A Parents Small Sacrifices

When you’re a parent you make small sacrifices all the time. One example is new underwear. If you’re a parent with young kids, go take a look in your underwear drawer. Go on, I’ll wait…your undies are old with the elastic stretched and shot, aren’t they? I knew it, so are mine and every other parent I know.
Parents wait until they have no other option but to buy new skivies. Parents wait until the elastic is shot and sticking out, the underwires poking out, and the socks become ill-fitting quitters. There is always something higher on the priority list then new drawers, socks or bras.
I feel guilty if a pick up a pack of new Haines for myself. Do I really need new socks now? I can wait one more week. So my toe pokes out a small hole and the socks slip down around my ankles and into my shoes during the day. All I have to do is stop everything, bend over and pull them back up. Does it really bother me that much? So the underwires of my bra slide out in the washer, if I push them back in and use a little duck tape, or sew them back in every time the bra comes out of the washer, they stay put. That’s not a big deal, is it? One more week and I can buy a new bra, the wait won’t kill me. The kids really could use new socks before me. So my undies have no elastic left in the waist band and sag a little, my jeans will keep them in place just fine. I can wait one more week before I buy new ones. Next time underwear goes on sale THEN I’ll buy new ones. For the cost of a pack of socks I can buy a gallon of milk and a box a cereal, I can wait until next week. How many times do you say the same thing to yourself when standing in the front of the Haines display of Wal-mart or Target?
Not much in life feels as nice as new snug socks, a comfy bra and undies that stay where they are suppose to. Tossing all the old ones will feel good, maybe next week…

Energy Vampires

I spent two days last week as staff at a Cub Scout Daycamp. I spent ten hours a day surrounded by six to twelve year old boys who were incredibly excited and frenzied. The kids were very keyed up and ran from the activities to the games without pause. They only slowed down if food was available. They refueled and then were off and running again. I was busy from son up to son down.
Upi Dupi, I was so tired by the end of the second day; I could barely keep my eyes open. It only took me four days but I think I’m finally recovered.
There must be some correlation between the energy level of the kids and the fatigue felt by the grown ups. I’m sure I’m not the only one to notice this strange connection. How is this energy transference possible? Is there only so much energy available out there and the kids suck it all up or do they drain the vitality from the adults around them. I’m not sure how the little energy vampires do it, but they can really suck the life out of you.

Thanks For the Advice Dad

Dads give great advice, sometimes kids even listen. Here are some good ones from some great dads. Happy Fathers Day to all the dads out there!
Rule number one, “Protect your junk, son.” (draw your own conclusions on this one)
When I was young, my dad kept iodine in the medicine cabinet for first aid. We hated the stuff because it burned so badly. My dad always reassured us that no this wasn’t the kind that burned. It did burn, but we fell for that line every time. He always blew on the iodine to lesson the pain and kissed the boo-boos so we felt better.
My father-in-law told my hubby this one before we met. He married me anyway, so I’ll take this one as a compliment, “Kid, if you want to know what you’ll end up with, look at her mom.”
My dad told me this one, “Guys are simpler then you think.”
In addition, the second half, “Guys think about only three things, sex, food and sleep.”
This is from all the sports dads out there, “Walk it off son.”
Max’s wisdom when the kids complain about taking icky medicine, “If it tastes good, it isn’t working.”
My father-in-law told my hubby this one and it’s so true. “You can wear my shoes son, but you’ll never fill them.”
“Don’t wait for the idiot light to come on, take care of your vehicle.” (With my dad it isn’t a car, it’s a ve-hicle.)
Who hasn’t heard this one? “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
“Be polite to her parents and don’t bring her home late.” (This is the one no one seems to listen to or remember.)
I think this one is from an interview with Bruce Wills. He was talking about his daughters dating. “Kill the first boyfriend and hope word gets out.”
Max is planning to use this one when Tess brings home her first boyfriend. When the boy comes to our house to pick her up Max will be cleaning his guns. He’ll calmly ask the boy, “So what time are you thinking about bringing her home?” (With three older brothers, I can imagine a row of guys cleaning their guns. Poor girl will never get a second date.)

Toys In Ambush

Is there anything that hurts more then stepping on Legos, spiky toy dinosaurs or Barbie shoes? I cannot tell you how many times I throw the empty threat around of, “Pick up these toys or I’ll throw them out!”
The kids know I’m bluffing. The attempts at clean up are directly related to my tone and the volume of my voice. Me telling the kids to pick up, to them means just make a path, yelling means pick up most of the toys. If the neighbors can hear me yell, they had better pick everything up. If there’s shrieking involved (and I never shriek, I’m just too dignified and ladylike for that) even Max will stop what he’s doing and help the kids pick up the toys.
I’ve not just stepped on toys, but tripped over many toys. I’ve tripped over Sesame Street (the toy fold out village, not the show), shiny red convertible Barbie cars and colorful toy ray guns. I even fell down some stairs after tripping over a line of army guys and their tanks that were holding an imaginary enemy line. The medieval castles I tripped over one night as I rushed to close windows left me with a huge yellow and purple bruises that took weeks to heal.
My floors are an obstacle course of toys to negotiate. They seem to be waiting to ambush me when I’m carrying a full clothes basket, or when I’m talking on the phone. I imagine even after the kids grow up and move away, I will still find a rouge toy alien or lego, just waiting for the chance to take me down.

Cold Stone Creamery Is Heaven On Earth

Last night I visited Heaven, Cold Stone Creamery. It’s my Heaven because they take your favorite of ice cream and mash it up with your favorite candy. My favorite ice cream flavor is peanut butter and this wonderful place mixed it with fudge and peanut butter cups. After I decided on the flavor (which was the easy part, peanut butter and chocolate— yum), I had to decide which size cup of ice cream to order. Did I want the “it’s way too big and going to make me sick, but I’m going to eat it all anyway” size? Or maybe the “this might be too much, but it looks so good” size, or the “I’m on a diet, but going to cheat a little” size. Being a glutton, I went all out, ordered the biggest size, and ate it all, all five pounds of the “peanut butter insanity” concoction. This was last night, and I’m still full and still a little sick to my stomach. Would I eat another one, right now? Without a doubt. Yea, it was that good.

Home Barber Shop

Home haircuts seemed like such a great way to save money. There are six of us in the family, quarterly barber visits for the boys, and Max really adds up. I had a brilliant idea: what if I cut everyone’s hair. How hard could it be? I checked out a couple of “How to cut your family’s hair” books from the library and read up on how to give my family great haircuts. I had the best of intentions. Well, you’ve heard about the road to Hell being paved in good intentions. My poor family. I cut their hair. The books made it look so easy, I foolishly bought that promise.
The first time I cut Max’s hair I was shaking, I was so nervous. He kept reassuring me, “If you make a mistake, its ok, it will grow back. I’ll wear a hat for the next month if I have to.” He laughed and added, “just try it out on me first before you cut the kids hair.” Max’s haircut wasn’t as bad as I worried it would be, it turned out ok, except for the bald patches in his sideburns (which honestly, he couldn’t even see).
My youngest son Tom was the next guinea pig. I cut his hair too short and a patch of scalp showed behind his ear (which if anyone asked, I blamed on his little sister and her gum). The older two boy’s hair turned out ok, I was actually getting better. Then came my three-year-old daughter Tess. She had long beautiful wavy strawberry blond hair that only needed the bangs trimmed, so that trim went ok.
The next day Tess decided she liked playing barbershop and cutting hair— just like mommy. She cut her own hair off just below her ears. The long lovely curly locks— gone. I had to finish what she started and Tess got a short pixie cut. I learned you can only try to fix un-even bangs so many times before there just nothing left to trim. Tess had short un-even Madonna bangs to go with her short pixie haircut. I mourned the loss of her long hair, until I found an old picture of my grandma when she was a toddler. She had a short pixie cut also, and I realized my daughter looks like her great-grandma. I smiled and forgot all about the long hair Tess had cut off. Now I like the short hair on her and keep it trimmed.
I have to admit it was a rough start to my family barbershop, but I’ve gotten better. Practice has helped and I’m proud to say I now give a mean haircut.

Ode to DSL

We've been having problems with our telephone service, and therefore our Internet. We still have [gasp, shudder] dial up. I know, I want DSL, but we've been told it's not available in our area. So until then, I'll dream of DSL. I wrote this, my love poem to high speed Internet.

Oh high-speed Internet, how I long to travel at the speed of your light. No need to wait on a call. Gone will be the days of getting up to do something while I wait for a new page to download. Faster games will finally please the kids; files will open in a blink of an eye. Oh, why can’t you be available in my area? Why make me wait, you cruel she-devil. You taunt me with your wily, fast, reckless ways. And then deny me. I wither in the shadow of anticipation. And yet I’m denied— again. Satellite Internet seems a sad replacement for your reliable promise. I sit here, sad, dejected and waiting…

Raggady Ann's Hair

I broke curly girl hair rule # 2 last night ( rule #1 is never use a hairbrush on curly hair, you get frizzy hair.) I went to bed with wet hair. I woke up this morning with Raggedy Ann's hair. It took me ten minutes to get my fingers through the snarled nest of chunky-funky curls that stuck straight out from my head. After I un-snarled my hair, it looked even worse. Kinky curls and frizz--just the look I was going for. Even after I wetted my hair down, it still looked wild. Too wild for rural Minnesota and my mini van. If I was going for The Raggedy Ann doll look (or escaped mental patient look) I nailed it.

My Super Hero Defense Is...

Oscar, my ten year old is obsessed with super heroes. Who can beat who is a hot topic for debate around my house. Can Iron Man beat Super Man and who has the coolest villains? I don’t know the answers to these provocative questions, but my son does. He also likes to think about how he fits into the scheme of superheroes. I overheard Oscar telling a friend last night that his super talent is his farting power. The bad guy gets lost in a smelly green vapor cloud. I guess he strikes and runs away; it’s a clever defense to confuse the villain. I can’t help wondering if it would work in the real world.
Picture this scenario: your at work and the boss is upset and confronts you. Instead of standing there and taking it, you quietly pass some evil gas. Your boss gets dizzy, confused and ends the reprimand quickly. I think this might actually work. Nobody wants to stand there smelling someone else’s air biscuits. Farting as a defense, I think Oscar might be on to something…

Check Your Privacy & Modesty At The Door

Part of the joy of having toddlers running around the house is the total loss of modesty and privacy, for everyone. I cannot tell you how many times I am “busted in on” when I’m in the bathroom. Tess is four and has no qualms about throwing open a closed bathroom door. It doesn’t matter who is in the hall behind her or who is in the bathroom or what they’re doing. The whole family has gotten good about locking the bathroom door. If the door isn’t locked, you can hear the shout, “Hey, I’m in here! Get out and wait your turn!” Followed by Tess hollering, “I have ta go potty now!” Her little fists banging on the door can be surprisingly loud.
When you sign up to be a parent, nobody tells you that you have to check your privacy as well as your sanity at the door. Uninterrupted private bathroom time is a long forgotten privilege. I remember the days of long hot baths with fancy oils and reading in the tub. Now I’m lucky to have enough time to shave both legs on the same day. I have to take rushed showers with the door-cracked open (someone always has to go when I’m in the shower and that someone usually forgets the door open when she leaves.) My long hot baths with a good book evolve into a party. Tess senses my solitude and feels compelled to join in on my alone time. “Mommy, are those bubbles? It smells nice in here, like flowers. Why does is smell good? How did you make it smell so good? What are you doing? Is the water hot? Are you reading? What ya reading? Why are you frowning? What do you mean go play someplace? Where should I go to play? Why do you want me to go play in my room? It sure is hot in here, why is it so hot? I’ll open the door to cool it off. Hey guys, mommy is in the tub and it smells pretty in here. Come and smell it! But mommy, I don’t want to close the door; it’s too hot in here. Daddy will give me a cookie? Ok, I’ll go tell him you said I could hava cookie. Hey guys, we can have cookies!”
Never mind the long hot bath, alone time is over rated. Maybe later tonight after the kids are in bed I’ll have privacy and I can soak in the tub— alone. Until then I’ll walk around with one shaved leg and dream of the day when I can bathe when I want to, not when I have a spare moment.

What??

Why would anyone sew on little buttons? Tess' dolls and even her own dresses have these tiny little buttons. I have a hard enough time buttoning up her doll's dresses, but Max has even more problems. On Saturday Tess needed help with the buttons on a doll dress and I was busy making dinner. I overheard Max saying, "why are these buttons so tiny? My fingers are just too big, it's like trying to button them up with hot dogs."