Humiliation Tastes a Lot Like Vomit

It wasn’t a date exactly. They were going to lunch at the McDonald’s across the street from our house. My fifteen year old had texted me from the bus to ask if it was okay.

I was hesitant. She’d have to cross a busy road on foot and she didn’t have her own money.

Busboy had offered to buy her a value meal.

Even through her text messages I could tell she was giddy. A meal with her crush, at a location outside of school, was full of possibilities for her.

I consulted my husband who gave a casual shrug. It seemed like a safe enough compromise, they’d have lunch nearby and I’d pick her up at the restaurant in twenty minutes after retrieving my other daughter from the middle school.

“Be safe,” I texted, “Stay in school, don’t do drugs.”

I was a little nervous for her. Anxious too about finally meeting this boy I’d heard so much, yet knew so little, about. The cynical part of me wondered if she’d only asked permission after the fact, maybe she’d already been on her way to the McDonald’s before she even bothered to contact me. Really, she could have been anywhere. How long would it be before she came to these same conclusions on her own? Before she realized how easy it was to deceive trusting parents?

I set out a few minutes after our exchange to pick up my tween from school. I had a couple of things I needed from the grocery store which was in the same shopping center as the McD’s, so I figured I’d give my daughter a few extra minutes of socializing while I stopped for soy milk down the way. Just as I pulled in to a really sweet parking spot I got a phone call. From the ring tone, I knew it was my teen.

“Hello?”

“Moooooom!” There was a weird echo to her voice. Something was clearly wrong.

“Honey, what’s going on?”

“Whanaminabatromanimommomibrfonafooaniomahohnoo…”

“Huh? What? I don’t know what you’re saying. Slow down.”

“Mom, I threw up in front of him! On our tray of food. OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!”

“Okay, okay. I’m coming to get you.”

It took another fifteen minutes to convince her to walk out of the McDonald’s restroom and excuse herself from her ruined lunch, so she could get in the van. Busboy walked with her to the car and asked if he could have a ride. As they boarded stiffly, my daughter’s demeanor was hostile. Her humiliation had manifested itself as a seething anger she could do little to conceal.

We drove to Busboy’s house, the vehicle uncomfortably silent. I whistled awkwardly. Asked my tween how her day was. Drove. Drove, so Godforsakenly slow!

“Nice meeting you,” I offered as Busboy finally got out at his house.

He chuckled a little, gave my daughter a concillatory half-hug and walked off.

My daughter sobbed from that moment on for a solid two hours.

Mortification doesn’t cover it. She wants to drop out of school. She wants to move to Tibet. She wants the earth to swallow her whole. She wants time to run in reverse so she can take the cue her body was giving her and dart in to the bathroom to hurl in to a public toilet like respectable human being. Instead she thought to herself through her anxious nausea, “I’ll just drink more soda, that will make me feel better.”

Two seconds later she’d hurled on her surprised friend’s double quarter pounder.

“It could’ve been worse,” I tried to console her, “at least it didn’t land on him.”

It didn’t help much.

Hours later she granted me permission to blog about the ghastly event that will probably immortalize her in Busboy’s memory for years to come as the girl who puked on his lunch.

Tell me about your most humiliating teenage dating experiences. Misery loves company and perhaps somewhere in your comments my lovely, embarassed daughter can find some comfort in the fact that someone else had it way worse.

A little perspective goes a long way.

Just Stop Talking and Random Tuesday Thoughts

• My six year old son has had more mood swings lately than my teen and almost three year old combined. Last night he made a wonderful pencil drawing of a monster complete with toxic armpit stench and a mouthful of razor sharp teeth. Between its legs was a hairy club like tail. After gushing over his artistry, I mentioned that the tail might be mistaken for a different part of the anatomy. He giggled when I said weenie. Yes, I did say weenie. Five minutes later he was bawling his eyes out, telling me to destroy said drawing and threatening to never put a pencil to paper. Ever. Again.

• I know, I know. I’m a horrible person.

• My daughter got her laptop taken away yesterday because she brought home a D in math on her report card. The comment from her teacher was “14 – Fails to complete required assignments.” She’s not having trouble with the material, she just chooses not to do it. What is she doing instead? Texting, instant messaging, pining, reading, sleeping, writing bad poetry, wallowing, downloading music, sighing, burying her head in pillows, pining, pining, pining. She likes a boy. The boy is fickle. It’s always the Algebra 2 that suffers.

• She just got the laptop for her birthday less than a month ago.

• Potty training is the bane of my existence.

• Okay, maybe not. Dog hair is probably the bane of my existence, but this is a close second. The kid just isn’t cooperating. Two steps forward, three steps back, then you step in to a puddle of pee because you mistakenly thought your almost three year old was ready for Sesame Street briefs. Error on my part.

• We’re also struggling through another fear-of-the-dark stage with my six year old. He’s suddenly terrified of whatever might lie beyond the protective circle the light casts. When I ask him what he’s afraid of, he doesn’t know. It’s some indescribable all consuming something that is obviously coming to do violent, horrible things to him while he sleeps. I try to shed a little logic on the situation by having him acknowledge the perfect string of un-maimed mornings he’s so far experienced. He counters this by screeching like some sort of wild monkey and covering his head with his blanket. I’m actually considering adopting this strategy. It’s a great way to end an argument.

• I really, really don’t care about Twilight.

Tuesday, here we come.

Duo of Weekend Moments

My boys are on the sofa watching television before breakfast. They sit pressed up against the far end, elbow to elbow and knee to knee in their pajamas. They are so close together I can’t help but have one of those syrupy mom moments where I’m scrambling for my camera as my eyes mist up. I’m overcome with love for these two angelic, TV addled beings that have lit on my leather couch.

“I love you,” my almost three year old tells his brother.

“I love you too,” my six year old returns.

By now I am a puddle of mush and bone fragments. The boys hug – full, enthusiastic embraces that I feel blessed to witness. I am convinced I’ve done something right, that all my parenting guesswork has been surprisingly on target, that my kids will some day only have nice things to say about me in therapy.

My youngest takes his brother’s face in his hands and kisses him square on the nose, then wraps his arms around his neck.

So adorable it makes my teeth hurt.

He pulls back and plants another smooch on his big bro. Then another. Then another. All the while keeping his hands on my now squirming six year old.

“Arrrgh. Stop it.”

“Muuuuuuaaah. Muuuuuuuah.”

“Noooo. Leave me alone.”

This is where the chase scene ensues. My youngest chases his brother through the house, giggling mischievously as he uses his love as a weapon against his still screaming, still dodging sibling who is no longer amused by this game.

This makes more sense. Love isn’t fun unless it’s laced with menace.

—–

My six year old is at my heel.

“Play with me outside.”

“Okay, but first I’ve got to get lunch started. Give me just a minute.”

“Please, Mom.”

I put a pot of water on the stove for the macaroni and set it to boil. In the garage the drier buzzes.

“I’ve got to get the clothes out really quick. One more minute.”

He makes a sound like a disinflating ballon. Pffffffttt. Then “Awwwwwww” rising higher and higher in pitch.

“You can wait.”

He follows me for a second then loses interest and detours in to his room where he collapses on the carpet.

I hurry to the garage, remove the clean clothes from the drier, move the wet clothes in to the drier, and start another load of laundry. By the time I walk back in the house, the water is boiling so I dump a box of mac n’ cheese in to it, set the timer then look around for my six year old. He’s on the love seat in the living room watching TV.

“Alright, I’m ready, let’s go.”

“Finally!”

He gets up and leads me outside. His sister and brother follow and head for the trampoline. My six year old is holding his plastic Chronicles of Narnia dagger. I have barely stepped out on to the patio.

“Okay, Mom, there are dinosaurs all over.”

I get set to run and begin to emit a less than convincing terror scream.

“Oh no, they’re coming to get us! What kind of dinosuars are we trying to avoid?” I am trotting out in to the yard, looking back over my shoulder in to the avocado tree.

“No, Mom. You need to go hide in the cave. I have to protect you.”

“Uhm, okay. Where’s the cave?” I’m glancing around, looking for something I can dart behind.

“Back here,” he says pointing to the patio. His voice is urgent. I could be dino dinner any second.

I get back under the patio roof and stand behind him.

“No, Mom! There, inside the cave.” He is pointing toward the sliding glass doors. He’s pointing back in the house.

I shuffle to the door way and look back at him, he is slashing and dodging.

I’m standing at the mouth of a cave. He doesn’t even spare me a glance. He’s the star of his own adventure movie.

I just have a brief cameo.

Crushed Digits and Random Tuesday Thoughts

• We took the kids to see Where the Wild Things are this weekend. It was a good movie overall but not something that really held the younger kids’ attention. It touched upon some of the complexities of childhood and its all-or-nothing emotional states. I almost shed a few tears at the end, but thankfully my youngest climbing in and out of my lap and elbowing me repeatedly in the boob kept those intense feelings at bay. See, I was savvy enough to bring a zip-lock full of Halloween candy, which made it that much easier to keep my cranky, impatient, almost three year old in check, because everyone knows sugar is nature’s sedative. The only positive was. Okay, I’ll get back to you when I think of the positive.

• Candy calories ingested under extreme duress are negligible.

• After the movie we swung by the hardware store to pick up a shower head. My darling son got his finger caught and crushed in a shower stall door while my husband and I debated over pulse settings. The scream that kid let out was brain piercing, employees and customers alike flocked to glare at us while we administered first aid to a still shrieking child and his bloodied index finger. I think at one point a floor manager attempted to make contact with us, but between the noise and the band-aids, he figured he’d be more useful disappearing in to a different aisle, possibly tile or toilets. Smart move hardware store employee.

• Yes my son has full use of his finger. No bones were broken in the making of this random thought.

• An indicator that your children might be playing too many video games is when you’re driving on the highway and one of them begins to shout, “Race, mommy, be in a race.” Then every time you pass another car, they shout “Yay, you won, you beat a level 3 car.” It does make driving a little more fun when there’s that much at stake.

• If you can’t remember eating something, then the calories clearly don’t apply.

• My watch’s Indiglo function isn’t working. How the heck am I supposed to know what time it is in the dark? I need to know what time it is in the dark!

• According to my teenager, who is an expert on everything, boys that don’t have cute faces should not wear skinny jeans. It is some kind of fashion travesty. Please pass this information along to your loved ones. It’s crucial, life altering stuff.

• Also for future reference, a movie based on an old 70s family television series, does not make it by default appropriate for children. Do not assume it’s rated PG when it clearly states PG-13 on the box, when the tiny type under the box says “sexual content and language including a drug reference.”

• In my defense, it did have dinosaurs in it. Luckily for me the kids didn’t get most of the innuendo and so far my youngest has yet to repeat the word asshole in conversation. I know, I’m a bad mother. It keeps me up at night, truly.

—–

Go Random. Go Un-Mom. Go Random. Go Un-Mom.

Love Em To Death But…

It’s the disclaimer people always include when they want to complain about their kids without seeming like a monster. I love them but…Everyone loves their kids, even assassins and Nazis love their kids, so it’s not much of a justification.

I love my kids, but sometimes I wish they’d shut up for a little while.

Just typing that I’m waiting for a bolt of lightning to streak down and crisp me up good.

Yes, there are moments when I’m hanging on their every word, marveling at their insight, their compassion, their creativity, their comedy. Other times though, I’m staring at them blankly, dutifully appearing to listen as they complain, coerce or otherwise yap themselves in to redundancy.

It goes beyond the hey-mom-look-what-I-can-do cry for attention as they jump two inches off the ground for the eleventy thousandth time. Although that on its own gets pretty irritating.

There are the constant pleas for stuff they feel they need. Now. They need it right now and will rattle off a list of reasons why said object is an absolute necessity lest the earth suddenly ends its rotation. There are the constant fights that erupt and the subsequent explanations from both parties as to why they felt compelled to throttle their sibling to near unconsciousness over a package of Skittles.

Then there’s the teenager, who I am eternally grateful trusts me enough to share some of the details of her life. Truly grateful. I just wish she weren’t so damn repetitive. I just wish every sentence she uttered didn’t revolve around her in some way, which 98% of the time they do.

A typical dinner conversation-

Me: I was reading today about a woman who invented a bra that converts in to a gas mask. Seems bizarre yet oddly practical in today’s charged political climate.

Husband: Yet another thing I didn’t invent but wish I had.

Teen: OMG, did I tell you I had a bagel today in the cafeteria but then they ran out of chocolate milk so I walked up to this guy who I don’t even know and asked him if I could have his and he was like, for you, sure. It was hilarious.

Me: *blinking*

Husband: *rolling his eyes*

Other Children: *chewing*

Don’t get me wrong, this kind of stuff is fascinating when you’re fifteen. Not so much at 34. It’s good to have a link to her inner workings, I just wish they were a little more air tight.

At least after fifteen years my brain has gotten fairly adept at filtering out the useless information. Although occasionally I disregard a crucial detail in the process of decluttering.

“Mom did you wash my P.E. shorts? I need them for class today.”

“You didn’t tell me that?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Are you sure? I don’t remember that.”

“I told you last night before dinner, while you were taking the chicken out of the oven and screaming at the baby to back away from the hot door…”

“Uhm. Yeah.”

I know I’ll miss the noise some day when they’re grown and leading their own lives with nary a phone call to find out if I’m still alive and taking my arthritis medication.

I’ll miss the noise.

Right now I just miss the quiet.

—–

Have a confession to make?

The Merit of Pie

It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and I’m eating pie. Pumpkin pie. Because I can. I’m thinking about following it with a tall glass of cold milk. Two %. Skim can suck it.

My six year old has the flu and, as is usually the case when one of the kids is sick, I am obsessing about his condition, constantly taking his temperature, and otherwise assuring myself how unfit a parent I am.

Why wouldn’t I fill the time with baked goods? It’s as fine an alternative as any.

After jamming a Q-tip up one of his drainy nostrils, our pediatrician confirmed the boy had the flu and prescribed an antiviral along with a slew of other symptom quashing meds designed to keep my already lethargic son in a syrup induced haze.

He seems like he’s getting better.

The fever has finally abated.

But every opportunity he gets, he assures me he feels really, REALLY bad. Always two reallys, one emphasized for effect.

He is feeling well enough to play battle Godzilla on the Playstation at least, so that’s an improvement over the limp creature he was a couple of days ago. Still, every time he coughs I cringe. It’s barky and ugly and completely paralyzing.

So, forgive me if I backslid a little with my healthy eating vows.

When you’ve got a sick baby, all bets are off.

Maybe I’ll go back for a second slice.

Walking The Dog and Random Tuesday Thoughts

• On my way back from the bus stop this morning I saw a dog walking himself. He was carrying his own leash in his mouth as his owner strolled casually behind him. If I’d had my camera I would have taken a picture, but at 6:30 a.m. I was lucky to have been wearing shoes much less a carrying electronics. My question was, why bother with the leash if the dog’s holding it anyway? If you trust the dog to walk himself, wouldn’t you just sleep in?

• My husband is always amused by dogs performing people activities. Dogs being pushed in bucket swings, dogs sitting upright in umbrella strollers, it cracks him up every time. I always laugh when men unexpectedly scream like women. We’re easily entertained.

• My six-year-old is sick. Again. Not even just sniffles sick, but knocked on his ass with a fever sick. It’s the fourth time since he started school at the end of August. Today is actually make-up day for class pictures which he missed because he was absent the first time around. I might just have to carry him in there piggy-back just to get him to sit five seconds for the photographer.  I mean I did pay for the package already.

• I hate the commercials for Big Top Cupcakes. The frazzled woman holding her head in her hands – “Tired of looking like a fool cause your cakes aren’t cool?” I don’t think I’ve ever been laughed out of the building because I showed up with a square cake. Also, icing regular sized cupcakes is not the daunting task they make it out to be.  Maybe it just annoys me that my kids are sold on the prospect of a colossal cupcake mold just like they’re sold on Moon Sand, Pixos and Bendaroos. Maybe I’m just annoyed that I didn’t come up with some goofy product that could potentially make me gazillions if I aired it between every single kid show on Nickelodeon… Nah, I just hate giant cupcakes.

• I actually managed to escape my family a couple of weeks back to have a mom’s night out with my sister. We went out for Indian food then caught a showing of Zombieland which was just as entertaining as I expected it to be. While we were waiting for the movie to start, we headed in to the mall for coffee just as they were cleaning up to close. The guy behind the counter, Gabe, was nice enough to brew us a couple of $5 lattes. As he was setting us up with whip my sister joked, “you think he’ll spin the cans in the air ‘Cocktail’ style?” I glanced at Gabe, “he’s too young to have ever seen Cocktail.” Overhearing us, Gabe piped up, “I’m not young, I’m 18.” My sister and I stared at eachother before erupting in to a fit of giggles. “I’ve seen Cocktail,” he continued, “I’m old school…” Yeah, we laughed all the way to the theater lobby.

• Going out on a Friday night without my children would have been that much greater if I didn’t have to deal with the rest of the world’s children in public. There must have been at least 500 teenagers milling around, making out, and shouting obscenities at each other. Wow. It was a little gross, seeing other people’s babies with their tongues down one another’s throats when just a few years ago they were probably playing Pokemon and watching Spongebob cartoons. Couldn’t they just save the groping for a darkened theater and spare the rest of us the nausea?

The Un Mom.

Nuff said.

October Didn’t Work Out For Me, Nor I For It

I have maybe two solid, functioning weeks in any given month.

PMS turns me in to an inept puddle of goo and melancholy for a good seven days. It’s a roller-coaster of anxiety, confusion, and irritability. I’ve discovered it’s not just a lack of motivation I suffer from, but a complete lack of interest in almost everything. My blogging habits are proof of that.

Then menstruation comes along. A welcomed relief to my hormonal turmoil, but an entirely different challenge in itself.

October was the mother of all months. It was by far the worst cycle I’ve experienced.

Am I over-sharing? Possibly, but it is my forum after all.

I eschewed exercise in favor of bed. Ibuprofen instead of vitamins. I snubbed actual food for refined sugars and over-processed snacks.

I gave up.

Then I consulted Dr. Google who diagnosed me with PMDD then recommended anti-depressants. I’m definitely not ready to go down this road yet.

Also healthy eating and routine aerobic exercise might help.

It seems just switching over to fat-free half and half for a week is not enough of a dietary leap. I need whole-grains. I need *gasp* vegetables. Thinking about drinking OJ in the morning doesn’t qualify as a serving of fruit.

Jogging for five out of thirty days does not a fitness plan make.

I also learned that my PMS can be a preview of what lies ahead in menopause.

Menopause.

I could possibly be a homicidal maniac by the time I reach menopause.

So, I need to change stuff and not just because my pants are too tight.

I don’t like being a basket case.

I enjoy hanging with my sanity when it comes to visit.

If eating legumes and leafy greens is going to help, then I am on it.

Good-bye white sugar.

Adios white flour.

I might have to force the kids to hide their Halloween candy in an undisclosed location.

I can’t be trusted.

—–

Maybe the rest of the HASAYers are seeing better results.

Zombism and Cupcakes

After much internal debate over what costume I’d don for yesterday’s festivities, I finally settled on a zombie…

I’d picked up the budget make-up a couple of weeks ago at Walmart, the question was what kind of outfit I’d splatter with theatrical blood. A bathrobe and jammies for the zombie housewife? A fanny pack and floral shirt for a zombie tourist?

I finally settled on a zombie secretary since I’ve little use for my business attire of late and having done clerical work, I can tell you I routinely felt dead on the inside.

Here are a couple of photos. Pay no mind to the laser beams decorating my skirt, I assure you they were in style seven years ago.

I know, my arms and hands look very much alive and healthy, but I just wasn’t ready to cake my entire body in cream paint and in the ten minutes I was slapping this look together, my children were inquiring my whereabouts a total of seventeen times. Seriously, they’re all still attached at the umbilical cord. It makes shopping unpleasant.

I think I need to work on my characterization a bit. I look less starved for brains than I do bored with the conversation. Also, for future reference, discount theatrical blood worn for more than a couple of hours will leave a semi-permanent stain on skin and clothing.

Here I am attempting to feast on one of the neighbor kids.

“You’re not really going to eat me, right?”

“No, sweetie,” I assured him, “boys don’t taste nearly as good as chocolate.”

Mmmmm, chocolate.

Hope the rest of you had loads of gory, sugary fun.

*My sister gets credit for the cool cupcakes, since undead moms don’t bake.*

Yes, I Am THAT Mom

I should’ve known any outing that began with me in my only pair of clean jeans was destined for failure. Not only were they my last resort in pant wear, they were also painfully tight. Constricting my organs tight. So tight it was less of a muffin top and more of a burst sausage casing. Really unpleasant. This alone should have been reason to succumb to the power of the drawstring and leave the mall trip for some other afternoon.

The van, though, needed alignment. My husband lured me with shopping prospects.

“If your pants don’t fit, you can just buy new ones.”

“Nooooooooo. I don’t want new ones. I want these to fit!” As I stuffed a mini Twix in my face and slipped on my shoes. My sweatiest shoes.

Did I mention it was nap time?

Of course it was.

At Sears, the attendant told us it would be an hour and a half. The precise amount of time we would need to be out of there by in order to pick up our six year old at dismissal. It would be close, but what were we if not adventurous?

We handed over the keys.

We circled the mall once before stopping at the train ride, where my almost three year old son eagerly stepped in to the first car. Somewhere along the second circuit, his smile turned in to a frown. By round three his eyes were wide with panic. Fourth time past a waving mom and dad, he was wailing. Open mouth, in fear for his life.

“Stop!”

By then all I wanted was a greasy, salted pretzel and a large lemonade. We parked ourselves with the boy at the island of 75 cent kiddie rides, which no parent can bypass without fielding a nuclear sized kid meltdown. The days of quarter priced mechanical horses are long past. We converted our last three dollars in to change and let the kid loose.

Minutes later the Sears guy called. One of our tires was screwed. Two screws actually and damaged beyond repair, one of the others would never ride straight again, something about treads and rotation and other things I refused to follow in conversation.

It would be a while.

We took the escalator up to the store’s second floor. Then my husband had to make a pit stop.

In my infinite wisdom, I figured the Christmas display would best provide my fatigued child with a brightly colored, fabulously lit, distraction. He circled the various lawn ornaments with glee as I parked the stroller and pulled out my cell phone. I had to text my neighbor so she’d know to pick up the kids at the elementary school. It would only take a second.

In that second my son climbed over the display’s plastic border and hooked one of his feet beneath the blanket of cottony fake snow. He went down in slow motion toward the lit up snow man, which toppled forward in to the lit up reindeer, which in turn tipped the Christmas tree, which fell on top of the giant nutcracker. It was a domino effect of falling lawn ornaments as my son wailed and everything came crashing down before my eyes, not to mention the eyes of all the customers waiting at the tool department check out, along with three cashiers, and one associate who was pushing a mower to its rightful place. I stood there, jaw agape, in my too tight pants holding my cell phone in my hand while my baby cried amid a pile of fallen Christmas toys.

“I’m sooo sorry,” I muttered, scooping up the kid, strapping him in his stroller, then rushing off to hide in electronics.

Jeeeezus.

I sat cross legged in a desolate aisle while my son fidgeted in his seat. My husband no where to be found.

“Let me out, Mommy. I want to get down.”

Fine. At this point. Fine.

When I set him loose upon electronics, my phone buzzed. My husband wanted to know where we were. As I texted my location another employee strode up behind me.

“Ma’am!” When the hell did I become a ma’am? “That radio is heavy, he’s going to get hurt.”

I looked over in time to see my darling boy pulling a Cars boom box off a shelf and on to his darling wee head.

Oh crap son of a biscuit. I’m THAT mother.

Yes, I saved him from a potentially serious head injury.

No, we didn’t make it to the school in time.

And yes, we’ve got to go back because Sears didn’t have our replacement tire in stock.

It was just that kind of day.

Don’t even get me started on last week.