts on the ice. In the championship game, the kids played a nail-biter and then won in sudden death overtime 4-3. Braedan scored a hat trick and the MVP award. I am that parent who was moved to tears with pride and screeched like a hyena from the stands at the Graf. 
    • My son is gearing up for his first Science Fair and I am gearing up to not take over the entire project because I am a control freak. Braedan and his friend, Jack, will grow crystals with borax. Braedan, a self-proclaimed crystal expert, is ecstatic. The Science Fair brings back memories of History Day competitions and waterfalls of tears when my friends and I didn’t win. I was such a nerd. Yes, I said was.
    • I got my hair cut and the grays colored, which knocks at least 6 months off my appearance.
    • I joined Twitter (@pbjchardonnay). And even though I currently have only 28 followers, I can’t stop checking it. I haven’t quite figured it all out yet, but all anyone on Twitter really wants is some follower love. But not from the scantily-clad women sucking in their cheeks, thank you.
    • Friday turned out to be a snow day! We watched movies, ate snacks, bickered and went to the dentist (see below).
    • Took the boys to the dentist and was informed that they would both most likely need braces. F’ing spectacular.
    • Winter is coming, and I am giddy with excitement. To prepare for season 3 of HBO’s Game of Thrones, we’ve been re-watching seasons 1 and 2 to refresh our memories. I heart John Snow, Arya Stark and Tyrion Lannister. I absolutely loathe Prince Joffrey. So much so that if I ever saw the actor Jack Gleeson on the street, I wouldn’t be able to help myself from shouting “Die you Baratheon bastard!” and charge at him with a pair of eyebrow tweezers.
    • We’ve been playing lots of musical beds here in the middle of the night, which is not nearly as exciting as it sounds. When do kids start sleeping through the night? Because we’ve been waiting seven years.
    • I managed to resist the urge to buy Nutella at the grocery store this week.
    • I finally asked for a new membership card at the gym. I have lost three in the past two months and my schtick of fumbling around in my pockets, pretending to be surprised it wasn’t there was getting old. I did, however, wait until the weekend so that the regulars working the desk wouldn’t know that, in addition to not working out regularly, I was also terribly disorganized.
    • During a Dunkin’ Donuts drive thru run yesterday, I ordered two medium regular iced coffees. The voice coming through the black box responded. “Um…hmm…I don’t really feel like making them. It’s so nice out.” Then,  silence. Confused (and half-wondering if this was some really weak What Would You Do? segment and John Quinones would be standing at the window with my drinks when I drove up) I chuckled awkwardly at the black box. Then the voice laughed and asked “Anything else?” No. Just the coffees, weirdo.

     

    That’s all the big news. The past week or two, I’ve also made notes of some funny things my kids have said. Here they are.

    Colin: Do snake/sink rhyme?

    Me: No.

    Colin: Well, they rhyme to me.

     

    Braedan, looking at his MVP trophy from the weekend tournament:  I know a lot about crystals and minerals, and this is pure gold.

     

    Colin, collapsing on the minivan floor after preschool pickup: Mom, I’m tired. I’m getting old.

     

    Braedan: Can I have a pickaxe for my birthday?

    Me: (Looking at him askew.)

    Braedan: What? I want to dig for crystals in caves!

     

    Colin, after being told he couldn’t drink Aria’s Pedialyte: But when am I going to have diarrhea? I want to try it!

     

    Category Family Life, Random, Weekend Roundup | Tags: , , , | 1 Comment

  6. According To This, I’ll be Dead Sooner Than I’d Hoped

    March 1, 2013 by admin

    There’s a new study  out that says having sons takes an average of 8.5 months off a mother’s life. (Please note that according to this study, having sons does not affect a father’s lifespan, lucky shits.) For me, this study is actually a breath of fresh air because I thought I’d die a much earlier death due to having two sons. I thought I’d shaved at least several years off my life already. But maybe it’s just my particular breed of boys.

    8.5 months? Come on. That’s less than a full school year. That’s just one Mite hockey season. You can’t even fully gestate another baby in in 8.5 months.

    But still, when I tell my boys that “I just can’t take it anymore,” or “You’re killing me,” at least now I’m not just overdramatizing. At least now I have some proof to back up my claims.

    In no particular order, here are a few of the reasons why I think my boys are killing me faster.

    1. Bickering (2.7 years gone). It’s constant. They bicker about what episode of Wild Kratts to watch. They bicker about one teeny tiny black Lego in a room filled with thousands of Legos. They bicker about who their baby sister loves more. They bicker about who ate more at dinner and who did or didn’t fart at the table. They bicker about Nerf gun darts, paper airplanes, who won at knee hockey, plastic place mats, scraps of construction paper, mechanical pencils, cheap birthday party favors and the close proximity of one another’s face, hands, elbows and feet.

    2. Worry Over the Threat of Possible Sports Injuries (2.3 years gone). I know. Girls play sports too. I also know that injuries are possible with any sport, but having a young and enthusiastic hockey player (and another one being cultivated) does cause a bit of concern from time to time, especially with all the recent discussion about concussions in young kids. Tonight during the ceremonial puck drop of the Boston/Ottawa game, I learned that a local high school hockey player had his wrist slit last month by an opposing team member’s skate in a freak accident on the ice. He almost died. “I have to Google that,” I said to Rich. “Please. Don’t,” he said. “Then you’ll worry about that too.” Worry Over the Threat of Possible Sports Injuries consists mostly of things that could happen in the future, not things that are likely to occur in the present.

    3. Noise Levels (9 months gone). Boys are loud. They are loud on their own. But when they are together, noise levels can be epic. Or at least it seems that way to a person who cherishes peace, quiet and an environment free of the sounds of bodily functions. I can’t tell you how many times a day, I say Stop Yelling. Stop Screaming. Stop making that annoying noise. Stop making fart noises with your armpit. Do that in the bathroom. Stop burping. Stop stomping. Stop banging hockey sticks against the wall. My husband says they’re just being boys. Sometimes I want them to stop. just. being. boys.

    4. They say girls are emotional. (We’ll find out for ourselves soon enough.) But, newsflash: Boys. Are. Crazy. Trying to figure out what goes on in their little heads is like trying to figure out why in the hell people would want to watch Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Louie Anderson, Keshia Knight Pullam and a few other B-list’s, wannabes and has-beens compete in a high-dive competition on ABC. Attempting to do so takes at least 2.1 years off my life.

    5. Roughhousing. (2.4 years, ba-bye). Boys are generally highly volatile little beings. An intense Star Wars Lego battle soon turns into a friendly wrestling match turns into a not-so-friendly boxing match turns into a free-for-all ending with someone crying and needing a bandaid or cold compress. Boys need to be supervised at all times, leaving less time for things like texting, browsing Facebook, cooking, cleaning and drinking wine. This deprivation leads to malnourished children, a hungry husband, a filthy house and an anti-social, yet much more sober, mom.

    Category List Mania, Living With Boys | Tags: , , , | No Comments

  7. Mrs. Peacock is in the (Messy) House!

    February 23, 2013 by admin

    Trying to clean the house with three kids around is like attempting to take a swim in a lead suit. You flap your arms. And flap. And flap. And flap. But no matter how hard you try, you just. keep. sinking.

    It’s vacation week and and if you’re wondering why I haven’t invited you and your kids over for a playdate, it’s not because I hate you. (Well that’s true for most of you.) It’s because the house is triply filthy. Don’t get me wrong, even when I’m down to one destruction-causing child, my house is never clean. Ever. Occasionally it might be mildly suitable for human habitation, but mostly it’s a containment unit of dust, bits of miscellaneous food, dirty laundry, paperwork and toys. Toys everywhere. Toys in places you never thought toys would be.

    There are multiple factors which contribute to this unfortunate situation.

    1. The square-footage-to-person ratio here is not good. We live in a 1950’s-style three-bedroom ranch – the “starter” home we’ve been enduring for 10 years now –  and if you’ve ever stepped foot in one of these, there is no need for further explanation. If you’ve only ever lived in or visited obnoxiously-sized mansions or sprawling estates, I’ll give you the short version: our house is freaking small.

    2. Though I strive for organization and often buy bins of various shapes and sizes (one of my favorite hobbies), I just can’t ever seem to actually get much of anything in order. But the plastics industry, they still love me. My husband has suggested that if I covered our entire house with a plastic bin, then I might just be happy. (By the way, I am on the lookout for a ranch-sized bin. Please use my “contact me” page if you come across one.)

    3. My children lack the “clean” gene. They just don’t pick anything up. Ever. Not unless I ask 7 times in my mean voice (and there is a precise escalation that must be used each time), threaten to withhold food or tell them that next time there is some sort of fun family outing, they will have to instead stay with Mrs. Peacock, the world’s meanest babysitter. She yells. She screams. She wears glasses and frumpy clothing. She makes you eat all of your asparagus and do chores all night and THEN forces you to watch educational television. Oh she may sound a lot like me, children, but she’s  worse. Much, much worse.  (As an aside, I have no idea why I named my imaginary and souped-up version of Super Nanny “Mrs. Peacock.” Like Ray Stantz’ Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, it just popped in there.)

    4. Oftentimes, I can be like a child who gets distracted by something shiny on the rug, so that what should be a quick, easy chore turns out to be a DIY time suck, where nothing actually gets accomplished.  Instead of just putting the groceries away, I have to first reorganize the canned goods by size and alphabetize the spices. Then, well, I never really liked that pantry door, I think it’s time I removed it, let me just go get the tools from the basement. Oh! There’s that curtain panel I’ve been looking for, let me see if I can find the rod. Whoa! that laundry needs to be sorted before it gets moldy and wait, the washing machine needs to be sanitized before I can put a load in. Let me just look for the paperwork to see how that needs to be done again. Ah, there’s that bill I needed to pay, I’ll  just go run it outside to the mailbox before the mailman comes, and would you look at that? My stick son’s head has fallen off the back of the minivan window, now where do you suppose that has gone? Wow, our yard looks like crap. Let me call my husband at work under the guise of just saying hello and complain about the grass because goddammit, I’m doing all this work, he should be doing something. But first I’ll put the groceries away. Sometimes, I’m my own worst enemy.

    5. Guilt. I feel guilty when I am neglecting my children to clean and I feel guilty when I am playing with them and letting the house go to shit.

    With all three kids home this week, all of these things have just been exacerbated because there’s so much more chaos. Like I said, the house is triply filthy this week. And mostly I have tried to shrug it off. But at least once in the last few days, I have stomped around and threatened to throw everything in the house away. I think the kids are used to it because they sort of just mind their own business and wait for my little tirade to die down before resuming normal activities. Anyway, it’s a thing I’ve got going on that helps restore balance to the system.

    There’s no doubt that upkeep around the house will be a little easier next week, but I’ll miss our more leisurely schedule and having more time together. For April vacation, I either have to better mentally prepare myself for a week of unbridled squalor or, buy more bins.

    Category Family Life | Tags: , , , | 1 Comment

  8. It’s Bloody Vacation Week!

    February 19, 2013 by admin

    So it’s school vacation week and I’m supposed to be all “Ugh. Vacation week. What am I supposed to do with three kids and a whole week off of school?” But I’m not. Well, maybe just a wee bit.

    But considering today was a holiday and I was off experiencing the glamorous life of a freelance writer while Mr. PBJ was home with the kids, I really have nothing to complain about. After all, if you had some child-free hours to kick off SCHOOL! VACATION! WEEK!, wouldn’t you spend it at the BOSTON CHILDREN’S MUSEUM, the mecca of every. single. vacation-crazed. child in Eastern Massachusetts? I mean school vacation week and the Boston Children’s Museum? What could be more utterly relaxing than that? No. But seriously. I am writing an article about the Museum’s Centennial for the Boston Parents Paper and they are gearing up for some pretty cool stuff in the coming year. It was crowded. Yes. But I didn’t get sneezed on or kicked in the shins and there was an odd orderliness to the chaos. Plus, it was kind of funny to watch some other mom running after her toddler who was tearing shit up in the gift shop. Not funny in a ha-ha way, of course. The poor thing.

    Come to think of it, I had a pretty good vacation week kick-off. Saturday, I went to a great wine-tasting at Sweet Baby Vineyard in East Kingston, NH. If you haven’t been there and you’re local, you should check it out. They have some pretty decent reds and whites and a big selection of fruit wines if you are into that sort of thing. Personally, I like to stick with grapes, but I heard the raspberry wine was delicious. Anyway, it was a great afternoon with good company and some damn tasty cheese. Added bonus: The “I’ll-just-be gone-for-a-couple-of-hours-for-a-little-wine-tasting” affair ended up turning into an evening of margaritas, chicken nachos and interesting conversation. (Thanks again to Mr. PBJ who was home with a cold and three rambunctious children. I owe you one.) To top off the evening were late-night viewings of Rocky IV and V. (Yo Adrian, more on this latest obsession later.)

    Then tonight, we capped off tonight’s President’s Day festivities with a round of my son’s Countries of the World trivia game, which involves asking trivia questions about… countries of the world. Weird, huh? Anyway, to make it even more interesting, we attempted to ask each question using an accent that might be associated with each different country. But YOU try conjuring accents from Tanzania, Turkey and Saudi Arabia. In the end, we just ended up shouting bad British accents at each other and using the word “bloody” a lot. But it was funny none-the-less and really great to hear my son’s belly laugh.

    The rest of the week we plan to bowl, watch movies, play in the snow, eat junk, stay up late, see my middle baby get his Kempo yellow belt and go to the Cape for a three-day hockey tournament. (Go Clippers!) And I plan to drink some more wine. Should be a good week and I’m looking forward to it.

    But right now – and I mean right this very instant – I need to go to bed because I keep getting up, opening the cupboard, taking out the jar of Nutella, removing the cap, sniffing and hastily screwing it back on. It’s torture. If eating a whole jar of Nutella with a butter knife is bad, I don’t wanna be good.

    Category Family Life | Tags: , , , , | No Comments

  9. Sick Day, My A$$

    February 11, 2013 by admin

    I’m not the type of parent who yells obscenities at the television and flips Matt Noyes the bird when he announces a snow day. But I’m also not the mom who dashes excitedly to the craft closet to whip up the necessities for making paper mâché pencil holders either. I’m somewhere in the middle.

    I mean, first of all, Matt Noyes is a nice and cute guy – a weatherman for Christ’s sake – and second of all, the technology for him to be able to see me through my television screen hasn’t been invented yet. At least I don’t think it has. Though come to think of it, one time I was almost certain Matt gave me a second glance when I walked into the family room in my sexy flannel snowman pajamas. Anyway, a snow day is a snow day and there’s not much you can do about it except to pop in a movie for the kids and sneak sips from from the corked bottle of white in the refrigerator.

    But sick days are a whole other beast.

    I don’t keep my kids home from school very often. It’s a guilt thing. And it probably stems from my childhood, when I would stop at nothing to make it to school. Like the time I had accidentally put my hand through our glass door after my mother had already left for work and I ran to catch the bus anyway, a shard of glass protruding from my palm and blood running down my arm. You can’t teach that type of commitment.

    So when my 7-year-old wakes up and tells me he can’t go to school because he has a cough and a runny nose, I have to remind myself that things are different now. See, in my day, kids went to school with stab wounds. Today, the possibility that you MIGHT spread a germ is cause for home confinement.

    But still, up until the very moment that it becomes too late to even get him to school on time, I am constantly testing his stamina. “Are you still coughing out there?” I yell from the shower. “If you stay home sick, you’re taking a nap, just so you know.”

    This morning, he assured me he was too sick to go to school, but by 10am, he and my younger son (whom I kept home from preschool because he was up all night with a belly ache) were playing an intense game of knee hockey in the family room and yucking it up. “What, Mommy, I am sick!” my 7-year-old insists when he sees me giving him the stink-eye after a killer slapshot.

    Don’t get me wrong. I mean, I actually like having all the kids home together since our normal schedule has us running around like chickens with no heads. (Again, I’m not making paper mâché pencil holders, but I am playing games and watching movies and reading books under blankets.) But I also think it’s important to teach my kids a good work ethic now, so that when my son is 30, he’s not calling into work because there’s a vintage Phineas and Ferb marathon on television.

    So what does it take for you to let your kids have a sick day?

    Category Family Life | Tags: , , , | 3 Comments

  10. The Things I Carried

    February 6, 2013 by admin

    I have the bad habit of putting trash and other odds and ends in places they don’t belong: on the kitchen counter, on my bureau, on the dining room table as I’m flying out the door with the kids, in my extra-large plum and burnt orange LL Bean tote bag I haul around, and on the floor of my minivan on the way to my kids’ various activities. And while the little voice inside my head assures me this is only a temporary solution — come on, I’m busy, I’ll throw/put that away as soon as I am done with (insert some inane activity here), I promise — I consistently find that at least once a week, I am completely disgusted with my behavior. But the absolute worst place I can stick my hand into is my coat pockets. Here is where I find the weirdest collection of…things. Seriously, I could have my own reality show. Sort of like Hoarders. But where the experts storm into my house and start ripping coats out of my closet and emptying my pockets and shouting desperately in my face, “See! See what you have become!”

    Anyhoo. The following is a list, in no particular order (okay, there is an order) of things I have recently discovered in my coat pockets. I assure you that what you are about to read is real.

    – Two rusty screws and a rusty nail.

    – A small piece of jagged plastic, origin unknown.

    – Loose change covered in an unknown sticky substance.

    – Baby nail clippers.

    – A bottle cap.

    – A Market Basket pink deli counter ticket.

    – A gum wrapper covering a chewed morsel of an unidentified food, most likely spit forth from the mouth of a child.

    – Eyebrow tweezers

    – Used baby wipes (not diaper related).

    – Stiff balls of dirty facial tissues.

    – A purple pompom.

    – Several Bobby pins, a paperclip and a rubberband.

    – A small pile of crumbs — remnants of three or more unfinished snacks, which probably include Goldfish, a Kashi cereal bar and toddler Mum Mums.

    – Receipts, napkins and straw wrappers, all from Dunkin’ Donuts.

    – A Matchbox car.

    – Plastic backings to some sort of sticker, usually the orange dots from Market Basket.

    – A sock.

    – A thimble-sized bottle of Walgreens hand sanitizer.

    – A “Free Slice” card from Upper Crust Pizza

    – A “crystal” (a white rock my son found in the yard)

    – Two used Q-tips.

    (TMI? Sorry! Sometimes my son’s personal hygiene takes place on the way to the bus stop. Apparently we do a lot of our personal upkeep on the go.)

     

     

    Category List Mania | Tags: | No Comments

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