OxiCrisis

When I find a product that I love I'll tell anyone within ear shot about it, whether they want to know or not. Good products that serve me well become my obsession, and like all extreme behaviors, mine borders on the obnoxious. Yummi Yogurt, Natori Bras, Kinerase C8-Peptide Treatment, the Athleta All That Pant; I love these products and I want others to love them, too. I'm sure some shrink could have a psychological heyday with my need for external validation, but enough about my mother's short comings, back to the products.

I've been at the bank before and overheard a woman, no less than 5 people in front of me, discuss her absolute desperate search for a decent, cute raincoat that she could wear out with the kids or to work. Those were the only words I needed to hear as I weaseled my way forward, inserting myself into the conversation. I told this woman in excruciating detail about THE perfect rain coat. The North Face Grace Jacket. The one that would cover her butt, had a hood, was belted, and feminine, so as not to make her look like a hobbit from Lord of the Rings. I knew it's exact cost, including tax, it's whereabouts in the greater Bay Area (it's sold out at REI), and color options. I cut an entire bank line, contributed my unsolicited 2 cents, then trotted off on my merry way. I was so pleased with myself, that not only did I forget the banking I needed to do, but I was completely oblivious to the shell shocked stare this woman followed me with as I went to my car.

One could say I'm an evangelist of sorts and almost as delusional as the ones you see on TV; with a strong held belief that bestowing my knowledge upon the less fortunate will make the world a better place. It's my G_d given right. But this next product really will change your life, or at least your laundry; and if you have kids, goodness knows you can feel that laundry is your life.

Enter my 5 year obsession with OxiClean; the one in the blue spray bottle, not the powdered crap that you have to mix yourself. I love it so much. I know, it all sounds a bit dramatic, maybe a touch shallow right? But even more shallow than that is my fondness of material things; clothes, purses, furniture, anything cashmere. And when something happens to ruin those things - like Desitin being smeared on my favorite oriental carpet - I go crazy.

First, I hate wasting money (my husband might argue that point). It's also a huge inconvenience to have to go out and buy things like new white t-shirts every week because my kids have yet to grasp the concept that after finger paints, hand sanitizer does not take the place of soap and water. Second, and most important, it's a major let down when I can no longer wear my favorite jeans that make my butt look like the white girl's version of J-Lo (not really) because they have Sharpee scribbles all over them.

OxiClean, savior of my sanity, and all things material. If I could, I would marry it. Even my kids, when I get them empty spray bottles at the store for water play, they pretend the water is "Ox", short for OxiClean. "Hey Gregory, your face looks like a big poop, let me spray some Ox on it." Yup, he's right, it can get out poop stains, too.

But for every yin, there is a yang; a dark side when a beloved product lets me down, or G_d forbid, disappears. This past month has tested my limits as a human being. There has been an OxiClean shortage in the Bay Area. Target, Safeway, Rite Aid, CVS, and all of my local markets have been cleaned out. The shelves are empty, my laundry basket is full, full of stained clothes waiting to be pre-treated with this magic potion.

The moms and teachers (custodians, deliverymen, secretaries) at the boys' school have heard me bitching and moaning about my plight, my search for OxiClean. Some of the Oxi ignorant question, "What's so great about OxiClean? Just use Shout, it's the same thing." Oh no you di'int go using the s-word on me, girlfriend.

I don't mean to stereo type, but every single one of them was a mom of only girls. They admitted to not having any real stain issues and politely asked, "So what do you use it for?"

You name it, breast milk, grease, permanent marker, blood.

"Blood?"

Yes, blood.

Next came the scrunched up facial expression begging the question, "Is she joking?"

No, Mary Poppins, I'm not.

One of my fellow moms who also recognized the virtues of OxiClean was so horrified to hear of the shortage, she actually went home to see if she could spare a bottle out of her own stash. Sorry to say she could not. I am my own worst enemy here. I talked/obsessed about the crisis so much, I scared her into hoarding mode. Fortunately, my own mother came to the rescue, sending 4 bottles to me straight from CT, and priority mail no less. Sorry for the psychology dig earlier, Mom. Kids these days are so ungrateful.

Hello Stranger

Yes, I know, the entries have been few and far between. It's not that I don't have anything to complain about - not enough sleep or personal time, the extra 10 lbs I can't get rid of, my family, etc. But things have been good, calmer for some reason. I think being back into the routine of school has mellowed me and the kids out. That daily nagging question of 'Gosh, what are we going to do today?', is gone. As is the depression that follows when we realize we're heading to the park with the same peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and non toxic BPA free water bottles as the prior 57 days.

Just when I think I can breathe a sigh of relief, the boat gets rocked, and hard. So here I am writing, bitching, sharing, healing.

We are at some friend's house for dinner last night. It's warm enough for the kids to eat outside which means a relatively quiet meal for the adults. Dessert is birthday cake. You know the stays moist for 2 weeks, deliciously over processed sheet cake from Safeway, with it's frosting so sugary it coats your teeth. Mmmm. Charlie naturally devours his piece as do I.

After, the boys decide they need to whip up round 2 of dessert in the play kitchen. They begin to set up their ice cream cone stand. Charlie is doing a lot of mixing and freezing. Gregory is making a mockery of Charlie's prep work by stealing the ice cream and serving it to me on fancy little dessert plates. Charlie is pissed and screams, "It's NOT READY YET!'

Gregory simply ignores him and proceeds to ask me what other flavors I want.

Charlie yells, "Gregory, you stupid, I'm not done getting it ready."

Gregory continues on, "You want banilla or chocrate, Mommy?"

Charlie walks up to him with the plastic ice cream scoop, pokes him in the eye then kicks him in the shin. "That's what you get." Of course Gregory is hysterically crying.

Outside onto the porch we go to 'cool off', where Charlie proceeds to tell me why the violence against his brother is justified. "Mommy, Gregory is bad. He's not listening to me and how I want my ice cream store run so I hit him."

Okay, Charlie. I understand you are frustrated with him. But why don't you let him serve some ice cream early or come up with a way he can play, too.

"I hate him, he's stupid and I'm going to do this my way or else he can't play."

Bud, I think you and I need to stay out here for a minute. You are tired and maybe you need to take a break from playing with your brother.

"No, I was in the kitchen first. I get to play there. He's stupid."

Okay, enough with the stupid. Do you think you can play nicely with your brother?

Grumble, grumble, "Yes, but he's still stupid."

We return to the house. Charlie goes back to his work at the freezer while I sit down. Sure enough, Gregory tries to take my ice cream order again. "Mommy, you rike da chocrate?" Charlie goes ballistic. This time he has the sink from the kitchen set and smashes it into the back of his brother's head, screaming the entire time, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO." Back out to the patio we go.

Sit here! You do not hurt your brother. Stay here for 5 minutes and I'll come get you once you've calmed down.

I shut the sliding door and Charlie immediately gets up, sobbing. He presses his face against the glass, screaming, "Let me in. Let me in. LET ME IN, MOMMMMYYYY!"

I cannot believe my kid is this upset over plastic ice cream. The whole thing is ridiculous so I just start laughing. Probably not the smartest choice. Charlie is now kicking the glass and punching it. Screaming that he hates me at the top of his lungs.

And it's time to go.

We start to head out, say our hurried goodbyes. Charlie is still crying, except now that he doesn't want to leave. We are literally walking out the door and the kid hauls off and punches me, tells me he's not going. Oh beautiful boy, why must you go and hurt your mama like that? Now I gotta yell at you in front of our friends, give them a glimpse of the belly of the beast.

Charlie, go to the car NOW!

"No!"

GO. TO. THE. CAR. NOW!!!!!

"You're stupid", and he runs to the car

As he gets in, I tell him to climb up and buckle himself in or else I will drive down the street and leave him on the corner.

Our friends inner horrification is seeping out through their smiles as they wave goodbye, relieved my kid is not their kid. Or maybe they're just happy to see us go. We head home, it's a quiet car ride. At home, Charlie passes out in about 2 seconds and I am reminded of a valuable lesson - highly refined, white sugar is a weapon of evil when consumed by an overtired child and his mama. Damn you, Birthday Cake, damn you.

Capturing the Cuteness

When it comes to my kids, I am not a sentimental person. I never oohed and aahed over them as babies. There is no baby book for either one. I kept an infant outfit for each which I'm sure I shoved in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. I know when they walked, and generally when they talked, but I just assume their first words were 'mama' or 'dada'.

Whenever one of my friends whips out their elegantly scrap booked baby shrine, shows me their kids first hair cut clipping, or proofs from their latest professional photo session, I do not feel guilty. I'm not a baby person, never have been. While others mourned the end of breastfeeding and infant car seats, I cheered the 10 month milestone of my kids being able to hold their own bottle and sit in a regular chair at the table. My goal has always been how can I get them to be as self sufficient as possible - in hopes that they'll leave me alone long enough to update this damn blog (obviously failing on that front as well since my last post was May).

Parents of grown children always lament to me about how childhood is fleeting. "Before you know it, you wake up and they're off to college." My typical response is a hopeful, Really? Promise? Maybe if I close my eyes tight, and click my ruby slippers together, when I wake up I'll be off this carousel of monotony that is my life - breakfast, park, lunch, ride bikes at park, dinner, bed - round and round I've been going for 5 years. My kids are endlessly demanding of my attention, it's a wonder I can even breathe. Sometimes I can't wait for them to grow up and move onto that next phase of maturity, like riding the bus to school or finding their own apartment.

But this summer I may have had a change of heart. The boys and I spent 3 weeks visiting my Mom on the east coast. She lives in the same house where I grew up since I was 7. Our wonderful neighbors are still across the street keeping as close a tab on my kids as they did on me during my teen years. Except now I'm watching their children, who I babysat, get married, graduate from dental school, and have babies themselves. How did that happen? And where does that leave me with my non existent baby books and lack of professional photos? Maybe those empty nesters speak the truth.

Overnight I feel this sense of urgency to commit everything about my kids to memory. How can I capture these moments so I can be reminded exactly of how they were at this time? Kind of like when you get a whiff of new baby smell, it just sends you back (Okay, so I don't hate babies and I'm a little sentimental). Lord knows I cannot rely upon my current brain cells to handle this task. This morning rather than being bothered to throw the Cheerios out of Gregory's car seat and into the garbage, I ate them. They were stale and I didn't care. Don't judge.

Charlie is now 5. I take comfort that no matter what stage he's at - past, present, or future -he'll be smarter than me. Even I can remember that. He casually offers up observations like, "Mommy, I'm no detective, but that cloud formation sure looks like an upper and lower case 7." I just cannot believe he is mine, let alone a kid. I also know he'll always be funnier than I am. On one of our many side of the road emergency pit stops, Charlie was doing his thing and said, "If the fire chief drives by, I bet he'll think there's a firetruck over here because of how big my stream is." Did I mention humble, too.

But it's when I think about Gregory, at 2.5+ years, that I become truly desperate. He is at this stage of unbelievable innocence and pure love; still very much a baby that needs his mama yet on the cusp of growing facial hair. When I am going out or dropping him at school, I always say, "Give me a kiss." To which he responds, "And ew (you) give me a hug." As I walk out the door, there is an urgent plea, "Wait Mommy, I need anudder hug. Oh yeah, and kiss, too." He hugs and kisses me again and says, "I wuv ew. Be carefuw, Mommy." He is sweetness personified.

He is my last baby and about 15 cases of diapers away from becoming a mouthy 5 year old who rolls his eyes at me and tells me how 'annoying' I am. I can't say I can recall the specifics of Charlie at this age. There are vague memories of a sweet boy with blond curly hair and the vocabulary of an English professor. Though in my defense, I had just popped Gregory out. I was so sleep deprived Charlie could have been speaking fluent Russian and I wouldn't have given it a second thought. Sorry, Chuck, if only I had kept a baby book. I guess you'll have to settle for a blog entry.

Maplevizer, Inc.

On our Mother's Day hike yesterday, the kids were doing what they do best, playing with sticks. Gregory had a long, curved stick that was, 'Blowing moke on da fire.' Charlie had a huge limb with tons of smaller branches. What do you have Charlie? 'This is my maplevizer. I use it for smoking bad guys and making them dead.'

We walked a little further talking about maplevizers. Brian and I decided we should start a company called Maplevizer Consultants. We're not sure what we would do, but we'd have a cool name and would surely be successful.

'Mommy, now my maplevizer is a shooter, but not like a shooter gun for bad guys. It shoots love. Watch.' He points, aims, and shoots it at me. Cute. Then he proceeds to chuck it down the side of a ravine. 'Yeah, that maplevizer was really heavy, I needed get rid of it.' It was nice while it lasted.

Charlie loves to make up words. Even the childish games he invents have catchy, interesting names like Fita and Taber Mamah. Every week or so a new word gets added to the mix. If there was a business for word creation, my kid would get hired right now. Wait, isn't that advertising? Or is it marketing? Never mind.

We have a small plastic wagon that used to hold some Duplo Blocks. We've been using it to store our massive Hot Wheels/Match Box collection, until Charlie realized Gregory could fit inside of it. He loves to pull his brother all over the house going as fast as he can. When the need for speed hits, Charlie will yell, 'Hey Gregory, come and get into the compoundown.' - aka the wagon. I have no idea where compoundown comes from, but it has a certain ring to it. The kid has a gift.

As I was loading the boys into the car some months ago, Charlie beckoned, 'Gregory, come in here quick. I need your help with the benemehno.' The what? 'The benemehno. Gregory, get in here now before it gets away.' The definition is a moving target depending on the day you ask. Yesterday, benemehno was a lot of dots in one place. Really? 'Well Mommy, what it means to me is that there are a bunch of dots all together and it means the same thing to Ari.' Interesting.

What other words do you have that you can teach me?

'None, they're all worn out so I don't use them. Except when I'm going poop because I like to talk about them in private.'

I guess he's shy about his creative genius. The advertising world will have to wait.

Cruella De Mommy

Gregory is petrified of spiders, or 'piders' as he calls them. He hates them so much that the sight of one can stop him cold, and is usually followed by a piercing scream, 'Pider!' Every dust ball, piece of hair, or thread, renders a shriek, 'Pider web!' Brian dislikes all bugs, but is particularly phobic of spiders; like father like son.

Perhaps it was his high pitched screams whenever an 8 legged creature appeared. The pleas, "Honey, come get it. Come get it and kill it. NOW!" Or the fact that Mommy is known as the spider catcher/saver/terminator in our house. Whatever the clue, Gregory figured out his old man's achilles heel and clearly used this information for his own personal gain.

The first night I was away at my grandmother's memorial, Brian allowed Gregory to sleep in our bed. This is something we try to avoid at all costs in our household. Once you let a kid into your bed, they're like fleas or a bad house guest, they take up residence and are impossible to get rid of. So in our bed is where Gregory stayed for the next 3 nights until my return.

As the story goes, Brian put Gregory to bed after his usual story and song routine. Of course the boy talked to his monkey, jumped up and down in his crib, sang 'Celebration', pretty much did anything but sleep. Brian popped his head into the bedroom and said, "Hey, it's time to rest your body so lay down and go to sleep."

"Aw wight", was the response.

No sooner was Brian out the door when the, "Daddy. Daddy. Daddy? DADDY!!!!" started.

Trip number 2, Brian told Gregory that Charlie was asleep and he needed to quiet down.

The obligatory, "Okay, Daddy", and I'm sure he laid back down just to keep up appearances.

According to Brian, this went on a few more times until he threatened Gregory with shutting the door and turning out the light.

I can picture my husband snuggled back into bed and focused on his own slumber, until, "Daddy. Da-dee. DA-DEE. DAAAAA-DEEEEE." Pillow covering the ears, blanket pulled over the head, all meager defenses against the whiney voice of a 2 1/2 year old who is being ignored. And Gregory, a graduate of Grand Master Chief Charlie's toddler bootcamp, knew that in the face of adversity any good soldier went for the jugular. And so he did, "PIDER! PIDER! Daddy, there's a pider."

Brian was definitely spoiled up until my departure. I was the parent awoken when one of the kids even breathed funny. Noises loud or soft, my husband often slept right through unaware that I had been up a half dozen times. The poor man was ill prepared. Exhausted and fully manipulated by Gregory's knowledge of his own arachnophobia, Brian uttered those fatal words, "Do you want to sleep in Daddy's bed?"

Sucker.

Fast forward to Mommy's first night back home and it was pretty much an instant replay of the past 3 evenings. First the "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy?"

"Go to sleep, Gregory."

Then the, "Mommy, I need a drink of water. I need water."

Get up, trudge down the hall, "If I get you a drink of water are you going to go to sleep?"

"Yes, but I want water from the bathroom and I drink it out of the blue cup."

I get the water and before giving it to him, make him swear upon his monkey's life, "If I give this to you, you're going to lay down, right?"

"Yes."

"Here you go. Now go to sleep."

"Ok, Mommy."

Not five minutes later I hear, "I want to sleep in Mommy's bed. I want to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed."

Perhaps it was the jet lag or the feeling of the cold ass floor on my feet for the sixth time that caused me to snap. I marched into his room. He smiled as I glared. I said, "Gregory, if you do not go to sleep, I will get a spider from the hallway and put it into your bed. Do you understand?"

A barely audible, 'yes', escaped his lips. His poor little eyeballs almost popped out of his head. But wouldn't you know that boy laid down and went to sleep.

As I crawled back into my own bed, Brian asked what happened. When I told him he said, "You are cruel." Then promptly rolled over and fell back asleep.

I was cleaning up his mess, you would have thought he'd have been a little more grateful.

Legacy of a Life

My grandmother died this past Easter Sunday. After 94 + years on this planet, a nasty bout of pneumonia and bronchitis finally caused her body to say, 'Enough'.

I flew back east for her memorial which was a true celebration of her life. Her pastor performed an amazing service talking about my grandmother's Legacy of Life; family, education, love of nature, perseverance, charity, and a strict no BS policy. We laughed and cried as we told wonderful stories about how she instilled all of these values not only in her 4 children, but her 9 grandchildren and 12 great grandchildren.

My grandmother stood maybe a hair taller than 5 foot, but had the presence, and sometimes the mouth, of a man 6 feet tall; that woman loved a good dirty joke. She was humbled and frequently embarrassed by her 8th grade education even though she received her GED at the age of 43. She loved museums, the theater, her grandchildren's concerts, anything that fell under the heading of culture. She could identify any bird by sight as well as sound. Knew exactly how and when to plant each vegetable, fruit, and flower in the garden. She could shoot, pluck and dress a game bird. The woman actually knew what squirrel tasted like.

When we went to Grammy's house for holidays, birthdays, Sunday dinners, no matter what was put on your plate, you had to try everything. "At least one bite", was her famous line. Upon entering her kitchen, the words everyone dreaded were, "Well, I decided to try out a new recipe; something a little different." 'A little different' usually meant a new type of jello mold - raspberry jello with peanuts, celery and apples - or a new way to serve squash - pureed with nuts and raisins. We were expected to eat these unappetizing concoctions or suffer the wrath of Grammy. A wrath so great, I actually waited until she was dead before committing any of this to paper.

We chose not tell Charlie right away about my grandmother's death. There was great uncertainty on how to broach the subject. We didn't want to say she died because she was old; to Charlie I am considered old and knowing how the literal brain of a 4 year old works, you can imagine where that explanation could lead us. I also didn't want to tell him she was sick; both of his grandparents were sick on their last visit here for Passover. Although at times they both acted like it could possibly be the end, as only dramatic Jewish grandparents can, the common cold does not qualify as terminal illness.

Brian and I decided to wait until I returned home for fear that Charlie might think I went away and would not come back like great Grammy. Call it paranoid or preparedness, the last thing you want is for your child to be scared or suffer from doubts or insecurities about a subject like death, that can be so dark and final.

We consulted Charlie's teacher, borrowed a few of her books from which I took pieces that were appropriate to our situation. I liked a book called 'Nana Upstairs, Nana Downstairs' quite a bit, but mostly because the great grandmother, Nana Upstairs, was 94 like my Grammy, and Tommy, the great grandson, was 4 like Charlie. At the end Tommy saw a shooting star and interpreted that as a kiss sent down from Nana Upstairs, very sweet. 'Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge', by Julie Viva, brought tears to my eyes. It's about a little boy who lives next to a nursing home and helps one of it's residents, Miss Nancy, try to get her memory back even though Wilfrid doesn't know what the word memory means. But the majority of the language we used came from a book called 'I Miss You', by Pat Thomas.

This morning I asked Charlie if he knew why I had gone to Yia Yia's (my mom) this weekend?
He said, "No, why?"
I told him that great Grammy had died.
"For real?", he asked.
Yes, for real. Do you know what that means, that she died?
"No, what?"
It means that her body stopped working. Her heart, her eyes, her brain, her arms, her legs, all stopped working and so she died.
"Like her eyes closed when she went to sleep?"
Yes, except that she will not wake up. When we go to Yia Yia's this summer, great Grammy will not be there like she usually is.
"That's okay Mommy because I have lots of cousins who will be there."
That is true, you're lucky. Great Grammy lived a very long life, you and your cousins have lots of memories to remember her by.
"Kind of like when someone dies and they raise a flag half way to remember them."
That's right.
"That's so sad. Can I have some yogurt now?"

And that was it. The conversation Brian and I had hashed out dozens of times, talked about endlessly, consulted books about, and pretty much dreaded, just ended like we were talking about the weather. There have been other questions peppered throughout the week, like asking if she died alone and then telling Brian, 'When I died, I am going to give my whole family kisses but that will be before I died.'

Charlie's amazing ability to comprehend and discuss this heavy subject as well as my Grammy's memorial service gave me some much needed perspective. A). My kid is sensitive and not completely void of sympathy. B). Not once did any of my grandmother's children mention how many times they were spanked, punished, or yelled at; and she was old school, circa 1915, with belts hanging around every corner.

I'm trying to be kind to myself and not worry that every little thing I do to my kids is going to cause them irreparable harm for which I will be blamed. Lord knows they'll punish me enough during my lifetime. My hope is that I can instill enough of the values that I live by to create my own legacy; preferably one that won't involve time outs or hysterical fits of rage.

Every night at dinner my kids have something new on their plate to try. And like in great Grammy's house, they know that they have to eat at least one bite. However, when they do take that taste, I get up from my seat and jump in the air 3 times yelling, "Jack pot! Jack pot! Jack pot!" (Don't ask). I've gotten up in restaurants, homes of friends, as well as public picnic areas because my kids will eat just about anything in order to see their Mom leap like a lunatic yelling jack pot. Charlie said just the other night, "Gregory, you should be glad it's only a bite of peas (Gregory hates peas) and not great Grammy's jello with nuts, celery and apples." The Legacy of Grammy's Life lives strong in our household.

Share

This past Tuesday night Brian was working late which meant I was tasked with performing the bed time routine on my own. It's always an adventure in patience. "Okay, time to get jammies on. Time to brush teeth" are repeated so often the words are rendered meaningless.

We got home from dinner at my girlfriend's house and the boys were still coming down from their ice cream sandwich high. I let them bounce on Charlie's bed for a good 5 minutes with the hopes that it would tire them out. Oh naive Mommy, that just got them even more riled up.

I gave the 'Let's settle down' warning which was promptly ignored. The bouncing and giggling both continued elevating. Finally Charlie took a giant leap about 4 feet in the air, coming down square on top of Gregory's head with his jaw, then proceeded to sweep his legs out from under him as he rolled off the bed. Gregory flew like a Russian gymnast. Spiraling through the air, he landed on his head in such an awkward position, I was certain he had broken his neck.

To date I've been a pretty cool customer when faced with an injured child. I act calmly and rationally, applying pressure, Neosporin, or the Heimlich Maneuver when appropriate. But this was the first time one of the injuries could have been life altering. It looked so bad and I did not handle it well. Let me preface this next part by saying that I am not proud of my behavior.

Charlie is holding his mouth, screaming in pain. Gregory is making howling noises like an injured dog. As I go to straighten him out (he looks not unlike an accordion), I trip over Charlie's guitar; the one that was supposed to be put away prior to jumping on the bed. I stub my toe so hard it's probably broken and almost fall on top of Gregory. It's official, I have been pushed over the edge. I grab the guitar and smash it on the ground like I'm Jimi Hendrix reincarnated and let out the most primal scream, "Ahhhh! Charlie, move this stupid, flipping guitar."

Gregory is in my arms hysterical as I feel every bone in his body, frantically yelling, "What hurts? Tell Mommy what hurts?" Charlie is crying, "I'm hurt, too. I'm hurt, too." I grab him and hug him, checking his teeth and jaw. Everything is in tact and there is no sign of blood.
"You're fine", I say and get back to Gregory, who is at least moving but looking a little dazed as an enormous black and blue egg forms on his head.
Charlie starts crying even harder, "You broke my guitar. You broke my guitar. Waaaaahhhh."

For the record, I did feel bad about losing control, but not about smashing that guitar. Charlie had broken it the week after Christmas when he decided to jump on top of it like a trampoline. It also spent the better part of the month at the top of the linen closet in a permanent state of time out. Gregory wanted to see if he could make music by cracking the guitar against the back of his brother's head. Then Charlie and his buddy cut all of the strings off, rendering it unplayable. The guitar was living on borrowed time. I simply helped it along to it's grave, and probably in a more dignified manner.

Things inevitably quieted down. No trip to the ER, thankfully. I apologized for yelling and breaking the guitar, but explained that I was really scared that Gregory had gotten hurt. None of us made the best choices that evening, and we discussed how we could do things differently.

The next morning I overheard Charlie say to Brian, "Daddy, Mommy broke my guitar. Can I bring it to school for share?" I did a full sprint from the kitchen into the living room, "Honey, that guitar has lots of sharp pieces, I don't think it's safe to take it to school. And for the record, it was already broken."

F*CK

As I've mentioned in the past, Brian and I are not big swearers. We'll slip with an occasional 'G_d Dammit' here or there, but that's the extent of our expletives around the kids. This has not been an easy transition for me as I love to swear, especially when I'm driving.

The boys know that Mommy is the best driver and everyone else is simply wrong and a hazard on the road. Nothing gets my point across like a good 'Fuck you buddy! Try to come into my lane without a signal and I'll ram you up the ass.' So satisfying, or at least it was.

If I really stretch it out beyond the point of recognition, maybe I can get away with, 'Jeeeeeeeeeeeesus, old woman! Give up your license for the love of Pete.' Charlie's catching onto me. He'll say, 'Mommy, I heard that bad word and who's Pete?' The atmosphere is a bit more forgiving when it's just me and Gregory in the car. I can sneak in a 'Dick wad' or 'Asshole', and he's none the wiser. But even now that little vacation to potty mouth land is coming to an end.

The other day when a woman cut in front of us on the highway, I scoffed, 'Jeez, lady, watch where you're going.' From the backseat I hear Gregory, 'You douche bag, lady.' Fortunately I was able to turn the radio up to muffle my laughter.

The other night we went out to dinner when my Mom was in town. We were finishing our pizza when the boys started asking about ice cream. Brian said let me check my wallet to make sure I have enough money. 'Yup, $26 ought to do it.' When she visits us, my Mom likes to pretend she's a high roller and not the first person to graduate college in a family of a sheet metal welder and factory worker from Schenectady. She tries hard not to let her jaw drop to the floor when we show her a million dollar, 3 bedroom, 1500 square foot house on a piece of land about the size of a postage stamp.

So of course, the contents of Brian's wallet begs her to ask, 'What kind of ice cream is this that's going to cost us $26?'
He jokes, 'Well you know, the boys like to get gummy bears and gold coins on their ice cream.' At least that's what I thought he said.

Charlie all of a sudden yells, "Fucking gold coins. Fucking gold coins." He is hysterical as we all stare shell shocked, trying not laugh ourselves. Gregory immediately picks up on the fact that his brother is getting some attention.
He starts in, "Fucking gold coins. Ha ha ha. Fucking gold coins."
The people at the next table are GLARING at the bad parents with the misbehaving kids. Not the first time this has happened folks so keep moving, nothing to see here.

Brian is pissed and embarrassed, 'Charlie! Gregory! We don't talk like that.'
They're both crazed as they sing in chorus, "Fucking gold coins, fucking gold coins."
'I guess you guys don't want ice cream?'
Silence.

Meanwhile, on the side Brian whispers to us, 'Did I say the 'f' word'? I don't think I said it. Did I say it?'
My Mom is insistent that he did not. But her specialty is agreeing with you no matter what you say or how wrong you are. She doesn't want to disagree because that could lead to confrontation; the 8th and lesser known of all the deadly sins.
I am personally not so convinced Brian hasn't said it. But my attention span these days, especially when my husband is talking, is about 2 seconds before it's in one ear and out the other.

Brian is now adamant that he has not dropped the f-bomb, shaking his head, questioning how our kids could even know this word. My Mother is equally as flabbergasted and fawning all over Brian's protests, 'I know, it's not like you to ever talk like that. I don't know what's going on.'
I'm kind of quiet and still unsure about the whole thing.

The debate rages on until Charlie interrupts, "Excuse me, Brian. You did say 'Fucking Gold Coins'."
Well, I guess that settles it. It's Brian's fault.

Will You Just Give Me a Minute

I have always been a morning person. I got up without hitting snooze, could have a lucid conversation prior to ingesting caffeine, and had the ability to roll out of bed and be ready for work in 15 minutes, that's with a shower. Perhaps it's the luck of the genetic draw, or maybe it's because in the past, morning was my time. I could go for a run or take my time getting ready, wake up with a cup of coffee, read the paper. My choice, my life.

Now with my children in control of wake up (and my life) and robbing me of precious sleep every night, I am no longer a morning person. I calculated that I have not slept through the night in almost 5 years if you include the last few months of pregnancy. On the rare occasion when both of my kids sleep through the night, my bladder cannot, and when I'm up, I have to go check on them. There just seem to be a lot more cob webs to clear out these days and not enough time or peace in the morning to get to them all.

From the moment I set foot in the kitchen, I am met with a deluge of orders. I can muster enough brain power to form a single thought - coffee. Yes, that's what I should do first, make coffee. But my plans are waylaid by a demand for water. With ice. And in a cup with a straw. Not the red cup, but the blue one. What was I doing? Coffee, right.

As I make my way over to the cupboard to fulfill the order, another request, a command really, is immediately issued by my youngest. 'NO, I want the blue cup.'

Charlie of course counters by yelling, 'NO, I get it! I asked first.'

'No, Charlie not get it. I get it.'

Now there's screaming. For the love of Pete, it is 6:30 am and I have lost count of the number of scoops of coffee I just measured. What do I do? Do I just estimate the rest and risk the brew being the equivalent of rocket fuel? Should I empty the whole coffee filter and start from scratch? If I could just hear myself think for 5 seconds, I'm sure I could figure this out.

'No, I want it.'

'No, I want it.'

'Stupid, Charlie.'

'Mommy! Gregory used a bad word and I should get the blue cup now.'

I'm paralyzed. Problem solving is not my strong suit when chaos is erupting around me. The voices in my head are one thing, but this is ridiculous.

We finally work through the water issue. By the way, no one got the blue cup, it's in the garbage. That's how Mommy rolls when people mess with her coffee. Now there are requests for breakfast.

'I want something from the refrigerator.'

What would you like, Charlie, yogurt?

'No.'

Cereal with milk?

'That doesn't come from the fridge.'

The milk does.

'No, the cereal doesn't so I don't want it.'

How about eggs?

'I don't eat eggs anymore.'

Since when?

'Since I told the wires in my brain not to like them.'

Oh. Grapes?

'Yeah, grapes would be good.'

Okay, grapes coming up. And I'll grab myself a cup of jo en route.

'I don't want grapes.'

Well Gregory, what do you want?

'I want pretzel rod.'

No, pretzels.

'I want popsicle.'

No.

How about some yogurt?

'Okay. I want vanilla.'

We only have blueberry.

'I no want blueberry.'

That's all I've got is blueberry. It's blue yogurt, way better than white.

'Okay.'

Okay!

I still haven't gotten my coffee and I don't even think Mark Geragos in the height of the Scott Peterson trial debated this much within an hour of his waking.

Finally, everyone has their food. I have my coffee and think I might sit down.

'Mommy, I'm done.' Or not.

Honey, I don't think just grapes is enough of a breakfast. You're going to get hungry at school.

'But I'm done.'

How about some yogurt, like Gregory?

'Okay, I'll have vanilla.'

Your screaming must have caused you to miss that part of the conversation earlier. There is only blueberry.

'But I want vanilla.'

Really? Really, Charlie? Are we going to play this game?

'What, Mommy?'

Blueberry or nothing.

'Okay, blueberry I guess. But you should really get vanilla when you're at the store next time. I like vanilla the best.'

Great.

I am now starving and need to eat my cereal before I go postal. My ass has not even formed an indentation on the seat cushion of the chair when I hear, 'I all done.'

Okay Greg, you're going to have to wait until Mommy finishes before I can help you.

'No, I all done now.'

Sorry, bud, let me eat then we'll get you something.

'No, now.'

No.

'Have some of Mommy's cereal?'

What's mine is yours kid and if it will keep you quiet, why not.

'Mommy, I don't want my yogurt anymore. I want some crackers with cheese, but it has to be orange mild cheddar, not the white mild cheddar.'

Charlie, finish your yogurt, that's what you asked for.

With tears brimming in his eyes, 'But Mommy, I didn't want the blueberry yogurt. I wanted vanilla and because you didn't get any at the store, I shouldn't have to eat blueberry. I want crackers with orange mild cheddar.'

I guess I should just get used to this. Everything will be my fault for the rest of my kids lives, or until they get a good therapist. I'm going to call mine right now.

Mommy Stupid

Gregory loves the word stupid, more than Goldfish, juice boxes, and his Home Depot tool box combined. The more he says it, the more I cringe, twinge and yell, the more he loves it - ah, the circle of parenthood. We've tried just about every tactic short of caning to get him to stop using the 's' word.

1). Ignore it

After listening to himself repeat the word stupid 20 times with nary an eyebrow raise from Mom, Gregory turns it into a question in an attempt to illicit a response from anyone who is listening, 'Mommy stupid? Daddy stupid? Charlie stupid?'

Like a trout with a fat worm dangling on a hook, Charlie takes the bait, 'NO, I am not stupid! And you're not supposed to be using the word stupid, Gregory.'

Gregory is very pleased with himself, happy to have found a sparring partner. On the fly he changes tactics and boldly states, 'Charlie is stupid. Charlie is stupid.' (I like the addition of a verb for emphasis)

5...4...3...2...1...and, 'MOMMY!!!! Gregory is calling me STUPID. He's not supposed to use that word.'

'Charlie is stupid.'

'MOOOOMMMMMMY! Stop it Gregory. Wahhhh!'

Well, bud, you kind of walked into that one, making you not necessarily stupid, but a bit gullible. If you had just ignored him like me...

2). The Redirect

Sometimes when there is a lull in conversation at the dinner table, the boys take this to mean a breach in the parental defense system. As of late, 90% of the time we can count on Gregory to escalate things back up to defcon 1.

'Charlie stupid. Ha ha ha.'

Oh Gregory, let's think of another word to use like 'silly'. Charlie is silly, isn't he?

'No, Charlie stupid.'

What about a word that rhymes, like 'mupid' or 'wupid'. Could Charlie be mupid?

'Stupid, stupid, stupid.'

'Mommy - sniff sniff - tell Gregory to stop calling me stupid.'

'Stupid, Charlie, stupid.'

'Waaaahhhh! Stop it Gregory. You're stupid.'

3). Reasoning

We are riding in the car when out of the blue Gregory says, 'Mommy stupid. Mommy stupid.'

No Gregory, we don't say that.

'Mommy stupid. Hee hee hee.'

That's not nice, that hurts Mommy's feelings.

'Stupid Mommy. Stupid Mommy.'

It takes every ounce of self control not to turn around and smack him, as well as his father, who is trying to drive while muffling his snarky laughter.

Gregory, do you want us to go home and you can go right to bed?

'Pretty Mommy. Pretty Mommy.'

I shit you not, Brian and I burst into laughter.

4). Defeat

We are braving it at a local brew pub, having lunch with the boys and my Mom, our designated driver. I know I've previously written about our apprehension of restaurant dining with our children, but our logic here is sound and almost fool proof (almost). We've found that the amount of beer we drink is directly proportional to how well our kids behave. No beer, they're really bad, wreaking havoc upon our fellow diners. 1 beer, they're kind of annoying, but amusing us with their antics. 2+ beers and they are little angels with french fry halos, who we'll brag about to anyone within earshot.

Mercifully, the boys get their meals first. Then the waitress comes back specifically to ask them if their food is okay. It was quite sweet. My need to ensure the smallest of lessons not go untaught forces me to chime in, 'Wow, what a good server. She wanted to come check on you guys and make sure you liked your food. That was really nice. Wasn't that nice?'

Gregory's looks at me, 'Yeah, not stupid.'

Not stupid? I guess that could be another way of saying nice. Well done, Greg. That would be game, point, and match.