I've Created a Monster

I'm outnumbered, pure and simple.

You would think that this would be a familiar feeling, considering I am a single mom with 4 kids. You would think, but you would be wrong.

Now that I'm down to only 2 at home, I am more outnumbered than ever because the 2 who are still home are frequently referred to as "The Frank-n-Carmen". When they were toddlers together, the monstrous nickname was cute. It was funny. Now, it's downright scary.

I wish I could have recorded our first serious conversation in our new home. It had obviously been planned for some time. But not by me.

F-n-C: Mom, now that we're in a new place, there should be new rules. So we're each going to write down 3 rule changes that should happen.

Mom: Ok, how many rule changes do I get?

F-n-C: (Exchange of secret language expression) You can have three, too.

Mom: Oh, good.

F-n-C: (In unison as if scripted) Three total. Not three for each kid.

Mom: Well, let's see your changes.

Rule Change Lists:

1. Later Curfews
2. Cussing is allowed.
3. Ability to come and go when you want and all you have to do is tell mom where you are going.

1. When we go out, we don't have to give a big background check on our friends.

2. Everyone go with the flow.

3. Mind yo own business, Fool! (That includes everyone).

Mom: You understand that I do have veto power on all of these, Fool?! (Okay, I didn't say, FOOL, but I dearly wanted to. But this was their first attempt at sitting down to discuss rules in a mature manner. I wanted to respect the process.)

F-n-C: Come on, Mom. We thought that once we moved to the apartment, you would be cool. All kids who live in apartments have cool parents.

Mom: How many kids do you know who live in apartments?

F-n-C: (Again, in unison) You know, on television.

Clearly, I would never make it as a TV mom. 

I have feeling this is only the first of many double teams for which I will have to brace myself.

For years I have told the Frank-n-Carmen, "Do you know why you guys are so close together in age? It was planned that way, so you would have a playmate. Now, go play." It seemed like such a good idea at the time--you know, sibling bonding and all that. Well, at least I can say the bond that was created is a strong one. I guess I can take solace in that, even if it means I'm outnumbered!



Praise for the Super Nag

I thought I knew all the parenting tricks. I really did. Then something interesting happened. My teenage daughter said I could nag her. In fact, she insisted I nag her! Now that's a new twist in motherhood I never expected. The same teen who tells me I care too much and that it makes her angry when I praise her asked me to nag her into submission!

You see, she's got a fitness goal. I'm really proud of her for making this goal. She's new to high school sports and wants to make sure she can compete. I tell her she's awesome. She's great! She can compete with the best of them. Her response--the ol' Huff and Puff followed by the ever effective Eye Roll. Sometimes there's even a bit of "You don't know anything, Mom" or "You have to say that. You're my mom."

And yet she comes to me, Roaring Mom, for the Super Nag! YESS!!! All those years of perfectly punctuated lectures have paid off. 

Who knew that the perfectly punctuated lecture was the desired parenting procedure, even over the perfectly punctuated praise. I sure didn't. But that's the thing about parenting--we learn more from them than they probably ever learn from us.

So, I eagerly awaited my first nagging opportunity. It didn't take long. It was only later that week, in fact. She'd been sitting in one position, staring at her phone screen so long that muscular atrophy was only minutes away.   Here was my chance and I jumped right in!

"You need to work out. Get off that phone. If you wanna earn your spot, you gotta work harder than everyone else. Stop staring at that phone. Don't be so lazy. Get up and get going! Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!" 

"Mom!"

"Come on! Let's go! You said I could nag you. You think Hope Solo stares at her phone for hours on end? Let's go! Let's go! LET'S GO!!!"

"Mom!"

"What? You said I could nag you."

"Yeah, I said you could nag me. I didn't say you could be annoying!"

"Oh. Is there a difference?"

"I guess not with you."

"Well, I'm just gonna keep on being annoying until you get up and go. So deal with it!'

"Fine."

"Fine."

And she got up and go-ed! Yes!  Success!

Funny, all the Roaring Mom Praise in the world couldn't motivate her, but the Super Nag did the job splendidly. 

Guess you can teach an old Roaring Mom new tricks! 

Teens Say the Darnedest Things

It seems completely ludicrous--the babble that comes from the mouths of teens. I mean, seriously, toddler babble sounded more credible, didn't it? Do they really hear themselves? Or maybe it's not a matter of hearing, but rather comprehending.

Like tonight. Frank comes into to help with the dishes. There's a counter full that needs to be put away. He puts away the first dish, turns and looks at me with an incredulous expression and asks, "Now, why do these need to put away?" I return the incredulous stare, but he doesn't get the message. I muster patience and explain, "We're getting ready to eat dinner. There will be more dishes to wash. Where will I put those to dry if that counter is full?" This time he looks at me like I'm the stupid one and points to the other, cleared off counter. Duh!

I'm beginning to wonder what's so wrong with that "Because I said so" comment we were taught was not good parenting.

But the "why do we have to put dishes away" comment is mild, really, in comparison to other quotable moments like...

...when Carmen was grounded from her phone. After a week of angry tantrums I tried to explain that when she was more respectful, she'd get the phone back and she and answered, "Well, I'd be more respectful and nicer to everyone if you'd just give it back first. I think that would be a better deal for everyone."

...when Kate was on her way out the door to school after I had tried to give her a Be Positive Pep Talk, and she answered, "I can be a positive as you want, Mom. That doesn't change the fact that everyone around me is a dumb ass."

...when I explained to Sophie that she really does have to help with dishes because she lives here, she eats here, and she does, in fact, dirty dishes from time to time, and she answered, "So." Then she walked off.

What's really fun is getting to see that teen twit perspective tweeted all over Twitterdom.

"...when my parents don't let me go where I want" #itsmydecision
"...when my mom stalks me on twitter" #getofftwittermom

So, what's a Roaring Mom to do when the teens have got it all figured out? After all, we're just fuddy-duddies living in their world. Perhaps I should try harder to understand their language. Maybe I should brush up on my Eye Roll and the Huff and Stomp. Maybe an angry tantrum or two followed by a well placed So and Walk Off would help. Yeah, that's it. I think that would be a better deal for everyone!

Then maybe, once I really get the teen lingo down, I'll hashtag it to my friends! #becauseisaidso

Tech Trouble

It all started with Dirty Shirley. She's loud and bossy. She interrupts everyone's conversation, tries to drown out Bon Jovi, and constantly leads us astray. Unfortunately, we've grown so accustomed to her that's it's become almost impossible not to include her in any family outing. We tolerate her loud sighs followed by the condescending, "Recalculating", because someone somewhere somehow convinced me that we can't function without her.

Not too long after the arrival of Dirty Shirley came her distantly related cousin--on steroids. You might know him as the Smart Phone. Smart Phone--kind of a condescending, self-serving title, don't ya think. And if that title weren't enough all by itself, that Smart Phone comes with a Genius button. And just like most geniuses, trying to communicate with it just makes me feel stupid.

With the Genius button, I'm supposed to be able to speak into the phone and tell it to call one of my contacts. There's even a car mode. Dirt Shirley oughta like that! Just to spite her, I give it a try.

I'm behind the wheel, navigating the one-way streets of down town rush hour. I push the Genius Button.

ME: Call Frank.
Genius: Did you say call Kate?
ME: Call Frank.
Genius: Did you say call Carmen?
ME: No. Carmen sounds nothing like Frank. Call Frank!
Genius: Did you say call Drake?
ME: I don't even know a Drake. There is no Drake in my contacts. CALL FRANK! Dammit!
Genius: Did you say call Janet?

Dirty Shirley: Recalculating!

Apparently that street wasn't exactly heading in the same one way I was heading. What can I say? I guess I'm just not smart enough to manage navigation and communication, even with the aid of the latest life easing technology.

I realize and appreciate that my tech savvy family is trying to corral my A.D.D. brain into organizational submission. However, my daytimer and #2 pencil never need charging and my 3 ring full of loose leaf wide ruled never experiences a paper jam. I push the buttons on my land line phone, it doesn't push mine and my Rand McNally Road map never sasses me!

If this blog actually gets posted correctly, please share your own tech disaster, if only so I don't feel so alone in the universe. However, I hear there's a solution for that too. Our new computer has something called a Skype button.

Something Right

He's been badgered, picked-on, hen-pecked, nagged, and tormented. He can't seem to get a word in  most of the time without being interrupted or corrected or talked-over. He knows--completely against his will--every girl power song by heart, including all the lyrics to the Mama Mia soundtrack. I feel for the kid, but I have no idea how to change this situation. Come on, as a newborn, he came home from the hospital --wrapped in a pink blanket-- to a house full of Barbies and baby dolls. I honestly don't know if he'd know how to act if all the estrogen was somehow magically sucked from our home. He'd probably plug in Kelly Clarkson or Taylor Swift, just so he could function normally.

During his short 12 years, the kid has been dressed as girl, had his Buzz Lightyear tent turned into a princess castle, and forced to compete in Dance Party 2 showdowns. He's had his Lego sculptures pulverized, his Star Wars marathons cut short, and his boyscout uniforms turned into Halloween costumes. He's had his brows plucked and his hair gelled. And through it all, he has remained such a guy! His favorite part of AFV is always the crotch shot section. He wishes everyday were Independence Day, just for an excuse to blow stuff up. Heck, last week he watched 4 full days of televised car auctions, interspersed with sports, of course. Only a guy could handle that, let alone enjoy it!

And yet, even surrounded with baby dolls and Barbies and Justin Bieber, Frank somehow figured out how to be the best kind of boy and the best kind of brother. His sisters don't know how good they've got it. Recently several of Kate's college friends and Sophie's high school friends have figured it out, though. They all want to marry him. I think when Frank grows up, he's gonna have to move to Utah.

It's curious that out of all my children, Frank is who has brought home the most demerit cards. ( For those non-Catholic parents, the demerit card is Catholic school's card stock, tangible admission of guilt, stamped by teachers and presented to parents, displaying a record of misbehavior,eventually resulting in the dreaded DETENTION!) I don't get it. My girls, God love them, are a bit opinionated, overly social, somewhat bossy, and just plain loud. How do they get away with it and he gets demerited? And on the rare occasion when the girls do get the card stamped, it's NEVER their fault! Of course! Even when one sister "shared" her answers with a friend or another "tossed, not threw" a desk across the room in defiance...or rather difference of opinion--it was never their fault.

Last week I received an email from Frank's teacher. The subject line read simply, "Frank." I quickly added up in my mind the number of demerits I had recently initialed. As far as I knew it wasn't detention time...yet. Cautiously, I opened the mail. By the time I was done reading, I was grinning from ear to ear. His class had enjoyed a guest speaker for the past week. At the end of the week, Frank--without prompting--approached the speaker and expressed his genuine appreciation for her time and expertise. He was so humble and grateful that his teacher, overhearing the conversation, was moved to tears and immediately thanked Frank and emailed me. Now, that's a Proud Mom Moment.

I've said before that I'm completely clueless as to how to raise a boy. I'm still not sure if I'm parenting right. I'm serious when I say that I think God gave me good kids because he knew I wouldn't know what to do with naughty ones. And for that reason alone, I know that even if I'm not parenting right, I MUST be doing something right.  Nevertheless, Frank is doing a lot of things right! If only there were a trophy for that.

*#@%!

Have you heard of the latest TV controversy? Little Asian girl with two gay dad parents speaks bleeped-out F-word!

I'm not kidding. That's the issue they are up in arms over now. Seriously. No, seriously.

So you must know that I am NOT a fan of childhood cursing. In fact, I fought diligently against the occurrence of it in my own home. I fought diligently...and lost. In fact, I'm still losing. Thanks to Kate.

Kate discovered the cruse word early. She also discovered the effect it had on her poor, saintly mother's virgin ears. Nothing could derail a good nag like Kate's well-timed cursing. Of course, it only derailed me onto a separate but equally emotional anti-curse word nag. For some reason, which I have yet to uncover, the anti-curse word tirade didn't bother Kate. In fact, it humored her. She found my consternation hilarious. And so did her younger siblings. None of them dared ever utter the mother-of-all-curse words, but Kate would more than utter. She would proudly proclaim. And they would giggle. Then, when they were a little older, they would laugh outright. Once they all started laughing outright, it was all over. Their belly laughs are more contagious than the stomach flu. No matter how I tried to resist, I would laugh, too.

I completely understand the mixed message I was sending. Believe me, I truly tried to refrain. But she's so damn funny! I mean...She's so stinking funny!

I had them convinced that although their stand-up comic sister might indulge in profanity for a laugh, Mom was above that. I'm pretty sure I had them convinced that not only did I not stoop to that level for laughter, I didn't go there for any reason and neither should they. A stubbed toe resulted in a bellowed, "Sugar!" A frustrated moment called for a teeth-clenched "Fudgesicles!"

Then it happened.

I was driving down Kellogg and talking to the Quiet and Calculating one on the phone. I was in the middle lane with big ol' trucks barreling down on either side of me. On the road in front of me was...something. I can't even remember now, but it was big and dangerous looking and there was no way around it. I prepared for impact, gripped the wheel with the one free hand and (in the words of my Grandma Nina, rest her soul) hollered, "Shit!"

"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Just like that.

A few seconds later, I had driven right over whatever obstacle had so inopportunely scared the shit out of me. I was mortified and immediately began apologizing all over myself that my baby girl had to hear such language from her mother and did she forgive me and that was so wrong of me and...wait. What was that sound coming through the phone? Yep, this time the contagious belly laugh was all for me.

It's so true that they get it from us, isn't it? They get our good looks, our sense of humor, and sometimes even our bad habits. In no way do I condone toddler cursing. Teen cursing isn't so great, either. But of all the truly bad crap on TV, this might not be the issue to cry over. My guess is that her fathers will be as mortified as I was and try in numerous comical ways to place blame and then fix the problem--just like real life parents.


You know I remember when the big issue with Modern Family would not have been the fact that the little Asian girl cursed, but that her two gay dads were...well, two gay dads. Thank goodness the viewing public got over that condescention. I'm pretty sure--if we all work really f*%#ing hard--we can get past this issue, too.

Are We There Yet?

A friend told me the other day that I should not worry so much about my destination, but rather enjoy the journey.

Good advice. But I was perplexed. I thought I was a journey kind of person. Didn't I come across as a journey kind of person? And even if I was a destination kind of person, I'm directionally challenged. I rarely get to where I planned to go in the manner that I planned to get there. I actually got lost in my own neighborhood once. And I was walking! So I don't have a choice. I have to enjoy the journey because if I didn't laugh at the constant road blocks, obstacles, detours, and wrong turns that make up my journey, I'd be perpetually stalled at some sketchy roadside rest stop, sobbing my eyes out.

But the comment got me thinking. People really do fall into those two camps, for the most part. Journey people and destination people. Then I wondered if that is one of the causes of miscommunication between kids and parents. There are 10 gazillion books on how to talk to your kids.There are books that preach Love Languages, Love and Logic, Parenting IQ's and Parenting Smart Zones. If I checked, I could probably find one on how to spk txt 2 ur kids. But I don't think there is one on Journeys and Destinations. (And you type C personalities out there, if you find one, I don't want to know about it!)

But think about it, if we are constantly using Journey Speak to a Destination Person, we might as well be speaking Swahili! And as you all know, I speak fluent Swahili.

So which category do my children belong to? Kate is definitely a Destination Person, to a fault. ANYTHING at all that happens along the way that doesn't directly deliver her to her desired destination is a complete waste of time and frankly a bunch of bleeping bull-bleep! Maybe that's why every time I tried to get her to just relax and enjoy life, she claimed that I had no idea what I was talking about. The Journey Speak simply didn't resonate.

Sophie is a Journey Girl. She MUST smell every flower, feel every speed bump, splash in every mud puddle...You get the picture.  I get this way of living. Even so, I have to remind her every so often to focus on where she's wanting to be and think about if these appealing detours are going to get her there. But she usually doesn't hear me because she's half-way out the door to the next tourist spot.

Frank is also a Destination Person. He agrees with the bleeping bull-bleep idea, but expresses his discontent more mildly. He's nice enough to be willing to enjoy the ride if he's with a Journey Person, but jumps for joy when he's in the company of the Destination People. He patiently listens to the Journey Speak, but I don't think he buys a word of it.

Then there's the Quiet yet Calculating One. She takes the Destination Idea to a new place entirely. Her destination is not Hollywood or the Olympics or the Moon, as some kids dream. Oh no. Her destination is winning. Life is not a journey. No map or GPS system required. Life, my friends, is a game and the challenge is to win.

A while back when Captain Phil of The Deadliest Catch passed away at such a young age, I asked my daughter if she had the choice, would she choose a short life packed full of adventures like Captain Phil or if she would rather live a long, less chaotic life. Her answer: "It depends. Do I get to live to be the oldest person alive? Because if not, what's the point." Now, what version of Swahili do I use to answer that?

Are you a Destination Person or a Journey Person? What about your kids? It might be interesting to ask them if they think life is all about the place they are going or how they are going to get there. And if you can decipher, let me know what they say. You can catch me stopped by the side of the road searching for my map. Or perhaps walking in circles, taking in the beautiful scenery on my way to where I'm trying to go.

Unfamiliar Territory

I went to visit my college girl recently. It was a strange place to be.

The city wasn't strange. Chicago is awesome. Even staying in her dorm room wasn't strange. Messy, but not strange. In fact, messy was expected.

No, it was the place between parent and friend that was a little strange.

When the plane landed and I followed her directions to the Blue Line and then tried to figure out how to purchase the right ticket and ended up calling her to figure it out, I realized a reversal had occurred. I was depending on her knowledge, experience, and opinions to guide me to where I needed to be. I rode the 35 minutes marveling at the fact that my baby girl was making her way in this big city. I was nearly in tears by the time I arrived.

However, I was very pleased to be faced with a mini-crisis which required my assistance only moments after going through the Fort Knox security to get to her room! And the world seem to settle back in to place. I even had the chance to throw in, "You guys do own a vacuum, don't you?" and "When was the last time someone washed a dish?"

In fact, the second those words escaped my lips, I realized how horribly nagging they sounded. And realized, too, why mothers do that. Why they come to the college or apartment or wherever the place is that the kids are trying to attain adulthood, and say things like, "Is there a hanger for this coat or do you want it on the floor?"

It is a sad, pathetic attempt to remain the Roaring Mom.

It was a good weekend. We laughed about things you can't enjoy with your highschooler because you like to pretend they don't get the punchline to those kinds of jokes. We discussed real societal issues, instead of stupid teachers and gossipy girls. At times, we surprised each other when we remembered we were talking to our mom/daughter. And there were many instances when I am sure she felt responsible for my safety and well-being while we explored the big city. I recognized it because it's exactly what I had felt on our family vacation there years earlier.

The moment you realize your kid has got it all under control, your heart bursts. There is an immediate urge to snatch up the Life Remote, punch the rewind button and never, never let go. It's only when you get back home, in the silence of your baby's absence when you understand that thing that burst your heart wide and painfully open, was pride. Pride that you had some hand in getting her there. And even more pride in the fact that she found most of her way on her own.

One of Kate's first big words was "independent". She used to raise her little hand in the air, point her index finger to the sky and announce. "I'm independent!" She's fought for that word her whole life. And now, she does "independent" beautifully!

How do I become a Roaring Mom of an Adult Child? Yes, it's a very strange place to be.  Especially when I still have non-adult children to be a Roaring Mom to. But there was a time when I didn't have the slightest idea how to be a Roaring mom to anything. And figuring that out seemed somewhat strange, too. But just like then, I'll figure it out as I go along. It will only be strange until it's normal. Then, I hope, it will be beautiful, too.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

I'm not sure where the "pants on fire" part came from. However, no child ever wants to be at the pointed end of that remark. Even as adults, we don't want our dishonesty exposed, do we?

Still, lying is part of growing up, isn't it? As much as we Mom Snobs would like to believe our children would never lie, it's actually a necessary evil. Dishonesty is one of those things that must be experienced firsthand in order to feel it's sting. Unfortunately, It's lesson is not something that can be taught in a well-worded lecture.

I remember my quiet, calculating daughter's first lie experiment. Let me set the scene.

The guest room was located in the back corner of the basement. We affectionately referred to it as the "Jayhawk Room." It wasn't just crimson and blue. Oh, no. In fact an uber-sized flock of Jayhawks flooded the wall paper-floor to ceiling. Pennants and posters were pinned up over that and every horizontal surface was littered with statues, knick-knacks, and memorabilia. We didn't use the room often, but a king-sized water bed took up most of the floor space, so the kids loved to roll around in there on occasion.

So I was surprised the day I went into the Jayhawk Room for some random purpose that now no longer matters. One step into the Rock Chalk Shrine and Crunch! I looked down to see the floor strewn with dry spaghetti noodles. Only one of my children was still in the dry spaghetti noodle fetish phase. I found her and brought her to the Jayhawk Room. I pointed to the mess on the floor. She got the look. That I-know-she-knows-but-I-don't-want-her-to-know-I-know look.

"Honey, do you know who made this mess?"

Dramatic Pause. "Yes."

Good Girl. She's going to tell the truth.

"Well, who made it?"

Second Dramatic Pause. Eyes searching her surroundings.

Oh, no. She's faltering.

Eyes meet mine, shining with her brilliant light bulb moment.

"The Jayhawks did it."

"The Jayhawks did it?"

"Yes, the Jayhawks."

"Um, which Jayhawks?"

She points to the wallpaper. "Those."

Wow!

"So, those Jayhawks flew off the wall and upstairs to the kitchen, opened the spaghetti package, carried the noodles down here and dropped them all over the floor?"

Big Smile.

"Yes!"

My daughter spent a good amount of that day picking noodles out of the carpet. Her feathered friends never pitched in to help. Guess they were mad that she ratted them out.

She's gotten a little better at lying now. They all do. Because even when we make them face the consequences for the lies we catch them in, there are probably dozens we never know about. And when they get away with it, it reinforces the idea that they can continue to get away with it. Unfortunately, there are a lot of grown up kids with issues out there who very obviously didn't get caught enough.

I said she's gotten a little better. But only a little. She has a nervous smile that gives it away. Thank goodness for that, otherwise with her quiet and calculating nature, she wouldn't get caught enough either. I think the smile give-away is God's way of keeping her honest because she has such a gullible mom. Not gullible enough to believe that Jayhawk nests are lined with pasta, however. Or maybe it's just a play between her naturally good heart and that pre-teen thing. She has to give it a try, but her heart's not really in it.

Which reminds me of another Proud Mom Moment. This one is not mine, but I can certainly appreciate it. A friend's teenage daughter was sitting shotgun when her boyfriend wrecked his car. It wasn't serious, but the boy freaked out. He immediately began weaving the tale to tell the parents so it wouldn't seem so much his fault. When she finally arrived home, the girl knew she had to come clean about the wreck. The boyfriend's parents would undoubtedly be calling in a few minutes. The conversation went something like this:

"Mom, while I was out with Tony, he wrecked his car. He made up some story I'm supposed to tell you but I can't remember how it goes, so I'm just going to tell you the truth."

Yes! Isn't the that the lesson we want them to learn in the first place. Honesty is so much easier. Even when you think it might be more painful initially, there are just too many things that can go wrong. And when the truth does come out--and it always does--the deceit has usually done more damage than the truth would have done in the first place.

Setting someone's pants on fire for lying is a little harsh. So maybe the sing-song phrase just means that sometimes lies are as obvious as flaming Wranglers. Or a nervous smile. Maybe it means that dishonesty just isn't worth the pain, no matter which end of the remark you're on.

I'm Just Sayin'

Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind. --Dr. Seuss

Excellent advice from the man who wrote: Hop on Pop. Stop! You must not Hop on Pop. The man has a way with words.

Seriously though, it's great wisdom to teach children. And I try to model that idea in my own actions. I am very good at saying what I feel. And saying it. And saying it. And saying it. The problem is my children stopped listening half-way through the first time I was saying it.

I painfully recall a couple of summers ago when I was carting the kids to all of their activities I'd enrolled them in to ensure they would be well-rounded, educated, and not whining because they were bored to death only 2 days after school ended. I was telling them of all my wonderful plans for the summer to improve our organization, our attitudes, our minds, our bodies. As we drove and I talked...and talked...and talked, I suddenly realized that I was the only one listening to myself. I was really annoyed.

Just at the moment of realization, we drove by a sign advertising the new gorilla exhibit at the zoo. "Well, what do you think, Mr. Monkey? Maybe I'll just talk you since no one else seems to care what I have to say."

With all seriousness, the quiet yet calculating one offered, "Mom, you know he can't hear you. He's a billboard." And they all laughed hysterically.

It seems that the one thing I know I do for sure is that I offer my kids laughter on a daily basis. They find my nagging lectures particularly funny. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that I have a knack for lecturing the wrong kid or nagging about something I'm sure I told them to do but I'm also sure they didn't do and so I really need to say what I feel and explain how disrespectful and/or irresponsible it was for them not to do what I had clearly asked them to only to find out mid-lecture that they had, in fact, completed the task. Inevitably one of them will point out, "Wow, Mom, you just wasted that nag." Dang it! I truly hate a wasted nag. Especially a well-worded, perfectly punctuated one. But at least they are good for a laugh!

I'd like to say that I've learned my lesson and started saying more, but talking less. I'd like to say that. But since my children, still to this day, ask me if I'm talking to my monkey again, I don't think I can really say that at all. Still, Dr. Seuss's words of wisdom ring true. My wonderful children matter and they certainly don't seem to mind that I'm being who I am and saying what I feel.