Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Adventures in Real Parenting: Would I lie to you?


The Spawn love Sunbeam bread. They claim it tastes superior to the White Wheat I prefer them to eat (please don't lecture me about whole wheat bread - been there, tried that. Ended up composting most of it. Time and time again.). While extolling the superior taste of Sunbeam, The Spawn claim that it has a far better consistency and texture.

For those of you who don't know, here's a mom thing. We lie. A lot. I'm not just talking about the Easter Bunny or Santa or why there isn't any more ice cream in the freezer - "Daddy must have eaten it....?"< MathMan loves when I sell him out. It's part of the parent code. Whoever gets to the lie first, wins. No. Parents lie about little things and big things. For example, I've learned a way to get The Spawn to eat White Wheat bread without knowing it. I wait for the first few slices of Sunbeam to be removed from the loaf's package then I take some slices of White Wheat and stick them between the smooshy Sunbeam. The crusts might have a variance in color, but that is hidden by the yellow on the packaging.

No one is the wiser.

This is a tradition passed on from mother to mother. Like my mother who sneaked liver into our hamburgers (that explains that) to prevent us from contracting the pernicious anemia that ran rampant through generations of her family, I force fiber onto The Spawn so that The Actor, Cupcake (aka Resident Evil) and The Dancer aren't completely bound up with biological poisons.

Without fibbing, obfuscation and outright lying, I wouldn't be able to complete a day of parenting.

From Webster's New Pocket Dictionary. To obfuscate - Confuse; obscure.
Spawn: "Where is my Juicy Fruit gum? I swear I left it on my dresser."

Me: "I don't know. Did you leave it in your pocket and take it to school? "(hee hee, I've developed a recent craving for Juicy Fruit gum...)

Fib.
Spawn: Can I go to Florida with my friends over Spring Break?"
Me: "We'll see." (We'll see in momspeak means I'm not going to say "no" now because I don't feel like fighting about it now, but this is my way of buying time until you either forget or give up badgering me about this and go pester your father.)

Outright lie.
Spawn: "Mom, did you ever smoke pot?"

Me: "Of course not!"

When we first think of having babies, we make plans to be perfect parents. We make mental lists of all the things we'll never do to our kids. Back in my pre-parenting days, I had a long  list of judgmental and naive I will nevers.

I had not a clue.

Now a seasoned parenting professional, I  see the error of my earlier ideals. In fact, with parenting, there are no ideals. Not if you want to stay sane, that is.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Stubborn

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
- Unknown

I frequently complain that The Spawn are stubborn. And lazy. And spoiled. And too smart for their own good. Geez, I just shouldn't have procreated. I'm a sucky mother.

Anyway, back to stubborn. Stubborn runs in the family. My mother would have you believe that the stubborn comes from my father's side, but that's just not so. The hot-headed - that comes from the paternal branch, but the stubborn? That's Mom.

Mom grew up poor as one of five children. Her mother held the family together and her father was often away working and drinking. The family lived in a rural area of the Southeastern Indiana hills. A big weekend was a trip to Granny and Grandad's. That was a real treat.

Granny and Grandad lived on a small farm. I remember going there as a child and playing with old Dairy Queen dishes and spoons on the front porch. We'd put hedgeapples on the country road in front of the house so that the cars going by would smash them. They looked like green brains dotting the tarred road. The thing I remember most is the outhouse. Even in the early 1970's Granny and Grandad didn't have an indoor toilet. Can you imagine? Not much had changed since my mom as a kid - my great-grandparents remained on that farm, frozen in time, until they died..

When my mom (let's call her L'il R) was about six years old, she and her brothers, sister and cousins were spending a weekend at Granny and Grandad's. They were just sitting down to supper at the big country kitchen table when they heard the crunch of tires as a car rolled into the dirt driveway. Now if you've ever lived in the country or watched The Waltons, you know what happened next.

Everyone, young and old, leaped up from the table and raced out the kitchen door to see who was there. L'il R grabbed her hot dog and carried it with her.

Granny ordered L'il R to take her hot dog back to the table because there was only one for each person and Granny didn't want the dog to steal the wiener from her. L'il R refused and before she could bat her long, black lashes, the pooch was running down the wooden porch steps, the hot dog hanging from his mouth. She began to wail.

The visitor was ushered inside and everyone returned to their supper. L'il R continued to cry and demand another hot  dog. Granny told her that there weren't any more hot dogs. L'il R cried harder. Granny told her to sit down and be quiet. Eat what's on your plate

Shedding more tears, L'il R ran to the screen door and announced that until she got another hot dog, she'd just hold the screen door open and "let the flies in."

That was enough for Grandad.

My mom. The only kid in that whole mess of brothers and sisters and cousins to ever get a spanking from Grandad.

Stubborn.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Bloggers Talking about Bloggers Talking

Setting: (Now that the kicking and hair pulling has stopped) MathMan and I are once again sitting across from each other at the big oak desk behind our respective laptops. I'm reading blog RSS feeds. MathMan is probably doing something very important like checking out his fantasy baseball stats.

Me: Uh oh. (under my breath) That sounds familiar.
MathMan: Huh? What?
Me: Oh, nothing.
MathMan: No really, what?
Me: Well, dooce and her husband had a disagreement about how she pronounces Cray-on.
MathMan: It's cran.
Me: Says you.

Originally posted June 3, 2008

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Adventures in Real Parenting: Why She Was Once Called Resident Evil

Yesterday, as I drove The Actor home from school, my cell phone rang. It was Resident Evil calling. I pushed my Blue Tooth earpiece button.

"Hello?" Nothing. "Hello? Hello? Resident Evil, hello?" I pushed the button again. Maybe she'd accidentally dialed my number.

Again came the defiant voice of Amy Winehouse singing Rehab. Yeah, I know, that's a delightful ringtone. I pushed the Blue Tooth button again.

"Hello?" Nothing. Shit. She was home alone for just a few minutes while I raced out to pick up The Actor. What was I thinking to leave her home alone? What if someone had gotten into the house and she was hiding in her closet trying to call me for help, but afraid to speak for fear of discovery. Shit! Shit! Shit! I am the worst mother ever! Panic button almost pressed.

"HELLO! HELLO! RESIDENT EVIL, ARE YOU THERE? ARE YOU OKAY?" My heart raced and The Actor looked at me like I was insane.

Finally, she answered me. "Mommy....."

Oh. Shit. "Are you okay?" I asked, the fear making my voice crack. Why was I whispering? Oh yeah, the possible home invader terrorizing my child....

This time she spoke clearly in a normal voice. "Mommy?"

I was about to lose my shit. "Resident Evil, are you okay?"

"Yes."

Panic shifted to annoyance. "Why didn't you answer me?"

She paused.

"I was giving you the silent treatment," she announced.
Originally posted on January 23, 2008

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Terrorist Training Activities in the Front Seat of My Car


Here are the youthful terrorists plotting their next caper

Newsflash: I Am Raising the Next Crop of Domestic Terrorists

About that fist bump.....The Actor and I did the fist bump nearly every morning as I dropped him off for school. It was a very brief moment we shared before I sent him into his middle school to blow up toilets. Now our secret is out. (Will someone please make sure I have 600 thread count sheets on my bed in Gitmo? Thanks.)

Originally posted June 10, 2008

Friday, July 15, 2011

This is why she's always been in gifted classes

Always thinking, The Dancer has come up with a great way out of our financial difficulties.

Scooters to replace our cars? Nope.
Pantyhose on our heads and robbing banks? Nope.
Agreeing to finally work the pole? Nope.
Getting a job? Well, she did that, but it will only help pay her dance studio fees.

Her solution?

Watching wrestling. Except here we pronounce it rasslin'.

My brother, Uncle Chief of Police, would be so proud. He was a "Rowdy" Roddy Piper fan back in the day.


Because I spent a large chunk of my teens trying to get out of the Full Nelson, that's why.