Parenting the Uni-mind

It’s completely my fault. They remind me constantly it’s how I raised them. 

They look like a couple of normal college kids, right?

Don’t let the image fool you. I’m pretty sure they have the skills to serve as top-secret espionagers.

Before my empty-nester days, I prided myself in knowing all the details of the secret lives of my four kids. Then two of them went off to college, and I felt more out-numbered by this younger duo than I did with all four. These two could get their story straight with barely a glimpse across the room. We call them…the uni—mind.

My empty nest has done nothing to diminish the outnumbered feeling. In fact, now that they are young adults living three hours away, the cahoots they’re in involves more than staying out after curfew or which one stole my secret Little Debbies stash. Now it includes covering up adult things—like surgery.

One innocent Thursday, I expected my two college kids home sometime in the evening. Instead, I received a call admitting a change in plans. “I won’t be home tonight, mom, because I’m having surgery in the morning.” What’s more, she didn’t need me to come. That would just be weird.

Uh…what?

It was a minor procedure to remove a small bone chip in her knee that had been bothering her for some time. I knew about the chip. I didn’t know about the surgery. Still, this Roaring Mom had a major freak-out. My son, at nineteen years old, would be going with her to check her out after and drive her home. Everything was taken care—except the huge taffy-pull on my heart that happens when your kids no longer need you for stuff that you need them to need you for.

I had a way around it, though. I called my son, one-hundred percent certain he wouldn’t want the responsibility. The call went something like this:

ME: So, what’s the plan tomorrow morning?

HIM: What plan?

ME: I need you to tell me what’s happening tomorrow.

HIM: (Hesitantly) I don’t know. What do you think is happening tomorrow?

It went on like this for five minutes.

The loyalty of the uni-mind is strong. Not even the I-gave-birth-to-you could crack it.

Apparently, however, what had worked (maybe too well) was my daily repeated mantra from their childhood: You-guys-were-born-16 months-apart-on-purpose-so-you-could-keep-each-other-entertained-so-go-play.

I’m continually blamed for their independence and strong will and opinionated voice. “You told us to be true to ourselves. You told us to be independent. You told us not to make decisions based on what other people think.”

It is mindboggling, satisfying and terrifying to watch them grow up. The surgery went fine, and I survived not being there for it. So, if this bit of adulting is my fault, I’ll take the blame.

But moms, even when they no longer need us for what we need them to need us for, we shouldn’t let go too much.  In the midst of my freak-out and my son’s assurance that they “got this”, he paused just long enough to let me know he’ll always need me for something.

                HIM: You should be proud that we are mature and responsible enough to handle this. Oh, and while I have you on the phone, can get twenty bucks for a haircut?

Roaring Mom Win! I think I set a speed record on Square Cash.

You know, if he’d been really smart, he would have asked for fifty right then.

Guess my work isn’t done after all.

How to Love Your Life

You know that friend you have who, when you ask her how things are going, spews all over you? I mean, that’s what friends are for, right? And if I didn’t want to know, I shouldn’t have asked. I’m all for love and support, but I gotta tell you about another kind of friend.

I am blessed to meet up with my friend Lori about two or three times a year. There comes a point during every one of our catch-up conversations where she looks me in the eye, displays a giggly grin and says, “Man, I love my life.”

She’s also tall and trim and beautiful and smart and funny. But don’t start hating her. Her life is not perfect.

If you knew her, you might be tempted to say...but she has a great husband. No wonder she’s happy. She has great kids (eight of them, I might add). She has a beautiful home. She never has to worry about finances. She doesn’t deal with disease. She doesn’t have the problems the rest of us have.

My answer to that---BULLSHIT!  (By the way, she has this terrible habit that is one of my favorite things about her. Let’s just say the swear word jar in her house is for the parents.)

She has a great husband because she married a great guy. In other words, she chose judiciously. Their marriage isn’t perfect. No one’s is. But they work on it. Sometimes together, sometimes individually.

She has great kids because she constantly reflects and seeks out better ways to parent. She struggles. They struggle. She tries and fails and tries again--just like every other parent. More than once have we mused on how we’ve scarred our kids--not on purpose, but because every parent does.

She has a beautiful home because they worked and saved and prayed for it. Then created it.

She doesn’t worry about finances? Ha! She has eight kids, remember? And we all deal with disease and illness and health...and death. And so has she.

So how is it that she never fails so exclaim, “Man, I love my life”?

Consider this. What if “I love my life” didn’t meant what we think it means? What if it didn’t mean I enjoy my life? Or my life is perfect? Or I have no stress?

What if we thought of love as an action verb? What if we “loved” our lives the way we love our pets or our children? To love another is to care for it, right? What if “I love my  life” meant

I seek out peace.

I’m open minded and humble enough to learn how to be a better parent or person.

I reject harmful people and substances and places and activities.

I actively seek out nourishing people and substances and places and activities.

I practice gratitude.

What if loving our lives meant taking care of our lives?

I wonder what would happen if we started all our catch-up conversations with “I love my life”? I wonder what would happen if we started every day that way?

Lori creates a life she loves because she cares enough about her life to nourish it. Even in turmoil and tragedy, she chooses to love her life. Love is a choice, and life is a series of choices.

Choose judiciously. Choose love.

How Do I Empty Nest?

When you have a parenting blog and all your kids become adults, you kind of run out of material.

You know, there aren’t a lot of parenting blogs even for parenting teens, unless it’s for troubled kids and how to get them to behave.

Maybe that’s because our teens are so intertwined with social media, we Mom Bloggers are afraid we’ll embarrass them. That is certainly the case for me. Once they became social media savvy, certain moments were off limits. I can’t count the number of times I heard “Don’t blog that” once they turned thirteen.

Well, thirteen passed a long time ago. I’m now an empty-nester. One of my kids is closer to thirty than she is to teenage. In fact, she has a kid of her own.

How do I suddenly not parent?

Remember when you first became a parent? Maybe some of you took those childhood development classes. Maybe some of you changed the diapers of your younger siblings. Maybe some of you ran babysitting services. I did none of the above. Suddenly having no children is just as unfamiliar as when I suddenly had a child. I have no clue how to do this.

You know all that stuff you wish your teen would share with you but they would rather cut their tongues out than tell you? Well, once they are adults, they start telling. And you sometimes wish they had cut their tongues out. There’s just some stuff you don’t want to know. But you can’t not listen. It’s your duty, isn’t it? Because they still need advice and encouragement and celebrations and shoulders to cry on. But they don’t need dinner. Or homework reminders. Or permissions slips signed. Or permission at all.

Last week I called my mom and asked her for some information that I knew I could find if I put forth an effort, but it was easier to call Mom. I’m nearly half a century old, and I’m still calling mom to bail me out and give me advice and encouragement and celebrations and sometimes even a shoulder to cry on.. It’s good to know as much as things change, some things never will.

And then I think back to when my oldest was five and learned how to tie her shoes. “Pretty soon you won’t need me at all,” I said.

“But mom, I’ll always use you.”

I hope so. I really do.

Recuperating from Grandma Camp

Ten things I gained in one month of living the three-year-old dream life (aka Camp Grandma):

10. A nasty cold that his mother gave me when she dropped him off. (Thanks.)

9.  A fist-sized bruise on my butt from the giant cracked slide that I would let him go down only on my lap. (So he wouldn't get a fist-sized bruise. Duh!)

8. A wounded handed that felt like a freaking dog bite from the same Monster Slide.

7. Elbow rug burns from wrestling on my carpeted floor.

6. A ferocious ear infection from having pool water splashed directly in my ear canal. (I might never hear right again.)

5. Two steps closer to senility because half of my brain now has the Thomas the Tank Engine theme song on permanent replay. (They're two. They're four. They're six. They're eight.)

4. Five extra pounds on my Roaring Grandmom's belly because every time I bribed him with ice cream, I rewarded myself with the same.  (He doesn't share food. Ever. Unless he's eating mine.)

3. A now neurotic cat who has developed a fear of anyone under three feet tall. 

2. The need for a new mattress. (I'm sure you can guess.)

1. A full heart.

After all, none of the rest matters.

In the Zone

Meet Joan. She's the beautiful one with the got-it-all-together look in the family vacation photo. Joan is the mother of a high schooler, a middle schooler, a grade schooler, and a two-year old. Joan is a Roaring Mom. Joan is a super hero. Joan is nuts!

She doesn't look nuts, does she? She looks calm and in control. But I know that's not possible.

I know because for the last month, my apartment has been Camp Grandma to my three-year-old grandson.

I've always said God gave me good children because he knew I wouldn't know what to do with bad ones. Same goes for the grandkid. He's a good kid. Polite (especially when bribed with ice cream). Potty-trained (mostly). Cooperative (sort-of). He's three, remember? His version of all these trait is quite different from the rest of the world.

Still, I'm sure there are more than a few folks who think I might be a child abductor. In fact, one man and his three kids followed me from the playground to the park restrooms while I madhandled the banshee-screaming toddler. I was only trying to keep him from pulling down his pants and peeing on the merry-go-round, but they didn't know that.They listened at the door while I promised all kinds of candy and cookies and and Dr. Pepper, if he would only cooperate already. I endured 30 more minutes of playtime with this man's skeptical eye on me. Can you even imagine this scene with a frustrated grade schooler, an annoyed middle schooler, and an embarrassed high schooler in tow?

At one time in my life, I had four kids under the age of seven. I don't know how I did it. I really don't. Was I on autopilot? Was I daily teetering on the brink of sanity? Did I ever accomplish anything other than getting from one hour to the next?

Some things have come back to me. The necessity of opera lunch. Did you know singing during lunch makes it magically more fun to eat?  Ice cream for dinner. If you throw some fruit on it, you've covered two food groups. Bribery without guilt. I will promise anything if he will just go to sleep or put on his shoes or leave the new toilet paper roll in tact. Examine Exhibit A. He came to Camp Grandma with three Hot Wheels cars. Three.

I know for a fact life was easier when I had four under seven, and I think it's because I was in that zone--that Teflon, ten-second-rule-believing, dirty-face-tolerating, Dora the Explorer binge-watching, Super Mom cape-wearing zone. For the past decade, I've been in the eye-rolling, dirty-shin gaurd-smelling, teen-drama-dealing, never-enough-food-in-the-house mode. I can't even imagine Joan's life. She's living in all four zones at once. I bow to you, Joan. (Nice job working that insanity camouflage.)

Shout out to all parents in every Roaring Mom zone. You're crushing it today. If all you do is get through the next hour, you're right where you need to be. Even if you had to bribe yourself with ice cream to get there!

Sounds Like Life

My son is in the next room strumming beautifully on a guitar he didn’t even know how to play this time last year. His voice joins in harmony with his friend’s as they practice for an upcoming audition. She does this wonderful, improvised thing and he stops.

“Oh yeah! That’s great.”

I can hear the smiles.

It’s the sound of joy reverberating through my home. Joy and perseverance and belief and self-doubt and trial and error and passion.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The ball beats a passionate rhythm against the wall. My family room seconds as a soccer field. This is why we can’t have nice things—because I’d rather have a soccer field in my home than nice things. The thumping grows faster and harder, then a miss, followed by an expletive. Then the rhythm starts again. Slow and steady and sure. Then faster.

It’s the sound of persistence, consistency, determination, sweat, aches, pains, skinned knees and pulled muscles. It’s the sound of missed goals and trophies not won and championships celebrated and hard fought victories.

I stand outside my daughter’s bedroom and listen to her reminisce on the phone with her friends over last night’s dance. They already regret things they didn’t say, dance moves they shouldn’t have tried, and the photo they didn’t take of the three of them while their hair and make-up was still on point. But they laugh it off. There’s still time.

My son comes up behind me and tells me not to eavesdrop, that privacy is a right. “Not in this house,” I joke. “Never has been.”

What he doesn’t realize is that I’m not eavesdropping. I’m not trying to listen in on a conversation. I’m only hearing the sound. I am breathing in the sounds of their voices and laughter and tears and lives.

There’s not much time. In eighteen months, my last two kids will have flown the coop. They will take their noises with them. They will also take with them their triumphs and sorrows and tenaciousness and doubt and faith. And my heart.

I’m not looking forward to the silence. 

What's Cookin', Good-lookin'?

Is this a midlife crisis? Is it menopause? Is it premenstrual premenopausal problems? Is it early onset dementia? A.D.D.? Heatstroke?

Seriously, there is something wrong with me. I'm excited about buying a cookbook.  A cookbook!! I don't cook, folks. I really don't.

This confession made to another Roaring Mom nearly ended our friendship.

Me: I don't cook.
Friend: That can't be true. You feed your kids something. What did you have for dinner last night.
Me: Cereal.
Friend: Cereal? That's it?
Me: (Proudly) No, that's not it. I thought we should also have some lean protein, so we had shrimp cocktail, too.
Friend: (Dead stare) Cereal and shrimp cocktail? I don't think we can be friends anymore.

My dear children still remind me of the time I did try to cook dinner and had to bring out my Emphatic Voice (you know, the one they say sounds a lot like my Angry Voice) when they kept interrupting me. What can I say? I was putting a lot of thought and effort into it. I had purchased those Tostitos Scoops chips. I carefully spooned a bit of canned refried beans topped with a dab of pre-shredded cheese into each one. I placed the plate in the microwave, set the timer, and kept watch so they wouldn't over heat. No one likes cheese that's been over-micro melted into plastic. The kids had no respect for my slaving over this creative cooking.

While I stood watch, I heard from beyond the kitchen: Where's my cleats? What time is practice? Can you help me with my homework? I need poster board for school tomorrow.


Finally, I had HAD it! I yelled...er, uh, said emphatically..."Can't you see I'm trying to make dinner here?!"

"Mom, it's nachos."

"It's fancy nachos!!"

Ungrateful kids.

So the fact that I am now excited over the launch of a new cookbook is kind of...weird. Something strange happened to me this summer. I got hooked on eating. I mean really eating. Not stuffing my face. Not grazing. Not snacking. Not snarfing. Just eating for nutrition, to fuel my body, to create a healthy  me.

So far, I've been able to get by without actually cooking. The grocery store makes a mean roasted chicken and the deli sells delicious shredded turkey. These foods fit beautifully into the 21 Day Fix program I've been using as a guide to better health. Now Autumn Calabrese has created the Fixate Cookbook full of 101 recipes for my 21 Day Fix. They include vegan, vegetarian, Paleo, healthy meals for a healthy me. For a healthy family!

My Roaring Mom Friend has often told me that sometimes she thinks food = love. Some moms overfeed and under nourish. Some try a special show of affection with fancy nachos. Some get it right and fuel their kids for health, success, fitness, and all that good stuff. I might be a little late getting on that band wagon, but at least I'm getting on.

The 21 Day Fix has lasted a lot longer than 21 Days. It has certainly fixed a lot of what I didn't want to realize needed fixing. I feel better. I have more confidence and more energy and now a new interest in learning a new skill--cooking! The best thing, however, is hearing my kids say, "Mom, we are so proud of you!" Those are just about the sweetest words a Roaring Mom can hear.

Interested in starting your own 21 Day Fix? Comment below or click here to order your own Fix!

When Your Kids Don't Need You Anymore

She was about five when she tied her shoe by herself for the first time. I smiled, all teary, at her and said, "Pretty soon you aren't going to need me anymore."

She gave me a giant hug and said, "But Mommy, I'll always use you!"

I hope it's true. I hope they always, always use me. That way at least I'll feel like they need me for something.

This week I listened proudly as my oldest daughter told me about her job interview with a company that is looking to expand. She excitedly explained how she was the right one for the job. She knows what they need to do to succeed and is confident in her ability to make it happen--all while she's planning a wedding and raising her two-year-old son.

My second daughter drove herself all over the Mid-west like it was no big deal. From Kansas to Oklahoma to Dallas to New Mexico. No big deal. Now she's in LA, where she knows almost no one, training to accomplish her life's dream. No big deal.

My son (my baby) drove himself all over--well, not the Midwest--but far enough for this Mom, anyway. He also decided he'd teach himself to play the guitar. Two weeks and TEN SONGS later, he's already performing for family and friends.

My 17-yr-old flew unaccompanied half-way across the country. Her first tweet from San Francisco informed the world that she was never coming back. She's already chosen her California college. Just last week, she insisted she was attending a Kansas university only 3 hours away. That was enough to kill me. Now it's San Francisco.

No. Big. Deal.

Here's the flip side.

Just this week my oldest daughter just had to call me all excited about this new job opportunity, so she could discuss with me the pros and cons. My second daughter cried in my arms as she mourned the loss of a dear friend. She knew I understood. My son didn't need me to nag him to practice the guitar, but still required some gentle persuasion to do his homework. My senior texted me all jealous that my first Instagram picture was of her brother--not her. ( I also know she's quietly excited that I'm redo-ing her room for her while she's gone--just in case she does decide to come back.)

There is a definite longing for younger days when your young-uns gain their independence. There is a tugging at the heart, a sort-of-happy sadness. It sucks. And it's beautiful.

Watch out all you Moms of Toddlers. There will come a day when they no longer need you. I guess the good news is, they will always use you.

UPDATE: As I write this, I just received a picture from my second daughter of the latest long underarm hair craze because, apparently, she's jumped on this bandwagon. I'm shipping her an assortment of razors and shaving cream first thing tomorrow, along with a sternly worded note to have some self-respect and consideration for the folks around her. I guess maybe sometimes they need us more than they know. If only so we can help them help themselves. Roaring Mom to the rescue once again!!

The Best Thing I've Ever Done

As a mom, I get it wrong a lot! 

I got it wrong when I gave my daughter permission to get her nose pierced just because I was mad at her dad.

I got it wrong when I let my kids quit piano, or so they have told me repeatedly.

I got it wrong when I told my daughter she wasn't sick, she just didn't want to go to ballet. And then she puked in the van on the way to ballet.

Every now and again, however, I get it right.

My son's favorite music artist was going to be in concert in Kansas City. He had to go! I agreed and bought the tickets.

The thing about living as a single mom on a teacher's salary...well, I'm a single mom living on a teacher's salary.

The day arrived, I filled up the gas tank and carefully budgeted for the trip. By budgeted, I mean we stayed at the cheapest motel I could find. The view included what my son referred to as a "rape van" just outside our door. You know--big, white (even the windows painted white). But the room seemed clean enough and the bars on the windows of the little check-in office made me feel really safe...as long as I was standing in the little check-in office.

We checked in, got ready, ran past the rape van to the car, dined at the Hardees Drive-through, and headed to the Power and Light District where I proceeded to show my son around to all the restaurants he would have had the option of patronizing if his dad had taken him to the concert. We meandered our way past the Fred Phelps clan and their "God hates Great Britain" signs, pausing only for my son to ask them, "Is that all of Great Britain, or just certain parts?"

We found our seats and the concert started. Just a boy and his guitar--Ed Sheeran took the stage.

My son was clearly impressed, enthralled, enthused, and cool. I, however, lost it.

Here I was sharing this moment with my son. It was his first time to see in person the artist who inspired him to pick up a guitar, who let him understand that sharing the gift of his voice was okay, even noble. Here was my son in the presence of his inspiration, and I was there, too.

I sat back and watched a boy and his guitar, and a boy and his inspiration and a thought--from somewhere outside of me--entered my psyche, and I knew it was the best thing I've ever done with and for my son.

It was better than the times I made his sister stop forcing him to play dress up. It was better than when I took him to the batting coach because I didn't know a thing about baseball. It was better than risking having a stroke because I finally relented and tried to teach him how to drive.

It was just a concert, but it was also a moment--the kind that you never forget.

It didn't happen the way I wanted. I wish I could have made it more, made it better. But in the end, it was the best thing I've ever done.

Fighting the Good Food Fight

We try. We really do. We understand our food obsession and we fight against it. And then most of the time, we fail.

I remember when I realized this food issue of ours might be a little more serious than I originally thought. I was watching one of those extreme weight loss shoes. The man on the show simply could not lose the weight. He was sabotaging himself with drive-throughs and doughnuts stores. In the end, they said he had a food addiction. Food addiction, they explained, was characterized by eating even when you're not hungry and continuing to eat past the point when you are full on a regular basis.

Uh-oh.

In our home when someone answers the question "Do you want something to eat?" with "No, I''m not hungry," it confounds us. Uh, since when do you have to be hungry to eat? And since when do you stop just because you are full?

But we do try.

There was the time I tried the cabbage diet: 7 days of cabbage soup. I like soup.

By Day 2, I was ready to eat my desk, I was so hungry.

So the Quiet and Calculating One thought she'd give it a try. Show mom how it's done, right?

She started on a Monday, which is consequently the day they return from their father's. That evening, she came home starving, with a side of food anger! I told her to have a bowl of her soup. She could eat as much as she wanted. She informed me she hadn't made the soup. Her dad didn't have the ingredients. So she'd eaten nothing all day because she wasn't supposed to eat anything but soup, and she didn't have any soup, so she ate nothing. Then the food anger kicked in, and she ate everything!

She lasted a bit longer when she decided to become a vegetarian because it was healthier. So I was confused when she picked all the veggies off her Jimmy John's veggie sandwich. She explained, she doesn't like veggies on her sandwiches. The next day, it was back to her usual #4 Turkey Tom.

The kid with the longest success rate is my Food Nazi daughter (and former peanut butter addict) who comes home from college and goes through the pantry describing every single noxious chemical in every single food item.She guilts us into eating nothing but bean sprouts and air--as long as the bean sprouts are organic--while she sneaks Jiff by the spoonful behind our backs!

We should all weigh 500 pounds. Luckily, we aren't afraid of exercise--even if we have been known to go the extra mile only so we can eat the extra cookie.

If there is something I've learned through our food trials, it's this: Life is too short to eat only bean sprouts and air, even organic ones. Also, I'm kinda glad there's a doughnut store on the way to the Y. It gives me incentive to go the extra mile!

For the Love of Food

During a serious parenting conversation with one of my favorite Roaring Moms, she divulged a problem with one of her children frequently stealing food from her siblings and hiding it. Stuff like treats from school parties or special snacks would disappear. Then they would find the wrapper in the culprit’s room. My heart went out to her as she was truly disturbed by what had become a real point of contention in her family. I racked my brain for the right thing to say, but my mind was stuck on one thing: the contraband two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper I was currently hiding in the trunk of my car!

When she asked how long I thought her daughter would have this problem, I came clean. Yes. I’m forty-something and fabulous and I hide soda in my car, smuggle it into my home, and hide it from my kids. All the time.

I have food issues, and I have successfully passed them on to my kids.

Back when I was a married Roaring Mom, it wasn’t uncommon for us to sit down to dinner and have at least one kid ask for soda. I would explain we didn’t have any soda. Water was better for them anyway. Then one would lean forward and whisper, “Go get it from dad’s secret stash.” Then another would take me by the hand to their dad’s closet and point to the top shelf.

It’s also not uncommon to find sticky notes in the fridge threatening death or worse to anyone who touches the last helping of banana pudding. My kids are not above the Lick Method, either. “I licked that cookie. It’s mine!” As for school party treats? Anything not eaten within 24 hours of said party is fair game. Halloween candy? Well, you better sleep with your bag under your pillow if want to have anything other than popcorn balls left in the morning.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to teach will power by frequently reading Arnold Lobel’s Frog and Toad Story “Cookies.” They try everything to not eat all the cookies. Finally, they give the cookies to the birds. They have no more cookies, but lots and lots of willpower. So, Toad goes home to bake a cake.

After all, what’s willpower without cake?  (Click here to check out the story for yourself.)

All I can do is try to set a better example, right? So when I bake the weekly cake because I’m an emotional baker and I still get depressed when the kids go to their dad’s, but there’s no one there to eat it but me, I work up my willpower! I don’t eat a single piece. I do take a nibble, just to taste, but I don’t actually serve a single slice. A day later when I notice it’s half gone (even though I never actually served a slice), I realize I’ve got a problem. I can’t let them come home and see I’ve eaten half a cake myself, so I do the right thing. I make the sacrifice. Then I have no more cake, but lots and lots of willpower.

Just so we’re clear…I didn’t feed it to the birds.

It’s sad, but the best advice I can give my Roaring Mom friend is a wish for willpower. In the meantime, go buy a case of sticky notes.

When Abe Lincoln meets Jack Daniels

"We don't find vulgarity funny."
I should have known that's what my mother would say when I offered to share a Comedy Central video clip that I had to preface by asking her not to be offended. I should have possibly rethought my decision to show (with my children watching, in fact reciting the clip word for word) a video entitled Drunk History. But, come on, what's not funny about drunk people explaining historical events?

Click here to see for yourself.

And my mom's response? "Well, that's an interesting type of humor to teach your children. Now they know what drunk people sound like."

At moments like that, I wonder how can I truly be a product of this family?

Can I help it if I appreciate the strategic use of a handheld fart machine? Is it my fault that I believe an F-bomb dropped for effect can be, well, effective? Is it so bad that my daughter was in only the 4th grade when she was teaching Cheech and Chong's "Sister Mary Elephant" to her fellow students on the Catholic School playground? Is it so wrong that How I Met Your Mother is considered family entertainment at my house? Ok, it probably is wrong. In fact, when my oldest two were the age my youngest two are now, I wouldn't have permitted it. I remember my very first viewing of Family Guy with my oldest. I hated it. I thought it was unnecessarily, stupidly vulgar. I was disgusted with  the movie, Anchor Man  the first time I saw it, but just this week actually paid for all of us to see the sequel. In truth, I was pretty disgusted with that too, and I will never get those 2 and a half hours back or the IQ points I lost watching it. However, it was 2 and a half hours spent with my children belly laughing and that is priceless.

It seems the older I get, the less my appropriateness filter works. That fact was proven over Christmas when my kids and I were playing the Awkward Family Photos card game. The picture was of an unattractive man in a disturbingly tight Speedo, standing in a flower garden and holding a bouquet. The question asked for a title, and before I could stop myself, I responded, "Scratch and Sniff." In front of my children. And their friends. I'm not sure if the teens laughed more at my own embarrassment or theirs. But, hey, at least I was adequately embarrassed by my lack of filter. I'm sure my mother would not have laughed at all. In fact, she might have disowned me or at least put my name before her prayer group...again.

Now, before you all judge me too harshly, let me just say that  we really dig the high brow stuff, too. We can chuckle inwardly at sophisticated wit. We really can. In fact, unless you understand the intellectual irony of Abe Lincoln dropping the f-bomb, you really can't fully enjoy the humor of Drunk History, right?

I wonder at what age we can stop worrying about offending our parents with our language or off-colored jokes, or appreciation of vulgar humor. I also wonder where I got the idea of weighing the funny against the inappropriate, and if the funny factor weighs heavier, well... I sure didn't get it from Mom and Dad.

Seriously though, how am I a product of my parents?

Come to think of it, I wonder what our neighborhood milk man's sense of humor was like back in the fall of '68? Dad was out of town a lot.

Ooops, sorry. That wasn't funny. Was it, Mom?

I've Just Been So Busy...

I've been meaning to post glorious, insightful parenting gems for weeks. I've just been so busy. At least that's my excuse.

Today, as I was busily scrolling through Facebook, I saw this:

And I stopped. Immediately. The message slapped me awake. It's what we do, isn't it? We glorify our "busy".

Now, some of what we do--of what I do--is legitimate busy. I do have teens with hectic schedules and without vehicles. It seems that their practices are always scheduled at the same time on the opposite ends of town. And of course, they are scheduled on the same day as important meetings I've been mandated to attend. There are days I am fully in favor of human cloning!

Today's Facebook post brought some perspective, however. When did society begin glorifying busy. We all know those Super Moms who spearhead every community service project and decorate personalized cupcakes for every student in her son's class for party treats and creates 50 page scrap books from found art and recycled bridal bouquets for teacher gifts and organizes the soccer treat schedule, but brings treats to every game anyway just in case someone forgets and just ran a marathon last week and NEVER has a perfectly highlighted hair out of place! We all stand in awe. How on earth does she do all of that? It makes us feel guilty when we send the bag of Oreos to school and  have to rely on Super Mom because we did, in fact, forget soccer treats. And our hair is never perfectly anything. And yet we feel so busy. In fact, we beat ourselves up if we aren't busy.

So what is the pay off for busy? Does it make us feel like Super Moms, even if we aren't crafty or won't ever run a marathon? Does busy help us feel justified for our parenting choices? Does Working Mom glorify busy as a way to make up for not staying home? Does Work-at-Home Mom glorify busy as a way to make up for not doing it all, like Working Mom does? I've had the opportunity to be both. If I stop my busy long enough to think about it, the answer (for me) is this. Busy does make us feel like we are sacrificing for our families. When we run--or rather drag our tired butts--through the finish line at the end of the day, we feel some satisfaction that we gave our all to our kids. That's a good feeling, but it might not be such a good lesson.

Have you noticed that our kids now glorify busy to the point that they don't know what to do with leisure? They get nervous if they aren't Tweeting or chatting or listening to music or watching TV. We can hardly blame them, though. It's how we raised them. We dragged them to Scouts and soccer and cheer and gymnastics and baseball and dance and Tae Kwon Do. We even equipped our cars with TVs and DVD players, so they wouldn't be bored while eating MacDonald's on the way to swim team. If we are honest with ourselves, there were probably many times they told us they did NOT want to go to practice or games in 100 degree weather or rain or after a late night. Looking back, I wonder why all that busy was so important. I think I'd like to have a little bit of that busy back.

Roadtrip Survival 101

At the airport the morning of the big NYC trip
just before the flight was cancelled and they had
to scramble to find another. Clearly the travel
gods do not love us!

Here's how I know my teenager is prepared for her travels to the Big Apple: I've set a splendid example. Sort of.

It is one of the summer days when I sleep in too long and wake in a panic. I have a ton of stuff to do. No time for a shower, I shellack the hair, throw on a bit of make-up and run out the door. By noon, I have successfully completed the errands, put out at least 2 figurative fires, and avoided 3 future problems! I am a woman on a mission. In fact, I am a woman done with her mission and who desperately needs a shower after running around, unbathed in the already 90 degree weather.

But fate has other plans. As I pull in, Sophie is pulling out. She is headed to Oklahoma City (about 2 1/2 hours away) for a master voice lesson. Suddenly, I have one of the Roaring Mom gut feelings that she should not go alone. So I jump in her dad's SUV with her, which is already gassed up and ready to go, and we head out.

It is a lovely mother/daughter bonding trip until...it isn't! On the way out of town we decide to grab a bite. However, according to Dirty Shirley (the technological witch referred to in the February 18, 2012 post Tech Trouble), there is nothing available other than Asian food. No offense to the Chinese, but Asian food is the only food I really, really do not like. Finally, after 45 minutes of rush hour driving while my stomach attempts to eat itself, the Hunger Anger sets in and yelling starts.

"Fine!" Sophie yells back, "It says there's a Grandy's up ahead. Turn right." Only Dirty Shirley did not signify on her deceptive little Garmin screen that this is the dirtiest Grandy's in America! Hunger wins out and we order. We ignore the bugs and spider webs and sticky substances on the tables and try to eat. But it can't happen. My hand will not let itself bring that "food" to my lips. So we leave.

An hour later, the SUV crawls to a stop on the highway. Of course, it happens as I am passing a semi, so we barely make it to the left side of the road. Vehicles whizz by, 6 inches from the passenger side. A lot of the honk. None of them stop to help.

So we help ourselves. After 45 minutes of sitting in the 100 degree heat, making numerous phone calls home and to AAA and to the tow truck place, we decide to forge the 1/2 mile walk down the nearby exit ramp to the Conoco--correction, the Dirtiest Conoco in America. I decide to make the best of it, find the humor. That's what I do, right? I grab my bag and an umbrella for sun protection, lock the car and start our journey through the tall prickly grass that lines the exit ramp.

I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. I'm ruining my pedicure and my overpriced Grazies. I open the umbrella. At least I won't be sunburned, too. But the umbrella is no help. The spokes were broken and it won't hold it's shape. The wind turns it inside out.

Suddenly, a tortured laugh escapes my parched throat. "Sophie, this just goes to show you that you should always travel with sensible shoes and water. Just in case."

She stops, unamused, turns to me, and says in all seriousness,"Mom, I'm wearing tennis shoes. I have a liter of water in my bag, three oranges, a long sleeved light weight jacket and a fully charged cell phone. You are wearing blingy flip-flops, carrying a broken umbrella, a dead cell phone, and a bag of make up. I think I got this."

"Well...at least I'll look good!" Only I don't. Nor do I smell good. That extra hour of sleep was really not worth it.

An hour later, cramped in the cab of a tow truck with a mute driver who apparently doesn't believe in radios, I'm starving to death with no connection to the outside world. Sophie is still hoarding her oranges and cell phone. I hope she knows that if we are ever on Survivor, I'm voting her off and stealing her supplies!  Wait! Strike that! I'm voting myself off so I can take a hot shower in a cushy hotel. She'll be fine with her Mary Poppins backpack. And she'll be fine travelling to and from NYC, too.

What can I say? If you can't be a shining example of the right way to do it, be a memorable model of how to do it wrong. And pray your kids run in the other direction.

There are Worse Things

"You are turning into the cat lady."                      

At least that's what my friends tell me. Just because during a two week period in December, nine out of ten of my Facebook posts were about my new kitten does NOT mean I'm turning into the Cat Lady. Just because my sister opened a photo text from me the other day and responded, "I thought that would be a pic of your new grandson, not your cat," does NOT mean I'm turning into the cat lady!

I have dogs. I hate the dogs, but I still have them. And what's the use in keeping alien beast canine creatures who wake me up three times a night, sneak naps on the couch which used to be green but is now a lovely dog hair white, eat entire stacks of pancakes from the kitchen table when we turn our backs, and do unspeakable semi-sexual things to each other when they are bored. In the middle of my living room. With company present. Sometimes my mother. What's the point of keeping them around if their mere presence does not preclude me from being called a Cat Lady!

Besides, if I am a Cat Lady, I'm not a very good one. I'm not sure actual Cat Ladies would allow me in their club. I almost got my last cat killed. In my defense, I did nurse it back to health after a broken leg which was NOT my fault, I might add. Still, I did almost get it killed. But not until after I tried to give it away to numerous people. But the stinking thing (and I do mean stinking) wouldn't stop pooping on everything--except the litter box. I just couldn't live in a cat toilet anymore, so I took him to the Humane Society. Seemed like the humane thing to do, right?

After I filled out all the paperwork and said my goodbyes, they inform me that they don't take Pooper Cats. They would be putting him down that day. Then the intake lady confesses that her own cat sometimes prefers to poop on her bath towels and gives me a look that says we should expect as much when we invite animals into our homes. She follows that with a mini-lecture on how cruel it is to just turn a cat out and make him live outside when he's been used to being inside.

Careful, Lady! I perfected the guilt trip lecture! In fact, maybe it was cruel of us to turn him into an inside cat when we "rescued" him from the outside. Maybe he prefers to be outside. And maybe your Pooper Cat prefers it, too and that's why he poops on your bath towels! I took Pooper Cat and left. I brought him home and introduced  him to his new lodgings--nature!

Can I help it if I missed the snuggle of a soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur? So when I saw the ad seeking a home for an unwanted kitty, I couldn't help myself. I ran over to the owner's home and scooped him up (after making sure he was box trained, of course).

So you see, I am not a Cat Lady. Just because my arms and hands and feet and legs have so many cat scratches I look like I've been attacked by a poltergeist but I still let the little furball snuggle under the covers at night does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady. Just because I turn on Maru You Tube videos for hours on end because the kitty is obsessed with them, which forces me to put off my computer work until it's cat nap time, does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady. Just because I like to watch the occasional Maru video myself does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady. Just because I bought my first QVC purchase--a new camera--late one night with the idea in mind to document cute kitty poses does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady.

...                                                SEE MARU VIDEO HERE
...
...

What does it mean, however, that I am now buying things off QVC in the middle of the night?
...
...
...
Oh, God! I think I'd rather be a Cat Lady!

Not a Creature...was doing anyting to help me!

It didn't happen until 5:00 pm Christmas Eve, but when it did happen, it went something like this:

ME (dropping kids of at their Dad's to get dressed for 6:00 mass): Now, did you guys get everything you need?

FRANK: Well, you were hurrying me so much that I didn't have time to find my shoes.

ME (exasperated): What? You don't have shoes to wear to church?

FRANK: It's not my fault. You were rushing me.

ME: It's never your fault. Fine, just let me go back and find them. And wrap the last minute gifts. And hang the garland. And make the coffee cake. And make the fudge. And everything else you guys expect to have done for Christmas. It will just be the first time ever in my life that I have to miss Christmas mass because I am making sure that everyone gets everything they need for Christmas. But don't worry about it. I'll find your shoes.

I didn't find the shoes. The fudge got made. The garland was hung. The coffee cake was delicious. I didn't miss mass. Christmas was not ruined. Everything happened just as it always does--including my annual Christmas Eve meltdown.

It happens every year--I force my expectations on everyone else and then get mad at them when they don't help me pull it all off. It really is my own fault. Here's an example: I bought a Christmas tree 3 days before Christmas. I went through a lot of trouble to get that tree. First, I had to find someone with a truck to come with me to get it. That someone had to be strong enough to help me carry it into the house and set it up in the tree stand. Then, I had to purchase decorations for it because all of my decorations were already hanging on the Christmas tree we'd set up three weeks ago. That's right, we already had a perfectly good tree with all of our traditional, beautiful decorations, including the hand-made tree skirt and angel topper set up in the family room.

So why did I go through the trouble of buying another one three days before Christmas when I still had gifts to wrap and cake to bake and garland to hang? Because I WANTED one! I guess I didn't have enough stress to ensure a decent meltdown. I wanted to add something more to my already overburdened schedule.

So I forged ahead with my idea for the most glamorous, glittery, gorgeous red and white tree ever decorated in the history of pre-holiday panic! I should have known better. Not even the tree could cooperate. She ended up looking more drunken saloon girl then glittery glamour.

If you read my Thanksgiving blog, you know that my best laid holiday plans never actually work out. I'm not over exaggerating. It took our holiday house guests only 24 hours to figure this out. In fact, I could only shake my head in appreciation that he "got it" when I saw this message on Twitter: "Enjoying a Christmas with my fiance's family. I see National Lampoon Christmas-esque in future."

I should know by now that the one holiday expectation that will always be fulfilled is chaos--noisy, raucous, hysterical, panicked, laugh-till-your-side-aches chaos.

In the end, the panic and melt-downs and sloppy trees were worth it. It didn't happen until about 5:00 on the day after Christmas, but when it did, it went something like this:

CARMEN: This was the best Christmas ever! Thanks, Mom!

Who Gets the Tradition?

Before I was a single mom, I spent Thanksgiving gobbling up traditional trappings at an intimate gathering of...oh, about 70 people. Sometimes the gatherings were at someone's house; sometimes they were at a rented church hall. Marrying into this kind of holiday tradition was a change for me, but I tried my darnedest to fit right in. But as you know, if you've read any Roaring Moms posts at all, we have a Murphy's Law Life. What can go wrong, will go wrong.

There was the year I hosted the event at our Painted Lady Victorian Home. The only bathroom available to the hoards of family was upstairs, which was problematic enough. When the toilet boycotted and started spewing everything back up until it drained through the cracks in the ceiling and into the living room football lounge, that's when the real trouble started--and the guests left. Then there was the year I caught some nasty influenza virus literally the night before. Feeling it was too late to change venues and because it was potluck anyway, the hubby decided I could quarantine myself in the bedroom. You know, it might not have been too bad to lay in bed all day while someone else catered the meal and cleaned up, if I hadn't been on fire with fever and coughing up blood. It was awful!

Most Thanksgivings weren't so cursed. Just mine, of course. Nevertheless, chaotic, messy, noisy, crowded Thanksgivings have blessed my kids their entire lives. Their father and I deciding we would live in separate houses didn't need to change that for them.

For the past several years, my Thanksgivings have been comparatively smaller affairs--sometimes spent with my family, sometimes with my kids, sometimes with my friends, and once alone. That was fine too, because I treated myself to a big ol' stack of IHOP blueberry pancakes and no one was around to tell me that IHOP blueberry pancakes aren't Thanksgiving worthy. I've truly come to savor the small Thanksgiving. Our lives are chaotic, noisy, and messy on a daily basis. A quiet holiday that comes right after soccer and theatre season is quite welcome. There is nothing like a cozy fireplace, a cup of cocoa, the Macy's parade, a simple gathering, and a quiet day to pump me up for the Christmas season. At the end of it, I am honestly grateful that my children spent a crazy couple of hours with the cousins and battled Black Friday with that side of the family while I sat in my pajamas, stuffing my face. And I have never again had to plunge another toilet on Thanksgiving Day.

So regardless of what "the papers" that all divorced couples refer to like they are the third tablet to come down from Mt. Sinai say, the kids still get their chaotic Thanksgiving tradition with their cousins and aunts and uncles. And that's the way it should be. Through divorce, you might be able to split furniture and bank accounts evenly, but not traditions.

I hope any moms and dads from split families, blended families, and even dysfunctional families who might be reading this understand--you have your childhood holiday memories. It's time to make sure your kids get theirs. Whether that memory comes from a day with you or a with someone else who loves them shouldn't matter. Don't you want them to smile back on it for years to come? It's not the hours logged at one house that makes the memories. It's the laughter, the noise, the chaos, the cousins, the cozy cocoa, the quiet day. And maybe even the plunged toilets.

What are your most disastrous or most wonderful Thanksgiving memories?

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

It Sneaks Up On You

I truly never thought this day would come. I really didn't. They all kept telling me to "just wait", and I laughed. HA! My sweet boy would never turn into... a teenager.

I gloated when he turned 13 and didn't turn into that alien other parents describe as invading their children's bodies. I pitied the poor mothers whose sons exuded more attitude than all of my teenage girls put together. Those poor mothers. Those poor, poor mothers.

Then it happened. It was a small and sudden change. It could have easily been disregarded or explained away if it had been an isolated thing. But it wasn't.

Just today, after forcing...er, I mean inviting...Frank to join me on Saturday errand running, the following occurred:

ME: (Random funny comment)
FRANK: eye roll
ME: Hey, did you hear me, I said...
FRANK: I heard it. It was funny. I just didn't laugh.

It wasn't really so much what he said, (although he used to ALWAYS laugh, even when it wasn't funny) as it was the way he said it. And the eye roll! What was the deal with that eye roll?!

Then we got home and he disappeared. I found him hours later in his room chatting it up with his Facebook friends. This was the same kid who incessantly harassed his older sister last year for her Facebook obsession. I forced...er, I mean invited, him to join us in the family room. I watched carefully for the eye roll. Luckily, it didn't come. However, it was replaced by the resigned, "Fiiiiiine." I guess I should be grateful it wasn't followed by the Huff and Stomp.

It's happened. It has really happened. I guess I blinked or something. My saving hope is that he's a good kid, he's not female, and he's watched his poor, poor mother go through the teenage thing with his three sisters, so maybe he'll take it easy on me.

Nevertheless, this Roaring Mom's advice to all parents whose kids aren't yet teens--don't blink.

'Twas the Night Before the First Day of School

My adult daughter calls from 2 states away needing a copy of her birth certificate yesterday! Apparently, in Chicago, you can't be employed without a proof of birth. (Interesting that Illinois is Obama's former political play yard, but that's another blog.) So I'm sifting and sorting through 20 yrs of immunization cards, report cards, baptismal certificates, and soccer photos desperate to locate the one stinking piece of paper that refuses to show itself!

The phone rings again and Sophie needs that one notebook with the scholarship info in it that she told me to store for her 5 months ago. And she needs it now, please. Could I just get that for her?

Just then the Frankencarmen bursts through the door. In harmony they yell, "Mom, where's my rosary?" and "Mom, where's my PE clothes?" And I yell back, "I lose my keys five times a day, every day and misplace my purse on a regular basis. How the hell do I know where your crap is?!"

But not really. Instead, I reach for the brand new bottle of Tums that was on the coffee table five minutes ago, I swear. And once I find that, I'm tracking down my sanity before searching for anything else. I think I'm gonna need it.