Haters Be Hatin'

Today, I lost a "liker" on my Facebook page.

Guess why?

I can't be 100% sure, but I'm 99.999% sure it's because I posted something about the marriage amendment in MN (that's where I live). I posted a link to an article about a Republican politician who happens to be against the amendment. You can see the article here.

I have no political reasons for being against the amendment. I simply believe everyone should have the opportunity to be married if they so wish. And for the life of me I do not understand how someone can be "against" people marrying each other. If you want to be against marrying someone, then don't marry that person. That may sound overly simplified, but I really think it is a simple decision.

I don't think I'm a preachy person. I have gay friends. I have gay relatives. I know (gasp) bisexuals. I went to an all-women's' college and that joint was rockin' the lesbians. None of them tried to jump me. I did have one very sincere and sweet offer, if I ever decided to go the bi route, but that's because I was super cute, and not because gays/bis are predators.

Sometimes I post things on my Facebook page. Sometimes I post things like pictures of my kids. Sometimes I post sassy postcards from bluntcard.com. Sometimes I post links to articles and sometimes those articles are "controversial". I have opinions on things, and I certainly expect people to have their own opinions on things.

But to have someone "unlike" me, because they don't like a link to an article and for that person to go so far as to have to ask me HOW to unlike my page, seems a little much. I certainly don't agree with every thing every person says. If I did, I'd be a drone. For the record, I did tell the "unliker" how to unlike me, very respectfully, of course.

But I certainly do have enough respect for everyone, no matter their personal opinions and beliefs, to allow them a little something called "freedom of expression". I don't have to agree with them, but I feel it's only right to allow them the opportunity to speak their minds.

Just like the gays...and Republicans.

Coming and Punching

Anyone watch Californication? The main actor dude (the guy from X-Files) is a writer with serious trouble keeping his junk in his too tight pants. He writes a novel called Punching and Coming. Based on the show's title, you get the picture.

Well, I've got a different version and it's directed at the "special" parents.

Here are a few helpful hints for discussing and interacting with your children while interacting with a group of parents with children all around the same age.

1. Just because your kid comes up to you when the parents are all sitting together, doesn't mean you need to get all weepy with love. We all pretty much assume you love your kid. We don't need the waterworks. They're obnoxious.

2. You think your kid is better than all the other kids. We get it. We don't need to hear you one up us every time we say something about our own kids. Guess what? We think our kids are better than yours. We just have the humility and grace to keep that thought to ourselves. Try it.

3. If you have a group of parents sitting around a table, making notes on papers with pens, don't let your kid come over and start coloring on everyone else's papers. I don't let my kid do that (because he's supposed to be playing and interacting with the other kids) and because the kids need to know what the rules are. Your kid is a part of the class. Act like it and expect your kid to act like it. Besides, I've got enough scribbles on my papers at home, I don't need your kid's alleged Picasso all over my notes. (By the way, NO, the scribbles do not look like anything other than scribbles. Sorry to burst your bubble.)

4. If a teacher is talking, whether you feel the need to listen or not, keep your trap shut and at least pretend to be respectful. We're there to show our kids how to interact with teachers. They are expected to listen to the teacher. So are you. Don't be a douche and carry on your own conversation.

5. Consider the child you're raising. Do you want people to like this child? If so, enforce the rules. No one likes a kid that doesn't know how to listen and follow directions. Sure, I run toward the stricter end of the parent spectrum...it's how I roll. But I tell you what...I never have trouble finding a sitter, my kids get compliments on their manners and 9 times out of 10, we can get into and out of a store without a meltdown in Aisle 9.

The longer my kids are around, the less patience I have for nonsense and rudeness in other kids. And the same goes for their parents. I think everyone wants the best for their kids. I know everyone has a different idea about how to achieve that. But as a mother, I strongly suggest taking the above sections to heart.

Otherwise, you've been warned. I'll be coming and I will start punching.

(The kids will be nowhere in sight, however. We don't want them taking up that kind of nonsense.)

Special vs. Reality

Right now, I have all three kids in some form of school. The Monkey started kindergarten, the Noodle is in preschool and the Dude takes a community ed class for 1 and 2-year olds.

When the Monkey and Noodle were younger, they also took community ed classes. I like to say I took them to get a jump on their love of education, but truth be told, if I didn't get the three of us out of the house, I'm pretty sure the men in white coats and the special jackets were going to show up...and soon. I was new to the stay-at-home thing and not adjusting well. So, off to school we went.

Now it's the Dude's turn. And once again, I find myself spending time with parents, mostly moms, that I most likely would never meet if it weren't for this class. I'm not a Mom's Club gal and I don't think my kids are the reason the earth revolves. There's one dad in the class and I already know him, so we tend to chat and exchange grimaces when the "special" moms start in on how wonderfully perfect their kids are. Disclaimer: I use "moms" because those are the people in the class. I'm sure there are plenty of "special" dads out there too.

Here's the thing about the "special" moms:

I don't believe them.

Sure, I believe they love/adore/obsess about their kids. I also believe there's a slight chance their 18-month old is potty-trained. And the kid stealing toys from the other kids might be able to play a piano concerto and that one in the corner picking his nose is an incredible artist in the style of Monet.

Mostly, in a class of 1 and 2-year olds, I believe the kids are learning to speak (the Dude has very little interest in talking. He's got 2 older sisters and they yak enough for at least 8 people.) I believe that they can point to a cow when you ask him/her where the cow is. I believe they understand 90% of what you say to them. I believe they have opinions and feelings and likes and dislikes. I believe they can express all those things.

I don't believe your child is perfect. I don't believe your child never cries. I don't believe your child has never smacked another kid, taken another kid's toy, pooped on the floor, spit up, cried or could say the alphabet at 6 months. I believe you want your child to be perfect. And part of me gets that. There are a lot of people with perfection issues. I have some myself.

But once my kids showed up, a lot of that need for perfection went by the wayside. Sure, I'll tell you my kids are really smart and super cute and I do believe that. And if you tell me you're impressed by my kids' ability to do anything, I will smile, say "thank you" and agree with you wholeheartedly.

What I will not do is tell you my kids are fluent in Spanish, when they know a smattering of words care of that little explorer Dora. I will not tell you 4 and 5-olds don't ever fight or throw things or have meltdowns. I will not tell you that my son never cries because I won't let him.

I will tell you my middle one once crapped on the carpet and when we saw it, we were certain it was leprechaun poop. I will tell you my oldest is stubborn like me and we have showdowns. I will tell you my youngest threw a tantrum in Walmart and laid down in the middle of the soup aisle until I caved in and agreed to carry him.

I will tell you I make mistakes. I yell sometimes. I curse (mostly mentally). I hate having to come up with meals all the time. I'm a pretty bad housekeeper. Sometimes the kids go a little too long without baths. I've let them eat mac and cheese for breakfast. We've had popcorn for dinner. The children watch tv (gasp).

I will tell you I love my children and they drive me completely insane. I will tell you I adore my children and lots of days, my favorite time of day is bedtime. I will tell you even though I am a mom, that is not all of me. I will tell you being a parent is wonderful and also the most difficult thing I've ever experienced. The other day, a guy was complaining about working a 12-hour shift. I snorted and thought, "Dude, I've got a 5-year old. You know how many hours I've been at work?"

Everyone parents in their own style. I get that. And I think the "special" parents honestly want the best for their kids. As far as my own parenting style, I don't necessarily do it the way I assumed I would. I don't always do it the same way and I don't always do it well. But I hope what my children will learn, from my attempts at good parenting, is that they aren't perfect and neither am I.

And if we were, where's the fun in that? Because I'm 99% sure, there's no leprechaun poop in the "perfect" world.

Fun Friday

Fridays should be fun, right? I'm usually beat off my ass come Friday, but it's still early enough in the day, I think I can find some things to entertain you.

How 'bout this?

My 19-month old son has taken to "quacking" his penis. I'll leave the actual explanation up to your vivid imaginations. He also thinks it's funny to "quack" his father's "nickels".

Or this?

My almost 90-year old grandmother is notorious for mixing up expressions and names. For example:

Toyota Jackson

Lahota Jackson

Michelle Piper

Oh yeah, and her favorite word? Asshole.

And then there's this:

My mother like to ask very peculiar questions. And she's a little on the naive side (I say that with love, Mom.) For example, one day, my mom, step dad and I are standing in their kitchen, chatting. Next thing you know, my mom asks:

What is this tea bagging? I keep hearing about it.

At that point in the conversation, my step dad walked right out of the kitchen, just shaking his head.

How about this one?

I had just given birth to my first child, the Monkey. She was laying on my stomach, still covered in all that cheesy stuff, I was still riding the epidural train, and the whole crew in the room suddenly goes, "OH!" The child, all of 15-seconds old, had just crapped all over her mother for the first time. It was a very special moment.

Happy Friday, dear readers. Have a lovely weekend. See you Monday.

Success

A fellow blogger (you can find his blog here) posted a question on his Facebook page this morning.

What is success?

I don't have a direct answer to this question. If I did, I'm pretty sure I could solve the national debt problem, cure cancer and time travel.

I have figured out, however, that success means different things to everyone. Sure, there's the typical answer: Money, big house, fancy car, blah, blah, blah. Currently, I have none of those things, so that can't be my "answer".

So, at this moment in time, here's how I define success:

1. Walking the Monkey to her first day of kindergarten and knowing, with a swell of pride, that we are both ready for this day.

2. Talking the Noodle into putting her socks on, so we can leave the house. Sure, she whips 'em off the second we walk in the door and I have piles of tiny socks all over my house, but at least she wears them when we leave the house.

3. Having a husband and children I adore...and adore me right back.

4. Having a house full of crazy ass animals.

5. Finishing my first rough draft of my attempt at a children's book series.

6. Having dear friends. Even though we're all busy with work and kids and life, I would drop everything for them...and they for me.

7. Knowing my brain still works. Sure, it takes mini vacation on an almost-daily basis, and sometimes needs a little extra medication, but it's still kickin'.

8. When the kids finish a meal, any meal, I've cooked. It happens rarely.

9. Knowing my kids are happy.

10. Knowing other people like my kids. Makes it much easier to get a babysitter.

I also have future visions of success. These are things I'm currently looking forward to and hope will happen.

1. Showering on a daily basis without being interrupted.

2. 3 potty-trained children.

3. Taking a vacation.

4. Buying wine...in actual bottles.

5. Publishing a book(s).

6. Covering the gray on a consistent basis.

7. Disposable income. Just because it's nice to not have the added stress.

8. The kids becoming adults and having people still like them.

9. Being able to sleep in on the weekends.

10. On-demand quiet time.

Sure, a big house, lots of money and fancy cars would be nice. But give me a quiet house, a book, happy kids, a husband who still looks at me like I'm 22 (despite all the lumps and bumps) and a cold box of wine in the fridge, and I'm happy as a clam.

SUCCESS!

My Life is Harder than Yours

My life is harder than yours. Yep, I said it. And I mean it. I've been thinking about this for a while now and it's simply the truth.

Now, this statement does not apply to all crews of people. For example, the gay crew still can't get married. So, they're out of the running. The Tea Party crew can't get the nomination (god willing) - although they were never actually in the running. And members of 2 Live Crew are still super horny, so they definitely have a harder life than I.

But all the rest of you? I so win. And here's a list of things to prove it. And it's in bold, so it's the Official List. If you think you can beat me, go ahead and try, but I'm 99% sure you're gonna end up suckin' dust. I've broken it down into sections, for easier tallying:

Wine

My life is harder than yours if:

You've never put ice cubes in your white wine because it was still room temperature.

You're not familiar with the following terms: Bota, Black Box or Franzia.

You've never had a glass of wine before 4 p.m. on any given day.

Sex

My life is harder than yours if:

You have a stronger sex drive than your significant other on a regular basis.

You're familiar with the term "foreplay". Apparently some people actually have time for this nonsense.

The sound of certain cartoon theme songs does not make you horny.

House

My life is harder than yours if:

Your house does not have spiders from the Dinosaur Age.

Your house is tidy on a consistent basis.

Your house does not have dust bunnies the size of a wooly mammoth.

Car

My life is harder than yours if:

You do not know what a minivan is.

You do not have unknown food particles strewn throughout your vehicle.

All your kids can fasten their own seat belts.

Kids

My life is harder than yours if:

You have less than 3 children. If you have more than 3, you've simply got that Duggar woman's crazy gene and we all know, you can't fix crazy.

You join a warehouse store for cheaper diaper and formula prices.

Your kid actually sits in the cart seat when you're at a store.

Money

My life is harder than yours if:

You're familiar with the term "disposable income" because you actually have it.

You've never been to Wal-Mart.

You've never crossed your fingers hoping a check won't bounce.

PMS

My life is harder than yours if:

You have a penis.

You've never started laughing or crying (or both at the same time) hysterically before, after or during sex.

You've never considered putting up a salt lick in your backyard.

Medications

My life is harder than yours if:

You don't take some pill of the "happy making" variety.

You don't have an emergency, just in case pill of the Valium variety.

You've ever NOT mixed your pills with your nightly glass of wine, because it "may cause excessive drowsiness."

Well Being

My life is harder than yours if:

You've never gone to the gym and sat in the whirlpool instead of working out because the childcare is free...and 2 hours per day.

You can do downward dog without pulling a muscle or getting a charlie horse.

You've never seen a woman (or man) on a treadmill and thought, "I hate that skinny bitch." And yes, that does apply to men too.

Body

My life is harder than yours if:

You're unfamiliar with the term "muffin top".

You've never looked at your ass and thought, "Where exactly do you think you're going?"

You've never grunted when you've stood up, sat down, laid down, inhaled...

So, there you have it. As you can easily see, my life is harder than yours. And sure, I know you think yours is so much worse. But this is the Official List and as we all know, officials never lie.

Crocks and Whatnot

Today, I was feeling rather Super Woman-y. It's been a particularly busy day without being insane...just one of those days where there's a lot to do and hopefully at least a portion of it gets done. The Favorite had to leave early, so I was in charge of the creatures from the get-go. We did the breakfast thing, then the Middle One had swimming lessons, I got in a workout while the other 2 played in the playroom, we did the lunch thing, The Dude did the nap thing, I did some of the cleaning stuff, before a quick shower and then I had to run to my old job for some freelance training. On the way home from that, I stopped to do the grocery thing. At this point, I was feeling rather accomplished for having made it through the day with no major freak outs. I pulled into the parking lot, behind a minivan and that's when I saw it. A seemingly benign bumper sticker that read:

Motherhood is a Proud Profession.

My immediate thought?

What a crock of shit.

Not only did I think this...I said it out loud. To myself. Yes, that's right...I talk to myself. And sometimes I also answer.

But, I digress.

Now, don't misunderstand me. Motherhood, fatherhood, parenthood....whichever hood you rock, there's a lot to be proud of. But it's not a profession. You can't go to school for 4, 6 or 10 years and walk away with a degree in Motherhood. You can take parenting classes, certainly. And while they may guide you in your parenting behaviors, if you fail, guess what? You're still a parent. Even if you suck at it.

And in my world, fantastical as it may be at times, professionals get something magical...it's called a paycheck. Yes, yes, I know...children give us so much more than money. They give us unconditional love, super squeezy hugs, sloppy, milky kisses and uncontrollable giggles. They also give us hacking coughs, dark circles under our eyes, gray hairs and wrinkles. And I hear the teenagers tend toward giving parents a mild case of alcoholism and/or early onset Alzheimer's. I don't know about you, but none of my former bosses gave me any of that stuff. (Alcoholism to be determined.)

I'd also like to take a moment to look at the basic biology of this grand "profession". Just because Person 1 inserts a certain something into Person 2, and Person 2 happens to be experiencing certain biological happenings that result in the formation of a creature, does not a professional make. I'm just sayin'.

So, no, I do not believe Motherhood, or its counterparts, is a profession. I believe parents should try their damndest to be the best parents they can be, but I also believe it's a bit of a crapshoot. I'm pretty sure Adolph Hitler's mom didn't think she'd given birth to the anti-Christ.

I'm thinking I'll take the over/under 7 and hope it plays out well for us all.

Schooled by Logic

There are times when I think I may have made a big whopping mistake by breeding children. Those times have been relatively frequent for the past few weeks. I think the combination of mass amounts of snow, bitterly cold temperatures, a small house, the pressures of Christmas, an overworked husband, a teething baby and incredibly energetic children has just taken a good trouncing on my soul.

At times like this, I tend to forget that the kids are just that...kids. They constantly do goofy-ass things that I don't understand. Take, for instance, the Middle One. Just this morning, she was running in circles (and no, that is not a figure of speech) on our rug in the living room. After watching her for about 3 minutes, and getting dizzier by the minute, I finally said, "Anni, knock it off. Quit running in circles."

Her response?

"But Mama, it makes me happy."

And there it was. The answer that kicked me in the ass just hard enough to make a dent in my at times too-thick skull.

What does every parent want for his/her child? Happiness. And I'm pretty sure the majority of us don't really care how that child achieves happiness, as long as it's safely.

Does it make any difference in my world if my kid wants to run in a circle in the living room? Not one bit. Do I get why she wants to do it? Not one bit. But if it makes her happy, am I going to let her do it, and probably 90% of anything else that might make her happy?

You bet your ass I am.

Times, They Are A'Changing

So, somehow I conned my husband into throwing a jewelry party for me. And by conned, I mean I suggested he call his buddy, who happens to run a bar, to see if it would be feasible for him to gather a group of men, in a bar, where there is both beer and greasy food, on a Sunday afternoon, during a football game.

Wait a minute...who exactly got conned here?

But I digress.

Anywho, he gets a few guys to show up, we get a few orders, we have a few drinks and everyone's having a good time. I had dropped the kids at my mom's for the afternoon and went back to hang at her house, leaving the husband and a few of his buddies at the bar for a couple more hours. I offered to be the designated driver (purely because inebriated men are much more likely to buy jewelry than sober ones) for anyone who needed a ride home.

So, I pick up the husband at 6pm. He's got one other guy who needs a ride home. The kids are in the middle seat, super excited to see their daddy. Husband rides shotgun. Buddy rides in the way back.

Now, let me paint you a more detailed picture of the men in this equation.

Husband stands at 6'2, usually sports a baseball hat, some sort of Carhartt jacket, works with his hands all day, avid hunter, would love to be an avid fisherman but has 3 kids and prefers to hunt. He's not overly macho, but you certainly wouldn't confuse him for a metrosexual (even though he does clean up real nice).

Buddy is shorter than husband, but built Mack truck style. Shaved head. Camo jacket. Also an avid hunter. Works with the husband, so knows the meaning of manual labor. The guy is completely hysterical, but if it came down to a fight, you'd definitely want him in your corner and not the other way around.

So, Husband and Buddy are a little schnockered, but not out of control. Kids are excited to have people to talk to in the car besides Mother Dearest (have I mentioned Middle Child has taken to calling me Mother at bedtime?). Husband decides some tunes are in order and is bragging to Buddy about the girls' ability to sing Jimmy Buffet songs. So, the whole car is rocking out to some Jimmy Buffet, girls and grown men having a grand old time.

Then, things take a slight turn.

Jimmy gets a little old, so Buddy starts asking the girls what other songs they know. He starts listing off songs (ABCs, Itsy-Bitsy Spider, Humpty Dumpty, etc.). The girls, of course, know all these songs, and more, and are eager to share their vocal incantations with Husband and Buddy. Next thing you know, 6'2 Husband and shave-headed Buddy are singing along, at the top of their lungs, Itsy-Bitsy Spider, complete with hand gestures.

Now, I'm pretty sure neither one of these big, tough guys ever really envisioned this moment in their lives, but I can tell you right now, it made me love both of them a little bit more and it's probably a moment none of us will forget.

Sh*t Happens

This morning, my husband was home from work for a few hours, so I had a solo ride to pick up the oldest from preschool. I was sitting at a stoplight, looking at my fingernails (no, I'm not an abnormally vain person; I got acrylics put on for a friend's wedding a couple weeks ago and I'm still not used to the silly things). So, I'm looking at my nails and I notice something underneath the middle nail on my right hand. And upon closer examination, including the ever-important sniff test, I came to the following conclusion:

I had sh*t on my hands.

My youngest, god bless him, awoke from his nap happy as a clam and covered in sh*t. At this point, I'm running a little late to pick up the oldest and the husband in knee deep in plastic window covering and a "helpful" 3-year old, so it's up to me to de-sh*t the 10-month old. This involved in-depth wiping (at least 4 wipes, for you seasoned pros, so you know it was a messy one) and a complete wardrobe change. I get him situated, do a quick hand wash and hand him off to his dad so I can pick up the 4-year old.

Now, I've changed a few diapers in the past 4 years. If I had to guess, I'd say no less than 84, 612...but that's a rough estimate. And I can count the times, on one hand, that I've actually gotten sh*t on myself. And as I sat at the light (yes, this light is unusually long), I was amazed at the role sh*t has come to play in my life.

Before you have kids, sh*t isn't really something you talk about, and if you're a woman, it most certainly isn't something you ever DO. But once kids enter the equation, your life, to some extent, is ruled by sh*t. You talk about sh*t, you worry about sh*t, you discuss sh*t with pretty much anyone who will listen. It happens, people, sh*t happens.

For example, there was the time my oldest awoke from her nap covered in sh*t. (This seems to be a recurring theme in our house.) My oldest was around 9 months old and woke up from her nap COVERED, and I do mean COVERED, in sh*t. There was no special reason for the debacle. It was simply a lovely early summer afternoon, the husband and I were doing some yard work while the baby napped, and she decided to throw in a little something extra to make the day extra special. Upon discovery, I had no idea what to do with the kid. She was, as was her brother, happy as a clam and yet covered in sh*t. I didn't want to put her on the changing table, thinking it best to contain the sh*t if at all possible; I didn't want to put her in the tub with her clothes on, because it seemed to defeat the purpose if the sh*t got all over the clean tub before I even got any water in it. So, I, panic stricken by this point, rush around trying to find my husband, so one of us can hold the sh*itter, while the other one stripped her. Well, my darling husband apparently worked up a bit of a thirst mowing the lawn and walked down to the corner bar for a cold one, unbeknownst to me. You can imagine how thrilled I was to learn about that. Anywho, I finally attempt to strip the sh*tter while holding her, trying my best to not get sh*t anywhere else. And I was the master, let me tell you. I held her over the laundry sink, careful not to get sh*t on her face or in her hair. I thought, "Hell, this is a piece of cake. I'll get her stripped, stick her in the tub, hose her down and we're good to go."

And then it happened. I was so happy with my mothering capabilities and sh*t retention and ability to keep the sh*tter from crying, I kissed the little darling. And what did I kiss, you may be wondering?

I kissed sh*t. Not only did I kiss sh*t, I then got so grossed out when I realized that I kissed SH*T, that I wiped my mouth as fast as possible, only to spread the sneaky sh*t that was on my hand ALL ACROSS MY FACE.

That's right, folks. I was, quite literally, a sh*t head.

And as important as sh*t is in a parent's day to day life, it is more important that you don't leave your preschooler AT school once her day is over. And so, I drove, sh*t finger and all, to preschool to pick up the 4-year old. And I'm pretty sure no one knew, but even if they did, chances are good they've got a couple sh* t stories of their own and they'd be the last ones to judge.