Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Spin Psycho

I love getting tips from other moms about how organization makes life so much easier for them.  The addition of Pinterest to my life has expanded my realization of failures and shortcomings exponentially.  I thought I'd share my best kept laundry-sorting secret with you now, those of you who have long made the mistake of running your amateur two piles of darks vs. lights through the boring cycles of your washer.  It's the one area I don't see addressed by all these so-called "laundry room" designer/organizer extraordinaires.

This secret has not only saved me time from slaving away unnecessary hours in the laundry room, but also has made the absolute most efficient use of compartmentalizing resources.

I sort by what category item "we're out of".

For example:

"MOM!  There's no clean underwear!" = One exclusive load of children's underwear.  They're not intermixed with other items, they're put away by themselves, and they're washed when needed.

I hope you can grasp this concept wordically, because visually, it's just near impossible to "pin" a photo of 23 pairs of dirty Spiderman/Sponge Bob/Monster truck underwear on my Pinterest board without getting a call from CPS or an email from ChrisHansen@msnbc.com pretending to be a 14 year old boy inviting me to come over to hot tub but insisting that I bring condoms and Mike's Hard Lemonade.

"What?? I was just coming over to make crafts
with a middle-aged stay-at-home mom....see?"

Again: WHO is making $$ off this $#it? Oh, yeah:


Obviously my laundry-mom skills are blowing your mind, so read the next part cautiously.

I am getting pretty sick and GD tired of hearing about these artsy-fartsy I-can-do-anything-I-set-my-mind-to do gooders making their own laundry soap.  So yeah, I did it.  I don't want to get into the particulars because that's not the basis for my blog and to be honest all you have to do is Google homemade laundry soap to find a bazillion recipes so knock yourself out.  What I did realize was:
  • The recipe I followed called for lavender oil and castile soap. I found castile soap with lavender oil in it. I considered this lucky until I remembered something in my nostrils HATES lavender.
  • I honestly, before this endeavor do not remember the last time I used my food processor (which was recommended to grate the soap), but every time I drag it out I'm convinced it's an essential appliance.
  • I spent wasted far too much time looking for a decorative container to put this concoction in.  Like my laundry room looks like Martha Stewart's.  It does not.

I ended up using an old laundry detergent bucket that had lost its lid that we have since used for miscellaneous garage projects and a garbage bag as a liner.  We now have my Mom's liquid laundry soap (lavender scent), our Gain liquid (normal people laundry soap) that Hubs is still using in his laundry and my self-made bucket of powder (lavender scent) lined up like misfits on our shelf, each screaming "pick me!" when we stuff our front-loader with our messy frocks.  Of course, I pick the one I made, if for no other reason than to blast through it and get back to good old fashioned, commercialized, mass-produced laundry soap off the shelf.

I threw the box to the food processor away and put the accessories in a gallon zippy bag.  No sense in taking up extra cupboard space for the box when the appliance itself is so small.  Baby steps...baby steps.

I now hate the smell of my laundry room.  They say lavender is supposed to be calming, relaxing....

It's really just making me tired.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Terms of Endearment

Some bloggers refer to their children by their nicknames to preserve anonymity in the blogosphere.  I considered this option at one point, but realized mine had made it to this place in their little lives' timelines without any.  It's not for a lack of me calling them things besides their given names, even in front of other people.  It's just that I have a bit of a willy-nilly way of arbitrarily assigning, at any given moment, one of any number of names to either of them without regard to which I'm referring.  If I used any of these to reference one or both of the boys in my blog, nobody would know who I was talking about.  Especially our family.

The important thing is that in life, in real-time moments, the special boy to whom I am speaking has known it is he who is the object of my affection at the time when he hears me call him:
  • Baby
  • Scooter
  • Booger
  • Stinker
  • Fart Knocker
  • Boo Boo
  • Tooter
  • My Minion
  • Mr. Poopy Pants
  • Tooty-Patooty
  • Dirty Face (in the voice of the Orbit Gum Lady)

The only one that they've scowled about is Baby, when they hit that age of protest that they were 'not a baby anymore'.  One quick explanation that they'd always be my baby and they understood I called them that because I loved them.  They never have had the same problem or questioned why I've called them Booger...or any of the other seemingly offensive names to those hyper-sensitive organic-only-applesauce mothers who would think it damaging to their self-esteem.  My children know that I say these things with love, not in an abusive tone, and that I'm truly their biggest fan.  I'm also usually saying it as I'm putting them in a big momma bear snuggle hug.

I hope that readers can keep this in mind if they ever question why names are not changed to protect the innocent.  I hope my kids will keep in mind when they're older that while I held nothing back here in letting everyone know their embarrassing stories, I will not, under any circumstances, show their girlfriends naked pictures of them in the bathtub.  Booger and Stinker will surely thank me for that, right?

"Yeah, nobody will see this picture but us....don't worry."

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Old Dogs Shouldn't Do New Tricks

If one survives to adulthood without learning certain skills or taking up certain athletic hobbies, one should not start at that point.  Children are the only humans truly equipped to absorb both the required concept of brain-signal-to-body-part and any resulting impact from a failed attempt.  Their being closer to the ground than us also puts them at an advantage.

The first time this philosophy became truth to me was when Hubs insisted that skiing, which he was "raised on" was the best thing ever, and that I simply must try it.  He thought he could teach me and we would be some cutsie couple from a Warren Miller movie.  I've always hated those movies...probably because I never had been skiing and they were totally out of context for my life.

What a shit show.  All I got out of it was anxiety at the top of the mountain, a crippling inability to get up after a crash, and, after catching a ski to the butt crack, a broken tailbone...which I was to get x-rayed but was too sick.  I later found out my nausea was because I was pregnant with our first child.  I have NEVER been so happy to have the ultimate excuse to skip out of grown-up P.E. for the rest of the season.  He, on the other hand, decided to take up snowboarding and hasn't been on skis since.  He now thinks skiing's for losers.  Thanks, babe.

What do you mean 'smile'? I AM smiling.

I highly recommend to anyone who is now an adult who thinks they want to learn how to ski:  Don't.  Just don't.  Go ahead and go with your friends to the mountain.  Do not go to the bunny hill, you look like an idiot.  Get an awesome sweater, go to the lodge, get drunk all day.  It's way better.

This philosophy was reinforced last night when we took the boys ice skating, but this time, Daddy and I strapped on the skates too.  He had done it as a kid, but I have NEVER had blades on my feet.  Roller skates, yes.  Ice skates, no.  Luckily the crowd was sparse.  After getting my footing as well as a spastic baby giraffe he complimented me.  "You're going to be the next Tonya Harding."  Nice.  I wonder what trailer he has picked out for us.

It turned out I skate backward better than forward, I just can't see what's going on behind me.  It also turns out the ice is really, really cold.  And really, really hard.  Harder than my butt or my knees.  All the while, there was this little Asian girl, maybe 10 years old, practicing diligently while her mother watched like a hawk through her spins and jumps and stared daggers.  The girl, who had clearly put in her time, skated over to her.  The hundred-mile an hour argument they had in their foreign language annoyed me.  How was I supposed to take a side in this matter if I couldn't understand what they were saying??

The daughter hung her head and set back out onto the ice.  Again and again, over and over she perfected her jump, her spin.  Again and again she went back to her mother, again and again she looked at the ground and went back to the ice.  I took the girl's side, I decided.  This wasn't fun anymore.  This is the part that I, as a mother, struggle with when deciding what to let my children participate in.  I realize that they have to finish what they start.  But when it comes to competitive sports, when they cross the line into that territory of parental pushing for the sake of getting your money's worth or teaching them a lesson in perseverance, I wonder if it becomes damaging to their psyche to take away their ability to just be kids.

We took our skates off and passed the girl stretching, actually her mom stretching her, her leg bent up and over and around her head like a pretzel.  I gave her a little smile, and she smiled back.  I hope her mom took her out for a milkshake or something, it was Friday night after all, and I thought she did a great job.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

The Things I Love the Most

  • Ferrero Rocher - Hello, it's Valentine's Day and I'm throwing you a bone.  But it doesn't have to be a holiday for these little bundles of deliciousness.

  • Tere - The checker at our local grocery store  -   For being efficient and friendly, for the way I crack up inside when he says “hey, bro…it’s gone be thirty six bucks and eight little ones for your par-tay supplies” to the twenty-something fellas in front of me buying beer and chips, then says “good afternoon, ma’am…did you find everything you were looking for today?” and “can I get someone to help you out with your things?” right after them.  But mostly for his being a good sport when my belly-never-quite-full-Clayton looked at him like he was a sucker in a Bugs Bunny cartoon and said, while honestly salivating, “I wike yo giant choc-wit head.”  Maybe I love him for his juxtaposition to the ay-hole checker who asks "Who does your taxes?" (because he's trying to drum up business on the side - and it's that time of year again) and who, when I offer up my I.D. for alcohol purchases gets into a conspiracy theory monologue with himself about entrapment by the government and authorities.
Luckily Clayton hasn't seen this,
the not chocolate, but rather
The not-our-Governator visited
our little town to check out
the sculptor's work.
(Kyle Mills/Lewiston Tribune)

Serendipity Card Case

  • My Brighton card holder - Jason bought me this as a gift a while back, and I use it for my aforementioned I.D., credit/debit cards, etc..  It's technically a business card holder, but same size, and it's super convenient for me.  I've gotten a ton of compliments on it, and it's durable as all get out with a kind of built in mirror.  The less things I have to keep track of the better.  I'm also not a "love all things Brighton" kind of person...but I do have a pair of their sunglasses too and that's it...I swear.
  • Dad's Drive transport chair/walker combo - This piece of equipment has been a total lifesaver for us.  My dad can use it as a walker when he's up to it, or around the house, but when we go for longer distances or get stuck mid-parking lot when he's winded it's a 15 second switcheroo to a wheelchair.  Best out-of-pocket, skip the insurance purchase ever.
Walker - Texas Ranger

Sit a spell, take a load off.

  • Nerdy Apple Bottom - She's Sarah.  She's a blogger.  She's a mommy who fiercely sticks up for her kids. She once painted her front door a color red that wasn't quite right, but before she could fix it the HOA prez stopped in to say howdy and let her know how much some neighbor(s) hated it.  So she left it alone, for six years so far.  I've never met her.  And I love her.
  • My FB Friends (and my NOT FB Friends) - They know who they are, they love me for who I am, and I love that about them.  They live everywhere, we may have lost touch over the years, reconnected, and repeated, but I think about them often and love them whole-heartedly. 
Yes, you are a light bulb.
No, you are not the brightest one.
  • Headbanz - We bought this for one of the boys for Christmas and opened it on New Year's Eve.  It has since brought about more laughs and questions about the actual combined Lee Family I.Q. than anything ever.  Excerpt from our most recent round:

Clayton (I am a mushroom):
"Can I be eated?"
"Am I glass?"
"No.  We just said you can be eaten. Why would you say glass?"
"Because the Grinch eats glass."
Esten's 2nd round guessing, knows he helps firemen, has guessed fire extinguisher 5 times already (I am a fire hydrant):
"Okay, so I help firemen?"
Jason: "Yes, and NO, you are NOT a FIRE HYDRANT!!!  Oh, crud."
Clayton, (I am a chicken) looking at Jason, (I am an elephant):
"Am I a elephant?"


  • Santo Moscato D'Asti - Did you see the last item on the list?  I NEED this.  Also, it's imported from Italy (or Italia as is indicated on the label) and, according to my lovely sissy-in-law who should also be on this list by default, means that it contains less sulfates than Americaniano wine and thus gives me less of a migrainiana headachiano.  There is no bottle prettier stocked on the shelves, and I can get it at Costco.
Forget I told you that last part.
They ran out once after the holidays and I totally panicked until they got it back in stock.  I've tried and tried again (and again and again and again) to broaden my horizons when it comes to wine.  I've tried to find a red I like, a blush I can live with, a zin I long for...
Sorry, this one is mine.  This one makes my list.  This one is "Heather's wine".

Maybelline SuperStay 2 Step Lip

  •  Maybelline 24 Hour Lip Color - I do not have time to fiddle-fart around anymore. This is self explanatory. 8-hour lipstick is for children. This stuff does not leave any trace on my wine...errr...coffee cups, or my kiddos' cheeks, but stock up on your favorite top coat, it's compatible with any, and you'll need it throughout the day.  If they would come out with something I could put on Monday morning and have to chisel off my cake-hole Friday night that would be great. Work on that, will you, Max Factor?

  • (silvermt.com)
    Silver Mountain Resort in Kellogg, ID - To be fair, we did just get back from a mini getaway here.  There really is something for everyone at this place.  Esten just learned how to snowboard, and Clayton finally took his turn at (belly) surfing at the indoor waterpark.  I can't say enough good things about the staff, who at various times at our various visits, have located Jason's wedding ring in the surf machine filter, located a lost kid we (and he) didn't realize had gotten separated from each other, and almost immediately repaired a childproofing mechanism on a gate when I pointed out it was beginning to fail its purpose.  They have made wrongs right in a hurry and with the *longest gondola on planet earth* they've helped us make some of the fondest family memories ever.
  • My Carlos Santana Leopard Print Shoes - They go with nothing.  They're almost never appropriate to wear anywhere.  They're out as a choice for PTA meetings (or probably PETA meetings).  I love them nonetheless, and they're not getting weeded out when I thin the herd.  If someone told me I could pick ONE designer and buy shoes to my heart's content, Carlos would have it.  He knows lady curves from toes to heels and it shows.

What was I thinking? They totally go with my
Old Navy winter jammies for an imaginary
GeoTrax train ride.

  • (beautifulorchidscare.com)
Orchids - They're weird, beautiful, finicky, forgiving, and rally just when you think they're done for.  They're just like me.  They are my favorite flower hands-down and I've amassed a little collection, all of whom seem dead at the moment.  I can't wait until I get better at it and I have an improved relationship with mine.

Okay, so maybe this isn't all the things I love, but certainly some of the things and people.  The usual suspects are in my other posts, which you could throw a rock at and hit on any other day.  Valentine's Day may be one day to profess your love and friendship to others, but I hope the ones that really matter know that on the other days of the year they round out my list of 'love the mosts' just as much as they do today.

Friday, February 10, 2012

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Esten brought me the paper in bed this morning.  I sleepily cracked open my eyes as I heard the familiar crinkling of newsprint hovering next to my head, my bearings thrown by the bouncing weight of his body up and down, up and down, half on my pillow, half on my boob, squishing it between his bony, unforgiving knee and the mattress.

"Mom, wake uuuup!  I'm famous today!"

My finally alert eyeballs focused on his early morning offering.  Sure enough, there he was, along with a group of his classmates, running out to recess, some holding hands, a girl doing a cartwheel, all of them captured in a moment of ecstatic expression.  Bliss.  There was no article, just a photo along with a caption for the front page.  But still...this was BIG TIME.

I really love~love~love that the boys are holding hands!
(Lewiston Morning Tribune/Steve Hanks)

There is a bitter-sweetness in this situation.  To put it in perspective, our small-town rag serves a combined community population of about 60,000 people.  Between Hubs and I, our insider knowledge of actual local events leaves us understanding just how often the paper both MISreports a story or just doesn't report a story altogether.  To be frank, if it were softer it would have a far better use in our bathroom than being considered a source for any sort of accurate information.  We prefer to get our news from more reliable sources, his favorite being Howard Stern and mine Jon Stewart or Chelsea Handler.

But here was Esten and his friends, smack dab in the middle of the page.  After smothering his sunshine grin with congratulatory kisses and equally consoling little brother who quickly proclaimed to be "excited about today until five minutes ago when Esten got famous but not me", I looked at the rest of the front page.  It was covered with AP News articles about the No Child Left Behind Act, people who planned to protest at the funerals of the Powell boys because they blame Washington Governor Gregoire for supporting gay marriage and say their deaths are her fault, and a story about a lady who wrote a book on how kids today don't know as much as kids from 50 years ago.  Bummerville all the way around them.

How metaphorically fitting for these kiddos to be put in the middle of what chaos the grownups make in their world, yet they go happily unaware of sad tragedies, unrelenting hatred, and political backstabbing.  This tangible paper I hold in my hand today is so representative of how I as a parent try to protect my children from all the things in life that are swirling-twirling like an evil smoke in the periphery, awaiting their old-enoughness to understand.  To me, the thought of that unknown future date in time when the children in the photo will stop running down that hill, learn of the things they share that front page with, and soak in and understand and grieve the horribleness of what some grownups do - those adults they are being told now are always right or smarter or to-be-trusted...well, I think that day is just as grievous as the actual events those headlines represent.

For today I will more fully appreciate the loving, unknowing, unhating nature of my children.  I love that about them, especially with this photo, which clearly shows they think nobody's watching.  The adults of this world could sure learn a lot from first graders.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

SmartyPants Panic Attack

I'm having a bit of an anxiety attack this morning.  Esten is overwhelmingly excited today.  It's the first day of "Spike", where he will join a handful of his classmates for an accelerated language arts class that's part of the school district's gifted and talented program.  He's so giddy about it he wanted me to comb his hair 'just right' and he wore dress pants.  And asked about a tie.  Which I flat out refused.

I want to throw up.  He is in first grade.  FIRST GRADE.  FIRST.  GRADE.

I'm having flashbacks to my own participation in NOVA, the gifted and talented program of my era.  I'm trying to put it in perspective...but it just makes things worse.  I looked up the guidelines for the program which includes permission slips for testing beyond group settings or proficiency for regular grading, none of which I had seen.  I recalled being put through a battery of I.Q. tests, verbally poked and prodded and put under a proverbial microscope and talked about behind my back by grownups who were curious about my unusual smartness.  I saw none of that with him, other than the bizarre library book selections.  They always seem to contain subjects beyond what a first grader should concern themselves with, like the space-time continuum and black holes.  How watches are built and books filled with science projects.  For high schoolers.

I looked again at his report card.  After skimming it the first time, I did realize it contained a note that indicated of an expectation that they should read at a level "E" with 35 words per minute fluency rate, he was reading at a level "G" with 98 words per minute fluency rate.

Crap on a cracker.  When did this happen?

I'm freaking out because I know what happened to me.  It started small.  I went to first grade for reading and math when I was in Kindergarten.  Then after first semester in first grade I finished out the year in second grade in a second-third grade split class.  My best friend Lori didn't get to come with me.  It wasn't because she wasn't smart enough...she had gone through all those steps with me right by my side.  It was because her sister was in that third grade class and her parents didn't want them in the same classroom together.  Sibling rivalry.  I was forced to endure the sneers and verbal abuse of the older kids pointing out my nerdiness alone.  I spent the remainder of my years trying to blend in and minimize the fact that I was younger than everyone else.  It was awkward during transitional years.  Driver's ED, for example, had to wait until I was old enough.  Old enough was a phrase that raked on my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard because my parents said it ALL THE TIME.  "You're not doing THAT.  You're not OLD ENOUGH."  Bagh.  Gimme a break.

But now, today....what I'm thinking is how truly insane it was that in third grade (when I should have been in second grade) in my 'gifted/talented' program, I was learning about the chemicals the Egyptians had stuffed up the noses of their dead in order to pull their brains out with hooks, and I didn't think it obscene in the least.  No biggie.


(Getty images)

Three mummies who have had their
brains dissolved and pulled out with
hooks.  No wonder I have nightmares.
I want my kids, both of them, to put a big huge stamp of themselves on their lives.  If this is who Esten is, then by golly, he should go for it.  I'm hoping that I can learn from my parents' mistakes and I'm glad that I've at least already recognized some of the same negative traits and emotions that Esten and I share.  I don't want him to be scared or shy or hold anything back in life because he'll miss out on so much if he does.

On that note...last Saturday was National Libraries Day (Turns out that it was in the UK and 'ours' is in April, but we're all in this together, right?) so we celebrated in the usual, predictable Lee family style: We bought the boys ice skating lessons. 

They make everything a competition,
but at the end of the day...
brothers support and lift each other up.
(Photo Courtesy Paramount)
In this turn of events, Esten went first, the instructor was amazingly great with both kids, and, as it happens, Clayton is something of a natural when it comes to wanting to spin circles.  They both loved it and want to do it again.  Soon.  With their current tooth situation now might be the perfect time for hockey....if Esten can take a break from reading.  It will have to wait a week or so since this weekend we're taking a long one to try to make up for that crapfest we had in McCall the weekend Grandpa Bud died and we were all just focusing on not pooping our pants or barfing on each other.  Esten's going to learn how to snowboard, and Clayton, who I promised could do "whatever he wants" with our special Mommy-Clayton time, has chosen prank phone calls.

Who's gonna get lucky Saturday morning?  Will it be you?

Friday, February 3, 2012

Flame On

I laid in bed this morning, like most other mornings, listening....waiting.

Cough, cough, hack, hack.

I breathe a sigh of relief at the sign of my dad's alive-ness once again.  I put my feet on the floor and creep out of bed.  Today is a little different though.  Today is his 85th birthday.

Pretty much what me & Dad look like with cake.
Pretty much.
Also I spend about as much time in my undies
with my dad as they do. Creepy, but true.
(Hef & Ladyfriend at his 85th B-Day,
 photo Forrest Lee, no relation)

We don't seem to put as many bells and whistles on his birthdays as we used to, maybe because we don't want to scare him to death.  Maybe because every day he's with us is a small milestone so when holidays roll around we don't have the same wave of guilt washing over us that this one "might be the last" as we have for those relatives who haven't lived under the same roof with us.  We just treasure all the days the same.

I also try to make every day a learning opportunity for my kids.  So I asked Clayton,

"Hey, if Grandpa is eighty-five today, and you are five, how much older does that make Grandpa than you?"

"I don't know.  Fifty?"

We need to work on math some more I guess.

There's a birthday on the other end of the time-capsule spectrum today, and it's my baby sister Sara's.  She, like my dad, was brought to me through an amazingly twisted path of fate and fairytale that I'd never take back in a million years.  She has my pinky toes, my green eyes, and my heart.  She's strong, she's smart, and she's one of the most beautiful people I know.  I love her to death and miss her to pieces.

Every year on today's date I find it unbelievably ironic that these two souls, the old and the young that are at seemingly opposite ends of my life share this birthday.  But the more I think about it the more it seems just about right.

Happy Birthday you two....let's have cake.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Hush, Let the Grownups Talk Now

I learn a lot from other people's kids.  Sometimes I don't even know the other people.  I just encounter their kids.  I'm forced to imagine the parents.  I usually don't waste my time imagining once I have to bother with the kids.  Teenagers and young adults, in particular, have been keeping me on my toes in the 'looking toward the future years' as to how I'm going to handle my boys and their ever-growing efforts in independent thought and attitude.

I had an especially spirited political exchange thanks to Facebook and a common friend that one young man, (whom I will call, for our purposes and to protect his identity, TURD FERGUSON), and I share.  My friend shared a link to a politician's speech where he made a position statement that she disagreed with, and pleaded with her friends to "Please not vote for this IDIOT."  One of her friends posted a feeling that the statement was taken out of context and it was "not what he meant to say", and that when the speech was viewed in its entirety he came off as a really nice guy.


I commented: "I'm just sure [X] and [Y]'s dear mothers are off somewhere together enjoying a cup of tea, reminiscing about their youth, and how they both so regret not getting those abortions when they had the chance."

So, appropriately, TURD FERGUSON - who is a college student, and who secondarily works the swing shift as a pizza cook AND delivery driver, so thusly is qualified and who is so clearly eager to vote in his first election responded to my post:

"Speak for your own family, Heather. [friend #1] is spot on; if you hear a quote that sounds horrible, it's probably out of context, so go and look up the speech around it. Otherwise, you're liable to seem as stupid as those who made the videos want you to be."

I'd rather talk to an obnoxious fake Burt Reynolds than this tool.
(SNL: duh, or you're a Commie. NBC/Broadway Video)

I forgot, through the years, just how dumb little boys can be.  I've obviously been a grownup too long.  My statement, directed to my friend (and her loving tolerance/sometimes appreciation of my twisted sense of humor) had been interpreted by him as my hard line stance on this single video, and my vagina ownership simply cried out for me to be put in my womanly place (if not kicked in my womanly parts).  It was his duty to do it, and do it he did.  Haaaaa...right.

"I am speaking for my family, [TURD]...and for my friends who deserve better than having a homophobe or someone who wants to make my uterus his business running our country. I could care less about a sentence in a video. I've heard ALL their pointless speeches. Don't like my humor? Sorry. Think my friends got my point, though. I can't WAIT for Gingrich's moon colony - I know exactly who all should go live there."

Really.  That part is 100% totally true.  More 100% even than McDonald's beef.  I hope they start blasting people off to the moon WAY before 2020.  Let's fire that rocket up next week, people.


"Glad you missed my point so broadly: first off, my comment was meant as a jab at your family, aka maybe your mother should have aborted you, which brings me to my main point: wishing death on someone who hasn't gone out of their way to rape, pillage, or otherwise end people's lives puts you in the same boat as whatever scumbag you're defiling."
"P.S. Did you vote for [Z]? Because everything you listed against [X] applies to him as well. Jussayin'"

P.S.??  I think this kid has a crush on me now.  I haven't gotten a P.S. from a boy since 5th grade!  Jussayin??  Slow down, Hot Rod...I'm married.

For the record, I did not wish death on anyone, I didn't even say I wished they had never been born.  I suggested their mothers might wish they had never been born.  I suggested their mothers might be wishing that while sharing a cup of tea, which is a delightful and coming-together of opponents idea.  I thought it quite lovely, in fact.

This whole incident taught me a valuable lesson.  I will instill in my children that while they should be proud that we live in a country where we can enjoy the freedom to engage in lively expression of our political freedom of choice and celebrate our differences, if I EVER catch wind of them talking to an old lady like this kid did, they are going to be SO grounded.  I should tell his mom on him.  I will also make sure my children are crystal clear on the fact that nobody, and by that I mean NOBODY will take you seriously if you have a shirtless profile picture, so put on some Goddamn clothes if you want to sass-talk me.

Oh, plus....I have a blog and YOoooOUU don't, so suck it, Turd Ferguson.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Dear God...

Sometimes we say bedtime prayers.  Not all the time.  I don't push it.  It's usually the boys who will bring it up:

"Who wants to say a prayer?  Okay, I'll go first then."

Last night was one of those nights.  Clayton suggested it.  For a long time, as an homage to Despicable Me, or a joke, or simply to annoy his brother, he insisted on ending every prayer with:

..."and please let the mommy and daddy be nice, and let them have a pet unicorn.  Amen."

He's let that one go, for now.  Last night went a little like this:

"Dear God...thank you for all the animals and the fish and the birds and the grass.  But we kind of have a problem because I'm a little annoyed with you about making the things that can eat us.  So, could you back off about that a little bit, you know, about the sharks and stuff?  Because that's so not cool, God.  You know how I feel about sharks.  They're okay to look at but I don't want to be eated by one.  That's not a funny joke.  Amen."

Then it's Esten's turn.

"Dear God..."


"GRRRR.  MOM!!!  It was MY TURN!  He already said AMEN!  That means you're DONE!"

"But I forgot something.  And God, please watch over us while we sleep, and watch over Daddy while he works, and help him to catch the bad guys, and if they try to run away, help him by sending lightning to shock them, but don't kill them so they can still go to jail.  Amen.  Okay, I'm done."

[Me, in the middle, in the dark, holding my breath and trying not to laugh.]

"FINALLY.  Dear God....please watch over us and Daddy and all of that.  And please listen very, very carefully.  Please help me to get revenge on the girl who won the remote control robot for the fundraiser at school because you know I wanted it way more than her.  Or just help me to get the remote control because then it won't even work for her and she'll just want to throw it away, and then I can have it.  I would be your best friend forever.  Amen."

I couldn't take it anymore, my conscience made me intervene.

"Esten, you know you aren't really supposed to use prayers or wishes against other people.  Do you really think God is going to help you take a toy away from someone else?"

"Duh, Mom.  Yeah.  I DO think that he would do that.  He loves me."

And that was it.  My sweet, caring, innocent baby boy is gone, replaced by a conniving, plotting, moo-hoo-hoo-ha-ha-ha-ing little nut job.  My little boy has almost become a politician.