Cup Holders

The inside of my car hasn't smelled right for a week or so.

This morning, I followed my nose to the third row cup holder, where I found this:



After poking the two largest objects with a stick, my husband determined that they were the semi-liquid remains of a fresh pear.

"This is disgusting," I told the person who sits in the seat next to the cup holder.

The person responded by asking with hopeful anticipation if the pear was still edible.


***
Makes you curious about what tasty treats are hiding in YOUR cup holders doesn't it?

Happy New Years!

The Dentist Waiting Room

Last night, I went to the dentist. Much to my dismay, I was called back to a room almost immediately.

"You seem disappointed by our prompt service," observed the dental hygienist.

I explained that my husband was home with the kids and that I was actually looking forward to spending a half hour in the waiting room with a stack of tabloid magazines.

The woman--a mother herself--smiled out of the corner of her mouth as she took my x-rays. She returned to the exam room a few minutes later with an armload of magazines and some bad news.

"Your film is going to take at least 45 minutes to develop," she told me with a wink. "Maybe more."

I fell to the floor in gratitude.

Christmas Morning

Predictably, Christmas morning at our house was filled with highs and lows.

High: Santa brought a Zhu Zhu pet.
Low: The Zhu Zhu pet was the wrong color.

High: Santa brought Transformers underpants.
Low: The underpants were two sizes too small.

High: Everyone found bags of gummy bears in their stockings.
Low: Someone ate all of his in one sitting and threw them up an hour later.

High: The first present that Kellen opened was a football.
Low: Always the good sport, Cortlen expressed his enthusiasm for his brother's good fortune by crawling under the sofa and crying for ten minutes.

High: Tim's parents gave the boys baseball helmets.
Low: Immediately after putting the helmets on their heads, Cortlen and Kellen head butted each other (on purpose). Cortlen spent the rest of the day complaining of a headache.

High: Tim's parents gave Camber a bottle of sparkly nail polish.
Low: She accidentally spilled it on the kitchen table.

High: I put the kids to bed at 6:30pm that night.
Low: They got up at 5:30am the next morning.

How was YOUR holiday?!

The Christmas Miracle

My daughter's Christmas list contains only two things: a candy jewelry maker and a battery-operated hamster.

As much as it pained me to purchase item #1, I did it because I felt very confident that I would not be able to locate item #2.

"None of the stores around here are selling Zhu Zhu pets right now," I said, pointing to one of many empty toy store shelves.

Just when my first grader had finally resigned herself to being hamsterless, the mall Santa threw me under the bus.

"Of course I can!" replied Saint Nick when my daughter asked if he and his troop of industrious elves could make her a litter of Zhu Zhu pets.

"Problem solved," said my daughter, as she hopped off the bearded man's lap.

"Thanks a lot," I hissed in the direction of the velvet throne. Santa replied by giving me a wink, a coloring book, and a miniature candy cane.

That was two weeks ago. I've been back to the mall a handful of times since that day and each time I spot Santa perched inside his candy cane cottage held together with duct tape, I give him the evil eye.

Clearly Santa knew that he was on my naughty list because this morning at 8:17am he granted me a Christmas miracle. I was shopping at a local super center when all of sudden I heard several fellow shoppers scream the words "hamsters" and "OVER THERE!!!!" The object of their gaze and pointed fingers was an elderly man with a single cardboard box.

Fifteen of us waited with baited breath as the man cut the box open.

Screams of jubilation ripped through the store as the man held up a handful of electronic rodents.

I snatched a white one.


I had big plans to steal Santa's thunder by wrapping up the glorified mouse and attaching a gift tag that included the phrase "From Mom and Dad."

My husband's role play of Christmas morning changed my mind.

"Aww nuts! I wanted a black one! Where is the hamster car? And its tunnel? And its friends?"

It's hard to be six in a world without enough hamsters and hamster accessories to go around.

It's even harder to be Santa.

Q&A

Q: What is more awesome than a blizzard the weekend before Christmas?

A: A blizzard + 4 children + husband with the stomach flu


The Plague struck the first of my offspring at exactly the right time (one hour before my husband's work Christmas party on Friday night), though not in the most desirable place (on the freeway in bumper-to-bumper traffic).

I got hit on Sunday morning.

P.S. After much hair-pulling and wandering aimlessly through the mall, my husband did manage to rustle up some holiday gifts for his employees, or at least so he claimed. He wouldn't tell me what he ended up buying, and I probably don't want to know. Innocence is bliss.

See you tomorrow.

Employee Gifts

My husband has known for 365 days that he has to buy holiday gifts for his colleagues at work. I reminded him of this fact last month, as well as every day last week (in a nice, non-nagging way of course). For reasons unknown to man, the realization didn't hit him until yesterday afternoon during his lunch hour.

"I have to buy holiday gifts for the people in my office!" he screamed in panic over the phone.

"Where are you right now?" I asked.

He was slow to reveal that he was checking out flat screen television sets in Best Buy.

Sensing my annoyance, he feigned disbelief that a store that big doesn't sell Harry & David gift baskets.

"Half of the people in my office aren't going to be in next week!" he wailed. "Tomorrow is my last day to give them something!"

"That sounds very distressing," I replied. "What would you like me to do about it?"

The line got very quiet. "Can you at least think of ideas for me?" my husband wanted to know.



Of course, I was happy to oblige. I rattled off a long list of excellent suggestions. When I got to wearable blankets and Stephen Covey's latest book, he hung up on me.

****
Sound familiar? Anyone?

Man Troubles

Cameron is starting to recognize people he knows. Whenever I ask him where Camber is, he points to his sister. He also can correctly identify his brothers and dad.

Things become a little more difficult, however, when I ask him to identify his primary caregiver.

"Where's mommy?" I ask pointing at myself.

Without fail, Cameron responds by looking out the window or staring off into space.

"I'm right here!" I hoot as I do jumping jacks and metaphorical back flips in my living room.

Eventually my son's eyes shift to the cat, who is sleeping on the arm of the sofa. He giggles and points at the animal.

"Little stinker," I mumble under my breath.

It's as if the harder I try to get his attention, the more he ignores me.

Clearly dating taught me nothing about men.

The Guest Appearance

Remember when my family was on vacation in Los Angeles last summer? While we were there, I got a call from one of my hometown friends, a gal named Liane. She wanted to know if I was interested in meeting up for lunch while I was in town. I told her that I could do it, but that I would have to get a babysitter. She sent me directions to her office and told me to bring the kids.

"They'll be fine," she said.
"Where do you work these days?" I asked.
"They'll be fine!" she said again and hung up the phone.

Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Disney Animation Studios in Burbank.

The next hour was a jealous blur. After showing us her super cool office which was filled with toys, Liane took us upstairs to meet some of her animator friends, who just happened to be sketching the last scene of The Princess and the Frog. A nearby vending machine stocked with candy bars and gummy Lifesavers prevented my children from appreciating the magnitude of what they were witnessing. While they dug through my purse for loose change, I tried not to act how I felt, which was like a six-year-old on a sugar rush.

"This is the coolest thing I have ever seen," I said a million times.

After I repeated this phrase a few million more times, the man smiled politely and got up to use the bathroom.

I must have made quite the impression on the animator because when I went to see the movie on Saturday with my kids, I saw that he had drawn me into the last scene. If you squint and cover your right eye and play the scene backward and in slow motion, you'll see a more modestly dressed Meanest Mom avatar sprint across the bottom of the screen.

At least that's what I'm telling all my friends.

Lost Library Books

School libraries are magical places filled with bookshelves overflowing with unexplored treasures.

My children are seemingly blind to these riches, as evidenced by the fact that they spend their library time searching out books that we already own.

"Look!" said Cortlen in stunned amazement as he retrieved a copy of Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs from his backpack. "The library has the same book as us!"

"That's crazy!" I replied.

"I got The Cat in the Hat!" screamed Kellen, holding up an equally unfamiliar text. Not surprisingly, my daughter came home later that afternoon with the library's second copy of Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs.
"Next time, why don't you guys choose books that we don't already have?" I suggested.

The minute that I offered up this suggestion, I remembered that it was irrelevant. My children never actually read any of the library books that they bring home from school. The purpose of checking out library books (other than to marvel at the existence of duplicate copies) is to ruin my life. This happens when books are left unattended on the kitchen counter long enough for someone to spill something on them, or when they are inadvertently stashed away in secret places until I receive emails like this:

Dear Parent,

The following item is overdue. Please return it as soon as possible to avoid being charged a book replacement fee:

LIBRARY MATERIALS

Due: 10/8/2009
"The great Waldo search"
Call #: F HAN
Barcode: S 6d6236
Price: $14.95

Normally emails like this generate a frantic search through my house. In this case, such an exercise was unnecessary. Just after Thanksgiving, I dropped a bunch of books into the donation bin at my local Salvation Army. Both of our copies of The Great Waldo Search were among them.

****
Any similar tales of library mishaps?

College Application Essays

It's that time of year again!!!

Throughout the month of December, I frequently find plates of Christmas cookies on my doorstep. Attached to the plates of cookies are cranky high school seniors from my neighborhood who don't want help with their college applications, but whose mothers insist upon it.

Approximately six weeks ago, the guest of honor was a boy named Nick. He was applying to a private college with a low average SAT score and rolling admissions. His mom thought he was a shoe-in.

Nick's application required him to write a three-hundred word essay responding to the question "What is your greatest challenge?"

The first lines of Nick's essay read: "I have a problem with self-control. When I get mad, I hit things with sticks." The essay went on to catalog an extensive list of objects damaged by fallen branches and two-by-fours.

"You can't say this," I told Nick bluntly.

"But it's true!" he protested.

"They can't handle the truth," I responded.

"But my application is due tomorrow!" he whined.

"You will not get in if you say this," I warned, escorting him to the door. I wanted Nick out of my house before he hit me with a stick.

Yesterday, the thin envelope arrived in Nick's mailbox. Nick was almost jubilant, thus confirming my suspicions of self-sabotage. Nick's mother, on the other hand, burst into tears.

"I'm so sorry," I said, trying to console the woman. "I know you were hoping for a different outcome."

"It's all your fault, you know," the woman said half jokingly. "You made him rewrite that essay at the last minute."

That's when Nick revealed that at the eleventh hour, he had seen the light. Two hours before the application was due, he abandoned the stick story and submitted in its place a touching tale about a recent fist fight that cost him one of his front teeth.

"Wise choice," I noted.

Nick's mother's face turned bright red and she began to shake. Evidently, she was not aware of her son's essay topic.

"If I were you," I told Nick, "I would back away very slowly."

Once he had eased himself off my driveway, he began to run down the street.

Playdates

Playdates are big events at our house. In order to maximize/consolidate the fun, I like all of my children to invite friends over at the same time.

That, and a pupil-free day is how I ended up with six six-year-olds at my house yesterday afternoon.

Everyone in my family is naturally blessed with good social skills and we consistently pull out all the stops to impress our guests.

Case in point: Within ten minutes of the guests' arrival, Cortlen decided to remove his shirt.

"Put your clothes back on!" I snapped. A better response might have been to ask my son, "Why in world did you take your clothes off in the first place?"

Camber waited until the group was assembled at the kitchen table to make her big announcement.

"I know two bad words," she said proudly.

For the record, the two words in question are "stupid" and "dumb."

"Don't do it," I warned. We have strict rules about unsavory language in our house.

"One of the words starts with an 's,'" she continued, ignoring me.

At that, Kellen's friend jumped out of his chair and began waving his arms wildly. "I know! I know!" he shouted with excitement. The boy could barely contain himself.

The boy's exuberance made me suspect that he was not thinking of the same word as my daughter.

I called an emergency family meeting in the laundry room, minus friends.

"If you ever want to have friends come over again," I told my crew, "You'd better knock it off."

Everyone stifled a giggle but promised to hold it together.

Less than ten minutes later, Kellen and his friend army-crawled into the kitchen. It was apparent from their appearance that they were on a special mission. The friend was wearing Kellen's plastic army helmet. Kellen's head was covered by a pair of clean (I hope) G.I. Joe underpants.

****
Do your kids do totally bizarre/out of character things when their friends are over? I am officially mortified.

Giveaway Winner

WOW. Thanks to all 983 of you who entered the Body Shop Giveaway.

The winner is.....

AMBER who said, simply, "I want to win."

Since there were around 50 women named Amber who said exactly the same thing in their comments, I'm a little worried about locating the right woman. The Amber I'm looking for is married to a handsome guy named Kevin and has two darling little boys. I don't know where she's from, but from the pictures posted on her blog, it appears to be somewhere significantly more desirable than Philadelphia in December. IT'S COLD HERE (and I'm a big baby).

Amber: email me pronto to claim your prize! Congratulations!

The Third Day of Christmas

Sadly, the Body Shop Giveaway is now over.

To see the original post, go HERE.

Didn't win? Don't despair! You still have 11 more chances!
Each day, a new contest will open up on a featured blog. In addition, you can visit The Body Shop site by December 12 to register to win the grand prize of $1,200 worth of products!!!

The Advent Calendar

I have an advent calendar; one of its doors is completely missing and two others are partially unhinged.

Every time I look at the object, I am overcome by the nagging suspicion that the calendar symbolizes my life in some deep way.

Last weekend, we filled each of the calendar's compartments with a slip of paper containing a different Christmas-related activity. Wednesday's paper told us to read The Night Before Christmas. On Thursday, we made cookies. On Friday afternoon, we wrapped several gifts for my husband and placed them under the tree. Three hours later, during dinner, my sons told my husband not to get his hopes up. "Unless you like church clothes, you're not going to be happy with your presents," they told him knowingly.

So much for the element of surprise.

The contents of Saturday's box instructed us to visit Santa at an outdoor shopping center. We found Saint Nick under a red-and-white striped tarp in front of a store that sells large robot dogs and other necessities. He was sitting on a velvet throne. Next to the throne was a large popcorn machine on wheels.


The relevance of the popcorn maker to holiday miracles eluded me, but made perfect sense to my children. Cortlen refused to sit on Santa's lap, as it obstructed his view of the object and its contents.

"What would you like for Christmas?" Santa asked him.

Cortlen shoved his Christmas list back into his pocket. Mouth agape, he pointed at the contraption.

"Do you want a bag of popcorn or the whole machine?" Santa asked, confused.

Cortlen didn't realize until that moment that there was an option.

"The machine! The machine!" he shouted. Dreams of popcorn on demand danced in his head.

"Thanks Santa," I replied.

In attempt to dissipate the mounting tension under the tarp, Santa's scantily-clad elf leaned in with peace offering, freshly popped and piping hot.

****
Any good tales from YOUR visit to Santa?

The Power of Music

Music is the cure-all for every negative emotion. That is what people who appreciate good music always say. Notably, people who have children who play the trumpet or saxophone in middle school marching bands rarely say this.

When you are feeling sad/frustrated/irritated/overwhelmed/scared, humming your favorite tune will put you and everyone around you in a cheery mood.

I tried this tactic this morning at the breakfast table. When my children threatened to riot over the flavor of oatmeal I served, I felt inspired to sing "It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To."

Strangely, my singing did not reduce the hostility in the room, but rather increased it.

I am confused.

New Plates

My dinner plates are over twelve years old. I have wanted to buy a set of new ones for quite awhile now, but have really struggled with justifying the expense of replacing things that are ugly and dated but still function.

Allowing my children to empty the dishwasher each morning has effectively solved my problem.

It's been four days, and we're already down three plates. As we have learned through experimentation, ceramic dinnerware is not easily balanced on one finger, nor can it be slid across a shallow countertop without consequences.


*********
The Body Shop Giveaway has been moved HERE.

Sorry for the inconvenience!

Open Houses

I really struggle with forms, especially those that ask me to list my interests and hobbies. I have learned the hard way that in some cases, this one included, honesty isn't always the best policy.

Potential Employer: "You enjoy reading wedding announcements of people you don't know in the newspaper and going to open houses?"

The woman asked me this like it was some kind of mistake.

The miracles of the Internet allow me to peruse the Lifestyle section of the newspaper at my leisure, but there is one insurmountable obstacle that prevents me from attending as many open houses as I would like: namely, CHURCH. Mine is scheduled from 1-4pm on Sundays, which is the exact same day and time that most home sellers in my area open their doors to total strangers.

I think about switching religions every time I drive to church and see a balloon-laden arrow at a busy street corner.


My sacrifices are great.

Two Sundays ago, my one-year-old son came down with a nasty cold. When my husband and I flipped a coin to see who would stay home with him from church, I had an extra reason to hope that fate would fall in my favor: a new listing in our neighborhood. The house has been vacant since September and was recently fitted with new carpeting, something my neighbor Tina and I noticed when we peeked through the home's windows earlier in the week.

I couldn't push my family out the door fast enough.

Tina was inspecting the contents of the kitchen cabinets when Cameron and I made our entrance.

Before I could greet my friend, I was startled from behind. "Welcome!" shouted a woman in a red suit and heels.

Experience has taught me that where there is an open house, there is also a realtor.

"Can you fill this out for me?" the woman asked, as she handed me a piece of paper and a pen.

The form didn't inquire about my hobbies, but it did want to know my name, phone number, and when I planned to move.

I intended to do the polite thing and leave all the fields blank, but Tina told me that the free house tour obliged me to write something.

Believing, falsely, that the realtor might be the only person who shares my passion for other people's property, I professed my love for open houses in the "comments" section of the form.

Sensing a serious customer in her midst, the realtor refused to make eye contact with me for the duration of my visit.

Black Friday

Further proof that I am a mean mom:



I didn't even try.

Happy Thanksgiving

I am grateful for many things this Thanksgiving...chief among them my own little turkey, who has brought me and my family so much joy this past year.

It's incredibly humbling how one's perspective of life changes in the face of near tragedy.

In Thanksgivings past, I used to be thankful that I had such cute/smart/funny/amusing children.

This Thanksgiving, I am just grateful that they are all here.

The Turkeys that Weren't Pardoned

Every year, we eat Thanksgiving dinner with our neighbors. When left to their own devices, Chuck, Helen-Marie, and their college-aged daughters pass over the turkey and stuffing in favor of homemade ravioli and made-from-scratch garlic bread. Fortunately they have me and my awesome cooking to save them from themselves.

My children spent the first part of the day fighting with each other in the basement. After lunch, I suggested that they take a break from the festivities and make seating placards for our dining room table (I'm one step away from Martha Stewart, I know). The process of tracing one's hand into the shape of a turkey took almost an hour. An equal amount of time, or so it seemed, was spent writing our dinner guests' names onto the pieces of paper.

Tragedy struck when Cortlen's turkey plopped himself onto the place setting next to the one occupied by Camber's turkey.

"You can't sit there!" my accommodating daughter screamed. "That's Helen-Marie's seat!"

Cortlen's turkey did not like to told what to do, especially by a bird with a bad attitude and pink toenails. He responded by ripping off those toenails, and the legs to which they were attached.

Although fatally wounded, Camber's turkey mustered enough strength in her dying breath to poke a hole through Cortlen's turkey with a fork.

Sadly, only four out of the eleven people eating dinner at our house tomorrow will know where to sit at the table.

The rest of the turkeys perished in the skirmish.

Death by Chocolate

Every December, my elementary school's PTA hosts a holiday basket auction. Each classroom in the school is assigned a basket theme, a disproportionate number of which include the word "Italy" (ie. "A Night out in Italy," "Breakfast in Italy," "Under the Tuscan Sun"). My daughter's teacher was one of the unfortunate few who were absent on the day that the lots were cast. As a result, she got stuck with a theme that lacks any overt reference to the Motherland.

"Our theme is 'Death by Chocolate,'" she apologized.

I attempted to alleviate the teacher's feelings of failure and ancestral shame by suggesting that we fill the basket with Italian chocolates. The letter I mailed to my daughter's classmates' parents asking for donations reiterated this request.

My plea for assistance was heard and answered. Here is what was sent in:


As room mother, my job is to tastefully assemble the donations in a large basket. The baskets will be auctioned off at the annual holiday family dance next weekend.

For several reasons, I am expecting that my basket will draw a record number of bids.

****
Any similar tales of agony?

The Kindness of Strangers

At the end of last week, I took a quick trip to visit some family members who live out of state. My husband took off work to stay with the older kids and I took Cameron with me.

Due to traffic control problems, my return flight was delayed for almost four hours. All of the passengers on my flight were in really good moods when we finally boarded the plane at 10:30pm. The trio sitting directly behind me served as notable exceptions to the rule. They were all in exceptionally good spirits, due in large part to the extraordinary number of alcoholic spirits they had consumed at the airport bar earlier that evening.

Cameron fell asleep shortly after takeoff only to be jolted awake a few minutes later by a round of obnoxious laughter bellowing from the back seat.

One of the rioters was using her toothbrush to comb her neighbor's hair.

If that's not funny, I don't know what is.

Cameron woke up from his nap fussy...and with a fever. I was rustling around for supplies in the diaper bag when he threw up all over himself, me, and the empty seat next to us.

A pattern is developing.

The Good News: The sight of so much vomit silenced the revelers.
The Bad News: There were 2 1/2 hours left in the flight

I dealt with the unfortunate circumstances by locking myself and the baby in the airplane lavatory. And cried.

I emerged from the lavatory with a whimpering infant and eighteen paper towels stuffed down my shirt.

When I returned to my seat, I found the woman who had been sitting in the middle seat in the row across from me wiping down my seat and personal effects. The sight of a complete stranger elbow deep in my son's vomit made me cry harder.

Without a word or a wrinkled nose or a rolled eye or a long sigh or a snippy comment or a piece of helpful advice, the woman cleaned up the mess and returned to her seat, where she proceeded to pick up her novel and read it as if nothing had happened.

I have had plenty of interactions with strangers that I hope that someday I will forget.

This I hope I will always remember.

Money Down the Drain...Literally

My older children are walking metal detectors. It seems that every time we are out in public, at least one six-year-old wins the lottery in the form of a blackened dime found in the gutter or a rusty penny pried out of a sidewalk crack.

Yesterday afternoon, Kellen screamed "I'm rich!!!!!" after finding a flattened nickel in the parking lot of Old Navy.

Due to the growing concern that my thirteenth-month-old might find some of his siblings' coins lying around the house and put them into his mouth, I confiscated everyone's loose change and put it in a basket next to the kitchen sink.

After several hours of staring longingly at the basket, my boys asked if they could count its contents.

"We just want to make sure that it's all there," they said.

The baby was napping so I agreed.

Unfortunately, I underestimated the weight of 327 pennies, 24 nickels, and 17 dimes. The basket slipped out of my hands and 368 coins slid down the mouth of the garbage disposal.

I spent the next 15 minutes fishing slimy pennies out of a sea of last night's dinner scraps.

"Why are you throwing my pennies away?" shrieked Cortlen. "WHY?"

Someday my son will know the answer. For the next 30 years, however, he will believe that I am the meanest mom in the world. Or the craziest.

Probably both.

The Free Turkey

My grocery store runs a special promotion every November. If you spend $300 in qualifying purchases, you get a certificate for a free turkey that feeds 4-6 people.

To my horror, I realized at 11:15pm on the last day of the promotion that I was short of the target by $60.

"Please tell me you are not going to the grocery store right now," said my husband. He said this in a way that made my midnight shopping trip seem ridiculous and even unnecessary.

The truth of the matter was that I wouldn't have been able to sleep that night or live with myself the next day if I knowingly let the opportunity pass me by.

I filled my shopping cart with dry cereal.

"That sure is a lot of Honeycomb," observed the man standing in line behind me.

Despite cleaning out the store's stock of generic brand Cheerios, I still found myself $5.64 short at check-out.

A wave of panic rushed over me. Thankfully, the cashier was moved to mercy.

"I'll just give you the certificate for the turkey," the woman whispered. "You're close enough."

With the voucher in my hand, I felt redeemed.

"Thank you," I whispered back.

The woman smiled and looked at her watch, which was fast approaching the time of the store's closing. "Clearly it's important to you," she replied.

As I loaded the sixteen boxes of cereal into my trunk, my heart swelled with happiness and joy. I couldn't help but feel cheered by the discovery of a kindred spirit, another person who seemed to understand the logic of expending great sums of money and time to get an object for "free" that can be purchased for less than $20.

***
Any more kindred spirits out there?

Peel-and-Stick Laminate

Later this week is the annual First Grade Pirate Party at my kids' elementary school. A few weeks ago, I sent a note to the event coordinator volunteering to help decorate the gym. The note I received in reply thanked me for my willingness to come up with six pirate-themed reading games instead.

Usually I am against bait-and-switch routines, but I agreed to fall victim to this one after my friend Tina hinted that such acts of martyrdom might be recognized at the end of the year assembly in the form of a plaque or large trophy.

What initially appeared to be a manageable assignment was made infinitely more difficult by the friendly reminder that none of my pirate games could include weapons, water balloon launchers, allusions to alcohol, or choking hazards.

"I have nothing," I told my husband, throwing up my hands in defeat.

"Why don't you make a memory game using pirate words?" he suggested.

My husband's idea made me want to poke my eyes out, but I went through with it because it provided me with a legitimate reason to purchase a roll of peel-and-stick laminate.

If I was taught nothing else by this experience, I learned that laminate is underused in higher education. College professors should use it more often: it makes things look more impressive and official. The clip art treasure chests that I printed off the Internet gained instant credibility once I covered them with a see-through layer of plastic film.

I showed my husband the finished products.

He wrinkled his nose. "Aren't you going to laminate the poster board too?" he wanted to know.

That wasn't part of my original plan, but once he made the suggestion, it became a necessity.

Laminating such a large surface proved to be almost more fun than I could handle. Despite (or perhaps due to) numerous attempts to lay the poster board flat on the sticky paper, the finished product was plagued with several air bubbles and large creases, attributes I tried to obscure when I dropped the items off at the event organizer's house on Saturday.

The Offender

"My, what happened here?" the woman said, peering at the poster board. "Are those carpet fibers?" she asked, pointing to a cluster of beige clumps in the middle of the sign.

I explained the limitations of DIY laminate to no avail.

"Hmm," the woman said with an amused smile. "You should have done your laminating over here." She pointed to an object in the corner of her living room, which she identified as her personal laminating machine.

I have never wanted anything more in my entire life. Now I know what to put on my Christmas list.

"Feel free to re-laminate to your heart's content," I said as I walked out the door. The woman threw back her head and laughed like I had just told the funniest joke in the world.

A few choice words ran briskly through my mind as I got into my car, but just as quickly as they came, my feelings of hostility gave way to feelings of compassion.

All I had to do was come up with six games. The event organizer is responsible for producing a pirate-themed snack. My heart goes out to the person who will be spending the better part of the next three days suspending small schools of Swedish fish into 137 cups of blue JELL-O.

****
ARGH! In my haste to rid myself of the cursed poster board, I forgot to take a picture of the finished product. You'll just have to imagine its awesomeness.

Friends with Benefits

Our family cat is missing a few brain cells, but is smart enough to know that befriending a baby brings rewards.

Earlier this week, I went out to dinner with a group of friends.

If only I had thought to distract them long enough to swipe a few choice morsels of food off their plates.

*****

Hey! Check this out! One of my old posts has taken new life (with my consent) as part of a recent Washington Post article.

Life is Hard When You're Six

The world was unkind to my daughter this morning.

She was forced to take a shower.
Her hairbrush went missing... again.
The cereal she was served was disgusting.
The orange juice was too warm.
The milk was too cold.
She remembered that popcorn chicken day at the school cafeteria was yesterday.

The straw that broke the camel's back wasn't the strange discovery of her toothbrush in the cats' water bowl, but my refusal to let her brush her teeth with it afterward.

Life is hard when you're going through pre-pre puberty.

Parent-Teacher Conferences

This afternoon, my husband and I have meetings scheduled with Cortlen and Kellen's kindergarten teachers. I wasn't worried about the kind of report cards that my children would receive until several neighbors (who have children in my boys' classes) went out of their way to provide me with unsolicited play-by-play rundowns of their own parent-teacher conferences. I had no idea that Stephen Hawking was once our neighborhood's mailman.

Everything was straight gold stars, double thumbs up, and green traffic lights. One precocious girl even interacts with her peers on a third-grade level. That is what her mother told me at the bus stop this morning. The woman was wearing a jogging suit and new white sneakers. I was wearing one brown sock and one black.

"Your gene pool is a little shallow," I told my boys over lunch. They cocked their heads and looked confused.

"And we moved into this neighborhood after the smart mailman left," I explained.

Stolen Goods

Last week, my mother-in-law (who lives in California), paid us a visit. I've been married for twelve years and have known Sue since I was twelve, so needless to say, we feel pretty comfortable around each other.

It's probably because I feel so comfortable around my mother-in-law that sometimes I do and say things that make her feel uncomfortable. Case in point: the food court at Target. Last week, one of my sons threw a temper tantrum in the middle of it. The problem started when I deliberately and maliciously placed four fewer kernels of popcorn on his napkin than on his siblings'.

"Now I'm taking your popcorn away," I announced after two warnings only escalated the volume of the complaints.

My mother-in-law nibbled on her nails and shifted in her seat as I carried my son out to the parking lot.

"Grandma! Save me!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

Sometimes I make my mother-in-law feel uncomfortable. On her most recent visit, she returned the favor.

One morning, while the kids were in school, I took my mother-in-law to a local sporting goods store where she purchased a number of Christmas gifts for my kids including two baseball helmets and two equipment bags.

A few days after she returned home to California, she called me with some bad news. She didn't remember wrapping the equipments bags. In fact, she didn't remember leaving the store with them.

"The cashier probably put the bags in a separate bag and forgot to give them to us."

That evening, I returned to the store with my receipt. Two very nice teenage employees looked up from the games they were playing on their cell phones long enough to point me in the direction of the baseball gear.

"Take what you want," said one of the employees.

The next afternoon, my mother-in-law called again. "The helmets weren't in the bag we brought home either!" she remembered.

Back to the store I went. This time, I was greeted by the store manager, who was very concerned about my story of missing bags and helmets and possible employee theft.

The manager took my receipt and disappeared into the back room. He was gone for almost fifteen minutes. When he returned, his face was very serious.

"I have something on the security tape that I want you to see," he said.

My palms grew sweaty as I felt my adrenaline surge. I have always wanted to be the victim of a non-violent crime. I immediately began to wonder if I would be called to testify in court, and if so, what I would wear.

"So here's the tape of your transaction," the manager said, pointing to the television screen. Footage of the store employee ringing up our purchases was followed by very clear footage of the employee putting all of the items into bags and us leaving the store with those bags. There is even footage from a camera placed outside the front of store of us loading the bags into my car and driving off.

I half expected a police officer to jump out from behind a plastic ficus plant and handcuff me on the spot.

I apologized profusely and promised to return the equipment bags within the hour. The instant I left the store, I called my mother-in-law.

"You just made me feel very uncomfortable," I told her.

After my mother-in-law laughed herself silly, she apologized for her mistake.

*****
P.S. I made my husband return the equipment bags so he could feel comfortable too.
P.P.S. We found the equipment bags and the helmets in the hall closet.

George Washington's Letter

(a George letter but not the George letter)

Earlier this week, I taught a seminar at a local university on the history of the book. I gave the presentation in a room filled with documentary treasures: several medieval manuscripts, a sixteenth-century Bible, a colonial American hymnal, and several textual artifacts from the Revolutionary War.

The audience consisted largely of retired professors, librarians, and undergraduates who were promised extra credit in exchange for attendance. They were a lively bunch, especially the two students seated in the back row who fought boredom by drawing stick figure sketches of a woman who looked a lot like me hanging from a noose.

My audience was most alert when I finished my presentation and invited them to take a closer look at the items on the table.

"You can touch anything except for the letter written by George Washington," I told them.

To their credit, the college students did their best to avoid the letter. In the end, however, most managed to accidentally manhandle it.

"I told you not to touch it!" I shrieked at two sophomores.
"We didn't!" they replied in unison.
"I saw you pick it up!" I said.

A few minutes later, I caught another student attempting to lift the letter off the table with the eraser end of a pencil.

"For real?" I asked, snatching the letter away from the two/twenty-year-old.

A long lecture followed about the importance of good listening skills. I explained that no one was allowed to touch the letter because the oils from our fingers can damage the paper and smudge the ink.

In the middle of my sermon, one student raised his hand.

"Yes?" I asked, visibly annoyed.

The student apologized for interrupting my moralizing speech, but thought it prudent to point out that at that very moment I was holding Washington's letter in ungloved hands.

The Thief in the Night

Late at night, after everyone goes to bed, I hide my kids' homework folders in strange places: underneath the seat cushions of the sofa, behind the video game console in the basement, on a pantry shelf next to the fruit snacks.

I do this because I want to ruin their lives and make them miss recess.

While I'm at it, I usually rummage through their dresser drawers and remove all of their college logo t-shirts and pants with elastic waistbands. I also leave one of their sneakers in the garage where it belongs and throw the other one into the back seat of the car.

When I have time, I scatter all of the parental permission slips that I just filled out two hours earlier onto the kitchen floor and walk over them once or twice for no apparent reason. After haplessly kicking them around for a few minutes, I crumple them into tight balls and throw them at people, or threaten to throw them at people. When I'm super bored, I leave the permission slips on the counter and bribe the cat to gnaw on their corners. If the family pet doesn't make a complete meal out of the addition and subtraction worksheets, I finish the papers off by shoving them in the shredder or burying them alive in the recycling bin.

I am a thief and a homework murderer.

Or so my kids believe.

*******
Anyone else accused of the same crimes?

Game 5

My husband's company gave him two tickets to Game 5 of the World Series, which was played last night in Philadelphia.

I like the Phillies, but I liked the idea of having $5,000 in my pocket a whole lot more. That is how much our seats were going for on the Black Market.

"Selling the tickets is tacky," my husband reminded me. "Plus, this will be an experience that you will remember for the rest of your life."

I told him that a trip to Hawaii would be equally memorable, and could be experienced without long underwear and ear muffs.

After I finished mourning the loss of what might have been, I had a great time. My family loves sports and the experience of being at a World Series game was nothing short of incredible. It was way better, in fact, than paying off our student loans or a week-long vacation to a tropical island in the dead of winter. Way.

Halloween Pictures

When I went to take pictures of my kids in their Halloween costumes on Saturday night, I found that my camera's memory card was full. Full of awesomeness.











These photos, plus an additional 87 pictures of monkey, serve as as the primary reason why I am reluctant to invest in a nice camera.

Good News and a Good Opportunity

1. Remember Chandra? She was one of our special moms featured for Mother's Day. Chandra made me smile she sent me a limerick about her struggle with infertility:

There once was a blue "mom" with no kiddies
Who tired of those inquiring old biddies!
So she wrote to a blog,
to quiet her sobs,
Feeling guilty for having the 'gimmies!'

Well...Chandra recently emailed me with some good news...she's three months pregnant!

Congratulations! We are all very excited for you.


2. It recently came to my attention that another one of my special moms needs a little help. Summer Strickland, a mother of five, has a little guy named Mason who was born with a serious congenital heart defect called Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. You can read more about this special family HERE. Mason's friends and family are holding an auction in a few months to raise funds for Mason's medical treatments, which may include a heart transplant.

Photos courtesy of Blue Lily

If you own a small business and are willing to donate something of value to the auction or to Mason's treatment fund, I will put your company's 125x125 link button on my sidebar for a month or two. Email me at themeanestmom at gmail dot com if you're interested. Please include subject line "Mason."

Update 11/2/09: WOW. Thank you for your response. We're good to go with auction items for the time being. Thank you for your support.

The First Grade Halloween Party

Yesterday was my daughter's first grade Halloween party. As a room parent, I had the privilege of assisting 20 six-year-olds change into their Halloween costumes in preparation for a thirty second parade around the parking lot. Two other mothers, including my co-chair, were supposed to assist with the dirty work, but both were conveniently delayed by a traffic jam caused by a scary clown holding a picket sign outside of the grocery store. That left me and the substitute (my daughter's teacher was out sick with the flu) to prepare the troops for battle.

Two of our soldiers refused to put on their costumes. Two others didn't celebrate Halloween. The remaining sixteen could be divided roughly into two groups: Autobots and characters from Disney made-for-TV movies. One little boy seemed embarrassed by his Halloween costume and refused to take it out of his backpack. When I saw what it was, I started hyperventilating.

"You are going to be a Franciscan friar from the Middle Ages?" I asked incredulously. "That is the coolest costume on the planet!"

The mention of the word "planet" sparked the interest of three Transformers, and they came over to investigate.

"Where did you get this?" I asked desperately, marveling at the authenticity of the period costume. "And what do your parents do for a living? And can I have their phone number? And do you know if this costume comes in adult sizes? And do you think your parents would want to come over for dinner sometime in the near future?"

As my interest in his costume and extended family grew, the boy began to wiggle uncomfortably in his seat. Finally he agreed to put the outfit on.

I made the mistake of clapping when the boy came out of the bathroom. I might have even jumped up in down in place a couple of times too, but I don't remember.

My enthusiasum was all the boy needed to change his mind. Eyes wide as saucers, he retreated slowly back into the bathroom. With a loud thud, he slammed the door.

Happy Halloween!

The Meanest Mom on the Mainline?!

Today an article about my blog is featured on AroundMainline.com, a fancy online Philadelphia magazine. As usual, everyone was on their best behavior during the photo shoot. Still, the photos by BUP Photography turned out gorgeous (especially the ones of my babe) and the publisher kindly edited out most of my weirdness. What more does a girl want?

Tutorial: Halloween Costumes for Academics

Most people can dress up as whatever/whoever they want for Halloween.

If you are an English professor/Humanities graduate student/undergraduate English major/enrolled in A.P. English in high school, however, your costume options are a bit more limited. The unspoken expectation is that you will dress up as a character from a novel. You get extra points if you pick a novel that is out of print, was written in England before 1950, or has won the Pulitzer Prize.

Example:

Scout from To Kill A Mockingbird= Good

The Whale from Moby Dick= Better

Susan from The Mayor of Casterbridge= Best

Take note: The point of dressing like characters from books that (sadly) few people read anymore is to show the world that you are A) not weird and B) have interests outside of literature.

This year, I'm going to push the envelope by dressing up as a medieval manuscript...one that is written in fourteenth-century Law French.


It goes without saying that I am going to be the most popular girl at the Halloween party that I'm attending this weekend. If I wasn't already married (darn it!), I could probably talk Mr. Darcy or Piggy from Lord of the Flies into taking me on a date.

Mall-O-Ween

If you haven't taken your kids trick-or-treating at the mall, I highly recommend.

The annual Mall-O-Ween in Philadelphia serves two mutually beneficially purposes: it enables mall stores to fulfill the community service requirement in their leasing contracts, and it provides the opportunity for shoppers who haven't been to the mall since half of its stores went bankrupt to "fall in love all over again with style and fashion." At least that is what the banner above the elevator says.

Of course, my offspring needed no assistance in the fashion and design department. My trio paraded through the mall in their Halloween finest. Cortlen flat out refused to wear the costume that he had picked out three days earlier, declaring it repulsive and ugly. Kellen lasted a whopping five minute in his costume before stripping down to his street clothes. The reason: he saw a girl from school wearing the same outfit.

"You made me dress like a girl!" he screamed before stuffing the cheetah costume in the back of the stroller.

Seeing her brothers relieved of their costumes gave Camber all the encouragement she needed to disrobe in public as well.

"I don't want to be Cleopatra anymore!" she said, ripping off her fabric headpiece. When I made the unforgivable error of reaching for the object, she dangled it over the ledge of the second floor railing.

"All right, we're outta here," I said, herding three bad attitudes toward the door. I also mumbled something about ingrates and never doing this again but my thoughts were largely lost on my children, who at that point were engrossed in the task of separating the wheat from the chaff in their trick-or-treat buckets.

We were almost to the exit when we were stopped by a man-child in his early twenties. He was holding a bowl of candy and was standing next to a store that sells New Moon action figures and nose rings.

"What are you guys supposed to be?" the man asked my children sneeringly.

I didn't say anything, but I could have asked the same of him. The man was wearing a Speedo and roller skates.

And nothing else.

****
Have you had better luck with your kids' costumes? I hope so!

The Haunted House

Thanks to an eleven-year-old neighbor, my children now know the truth about our house; namely, that it's haunted. No one knows for sure who died in our house or when, but judging from the quantity of red carpet and green wallpaper that graced our humble abode at the time of our move-in, my best guess is Santa.

"There are no ghosts in this house," I assured my children. "Small rodents, maybe, but definitely no ghosts."

My children were more disappointed than relieved by this news. In protest, they've spent the past week trying to prove me wrong.

Early Tuesday morning, I opened the pantry door to retrieve some oatmeal and my daughter popped out. "Boo!" she screamed.

The first time that my kids startled me, it was funny. Ditto for the second and third times. By the fourteenth time, I started to fear for my children's safety.

"All of the ghosts need to disappear for awhile," I warned Kellen and Camber.

"Nuts!" shrieked Cortlen, tumbling out of the hall closet.

At 5:37am this morning, I felt the presence of a real-life apparition standing next to my bed. I opened my eyes to find Kellen three inches from my face.

"Boo!" he whispered.

"You've got to be kidding me," I growled. "Why aren't you in your bed?" I wanted to know.

"I don't feel so good," he explained. That's when I noticed my son's unnaturally pale skin.

When Cortlen stumbled in our room as white as a sheet a few hours later, I was forced to apologize.

"I stand corrected," I told my children. "There are ghosts in this house. And they have the flu."

Adventures in (a Philadelphia Burger King) Playland

On Monday, someone stole my son's sneakers from the shoe bin at the indoor playground at Burger King. Kellen was understandably confused and upset. I told him that whoever took the shoes probably needed them more than he did. This confused my son even more since the shoes were not new and had giant "K's" written all over the sides in black marker.

Last Monday at the same Burger King (I get around), I was standing in line when I noticed a man standing by the door. He looked hungry so when it was my turn to order, I offered to buy the man some lunch. He declined and said that he wasn't hungry. Twenty minutes later, the man hunted me down in the indoor playground and asked me for money. I told him that I would be happy to buy him some food, but that I wasn't going to give him cash. The man mumbled something under his breath and stormed out.

The Monday before that, at a different Burger King, my kids were eating lunch when a little boy about age five approached the table and picked a french fry off my son's plate and ran away. To our total surprise, a few minutes later, he did it again. This time, I followed the boy and found him hiding underneath a table in the far corner of the restaurant. When the boy approached the table for the third time, I cut him off at the pass and told him to pull up a chair.

All of this would be very funny....if it wasn't so terribly sad.

We are all very fortunate indeed.

Labels

Kellen's kindergarten teacher preaches that the key to loss prevention is labeling personal effects with one's first and last name.

I applauded my son for printing his initials on every article of clothing in his closet, socks and underwear included.

I responded less favorably to the discovery of a "K" printed in black Sharpie on the back of one of my kitchen chairs.




******
Has your child ever labeled something that he/she shouldn't?

Knitting Porn

My next door neighbor Sandy has severe Rheumatoid Arthritis, which she exacerbates by gardening and knitting. This time last year, she knit Cameron a white blessing (Christening) blanket and three NICU hats. On Saturday, I returned from the grocery store to find an urgent voice mail message from her.

"I need your body," she said simply.

I was a little confused and frankly weirded out until Sandy clarified that she was knitting a sweater for her youngest daughter Mackenzie and intended to use me as a mannequin. I was, of course, happy to oblige since Mackenzie and I have identical body types, except for a two inch and twenty pound height and weight difference.

When I pointed this out to Sandy, she was understandably sympathetic. "Just suck in your stomach and wear a padded bra," she told me.

I brought my most compassionate child--Kellen--with me for moral support.

As I tried on the half-finished sweater, Kellen busied himself flipping through Sandy's knitting design books.

All of a sudden, he stopped in his tracks.

"Why is this girl?...." he asked, stopping mid-sentence. He pointed at a picture in the middle of one of the books.

I turned to find myself staring a photograph of a woman in a handmade sweater and underpants.


Sandy, who matured to adulthood in the sixties, smiled knowingly.

I was less than amused.

"What kind of hobby is this?" I asked pointing to her knitting paraphernalia. The basket of yarn looked innocent enough. Little did I know that it was part of Satan's slippery slide.

Sandy didn't defend her possession of knitting porn. Instead she asked me if I would be willing to try on the sweater again after she finished it.

I thought for a minute before I agreed. I told Sandy that I would model the sweater but not the underpants.

I prefer paper.

Wall Ball

I'm sitting at a picnic table at a local park with a group of kindergarten moms, some of whom I do know, most of whom I don't. We are gathered en masse to encourage our sons to burn off some energy and discuss important current events like what's on sale at Children's Place.

"What are they doing over there?" asked one of the moms, gesturing in the direction of the decrepit tennis court, where our collective offspring are gathered.

I didn't bother looking up as I was fairly certain that the answer would involve one of my sons scaling a chain link fence or poking something or someone with a long stick.

"As long as they're not over here, I don't care what they're doing!" chirped a woman named Marie as everyone else at the table stared at her with raised eyebrows.

Sensing one of my own, I instinctively scooted closer to this woman.

"That looks dangerous," observed a third mom, rising slightly out of her seat to get a closer look. When no one else joined her, she sat back down and began wringing her hands nervously.

When I finally looked up a few minutes later, I was not at all surprised to see half a dozen six-year-old boys lined up against the back wall of the tennis court. A seventh boy was standing about ten feet in front of the group. At his command, the group turned around and pressed their noses against the wall.

Marie let out a long, loud sigh and crossed her legs. "It's called Wall Ball,'" she told us, just as the boy retrieved a tennis ball from his pocket, took aim, and fired.

One of the boys was hit in the leg and started crying. Several mothers jumped to their feet.

"Since when is getting hurt 'fun'?" questioned one mother in despair.
"Who would play such a horrifically violent game?" wondered another.

It wasn't until these questions were posed that I realized why I found the game so strangely appealing; namely, it bore a striking resemblance to my favorite childhood past time, a game called Butts Up. The principle is the same, except in Butts Up, the bulls eye is an exposed butt cheek. Playing Butts Up in middle school is how I made all of my friends. It also earned me lots of detentions and a reputation as an exhibitionist.

The boy that got pelted by the ball turned out to be my son Kellen. He limped toward me and pulled up his pant's leg to reveal a quarter-sized welt on the back of his thigh.

The other mothers let out appropriately loud gasps of indignation.

"I have a first aid kit in my car!" volunteered one woman.
"I have one in my purse!" screeched another, reaching for her diaper bag.

"I got pegged with the ball," Kellen cried, pointing to his wound in between sobs.

"Isn't that the point?" I asked.

Kellen stopped crying long enough to re evaluate his goals.

"I got pegged with the ball!" he shouted exuberantly and ran back to the group, who took turns admiring the battle wound and vowing to get bigger and better ones in future rounds.

Against their mothers' wishes, the boys lined up for Round Two. Learning from their previous mistakes, they increased their chances of being hit by extending their arms and legs. Determined to catch the bouquet, my other son Cortlen wiggled his bottom as well.



My heart swelled with pride at this unprompted gesture.

Maybe there is hope for my children yet.

Columbus Day

Yesterday, my kids didn't have school. I had big plans to spend the day making pilgrim hats and
desecrating Native American burial mounds when my son ruined all of my fun.

"Columbus wasn't a pilgrim," he pointed out.

Unfortunately, none of my children are yet able to grasp the concept of "close enough."

****
In other heartwarming news, I got all the way to the grocery store check-out line this morning before my one-year-old tried to put my sweater label into his mouth, alerting me to the fact that I was wearing my shirt inside out and backwards.