In My Defense, I'm Just Incredibly Lazy

Last night, I woke up in a cold sweat because I realized that it's been over a year since my last post.  And Blogger has a reputation for deleting my blog if I haven't posted in a while... looking at you, tech who deleted "Life Is Nuts" and therefore made it as though 2005-2010 never even happened.

I'm not exactly sure how long Blogger's "Hasn't Posted Shit So Let's Delete" time frame is.  A year?  18 months? So at 3 a.m., I asked myself what I would do if the blog had been deleted? Sue?  Murder?  Curl up into the fetal position under the coffee table and blame the world for my year-long writers block?  Because I'm pretty sure it was spring of 2015 when I last posted.  And how pathetic is that?  What, like NOTHING interesting has happened since then?  Are you kidding me?  I now have a 5 and 6 year old, an elected official for a spouse, have helped launch a new non-profit, am incoming President for the Junior League of Ogden AND have made a resolution to write a book this year.

YEA. A book. Can't find time to write a blog post about The Bean's 5th birthday, but sure... I'm gonna write a book this year.

So, in an effort to make sure the blog doesn't get deleted - and maybe play a little catch-up on my life - here we are.  Mother's Day, 2016.  I'm currently sitting in my favorite coffee shop, drinking my favorite coffee drink which is not really coffee according to most human beings... and borderlines on candy bar status... but you can just go ahead and shove it if you think I care at all what you think about it.

And yes... I'm at the coffee shop sans kids on Mother's Day.  Because that's exactly what I need right now.  Something that's JUST for me.  Not them.  And I'm not going to lie, it's effing glorious.  Second only to a massage... but until Utah gets its shit together and has something open on Sunday besides a coffee shop for us heathens, this will have to do.

Since spring of 2015, a lot has happened.  The Benny was elected to City Council (despite the political liability that is yours truly). Being involved with a campaign is... well, SUPER weird.  You know what I DON'T like?  Seeing our last name all over town.  You know what I dislike even more?  People treating us differently because of our last name now.  You all should know by now that even if he was elected President of the Universe, I'm still the same chick who peed down her leg during the bike portion of a triathlon in St. George... and I'm PROUD of it.  And will TOTALLY bring up uncomfortable topics like that at any time and in any place.  Including a fancy art auction .  So you're probably gonna need to adjust your expectations.

The Bird turned 6 and started Kindergarten.  She was so excited the first day when she put on her uniform and went to class.  And THAT totally got old for her aboooouuutttt day 4.  "You mean I have to wear a uniform EVERY. SINGLE. DAY?"  

I keep waiting for her to figure out that this is like... a  thing.  But here we are.  Two weeks left of school and she STILL hasn't accepted it.  Maybe next year.

One of the things that has been tough for us this year with The Bird is that she already took Kindergarten at a private school last year.  So, she was a bit overqualified for the class and was really bored at the beginning of the year.  But, she was allowed to work at her level and things changed for the better.  Somewhat.  I mean, she lied about not having homework more than once... and seriously? What Kindergartener does that? But despite those little hiccups, I have to give props to the YMCA after school program that she attends, which helps her with her homework so that our evenings when we get home are only filled with fights over what we're serving for dinner ("Chicken nuggets, again???") and whether or not she has to wear her uniform to school tomorrow. 

The Bean entered private Kindergarten this year and OMG, has this kid flourished.  We had to get special permission to put her in the class because she didn't turn 5 until February.  We were never concerned about the academic part of it... rather, we were worried about her maturity and temperment with the older kids.  Turns out?  Not so much of a problem and her maturity has reflected the kids that she is around.  (Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.  Like marriage.)

For being the youngest, she's kicking ass.  She's currently neck and neck with another little girl in class for having read the most books.  And because she's exact opposite of The Bird in every way, she absolutely devours her homework every night.  Where often we would have to take 2-3 days for The Bird to focus enough to do her homework before a butterfly flitted by and SQUIRREL!, The Bean is alllllll about making sure her homework gets done in one night.  And then the next night, she's all:  "But I don't have ANY homework and I WANT more homework!" She's a little sick in the head, but at least she's not lying about having homework.

This year, we also became likely the only parents in the history of AYSO soccer to lie about their kid's age to get her to play up a level with her sister.  Our reasons were fully practical:  10% because she's pretty athletic and 90% because we didn't want to have to go to two soccer practices and two soccer games every Saturday.  Because at the end of the day, it really is just all about us.  And she loves it.  And when her sister isn't scoring all the goals because she's a freakin' gazelle who sometimes gets distracted by SQUIRREL!, she then gets a chance to score some goals and runs down the field like so: 

And no.  We didn't teach her that. 

And no.  We don't encourage that type of behavior.

 But... YAAASSS!!

This year has been rather challenging for me personally.  I often feel as though I'm just barely holding my shit together and life is just going to fast right now.  And it feels like all it takes is one ill-advised comment from someone and I'm going to either murder them outright, or burst into tears.  Luckily, neither has happened... but it's been close a couple of times.

For the most part, I try to stay positive and optimistic when things don't go as expected or shit hits the proverbial fan.  But when your bucket is already empty because you were up until 1 a.m. writing an email to send out to campaign supporters, your travel schedule has you gone almost every-other-week, the kiddos fought over who got more milk in their Cheerios that morning and you've got 3 deadlines in the next 4 days that you're not ready for?  It gets tough.

Parenthood is not for the weak.  And I fail every. single. day.  I actually think that's pretty healthy.  Within reason.  I mean, today I read about a mom who kept her 3 and 4 year-old's chained in the front yard in San Antonio which is off the scale FAIL.

No, my fails are a bit more mild, but nonetheless confidence shaking.  To give you an idea of what I'm talking about, here are a few key talking points from my running list.

JAYNEE'S SAMPLE LIST OF 2015-16 MOMMY FAILS

• When we haven't gone grocery shopping in weeks and all we legit have in the house are Eggos and when we feed your kids Eggos to the point that they don't want Eggos anymore... maybe we've fed them too much Eggos and we should buy some mother-effing meat, fruit and veggies so their bones don't get brittle and break when they play soccer?
• Dropping the F-bomb when I think they're not around.  Here's a secret about having kids that no one ever tells you:  THEY'RE ALWAYS AROUND.
• Yelling at the kids to stop yelling.  Yea... I HEARD IT.
• Taking The Bean up the ski-mountain that she wasn't ready for... and having to ask ski-patrol to take her down in the sled with me following behind.  
• Not insisting at looking at the toe The Bird said was hurting, but wouldn't let me look at... only to wake up a few days later and discover it was infected.  With strep.  In my defense, who knew THAT was a thing?

So, yea... it's been a good year.  And at least I've bought myself another year before I get deleted.  Who knows... maybe this will be the start of continuous blogging.

Not likely, but it's a nice thought.

One Braid At A Time

"Hey, babe?  I need to learn how to braid so I can do the girls hair. Can you show me?"

These words could have easily been followed by the sound of a needle sliding off a record player.  And in many homes, it probably would have.

But not ours.

Here, it is as common as it being Daddy's turn to cook, or to give the girls a bath, or to iron his own clothes.

And honestly, it's not because I've made a big deal about any of it. It's all him.  And it's amazing.  Not just because it gets me out of ironing extra clothes so I can work on my crush on all of the firemen on Chicago Fire without any distraction.  But because when he busted out the ironing board last week and I offered to do it for him, he said:

"It's important that the girls see my ironing my own clothes, babe.  They need to see that this is something men can do."

Uh.  YEA IT IS.  Because also?  This Daddy?  The one ironing his pink shirt out in front of God and everyone?  The one who wants to learn how to braid?  This Daddy also single-handedly lifted 20 tons of asphalt and concrete onto a trailer with nothing but his hands (and a lot of blood, sweat and cursing) during our remodel.  This Daddy helped build a river in town.  This Daddy brings home river bugs for the girls to play with.  This Daddy bought his girls fishing poles for Christmas and works with them on their cast technique. This Daddy is teaching his daughters how to ride a bike without training wheels. This Daddy built a room in our house by himself.  You know... the one I get all the credit for because everyone likes how I painted the bricks?

And this Daddy?  He wants to learn how to braid his girls' hair.

So, we sat The Bean down and I showed him how to do a French braid.  I explained that he could tell it was French because it was stylish and snobby.  Because I love stereotypes. And because I've convinced The Bean that having her hair done to look like a sister-wife is super stylish.  And snobby.  And it looks gooood.

The French braid was a bit too complicated for him at this early stage in the game.  But I reminded him that this is also how you can tell it's French... its complexity.  Like a fine wine and... Oh... look!  Another stereotype!

So, we decided that he should focus his efforts on mastering a regular braid.  I may have made fun of encouraged him by noting that if he can tie a fly, he can most certainly braid our daughters' hair and "Seriously babe... what's wrong with your hands?  Have you always lacked dexterity or did your hands get run over by a truck??"

Despite my taunting With my encouragement, he actually caught on to the technique pretty quickly, although his large hands and fingers weren't quite as nimble as they need to be to deal with fine hair like The Bean's.  But, he compensated and pretty soon he was on a roll.

The Bean, who is usually adamant that her braid look like she's a sister-wife, was perfectly content to let Daddy do some... things to her hair.  And she was beyond thrilled with how it turned out since she got more than one braid and "I WUV deez bwaidz, Mama!!"  Needless to say, it didn't go over well with her later that night when I explained that we would need to take all of the braids out for her shower.  But that's what vodka is for.

I drew a little pic for The Bean after she was done.  She took one look at it and exclaimed:  "It wooks wike MEEEE!"  Because I'm a good artist and also... because it does.

She then asked me to draw Waldo and I'll be damned if I actually didn't do a semi-decent job. Although in reality, he should have had vapors coming out of his butt because... you know.

But, I digress with my fancy artwork.  The Bird was so pleased that Daddy was working on her hair.  And not just because of the Daddy worship that she practices 24/7.  Only MOSTLY because of that.  Seriously, given the choice between being a princess living in a castle made of chocolate, or having a Daddy-Daughter fishing date in the rain, she'll choose Daddy every. single. time.  (Although she would insist on wearing her princess dress while fishing.  Because what is she?  An animal?)

Since his dexterity had improved in the 20 minutes it took to do The Bean's hair, The Bird's hair was finished rather quickly and looked marvelous.

I'm telling you, this little girl loves her Daddy more than anything in this whole world.  More than ice cream. More than Monster High. More than the braids he gave her.  And she LOVED those.

And honestly, he's either spoiling her for other men, or doing exactly what he needs to do to make sure she doesn't bring home a loser. Either way works for me.

It takes a special man to raise daughters.  It takes an even more special man to understand that what they see him do and say every day, how he treats them every day, how he treats their Mommy every day... THAT is what they will expect from the other men that eventually come into their lives.

So, let's talk about stereotypes.  Not the French stereotypes. Those are for my own twisted amusement and very much showcase my inner Republican. Aha!  Another stereotype!  I'm on a roll!!!

Let's talk about the stereotypes we hear all of the time about men and what being a real man is.  The kind that say that men have to be macho. That it isn't their responsibility to cook or clean. That they don't have as much responsibility in raising daughters as mothers do. That what they think or do or say carries more weight than their wives thoughts and actions. That their worth is defined by their strength or the paycheck they bring home, rather than what they do with their family every day.  That girls don't have as much potential as boys.

These stereotypes.. they're simply not true.

And this man?  He knows it. 

This man... the one that felt it was important to learn how to braid, the one who supports this Mommy in everything she does and dreams of doing, the one who irons his own pink shirts, the one who will color with The Bean while helping The Bird do her homework, the one that will go into work late because he feels like he hasn't had enough time with his kids, the one who they tackle every night when he walks in the door, the one who can fall asleep while they are using him as a trampoline, the one who can fix anything from an owie on their toe, to a toy that isn't working, to a sprinkler system to a freakin' house.

This man is the definition of what a man should be. This man shatters stereotypes.  And in the process, is raising daughters that like him, are going to change the world.

One braid at a time.

My Pre-K Bean

The Bean has been going through a rough patch for the last few months.  She's been defiant and bull-headed in a way that makes bulls seem somewhat reasonable and even-keeled... someone you'd consider inviting out to Girls Night.

At first, we thought it was just a phase... that she would grow out of it. But it's been like a bad case of plantar fasciitis (I happen to know a little about that)... that's gotten worse and more inflammed and even alcohol can't help it.  And I am honestly at the end of my very, very long rope with her.

We've tried everything.  Reasoning... choice and consequence... sending her to her room... taking away her blankie... out right yelling... threatening to give Waldo away (yea, I sooooo went there)... and even threatening to leave her at gymnastics overnight because she refused to put on her pants and shoes after class when it was time to go. 

Five points if you can you spot the slow spiral down to Insanity Parenting.

Her teacher has been flummoxed as well.  She's pulled me aside several times and asked what type of things work for us when she's being so defiant and I was all: "Dude!  Don't ask me!!!  I threatened to give the cat away last night... I'm bottom of the barrel here!"

Yesterday was another rough day for her in school and she got an incident report for being.. well, a general asshole to everyone at school and was sent to the equivalent of the Principal's Office at the day care.  Great... she's THAT kid.

After signing off on the report and taking my copy, I walked into her room where she was playing with her little friends.  She saw me and did her usual routine of: "Yay!  Mama's here!" while clapping her hands and jumping up and down.  Which is hands down the best greeting you can ever ask for, but I digress.

I looked at her and held up the folded piece of yellow paper that was the copy of the report.  And this child's demeanor changed mid-jump and clap.  She lowered her chin down to her chest and wouldn't make eye contact.  Her response was exactly like Bonnie's response when I catch her eating underwear.  I didn't have to say a word.  She knew.  SHE KNOWS SHE'S SCREWING UP.  Which means there's legitimately something going on here... not just the Being An Asshole Phase I was chalking it up to.

That night, I had a heart-to-heart with her.   In the past, thinking maybe it was a personality conflict with the teacher, I have asked her if she liked her teacher, Ms. Jennifer.  She would always respond that she loved Ms. Jennifer.  Then I would ask her what was wrong... and she would say she didn't know.

Last night, I asked her if she liked her class... because it only takes me four months to try phrasing the question differently... because I'm super on-point like that. She once again hung her head down and shook her head no. 

"Why not?"
With a quivering lip: "Betuz... I'm bored.  There's widdow kids in there and I'm a big girl and everything we do is bowing."
"Oh! Well... you know what? We can put you in a big kid class with older kids."
"You can?"
"Absolutely! Would you like to do that?"
*silence*
She looked up at me then, with big blue eyes and unshed tears and choked out:
"But... I still wuv Ms. Jennifer!"
"That's okay, sweetie!  She knows you love her... but she knows you're almost four and need to be with the big kids.  And you'll love your new teacher, too!"

At that point, the smile and joy that had been missing from her face whenever the subject of school came up,  returned.  Her smile was so big I thought her face might break and she hugged me around my neck so tightly that I thought I might pass out.

"I wanna go to the big kid class!  And I get to learn things and even have homework, right?"
"Maybe!"
"Yay!" 
 
This morning, I dropped her off at school and she marched right into her new class, no questions asked.  Her only concern was that she didn't have a cubby yet.  "Dude... relax.  We like JUST got here and the decision to bring you into this class happened about 12 hours ago." 

She got over it quickly and grabbed my hand and walked with me to the cafeteria, where she walked right up to her new class, sat down and ate breakfast with all the big kids.  I kissed her, wished her luck, told her to be the best her she could be and that I loved her.  She beamed at me and told me she loved me.

It was the first time in weeks that she hadn't clung to me and sobbed when I left. 

How could I not have figured this out sooner?

Sometimes I don't give The Bean the benefit of the doubt.  She's always been a rascal and she likes to push limits and doesn't always seem congnizant of other people's feelings... and doesn't talk about her feelings.

I should know this by now.  I realize now that she does care and she does love people deeply... she just doesn't wear it on her sleeve like her sister does. 

When I left my little Bean... the one I feel like I need to protect much more than her sissy because I still remember when she came out of me and couldn't breathe... well, she was sitting in that cafeteria, happily eating her breakfast surrounded by new big-kid friends. 

She. Was. Beaming.

And That's How She Became A Vegetarian

While on a family outing last night (read:  a trip to Costco), The Bird asked approximately 2 million questions, because WHY and WHY NOT? 

The questions ranged from why we were there yet again, to how come we aren't buying this, or that, or this, or that, or DIS, or DAT??!?!?  (The answer is because until she starts working and earning her keep, Mommy calls the shots and no, we do not need a $175 giant teddy bear.  She already has 175 $1 teddy bears and I think that's sufficient.) 

She, of course, is not one to let a simple shoot down of her dreams of owning the giant teddy bear deter her from asking more questions that demand a response... which leads me to forget the one thing I came to Costco for.  (Usually a year's worth of toilet paper or a day's worth of pumpkin seed bark.)

"What's that?"
"Eggs."
"Can I see?"
"Sure... see how they're not broken?  Let's just put them back so they don't break."
"Okay.  What's that?"
"Salad."
"Why did you get salad?"
"Because I like salad."
"But why do you like salad?"
"Because it's yummy!"
"That's weird.  What's that?"
"That's steak."
"What's steak?"
"It's beef."
"What's beef?"
"It's, um... cow."
"I LOVE COW!"
"I know.  It's yummy."
"Yea!  How do you get the cow into our cart?"
"Well... I buy it here... from the store."
"But how does the store get the cow?"
"Well... they get it from the farmer."
"But HOW does it get so small so we can buy it?"

At this point, I'm frantically looking around for anything to distract her... where is that damn giant teddy bear?  Maybe a sample cookie?  Anything????  But we were un the checkout line and people were lining up behind us... and I sensed that more than a couple strangers were enjoying our little show and were anxious to see how I would handle the situation.  The Bird loves cow on her plate.  And she also loves cow in the field. I just don't think she's ever made the connection, ya know?.

And am I ready to do that to her on a November night, over eggs and salad and steak, in the middle of the checkout line at Costco? No.  Because I already made her wear tennis shoes instead of sandals, so I've hit my Ruined Her Life quota for the day.

So, I did the next best thing.

"You know what, sweetie?  I bet Daddy can answer this for you."
"Ok!  Daddy, how do they get the cow to the store?"

And without missing a beat, the love of my life jumped in.  Head first.

"Well, you see, the cow lives on the farm, right?"
"Uh-huh!"
"Right, well, there's a man that is a lot like grandpa.  He's a farmer..."
 "Be careful, babe...."
"Hey!  I got this.  I GOT THIS!"  He looked at me with waaaay more self-assurance than any parent should ever have... and then turned back to The Bird.  

"Okay..." as I looked around nervously and smile at the other shoppers who were trying to pretend they're not eavesdropping.

"So, the farmer - someone a lot like grandpa - comes up to the cow in the field... and KILLS it and SLICES it into small pieces with a KNIFE!  And then the store buys it and then we buy it from the store and eat it....."

And I don't know what else was said because I FELL OVER DEAD RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE COSTCO CHECKOUT LINE.

The B-Word

The Bird recently asked for a Barbie for her upcoming 5th birthday.

First, let me thank all of my friends and the day care for exposing her to the B-Word.  No... not THAT B-Word.  I would prefer that B-Word to the B-A-R-B-I-E-Word.

Back before I had kids,  I swore that Barbie would never enter my home.  I believe that I have referred to it on more than on occasion as "The Eating Disorder Doll"... and vowed never to let it cross the threshold of my house.

But, when your almost-5-year-old looks up at you with wide, innocent eyes and desperately whispers:  "I want a Barbie doll... because I've never had a Barbie doll... and all my friends have Barbie dolls... so can I please have a Barbie?  Please, please, please?"  Well, now you feel like a Grinch.

It's hard balancing feminism with raising a little girl who, if she could, would like to grow up to be a Butterfly Princess that could fly and go to dance class and wear a crown of jewels and have pretty rings and necklaces and pink hair with sparkles AND WEAR HIGH HEELS!!!  (happy screech!!!)

So.  God... she has a sense of humor, no?  

Yep.  I'm a Grinch.  The Grinch Who Stole Barbie.  And yes... I may have gone too far with the No Barbies Rule.  And yes... I may not completely understand The Bird and her need to make everything princess-y.  And honestly?  I need to be better at that.  I need to let her be the little girl she wants to be and not impose my view of the world on her... the one in which I expect her to fly her feminist flag high and question authority and patriarchy.  Because she's just a little kid and she should just be allowed to be in that moment.

So...I get that.  I get that I'm 37-years-old and NEED TO DEAL WITH MY SH*T and not force it on my kindergartner.  It's just hard... way harder than I expected it to be.

Luckily, Mattel has found a way to soothe my feminist ire and STILL take money from my grubby hands via their new line: Career Barbie!!  Props to my girlfriend who pointed this out to me when I lamented how I could see the Barbie train coming and was powerless to stop it.

A quick Amazon search of Career Barbie turned up a few gems. You guys.  YOU. GUYS.  I don't know whether to be delighted at the possibilities... or dead inside.  Because while the powers that be have been shamed into trying... they're definitely trying... to step into the modern day, my ears are still bleeding. 

So, seeing that I have nothing better to do, let's discuss the concepts in the Career Barbie line:

1)  Actress Barbie

Do I really need to say anything about this?  Okay, fine.  See, the thing is there are some amazing actresses.  The ones that make you want to go see a film because you know they'll blow your mind.  And the funny thing is, NONE OF THEM LOOK LIKE THIS.   The ones who aren't so amazing... yes, they often look like this.  They're the ones who have to have guardianships placed on them and say they're not a feminist... because they don't hate men.... but women should definitely have social, economic and political equality.  See?  Ears bleeding.

2) Astronaut Barbie

This one... I'm okay with.  Not sure why they have to vomit pink at every turn, but you do you, Mattel.  Good job.

3) Soccer Barbie

So, listen.  I'm an athlete and am a huge advocate of women's athletics and what it means for the development of girls and women.  However, this is just not cutting it.  I mean, despite the fact that this outfit exactly matches The Bird's soccer uniform's color-scheme (not even joking), there are some issues here.

#1 - How many girls do YOU know that wear tight shirts and shorts to play soccer?  None.  That's volleyball.  Get it right. 
#2 -  And how many of them have perfectly coiffed hair?  NONE.  Which leads us to:
#3 - Her teeny-tiny feet that are so small there's no way she can kick a soccer ball effectively, or even be able to stand properly.
#4 -  Of course, since her knees don't bend, this is all a mute point.

Seriously... if we're going to promote sports via a Barbie doll, let's make it realistic.  How about a Million Dollar Baby Barbie Doll?  Looks like crap most of the time, doesn't comb her hair eats leftover food at the diner when no one is looking and hasn't showered in days... but can throw a mean left hook and knock you flat on your ass.  YOU GUYS!!  I would buy that doll in a heartbeat... hell, The Bean could be the model for that doll.

4) Baker Barbie

When I first looked at this one, I got a craving for some Pepto.  But other than that, I wasn't too bothered.  Until I looked at her shoes.  Really?  No.  No career woman I know would wear those kinds of shoes to work.  Well... one career woman, but Mattel hasn't officially created a Stripper  Barbie (although seriously... if they make one, it better come with a pole and I'm totally going to buy it).

But, I digress.  Besides the lack of comfort and impracticality of wearing these things in a kitchen, I'd be willing to bet that Baker Barbie will eventually end up with plantar fasciitis and a neuroma.  Those shoes are NOT her best friend. Why not a Cat Cora/Iron Chef Barbie??  I guarantee she's wearing running shoes.

5) Doctor Barbie

I actually was okay with this one... but then my friend who is an actual doctor pointed out that doctors?  THEY DON'T WEAR SHORT SKIRTS LIKE THAT TO WORK.   I know... I KNOW!  How in the world will we make Doctor Barbie about her looks versus her career if we don't emphasize her legs and the place where her vagina would be if she had one?

6) Nurse Barbie

This is one of the few that I can get behind, as I've actually seen a lot of nurses dressed similarly.  She does look incredibly unsoiled for a nurse, though.  Maybe they should add some vomit to her shoes.  Which by the way, should be Crocs, not heels.

7) Pediatrician Barbie

Again with the shoes.  And also... the tiny wrists that couldn't hold a baby if her life depended on it.  Nevermind giving a screaming baby a shot.  NEXT!!

8) Skier Barbie

I hope she freezes to death with those tight pants and no gloves, hat or goggles.  But... other than that, she's fine.  Except her hair should be in a pony tail and if she's wearing those tight pants, at some point her knees are gonna have to bend, otherwise her dreams of competitive skiing are over.

9) Teacher Barbie

Look how put together Teacher Barbie is?  She obviously teaches young children who are totally paying attention and listening to her at all times. Luckily, it appears that she only has the one student, which is super realistic.  This is her thinking to herself: "I need to figure out how to change out of these God-forsaken tight pants so I can actually move around my classroom and help my one student."  Someone needs to explain to this Barbie about budget cuts and America's educational priorities so that she knows that she's going to be teaching 40 kids in her classroom tomorrow... because they've cut the music and arts programs.

10)  Detective Barbie

THIS IS NOT DETECTIVE OLIVIA BENSON AND I REFUSE TO ACCEPT ANYTHING LESS THAN DETECTIVE OLIVIA BENSON.  By the way, Detective Benson wouldn't be caught dead in tight pants, boots, a walkie-talkie and a side ponytail.

11) Entrepreneur Barbie

So, now that I've offended everyone about Career Barbie - and possibly their professions - let's talk about Entrepreneur Barbie.  Which I think should be re-named to Working Mom Barbie... with a few changes.

1) Long skirt.  Working moms use this trick to cover up the fact that they haven't shaved since 2009.
2) Outfit should be wrinkled... not offensively so, but enough so that you can tell she had to pull them out of the dryer and hope a little Downy Wrinkle Release would do it's job in the five minutes she had before she had to walk out the door.  
3) Overflowing purse that contains all the staples of a Working Mom Barbies life, like:

• 3 tubes of lip balm
• 4 tubes of lip gloss
• a pair of sunglasses for each kid... which they refuse to wear
• one kid sock
• 43 cents in change
• Dora The Explorer goggles... broken
• pebbles that her children stuck in her purse for safe keeping.
• 3 Costco receipts
• 10 dental floss sticks
• sunblock stick
• a swim diaper, despite the fact her kids are way past diapers
• half-eaten granola bar that she never had time to finish
• business cards
• necklaces
• Pez dispenser with no candy
• dried up pens
• hair clips
• pigeon feather that her children stuck in her purse for safe keeping
• hair pick
• an Oregon Ducks whistle... because that makes sense
• sticker earrings... that her children stuck in her purse for safe keeping
• assorted items of useless garbage... that her children stuck in her purse for safe keeping
• this wine cork that she keeps because of OH SO MANY REASONS
  
  

• All of which are covered in melted chocolate from those espresso beans she accidentally spilled in her purse and never got around to finding before they melted in the sun when she left her purse in the car.  Along with her keys.

4)  A suspicious stain on her shirt that she thought about changing before work but decided, HEY!  THIS IS ME AND WE MADE IT THROUGH BREAKFAST WITH JUST A FEW MISHAPS (including this maple syrup/milk/bacon grease stain on my shirt).  Everyone else can just deal!!!

5) Let's be real with the makeup.  Like Working Mom Barbie has time for that? She doesn't.  She had to settle a fight between the kids about where they should wipe the booger they just pulled out of their respective noses, which took up all of the "putting on her face" time she had allotted for herself.

6) Working Mom Barbie should have her sunglasses on her head haphazardly, a coffee in one hand, her purse slung over her arm and one child holding on to the coffee hand's pinkie finger, while holding the other child's hand.  Working Mom Barbie decides who gets to hold her pinkie based on who she thinks is less likely to dart out into traffic that day. 

Look, if Mattel really wanted to inspire girls, they would try to make these career dolls more realistic.  Not just pick a career and then pink it up.  That being said, I recently purchased Entrepreneur Barbie and a Mermaid Barbie because the 5YO... she's allowed to be a kid.  She has her entire life to question what she's being marketed and why.

And I hope she will.  I really hope she will.

Doing The Best I Can

When I got to work today, I turned off the car and sat in the parking lot... mentally calculating how many arguments I had already been in that day.

Fifteen.  Fifteen arguments between 6:45 and 8:30 this morning.  And that just sucks.  Even worse, the arguments were between me and two little girls that just recently stopped pooping their pants.  For the most part.  

Even worse than that?  I'm not sure that I, at 37, won any of the arguments.  Sure, sure... raising kids is not about winning or losing.  EXCEPT THAT IT IS.  And anyone who wants to argue that point with me can go ahead and bring it.  I'm already at 15 arguments today.  What's a few more?

To say that this morning was not my best parenting moment is putting it lightly.  I mean, I didn't yell.  And I didn't scream... but was there joy?  Was there peace?  NO.  But there was me impatiently explaining for the fifth time this morning that it's raining outside so tennis shoes are required because I'm tired of hearing about your feet getting wet in your sandals.  And also? You already have a sore throat and I don't need to roll the dice on you getting sicker.  And also?  Pants and long sleeves will not kill you.  I know you think they will, but no one has ever died from pants and long sleeves instead of shorts and short sleeves or a dress.  NO. ONE.  Unless it's the mother who just said screw it and drove off a cliff after the umpteenth argument about it.  And no... see, I've already played that game with you about wearing what you want and suffering the consequences.  You know who suffered the consequences when you were cold?  ME.  I had to listen to the whining and crying about you being cold... and yet, here we are.  Fighting about this. Again.  Because contrary to what everyone says will happen if I try this little parenting trick on you, NEITHER OF YOU HAVE LEARNED.  So, I've now taken the choice out of your hands.  Because I'm tired of it.  There's going to be tears and a fight anyway, may as well do it while we're at least warm and dry.  And no... you asked for oatmeal.  That's oatmeal.  I don't care if it's in the wrong bowl.  Eat it.  You! Please. Sit. Down. and eat your breakfast before blood starts coming out of my eyes.  No!  I already told you...you're wearing tennis shoes today.  Because your other shoes gave you an owie on your toe.  And  it's raining outside.  No.  You cannot have Mommy's breakfast.  BECAUSE THE LAST TIME YOU HAD SOME OF MOMMY'S BREAKFAST, YOU DIDN'T LIKE IT AND SPIT IT OUT... BACK INTO MOMMY'S BOWL.  Just eat your own breakfast please!!  It's fine that you don't have the same cup as your sissy.  YOU WILL SURVIVE.  Yes.  We have to brush your hair.  Because we haven't brushed it in 4 days and people will start to talk. No.  You cannot have fruit treats right now.  We only have fruit treats in the morning when we're camping.  No!  You cannot take your play computer to school.  Leave it here please.  Because I said so.  Oh! You don't want to go to school?  That's SHOCKING.  Please get in the car.  I don't care who gets in first, one of you get in, the other one follow! We don't have the Frozen CD in the car right now (because I hid it for my sanity). I'm sorry.  I'M SORRY.  That's life.  We have a gazillion other songs, let's try one of those.  No.  I'm sorry you don't like it, but that doesn't mean you get to scream the whole way to drown it out.

And that was my morning.  So, when I pulled into the parking lot at work, I was more than a little frazzled and disappointed in what the morning had been.  So often I find myself sitting alone - either in the car or on the toilet... JUST KIDDING!  I never get to sit alone on the toilet! - and thinking about what kind of mother I had envisioned myself to be... back when I didn't have kids.  And it's just not meshing with my reality.  And honestly... that's a huge, depressing bummer.  The kind of bummer that leaves you sitting in your car in an empty parking lot and getting teary-eyed because SHIT.  This sucks. I suck.  The whole world just SUCKS.

That's when my girl, Tracy Chapman, joined me in the car.  She put her arm around me with a few versus and let me know... this is okay.  You're doing okay.  You're doing the best you can.  And at this point in your life, that's okay.

Well, actually what she said was:

"At this point in my life, I've done so many things wrong.... don't know if I can do right. Put your trust in me... hope I won't let you down. Give me a chance... I'll try. See it's been a hard road, the road I'm traveling on.  If I take your hand, I might lead you down the path to ruin.  Had a hard life... I'm just saying it so you'll understand. Right now, right now, I'm doing the best I can. At this point in my life, although I've mostly walked in the shadows... I'm still searching for the light. Won't you put your faith in me, we both know that's what matters. If you give me a chance, I'll try. You see I've been climbing stairs, but mostly stumbling down. I've been reaching high always losing ground.  You see I've conquered hills but I still have mountains to climb. And right now right now I'm doing the best I can. At this point in my life."

And if that's not a parenting motto that everyone need to sing to themselves once a day... maybe in an empty parking lot when they finally have a moment to themselves, I don't know what is.  At the very least, it's the soundtrack to my life, right now.  Which is good because we all need a good soundtrack to get us through the day.

So, tonight... we try again. 

I try to find the joy that was missing this morning.

 I remember that it's a journey.

I remember that my children... they're also doing the best they can.

At this point in their lives. 


**************

Hmmmm....

Even though I have a solid four years of parenting under my belt, I have yet to come anywhere close to expert status.  I always secretly giggle when my girlfriends ask me for parenting advice because OMG... you must be desperate if you're asking me.  Did you know that my girls think that drip drying is an acceptable form of hygiene?

Seriously....I'm 37 with two kids and still have no idea what the hell I'm doing most days.  But, hey the kids are still alive and they're happy at least 49 percent of the time, so I'm either doing something right or just know how to polish a turd when I see it.  For example, did you know that there are children out there in the world who don't know the genius of hot dogs in their Mac & Cheese.... because their mothers feed them vegetables and other unprocessed foods?  I feel bad for those kids... I really do. 

And, yes... I tend to brag up my parenting swagger by letting my Facebook friends know that my child used the term "F*ck *t" and that I will soon be teaching her the other F-word:  F*m*n*sm.

But the truth is, I still need help every now and then.  That's where you come in.

You... reading this bit of nonsense right now and chuckling about what it must be like to have me as a mother.  You... the one who NEVER leaves a comment because you don't want to mess with your "lurker" status.  You... the one who comes up to me on the street and says:  "Hey-o!  Loved your post about your little girl pooping in bed and sleeping next to it!"

YOU.  Pony up, sweetheart.  We need all hands on deck for this one.

On the way home from school a couple of weeks ago, The Bird mentioned that a little boy in her class punched her in the stomach.  Since, I hadn't received a note and The Bird has been known to leave out pertinent facts (not on purpose, just because she's 4), I talked with the teacher about in the next day.  Turns out, she had been punched, but the teacher on duty was a sub and hadn't thought to write a note to explain what happened.  This particular little boy... Oy.  Vey.  It didn't surprise me that he was the culprit.  But, it seemed like an isolated incident and it was handled by the teacher and the executive director of the center, so I didn't worry too much about it. 

Cut to Thursday when I got a note from the teacher stating that The Bird had been punched in the stomach by another little boy (we'll call him Jerkface because HE IS), and well... two times in two weeks and Mama is NOT pleased. 

"So, why did he punch you in the stomach?"
"Because he was killing an earwig and I kept telling him not to kill it and he didn't like what I was saying so he punched me in the stomach!"
"Hard?"
"Yes... it made me cry."
"Did you tell teacher?"
"Yes."
"What did she do?"
"She made him go sit on this beach towel."
"Hmmmmm..."

Just as a point of reference, if you ever hear me saying "Hmmmmm...", you should probably back away slowly.  Because when I say "Hmmmmm..."  that means I'm about to say or do something that could prevent me from ever holding public office. In the past, "Hmmmmm" has immediately preceded the following statements:

- This bar will never even notice if we take this glass home with us.  Look how pretty it is!
- What's the harm in saran wrapping those cars together?
- I say we drink some more margarita's.
- That weirdly shaped apple looks like a butt.  I'm going to take a picture and post it online.
- There's a real genius to Baby Got Back.  
- Let's go up to the most conservative boy in school and grind on him at the school dance while "Shoop" is playing.  Bonus points because he's the principal's son.
- You know what... that Spanish teacher is about to have a nervous breakdown.  We should TOTALLY set her desk on fire.

 This particular "Hmmmmm..."  immediately preceded me asking:

"Bird... are you bigger than Jerkface?"
"Yes... why?"
"He punches you again, you push him down and stand over him like you're freakin' Lara Croft and tell him to NEVER touch you again.  And if he tries to stand up, you step on him and tell him to stay down or you will END him."
"Just wondering."

I went for a swim that night and had a long talk with myself about advocating violence against a 4-year-old.  It wasn't my best moment as a mother human being, I admit it.  But I never actually said those words out loud to her.  Partly because you don't teach that violence isn't acceptable.... by advocating violence.  But mostly because I knew if I did and the teacher asked her why she pushed him down, she would totally rat me out. 

The overall problem as I see it is NOT that the boy punched her.  It's about how she is expected to react to being punched that bothers me.  I'm all for non-violence and no hitting and using our words and walking away, but what if that doesn't work?  What if you're now a target and a victim?  There are many things I expect my girls to be.  A victim is nowhere on that list.  There is a fine line between teaching your daughter to stand up for herself and advocating violence... and it's not an easy line to walk.

I struggle with the idea that the teacher has to handle the situation, when my daughter could and should be the one to handle it. We should be teaching our children - especially our daughters - that they should have an expectation of how others treat them.  And sure... I get that he's 4.  And his parents haven't taught him better.  And he has three older brothers and that's just how they are... rough and tumble. I get it.  But, why is that an excuse to physically harm my daughter and she not be able to do anything about it other than cry and run to teacher?  Why in society do we teach our girls to let someone else handle it?  What is wrong with telling her to stand up for herself when someone hurts her?  This little boy may never change, but I don't believe the right answer for my daughter is just to avoid him. I suspect that would make it worse and that's not how real life works.  And I wonder if parents of little boys would tell their sons to let teacher handle it if their son was the one who received the punch... or two punches in two weeks. Or... if perhaps they would tell him what I wanted to tell The Bird:  Anyone punches you, you push them down and make sure they know that YOU are not to be messed with. Capisce?

Of course, if she handles it on her own, she runs the risk of getting a rep. Which is sad.  It just seems as though we are teaching our girls that they need to have someone else stand up for them, fight their fights and deal with their issues.  Which makes the feminist in me bleed from her ears.  We should expect more from our daughters than running to tell teacher if someone hurts them. We should empower them the way our sons are empowered. I certainly don't want her in a fight, but I sure as hell want her to know how to defend herself in a fight if need be.

Again, I'm not advocating violence, per se.  But it seems like if they're both 4-years-old, it's a fair fight.  And if he's smaller than her and she puts him in his place, maybe he'll be better at picking his fights.  And if The Bird learns how to stand up for herself now, and not be cowed by someone else who is willing to hit her because he can get away with it (because, honestly... at the end of the day, he had to go to timeout?  please.  he learned NOTHING from that.  and he'll do it again), then maybe she'll know how to stand up for herself when someone else tries to hurt her.  Maybe in a year.  Maybe in high school.  But she'll know that she deserves to be treated with more respect.  Will inaction on this lead her to believe that if someone doesn't like what she's saying or doing, it's okay for them to hit her?

BECAUSE. IT'S. NOT.

We don't hit in our home.  That's not how we communicate.  We use our words and/or have a meltdown and have to go to our bedroom and cry it out.

But enough of how I communicate....

I'm sure there are some parents out there reading this thinking:  "Dude... chill out, Mama.  It was just a punch and it's part of growing up."  And trust me, I've wrestled with the idea that maybe I've let this get me too worked up.  But what I see is more than a punch.  So much more.

When I spoke with one of the wonderful women who run the day care about this, she asked what I would do if I saw a little boy punch one of my girls on the playground.  Would I run up to them and stop it and comfort my daughter?  Or would I be okay with her slugging him back?  It's possible she now thinks less of me because I responded that I'd let them fight it out.  At least for a little bit.  But I've always been a little more fight, less flight.

How would you advise your child in a similar situation?

Mother's Day 2014

Mother's Day dawned yesterday with cah-rappy weather and grumpy kiddos who had gone to bed too late the night before and who were also all sorts of cabin-fevered.  Initially, we had planned on taking them on a bike ride along the Ogden River during a break in the storm, but it was just too damn cold and the one thing I won't tolerate on Mother's Day is being cold.  So, we ended up taking them over for a play date while my girlfriend and I went to get pedicures and left the kiddos with their dads.  Spending time with the kids on Mother's Day? I mean.. who does THAT?

For dinner that night, I threw on some leftover taco soup.  You know... the one the kids loved on Saturday but suddenly loathe on Sunday?  That one.  Don't like leftovers?  Tough.  It's Mother's Day... and I'm not supposed to do anything on Mother's Day.  I think it's a law or something.  So, taco soup it is!  And also, if there's one day in the year that you DON'T  tell our mom that you "don't wike dat!" while pushing away the homemade food she's lovingly put in front of you, IT'S MOTHER'S DAY.  Brat.

After that epic success, we decided that the only way to salvage the day was a trip to get ice cream at Burch Creek Mercantile.  We didn't tell the kiddos where we were going so that we could surprise them.  Think about that for a minute.  On Mother's Day, we go out of our way to surprise our kids.  And it's not just Mother's Day.  Last year for Father's Day, both girls got new bikes.  We're doing this wrong, I know.  But I'm not sure how we get back on track with this nonsense.

So, yea...we wanted to surprise them.  But it's also true that we kept the surprise from them because we've been to this rodeo before and wanted to make sure we had all the facts before we told them to avoid hysterics and a meltdown.  (And then there was the worry that THEY would be upset.)  But mostly it was to surprise them on my special day.

Of course, the Mercantile was closed.  Because, you know... karma.  For those of you not in the know, a spring Sunday in Utah + kids + raining = misery.  To add to the misery and also get our ice cream, we decided to go to McDonald's.  Which is where a little part of me died.

As we sat in the drive-thru, I thought about what I always envisioned Mother's Day being... and how I never thought it would include a trip to McDonald's for ice cream to quell the beasts (she said lovingly in between refereeing their fighting) in the backseat.  I asked Benny to remind the kiddo's why we were getting ice cream because I may have threatened them with no food for the rest of the night if they didn't eat their dinner.  And yea, they didn't eat their dinner... BUT WHO WANTS ICE CREAM?  

Tiger Mom I am not.  But at least I get ice cream.

Because he's a good man, he reminded them without rolling his eyes.  And did so as as he was being handed their ice cream cones through the service window.

"Alright kids. Do you know why we're getting ice cream?  It's Mother's Day!  It's Mommy's special day so we're getting something special!"

I didn't even have the energy to look horrified as the McDonald's worker raiser her eyebrows and smirked.  I imagine she was thinking:  "Yea, you're one special mama to get McDonald's on your special day.  What are you going to get for your birthday?  A root canal?" 

So, I gave her my best:  "HEY!  THIS WHOLE THING WAS MY IDEA!" look.  And then threw the $4 for my Mother's Day treat at her and had Benny peel out.

While the kids were happily slurping their cone and The Bean was eating the paper with the cone, we headed up to Ogden Valley for a nice family drive.  It's beautiful in Ogden this time of year, but particularly so in Ogden Valley, where everything is green and the surrounding mountains stretch into the sky like they're just waking up from a long nap.  Those mountains... they make me jealous with their long naps.

Everything was going great... both girls were happy from their sugar high and Benny and I were able to have a conversation about the Ogden Marathon that is happening next week, and my one experience in running it many moons ago.

"This spot right here... this is where the wheels fell off."
"Mile 18?  That's pretty early in the race for the wheels to fall off, babe. "
"Yea?  Well, you can just go ahead and suck it."

"Oh... this part is brutal... but not as brutal as this part... or this part."
"You've only pointed out the flat parts of the course.  So, what you're saying is it's only brutal when you're not going downhill?"
"Yes. You don't need to sound so smug, by the way. I know my weaknesses.  Anything not downhill is one of them."

And so on.

And then The Bird threw my bike helmet at The Bean in the backseat and EVERYONE'S LIFE WAS RUINED. It's unfortunate because it was really just a slight misunderstanding... Bird-zo thought it would be funny.  The Beaner didn't.  So, her face melted off and we had to do some quick front-seat parenting.  Which basically means we took the helmet away and threatened to cancel Christmas... and order was restored.

Halfway down the canyon, The Bird started complaining (started?  or continued?  jury is still out... because she's got this thing about complaining... in that she's always. complaining. about something.) that her tummy hurt.  Not to be outdone, The Bean also started complaining that her tummy hurt and she was going to "frow up!".  Which caused The Bird to declare that she was going to "frow up first.  And Mommy... my tummy weally, weally hurts!"

And then Mommy, the voice of reason, declared that frowing up was not a competition and there would be no frowing up because that's just weak... and how disgraceful it is if they can't hold their ice cream.

See... we've also been to this particular rodeo and knew that there were two possibilities:  1) they're faking it because it was too quiet and there was a need to fill the silence or 2) crap. motion sickness.  

As a parent, there's no right way to play this as you're driving down a tight, windy canyon... other than just begging your child to hold on till we got out of the canyon and could pull over.  And, as is the norm for this type of situation, the "frow up" occurred right as we came around the last corner of the canyon.

And that was my Mother's Day.  How was yours?

10 Things My Mom Taught Me

This post was written Wednesday... which is why the beginning of it is totally past tense.  Deal with it. 

Mother's Day is coming up. I'm reminded of this because the girls have apparently been making something at school for me.  And also practicing screaming HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! at the top of their lungs.  Every. Day.

They continually ask me if today is Mother's Day.  No? Is it tomorrow?  What about yesterday? Was it yesterday?  What about Wednesday? What about Tuesday? No?  WHEN IS IT, MOMMY? 

See, there's only two days of the week that they know.  Tuesday, which is Tumblebus Day at school.  And Wednesday, which is when they have gymnastics.  They don't know what Saturday or Sunday are... except that they know they don't have to go to school for two whole days and it's AMAZING. 

I'm not sure what I'm getting for Mother's Day from them... but with the buildup, we've been experiencing for the past two weeks, I expect it to be nothing short of a diamond tennis bracelet.  Or maybe a couple of rocks and a dandelion.  Which is pretty much the same thing in my world.

Now that I'm out of the baby-phase of parenting and am raising two very independent and opinionated kiddos, I often have chances to step back and look at my experience as a mother. Which leads to the daily question of whether or not I'm doing it right or if I'm just completely screwing my kids up.  I suspect it's the latter because this morning, The Bird tried to tell us that unless we gave her more Cheerios, she was going to keep crying.  It is clear to me that my consequences-based parenting is rubbing off on her the wrong way.

I think every mom goes through this self-doubt.  And those who say they don't are lying liars who lie.

I also think that whether we realize it or not, we are applying the lessons we were taught as children to our children.  The Good.  The Bad.  The Ugly. 

My mom and dad stopped by the house last night and dropped of a beautiful hanging basket for Mother's Day.  I felt bad because... well, yea... I haven't done any shopping for my mom for Mother's Day, yet.  Maybe by Saturday I'll get myself to the nursery and grab something she'd like.  But seriously.. Wednesday?  I don't operate that far in advance unless it's for chocolate.   So, for now, my Mother's Day gift to her is this:

10 Things My Mom Taught Me

1 - "If something is worth doing, it's worth doing well."
Work ethic is important to my mom and she has instilled that in her kids.  She preached it while we were picking worms in the alfalfa field waiting for the sun to come up so we could finally go home and get the mud out from under our fingertips.  And she preached it while we were roasting marshmallows over a campfire. In mom's mind, whether it's picking night crawlers to sell to fishermen, cleaning the bathtub, doing your homework or making the perfect s'more... don't waste your time. Do your absolute best and then move on to something bigger and better.  This may well be why when I suffer from writers block or if I'm not up to par on my writing I yell:  THIS IS CRAP! while deleting the file and starting over.  Or why I refuse to make the bed (because I don't think it's worth doing).  But it's also why I graduated from college, excel in a career and make a mean s'more. 

2 - "Stand tall and proud!  Tall is beautiful!"
This was little solace to a 5-8, 98 pound 5th grader who endured such horrific nicknames as Giraffe, Too Tall Paskins, Pencil Legs and Hey! How's The Weather Up There, Dork? But every time my mom saw me slump my shoulders in an effort to conform to the "normal-sized" world I was living in, she affirmed that tall was beautiful and I should never try to disguise it.  "Do you know how much I would give to have your height? All those people are just jealous of your height.  You're going to be able to do great things because of your height.  You're height will never hold you back.  Now, please grab that bowl up on the top shelf for me.  I can't reach."

3 - "We don't flip the bird. And if we do flip the bird, we DON'T flip the bird to the Bishop."
There were a couple of lessons here:  1) Choose your battles wisely. If you're going to flip the bird, do it slyly while pushing up your sunglasses or scratching your nose.  Anything else is just unladylike.  2) If you flip off a church leader - or anyone, really - church doctrine says you're required to clean the toilets for a month.

4 - "When someone says mean things about and to you, it says more about them than it ever will about you."
This little lesson got me through some ROUGH times in school.  This lesson taught me kindness because I remembered how those girls (it's always girls, isn't it?) made me feel with their words and actions.  Years later, I've had conversations with some of those girls and I found out that when those hurtful things were coming out of their mouths, they were going through some pretty rough times in their lives and they were acting out at the easiest target....  the freakishly tall, skinny girl with the big hair and lisp. 

5 - "Life isn't fair."
Sister got the last bean burrito?  So?  Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.  Horse buck you off and Dad made you get right back on that piece of crap?  Stop crying and deal.  You friend has prettier dresses than you do?  Maybe you should pick more worms so you can afford to buy a nice dress this year.
  
7 - "If a bird poops on your head, let it dry... then you can flick it off with less mess."
And yes... this was her advice to me on a family trip to Mexico 25 years ago when that happened outside a fast-food joint. And she was only 10% kidding. The point is, life can be messy.  Don't stress about it.  The poop will dry.  Life will go on.

8 - "You should have listened to me."
When I was about 4, I decided to walk down to the barn and play with the baby peacocks that had hatched a few weeks earlier.  Mom told me not to... and then watched as I disobeyed her and skipped down to the barn completely oblivious to the protective pea-hen that proceeded to swoop down from the rafters beat the living crap out of me with her wings, while scratching me with her talons.  I'm not sure how long the beat down lasted.  In my 4-year-old mind it was about at 30 minute brawl, but it was likely just a minute before I turned around and ran, sobbing, to the house... bleeding and covered in welts.  My mom merely glanced up from her Dr. Pepper she'd been sipping as she watched the battle unfold and said:  "Well... I told you so." and went back to her drink.  My mom... the antithesis of the helicopter parent.

When my girls freak out about something trivial, I think back to that day.  I GOT BEAT UP BY A FREAKIN' PEACOCK, GIRLS.  YOU CAN DEAL WITH YOUR PIGGY-TAILS NOT BEING PERFECTLY ALIGNED TODAY.

9 - "Stand up for yourself."
I was taught from a young age that I should be treated just like everyone else. No better.  No worse.   Just because I was a girl, didn't mean I couldn't do the same things boys did.  So... I ended up playing on a Jr. Jazz team full of boys, because there were no girls teams. BTW... feminism was not super popular in rural southeast Idaho in the 80's, which meant that the boys LOVED having me on their team.  Like most people, I endured a stupid amount of bullying all through grade school.  Big bangs and a lisp will do that to you.  But, as I gained confidence due to my abilities on the court, I learned how to stand up for myself. It's what I teach my daughters every day.  To be proud of who they are and not to let anyone tell you what you can and cannot do. 

10 - "Hi, Bored!  I'm Mommy!  Go outside and play!"
Bored?  Go outside and play!  Hungry?  You just ate two minutes ago.  Go outside and play!  Tired?  Go outside and play! For the love of Pete!  Go. Out. Side. And. Play.  Very little of my childhood was spent indoors.  We had exactly three channels when I was growing up, but we had about a gazillion animals... domesticated (even the cow that we kept as a pet when its mother rejected it) and those that maybe mom knocked out of tree or captured on the hill and decided to raise as pets. Iggy, Ziggy and Twiggy the magpies (yes, we had magpies and they were awesome.) and Rocky, our lice-covered yellow-bellied marmot.  Among several others.  The point is, we experienced life.  Barefoot and muddy for the most part.  And man, do we have some awesome memories of growing up.  I want the same for my girls... and with maybe the exception of early morning Saturday wake-ups and throwing on some Sesame Street so Mommy and Daddy can sleep in until a more appropriate hour, we don't let the girls watch too much TV.  We're truly pushing the No Child Left Inside philosophy... and it's one that I learned from my mom.  She was either fishing or golfing or gardening or knocking baby magpies out of their nests... not watching TV.  With the exception of Days of Our Lives.

Happy Mother's Day, mom!  Thanks for imparting your wisdom and -isms over the years.

(Also, I did in fact get a dandelion from The Bird for Mother's Day, and some rocks from The Bean.  It was a great morning.) 

Parenting A Princess

Those of you who read the blog regularly, know that I have daily battles with both girls about what they're going to wear.  I want to be clear that these battles have nothing to do with me needing to exert control over them at the micro-level.  I don't care if what they put on matches.  I mean... when they come out with a pink shirt, lime green leggings and an orange skirt, I don't bat an eye. The other day, The Bean came out with her swimsuit on top of her jeans and shirt and I was just:  "Okay!  Ready to go?" Because otherwise, I'd never leave the house.  And I get it... there's so few things that they have control over, why can't they dress themselves?  Fine.  I'll roll with the punches as long as the punches are appropriate and don't hurt anyone.

Which is why I haven't brushed The Bean's hair in about a week. 

The problem arises because The Bird insists on wearing dresses every. damn. day.  It doesn't matter if it's raining or snowing or her face is on fire.  She wants to wear a dress.   I've accommodated her obsession by setting up ground rules that if it's raining, snowing or is cold outside, she has to wear leggings and a long sleeved shirt under the dress.  She's been somewhat okay with this agreement, but every once in a while, the wheels would fall off and we have a knock-down, drag-out fight.  This is usually because the leggings she wants to wear are nowhere to be found and those are clearly the ONLY leggings that she will allow to be worn with that dress.  And no... she doesn't want to wear another dress.  She wants to wear THIS dress and only THIS dress.  When I innocently ask if I should just get rid of the other dresses if she's not going to wear them, her face does, in fact, go up in flames. And at this point, I'll acknowledge it's really my fault that our morning veered so far off the track.  Because I am a stupid, stupid woman who is just stupid with the stupid questions. 

To further ruin our mornings, I've also put stipulations about what types of dresses she can wear to school each day.  Meaning that the super, fancy dress used for school performances is not an every day school type of dress.  Which drives her nuts.  She wants to dress up to the nines all. the. live. long. day... week... month... year.

There is no stopping this obsession.  It's like me with chocolate.  Only more maddening because chocolate is amazing and her dresses are the bane of my existence.

But here's the real problem.  It's not that she's wearing dresses.  I can live with the wearing of the dresses.  One of the reasons I loved summer when the kiddos were younger was the ease in which I could throw them into a dress and just be on our way.  No muss, no fuss.  And yes, the argument could be made that I've brought this on myself. And that argument will end with my punching you in your solar plexus because I. KNOW!

So, no... it's not that she's wearing dresses.  It's her behavior when she's wearing the dresses that makes me want to  put my finger through my eye, into my brain and swirl it around.  I'm not a fan. I've noticed that when she gets to wear her fancy dresses, or really any of her dresses, she doesn't want to play outside.  She'll stay in her room and change into 15 different dresses TWICE until she finds one she likes and then come out for 30 seconds before going back in and changing.  She hardly ever goes outside to enjoy nature and... what the hell is that yellow thing in the sky?  The sun???  And if she does go outside, she doesn't play like a kid is supposed to play.  She sits there demurely and watches other kids play.  She has princessized herself to the point that she isn't being a kid.  She's being a lump on a log, looking down at the other kids playing while she sits on her throne and blows on her nails while demanding I go grab her a sippy cup because she's parched. This is how I imagine Paris Hilton was as a child.  And so help me, God... I am not raising a Paris Hilton.  Death first!

The attitude that comes out when she is in princess mode is absolutely unbearable.  Holy mother of a headless goat, is she out of control. Even when she's not actually in the dress, she still has this insolent, spoiled princess attitude and makes demands the likes of which I, the 37-year-old with a college degree and a career, cannot and WILL NOT abide by.  Anymore. Mostly because she didn't say please.  But also because contrary to her belief, I'm not her servant and she can go get the damn sippy cup herself.

It is fair to say that I have not handled this phase of her beautiful childhood well.  In fact, last month I caught myself asking her if her legs were broken and if that's why she couldn't go get the blanket on the other side of the room?  You know... where she put it 30 seconds ago.  Because that's the adult way to handle something with your 4-year-old:  Sarcasm.

I also refuse to do things for her that I know she can do.  Like brush her teeth, chew her food and swallow her water for her.  Over the last few months, I have threatened her with taking away her dresses in order for her to understand that the behavior is just not acceptable.  I always give her a "last warning" and then forget that I've given her a last warning before giving her another "last warning".  And another.  And another.  Until my child has figured out that I apparently don't have the balls to take away her dresses because I don't want to deal with the ensuing nuclear fall out.

But last week... last week I'd had enough. Full disclosure, I was not at the top of my game last week.  I had been traveling. I was tired. I was irritable.  So, my handling of the situation was less than desirable. I admit this. And I'm sharing it with you anyway. Because that's what bravery looks like in 2014.  

To set the scene, let me explain that The Bird has rather sensitive skin and from time to time, we have to put lotion on the back of her hands to prevent some pretty painful dry skin issues.  As I was putting her to bed, I broke out the lotion that we use and was taken aback when she flipped out.  Her Highness was having NONE of it.  I asked, begged, pleaded and cajoled her until the little timer in my brain - the one labeled 'I've Had Enough of This Shit' - went off.

And cue the excellent parenting in 3-2-1:

"Alright!  We can either put on the lotion and you keep your dresses...  Or, I take away the dresses and THEN I STILL PUT ON THE LOTION. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO?  EITHER WAY... YOU'RE GETTING LOTION!!!!"  

Sounds super Silence of the Lambs, doesn't it?

Given my previous history, it's no wonder she decided to take the risk that I wouldn't follow through.  Except... yea, I did.  I may have been overly dramatic as I grabbed her dresses out of the closet, tripping on her dolly stroller on the way out of her room and throwing them into my room.  I may have scared her as I picked up the dresses that fell out of the first load and threw them in my room with the rest of them.  But that was it.  I was done.  D-O-N-E. Done.

Of course, the consequence for my consequence was miserable for everyone.  She was heartbroken. I was a huffing, puffing monster angry over lotion.  LOTION. Yea, I was mad... but seeing my little girl so heartbroken?  Not my favorite memory.  I was Mother Gothel, Ursula the Sea Witch and Malificent all rolled into one.

It isn't my best look.

Once we had both calmed down, we had a heart-to-heart.  I explained to her that her behavior was no longer going to be tolerated.  I had to explain behavior and tolerated to her, so that took an additional LIFETIME, but we got there.  I then explained that she would get her dresses back.  Some day.  But she would have to earn those dresses. Meaning she needed to be on her best behavior.  She needed to do what I asked. She needed to be kind to her sister and be happy.  No more crying over what she wanted to wear in the morning. And then... well, then we'd see.

The next morning, she woke up and asked if she could have her dresses back.  Because she missed them.  Cue the clarification that being on your best behavior while you slept didn't count and she'd get her dresses back after she proved that she deserved her dresses.

That was a week ago.  And in that week... OMG has this child been the best kid ever. And not just because she's trying to get her dresses back.  She was playing like kids are supposed to do.  Climbing trees, riding her bike, getting dirty, picking up garter snakes, playing with the dog and her sister... all without worrying about getting her dress dirty or tearing the fabric when it got caught on a branch.  She even started wearing her sneakers again... without complaining. 

Is it bad that I like my kid better when she doesn't have dresses?  My mornings were amazing for an entire week (minus the meltdowns over the placement of her piggy-tails... but cutting her hair seems like it would be too traumatizing for both of us so we'll just have to figure something else out).  

I won't lie... I have considered NEVER giving her dresses back.  Again... not because I'm anti-dress.  I'm just anti-princess-attitude and I'm pro-mud-pies, pro-snake-wrangling, pro-scrape-your-knees, pro-run-through-the-sprinklers-fully-clothed, pro-climb-a-tree, pro-bike-riding and pro-Get-Out-And-Live.  All things that the princess wasn't doing.  Until last week.

Yesterday I got my Mother's Day gift from The Bird.  She made it at school and drew the pictures all by herself.  She was very proud of it.

As I read the story about why she loves me out loud, I almost choked on the third point.  I was further taken down a notch when she corrected what her lovely teacher had so clearly edited for my benefit:

"No mommy!  You take away my dresses and MAKE me go to sleep.  MAKE!"

So.

The Bird got her dresses back today.

Because I think we have all learned our lesson.