A Halloween Horror Story

Shortly after this picture was taken, several dozen of my kids' classmates descended on our house and invited our kids to go trick-or-treating with them. While my older kids ran off ahead, my husband and I followed along behind the group with the rest of the parents and Cameron. After about 15 houses, my husband turned to me.

"Where's Kellen?" he asked.

We scanned the group of kids and looked at each other in horror.

Before I could blink, my husband started sprinting in the opposite direction.

I am ashamed to say that we left our son at home. What's worse, we closed the garage door on him while he was in the garage, putting on his shoes.

I know, I know. We are officially the worst parents in the world. And believe me, he let us know it.

"Really?" he screamed at my husband when my husband walked through the door. "Really?"

Rest assured, I did do a little bit of penance tonight. While my husband was rescuing our son, a neighborhood girl came tearing down the street in my direction. I stopped her and asked her what was was wrong. "I can't find my parents!" she screamed.

This seemed to be the theme of the evening.

Fortunately, I knew the girl's mother. After a little bit of searching, I found the woman drinking adult beverages in the middle of the street with half of the other neighborhood moms a few blocks away.

Happy Halloween!

My Husband's Halloween Party

Every year, my husband's company hosts a Halloween costume party for all of its employees and their families.

My husband is always very stressed on the day of the party, and for good reason.

At last year's party, Kellen "accidentally fell" (ie intentionally jumped) into the fountain in the front lobby. And Cameron spilled red fruit punch on light beige carpet.

At yesterday's party, Cortlen refused to put on his costume and couldn't commit to being well-behaved.

"That's totally fine," I told him when we got out of the car. "You can just sit in your dad's office while everyone else has fun at the party."

"FINE WITH ME!" he screamed as he slouched his way into the lobby. "I hate Halloween."

Cortlen changed his mind about the costume and his attitude when he saw that the party served store bought cupcakes with three inches of orange icing plopped on top.

"I'm ready for my costume now," he announced with his hands on his hips.

I was in the middle of helping Cameron do a craft. "You'll have to wait a minute," I told him. "I'm busy."

Cortlen responded by stomping back to my husband's office and erasing a series of important numbers that were written on a white board.

"What's there to be unhappy about?" I asked my husband a few minutes later. "It's like there's an unwritten rule that someone has to be miserable at all times."

My husband looked mournfully at his empty white board. "Right now it's me," he cried.

My Kids' Play Dates

I feel uneasy about being responsible for lifeforms that don't have my last name.

Play dates therefore, stress me out.

My anxiety is compounded by the fact that nearly every time other people's kids come over to my house, they always seem to injure themselves.

The events of this afternoon serve as a case in point. Each of my kids brought a friend home from school. The three friends hadn't been in my house for more than ten minutes when one of them got a bloody nose.

"Do you get these often?" I asked once we got the problem under control.

The boy shook his head. "This is my first bloody nose ever," he told me.

The boy the spent the rest of the afternoon with wads of tissue stuffed up his nostrils.

We made it a whole hour before the next boy tripped over a soccer ball and twisted his ankle.

"People are going to think that I'm hurting their kids," I hissed to my husband over the phone.

Just to be safe, I barred my daughter and her friend from all physical activity. "Why don't you watch a movie?" I suggested. "Or play a board game?"

For the record: I asked my daughter's friend three separate times during her visit if she was hungry or thirsty. Each time, she told me "no."

The minute the girl's mother pulled up, the girl burst into tears. "I'm so thirsty!" the girl cried as she clutched her throat. "My mouth feels like sandpaper. I need a drink!"

The mother looked at me as if I am the manager of a medieval torture chamber.

"I asked her three times!" I told the woman. I even opened my refrigerator to prove to her that my offers weren't empty.

My daughter's friend shook her head. "I didn't hear her," she whispered.

My case was not helped by the arrival onto the scene of the boy with the tissue stuffed up his nose and the boy with the ice pack wrapped around his ankle.

"Is my mom here yet?" the bloody nose asked.

The mother of the severely parched ushered her daughter into a waiting minivan. I didn't even bother to pretend that we would ever see them again.

"Good-bye," I called out from the front door as they drove away.

"Mommy." The voice behind me was small and pathetic.

I turned around to find my three year-old with freshly picked boogers on each finger.

While I was reaching for a clean tissue, my son wiped his treasures on the boy with the bloody nose's leg.

Yes, I writing this from the darkest corner of my closet, where I am curled in the fetal position and have been chanting "Why me?" for the past three hours.

Boots

My daughter needs new shoes for school. Instead of buying a new pair of sneakers, she proposed that I buy her a pair of boots.

This would not be such a bad thing had my daughter (who is 8) not realized over the summer that she can wear a size 6 woman's shoe.

I'm sure you know where this is going.

"I'll buy you anything on this row," I told her, gesturing to the kids' shoe aisle at Walmart.

Camber shriveled up her nose. "I want something with a heel."

"Nope."

"And pointy toes and fringe coming off the side."

I struggled to form a mental image of the boots she was describing that didn't include a pole dancer or a character from Dances with Wolves.

I held up a pair of generic Ugg boots. "What about these?"

She stomped off and hid in the women's underwear section, behind a rack of gigantic bras.

"The ice cream is melting," I reminded her, gesturing to the overflowing shopping cart. "So we've got to hurry up. Do you want the boots or not?"

Her arms were folded across her chest. "Not."

I was loading groceries onto the conveyor belt when she disappeared. Mildly panicked, I scanned the horizon. In the distance, I saw a shape hobbling towards me. The figure could barely walk, due to the two-inch heels...and the elastic band that was holding the boots together.

The Laser Tag Birthday Party

Several months ago, one of the popular flash sale websites sent me an offer for a laser tag party package. For $100 (1/2 of the regular cost), the company promised me that a guy would come to my house, construct a makeshift army bunker in my backyard, and let a herd of boys play laser tag for an hour.

Done.

There were a number of things about my boys birthday party that I knew was going to be a surprise, like the number of party guests. Since very few people called in to RSVP, I was expecting between 7 and 22 boys.

I also wasn't sure how many parents were going to stick around. Despite my encouragement to drop off/pick up, several of the mothers who did RSVP told me flat out that it would be weird not to attend their eight year-old son's birthday parties. One even asked me if it would be all right if she brought her poodle. Evidently the dog urinates on the carpet if it is left home alone.

I was surprised and happy that 17 boys (and only 7 parents) showed up for the party.

I was equally surprised and considerably less happy when the laser tag guy didn't show up for the party.

At least not on time.

Five minutes after his scheduled arrival time, the laser tag guy called to tell me that he was stuck in traffic 30 minutes away.

My husband and I looked at each other in panic. Then we dragged out every bat and ball in our garage. "Let's play a quick game of soccer!" my husband suggested.

Half of the boys cheered and ran onto the grass. The other half crossed their arms and pouted.
"I don't like sports!"one boy cried as he plopped down on my driveway.

I had to think of something fast.

Cameron screamed bloody murder when he saw me grab his industrial-sized can of bubbles.

"This is fun," I suggested as I blew a huge bubble. The non-athletes looked at me like I was clinically insane.

"Do you guys want to play with sidewalk chalk?" I tried again. "Anyone want to learn to say something in Latin or Old English?"

The mothers in attendance began to murmur ugly things about me under their breath.

I sent my daughter inside for the Oreos and Doritos. "But those are for my Halloween party at school!" she whined.

"Do it!" I hissed.

Around that time, my husband started sending me distress signals from across the yard. "Hurry!" he mouthed, as if I could will the laser tag guy to drive faster.

I began to regret my decision not to let the woman bring her poodle to the party.

By the time that the laser tag guy arrived (45 minutes after the party started), I felt like I had been pecked by a hundred hungry chickens.

"He's here!" I screamed in jubilation when the van pulled up. I clawed at the laser tag man as if he was Jesus at the Second Coming.

"Sorry 'bout that," the man said as he passed out the laser guns. "You want one?" he asked me with a knowing smile. "You can shoot me if you want. I'll totally understand."

VTech V.Reader Giveaway

The folks at VTech just sent Cameron a new VReader. Unlike other interactive reading systems, the VReader not only uses cartridges, but downloadable content as well. Using the online Learning Lodge Navigator, you can download tons of age-appropriate e-books, games, and other fun activities.

Cameron is not quite ready for some of the more advanced functions of
the V.Reader (ie. the Interactive Writing Center), but he loves the
animated storyteller function.

Here are some other cool functions of the V.Reader:

· 3.5 inch color touch screen

· USB port and SD memory card slot for expansion

· Photo viewer, video player, art and writing programs

· Durable (seriously)

· Did I mention that tons of content can now be downloaded? In other words, no more lost/MIA cartridges and books.

The holidays are fast approaching. Do you have a little one in your life who would like a V.Reader of his his/her own?

Well now is your chance!

I'm teaming up with VTech to offer a free V.Reader to one lucky reader of the Meanest Mom blog!

To enter the giveaway, simply leave a comment below. Want two entries? Post a link to this giveaway on your blog or Facebook. Or tweet about it.

It's that easy.

The giveaway starts NOW and ends Tuesday, October 25th at 11:59pm EST.

Good luck!

A Medieval Halloween

I learned from others' past experiences that dressing up like a fourteenth-century wench has the curious effect of diminishing one's authority as a medievalist.

It is for this reason that I have largely steered clear of medieval-themed Halloween costumes...until now.

Things dramatically changed when I found a portion of a King Arthur costume in my husband's size at a local party goods store. The outfit was missing a shoulder pad and an elastic boot strap. It also had a large rip in the faux chain mail helmet.

I pointed out all of these deficiencies to the store manager when I asked him for a 50% discount.

"Everyone is going to be a person from the Middle Ages for Halloween this year!" I announced later that evening.

"No way!" cried Cortlen, as he crossed his arms. "I want to be a Transformer again."

"Call yourself whatever you want," I told him, "But you're wearing this knight costume."

I showed my son the costume I had just ordered him on the Internet.

Camber and Kellen accepted their combined fate stoically. "Whatever," my daughter said, flipping her hair. "I'm getting too old for Halloween anyway." Then she marched off to her room to play Barbies.

The only person not okay with wearing a medieval costume was--and still is--my youngest. Cameron's problem has less to do with the adorable/fierce monster costume that Pottery Barn so graciously sent me, but the fact that he isn't interested in any kind of clothing these days.

(on sale now for $34.99!)

Showing him a picture of Grendel (the monster from Beowulf) on the Internet didn't help the cause.




"Ooh! Scary! That's you!" I exclaimed.

Cameron replied by spitting on the costume.

Classy, I know.

"What if I throw in this awesome sword?" I said, producing a large plastic saber from behind my back.

Moderately interested, but still not enough to put on the costume.

Having my children model their costumes after they came in the mail did nothing to encourage my three year-old to put on his.

As a last resort, we decided to practice trick-or-treating.

"Happy Halloween!" I shrieked when he knocked on my bedroom door.

"Icky!" he screamed and threw the piece of candy I had just dropped into his plastic pumpkin bucket.

Evidently, Tootsie Rolls are not his favorite.

With 10 day to go, I'm starting to lose hope. Why can't he just make me happy and wear the stinkin' monster costume?

Last year, I had the cutest alligator costume for him. Which he also refused to wear.

{insert mourning over what might have been}

Earlier this evening, I was at the mall with my daughter, shopping for a baby shower gift.

"Awww," she cooed, fingering a ruffly dress at Gymboree. "Why didn't you ever dress me up in clothes like this when I was little?" By this point she had her hands on her hips.

The mere memory of my daughter as a three year-old gave me the cold shivers.

I regret that I didn't take pictures of the closet full of ruffly dresses that she refused to wear because now she doesn't believe that it actually existed. She thinks I dressed her like a hobo throughout her toddler and preschool years just to be mean, and to ruin her wedding montage video.

How soon we forget.

The Dentist

My kids love going to the dentist significantly more than I love taking them to the dentist.

While they are rifling through a plastic treasure chest for stickers and jelly bracelets, I am being told things I don't want to hear about cross-bites, impacted teeth, and crowding.

The probability that all of my children will soon have something called a palate extender is, by the dentist's estimate, very high.

I already know that I am going to single-handedly fund some orthodontist's beach house.

Today the dentist saved the best news for last.

"None of your kids are brushing their teeth."

I told the man that he was mistaken. "They brush their teeth twice a day!" I screech. "Plus they use floss and flouride mouthwash!"

The dentist shook his head and described the amount of plaque he scraped off each tooth.

In the car, my brood and I had a little pow wow. "What's going on?" I asked.

It took several minutes, but finally the truth came out.

For the past six months (with very few exceptions), my kids have been brushing their teeth with their fingers.

The Draft

I got the stomach flu yesterday. As a result, I let a lot of things slide (my kids ate grapes, saltines, and ice cream for dinner), but there was one thing that I couldn't avoid.

For the first time since moving to Florida, Cortlen and Kellen are playing in a community basketball league. Last night was their mandatory skills test.

The so-called draft took place at the local high school gym. Upon arrival, the boys were given numbers to pin on the back of their shirts. Then they were instructed to join one of four pick-up games.

A row of coaches lined each court. Each man had a clipboard in his hands, which he was using to evaluate the players and place each of them into one of the following skills categories: a) exceptional b) average c) below average.

My daughter and I observed that there other ways to group the boys as well, including a) those who were belching b) those who were making fart sounds with their armpits c) those who professed to be able to belch and fart and play basketball at the same time.

The coaches too could be divided into groups according to a) those whose greatest disappointment in life is being only 5'6" tall b) those wearing Orlando Magic jerseys c) those wearing Air Jordan anything.

I understand why you have to give a skills test to second graders. I also understand why you can't just form teams by picking players' names randomly out of a hat. I get why you have to classify some seven year-olds' basketball skills as "exceptional" and others as "poor."

Wait--no I don't. The whole thing struck me as unnecessary and completely ridiculous.

I pulled the plug during the first water break and took my kids home.

I'm still unsure if my kids are going to be allowed to play in the league, or if I even want them to. All I do know that I'm going to do everything in my power to keep them unranked for as long as possible.

Southern Hospitality

We have both sets of parents visiting this weekend.

Before the out-of-town guests arrived, we told Cameron that he was going to have to give up his bedroom for the weekend. "O-tay," he agreed before he found out that that meant that someone else was going to be sleeping his bed.

"No," he said matter-of-factly.

To make a long story short, Cameron started out in our bed last night. At midnight, when my husband started exhibiting clear signs of having the stomach flu, I moved him to the floor next to our bed. In the morning, I found him sleeping in his own bed.

My poor sixty-five year-old dad was sleeping on the floor next to my son's bed.

"What happened?" I asked.

Evidently, around three in the morning, my dad was startled out of a deep slumber by an angry someone yanking on his arm.

"Get out!" that someone yelled.

Fearing for his life, my dad did what he was told.

***
Congrats to Néna, the lucky winner of the Shabby Apple Teacher's Pet skirt.

She wrote:

"I would love love LOVE to win a skirt that allows my ability to read books look extra sexy/attractive/irresistible."

Shoot me your contact info ASAP at themeanestmom@gmail.com!

Bad Naked

Last night, I spoke to a group of 50 women.

About ten minutes before my talk, I popped into the restroom to check the status of my makeup.

That's when I realized that I wasn't wearing any.

I don't feel like makeup is required for most of life's events. The only two exceptions that I can think of are your wedding day and the 20 minutes in which you are giving a motivational speech about how it's possible to be smart and sexy at the same time.

The case is impossible to make (at least for me) without the assistance of five layers of foundation.

"Ack!" I screeched when I saw my reflection. Before I left the house, I remembered to iron my dress and curl my hair (thanks instructional videos on YouTube!). As I was getting out my makeup, one of my kids distracted me by accidentally dropping a plate on the kitchen floor. Clearly I didn't make it back to the mirror again before I left the house.

Panicked, I rummaged through my purse and prayed for a miracle in the form of an eyeshadow compact or lone wand of mascara. All I found was an old Wal Mart receipt, a travel-sized bottle of hand lotion, and a tube of hot pink lipstick.

So here's what I was thinking at the time: any color is better than no color.

I have since learned that this is a logical fallacy.

While I was rubbing two sticks together so to speak, another woman came into the restroom. "Are you okay?" she asked nervously.

This is an acceptable response to witnessing someone apply lipstick to her eyelids and cheekbones.

"I have a super weird favor to ask," I replied.

The woman looked at me blankly. It was hard for her to imagine things getting any more weird than they already were.

"Do you have anything on you?" I ask. "And if so, can I buy it?"

Here's what was going through my mind in that moment: I have germs and I don't want anyone to loan me their makeup and then be so grossed by out the idea that it's touched someone else's face that they can't bear to use it anymore.

My intent was to be thoughtful.

After saying this, however, I realized that the way I phrased my request made it sound like what I wanted wasn't a dab of blush, but a kilo of cocaine.

The woman exited the bathroom very quickly after that.

In the end, I gave my talk looking like I had gotten sunburned in very strange places.

I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Here's the crazy thing: I have a sneaking suspicion that I was more aware of my deficiency than anyone else was in the room. In hindsight, I regret the fact that it got the best of me, and made me so self-conscious that I couldn't enjoy the experience.

Sound familiar?

As usual, my husband was a fortress of support. "That's not nearly as bad as the time that you taught an entire class unaware that you had a melted Hershey's kiss stuck on rear end. It looked like you..."

"All right," I interrupted.

"Or the time that you got so animated about a point that you were making in class that you fell into a garbage can."

He could have gone on for hours.

****
Ever forget the obvious? Tell me your stories. Please!

No Rest for the Weary

I knew it was coming, though I didn't expect it all at once.

Cameron had the stomach flu on Saturday and Sunday. Last night at 2:30 in the morning, Cortlen woke me up with the news that he had just vomited all over his comforter.

While my husband and I were cleaning up mess #1, Kellen realized that he didn't feel so good either. While he was in bathroom, Camber emerged from her room. Her face was as white as a ghost.

While my kids all demonstrated clear symptoms of being sick last night, today was a different story. Everyone turned down breakfast (claiming upset stomachs), but ten minutes later, I caught my boys jousting with plastic swords.

"Are you sick or not?" I asked. "If you are sick, you need to lie on the couch and watch a movie. If you are well, you can help me fold laundry."

Everyone was sick.

After several hours of indeterminate behavior (one second moaning on the floor, the next playing with a hula hoop) I decided that everyone was well enough to go pick up a prescription at the pharmacy.

The trip wasn't necessary for anyone's physical well-being (the medicine wasn't for any of them), but getting out of the house was essential for my mental health.

I was going stir-crazy.

"I don't feel so good," Cortlen cried as I pulled out of the driveway.

"It's a drive-thru pharmacy," I told him. "You don't have to get out of the car."

Suddenly, he felt well enough to ask for a piece of gum.

"I feel yucky too," groaned Kellen, who was sitting directly behind me.

"You can have a piece of gum too if you want," I told him.

Two seconds later, he threw up on the back of my head. And on my husband's work-issued Blackberry, which, for some unknown reason, he was holding.

Boo'd

Haunted Houses don't faze me in the slightest.

Animatronic skeletons? Candy bowls with battery-operated hands? Teenage trick-or-treaters? Creepy, but not frightening.



Arguably the most scary part of Halloween for me is this poem:




And, more specifically, finding this poem--attached to a bag of treats--on my doorstep.

"Oh crap," I muttered when I opened the door on Saturday morning and saw the plastic pumpkin filled with candy.

My kids, of course, were thrilled.

Being neighborly doesn't bother me. Making a special trip to the store to satisfy the demands of the game (ie. booing two neighbors withing 24 hours) does.

On Saturday afternoon, I made two batches of pumpkin cookies. We ding-dong ditched the first batch to a family a few doors down. We were half way back to our house when the mom came tearing out of the house after us.

"Wait!" she cried. She tried to give the cookies back to me. "We've already been boo'd," she explained frantically. "We just haven't put our sign up in the window yet."

She shoved the cookies back into my hand. "Take them," she begged. "Please."

We dropped the second batch of cookies at the house of my husband's colleague, who lives a few houses down in the opposite direction.

The man came to work this morning and told my husband a horrific tale. "I found cookies on my doorstep on Sunday morning," he said. "And without thinking, I popped one in mouth. But then I realized that there were ants all over them."

I seriously wanted to cry.

My tears are justified for another reason as well. Last night at 9:30pm, our doorbell rang.

"Please no," I begged.

Much to my horror, there was a different boo bag with a similar but different poem attached to it.



***
Congrats to Renny for winning the $50 gift card to Office Max. Here's what she had to say about her favorite teacher:

"My sister in law is a teacher in Arizona. She teaches high school biology. She is in her second year of teaching, and she has to buy all of her own paper and supplies. No big deal, her husband is only in college for another year so she is the major bread winner for the family right now.

She is amazing and her students love her. In fact, one of her students made it into an article in the paper (The Arizona Republic) and he said his favorite class was biology!

Mrs. Jessica Reynolds- high school biology teacher extraordinaire!"

Shabby Apple Teacher's Pet Skirt Giveaway

Living in Orlando, seasons are kind of a foreign concept. But from what I vaguely recollect from my years in Philadelphia, it's now Fall. And time for a new wardrobe!

Shabby Apple just launched a new line--like yesterday--and here are some of my favorites:

Don't worry--the horse isn't included.

Shabby Apple's newest line comes right on the heels of Academia:

Everyone loves a hot librarian.

Now it's your turn to uncover your inner sexiness. I'm pleased to announce that Shabby Apple is giving away a Teacher's Pet Skirt to one lucky reader of this blog!


So cute, huh? I'm also a big fan of the dress version of this skirt.

Want a chance to win? Complicated contest rules drive me bananas. All you have to do for this one is leave a comment below. Contest starts now and ends at midnight EST Wednesday, October 12.

Don't want to wait? Enter the following coupon code at checkout for 10% off right now: meanestmom10off

Good Luck!

The Electric Hand Dryer

Why do we even try?

My husband and I ask ourselves this almost every time we take our kids somewhere.

Tonight it was to a college soccer game.

Our older kids did great, thanks in large part to the fact that wouldn't let them sit anywhere near each other.

Cameron= another story. When I was driving on the freeway earlier today, he rolled down the window and threw something out. When we got to the soccer game, I realized that that something was his left shoe.

"Fantastic," I griped.

"Awww," said a group of college girls who were sitting in the row in front of us. "He's adorable!"

"Looks can be deceiving," I told them.

Just as I predicted, Cameron's cuteness was short lived. Three minutes later, he was pinching me and going limp.

"Done! Done!" he cried.

Then he arched his back and screamed. This was because the couple seated next to us were eating churros. And he wanted one.

"It's been fun," I told my family as I heaved him over my shoulders and hurried toward the nearest exit.

I spent the rest of the game in the women's restroom, watching my son stand under the electric hand dryer. And listening to other people use the bathroom.

It was super fun.




***
Where is the most awesome place you've hung out for long periods of time with your cranky/tired small child?

My husband and I always joke that when our older kids were toddlers, we spent more time in the parking lot of our church than inside the building.

Science Mania

This year, my kids' elementary school started offering after school enrichment courses on a variety of subjects that used to be integrated into the regular curriculum. It's unfortunate and sad that state budget cuts have pared back extracurriculars. to the point of near extinction, but it is what it is, at least for now.

Enter Science Mania.

The class description read like something that I definitely would have tried hard to avoid in my youth; I don't remember what it said exactly, but the document was filled with intimidating words like "comet" and "asteroid" and "dry ice" and "gravity."

"I am committed to the idea of having at least one of you grow up to be a mad scientist," I told my kids when I explained where they would be going every Thursday afternoon for an hour after school.

Today was the first day of the program.

Ten minutes after school ended, I got a friendly phone call from a woman who identified herself as Atomic Amanda. "I have one Camber with me," she told me. "But the other two didn't show up."

{insert 50 red flags}

"What do you mean...the other two Cambers?"

It took some work, but eventually we figured out that somehow the list that got sent to all the teachers showed my daughter enrolled three times in the class, and my boys not at all.

"We'll go look for your boys," Atomic Amanda assured me. "And if we can't find them, we'll take it from there."

A few minutes later, AA called me back with the good news that they had located my boys, and the bad news that they had already sent them home on the bus.

This was particularly bad news because I wasn't at home at the time, or anywhere close. Specifically, I was 30 miles away at a doctor's appointment.

There were some stressful moments, but thank goodness for cell phones. Seriously. After several failed attempts, I finally got a hold of a neighbor. She found my sons in our backyard and watched them until I got home. One was urinating in the bushes at the moment of discovery. The other was throwing acorns at my bedroom window.

"Sorry about the mix up!" Atomic Amanda said when I picked up my daughter.

The woman shoved a handful of do-it-yourself weather vane kits into my hands. "Take them," she urged. "Please."

"Hush money," my husband interpreted when he got home and saw all the crafts spread out on the kitchen table.

$50 Gift Card Giveaway for Incredible Teachers

For many of us, we remember that one amazing teacher who turned our lives around. The one who taught us to think differently about the world or got us excited about a subject we once thought was impossible.

With school budgets cuts, teachers are taking matters into their own hands by purchasing their own classroom materials. According to the National Education Association, teachers are spending about $1,000 each year on supplies for their class, which is pretty astonishing. Can you imagine if your job asked you to bring your own tape, scissors, and paper? There would be a backlash, but somehow, teachers have silently picked up the tab…until now.

I am excited to have the privilege of joining forces with the Max Moms for Teachers program to help create awareness and encourage support for teachers in every community. The Max Moms are working in collaboration with the national “A Day Made Better” cause founded by OfficeMax and nonprofit Adopt-A-Classroom to help erase teacher-funded classrooms. Annually in October, they host a national event that recognizes and rewards over 1,000 teachers with a total of $1 million in school supplies to help alleviate the financial burden and thank them for their hard work.

This morning I had the opportunity to surprise one of my kid's teachers, and presented her with a box of classroom supplies from OfficeMax.

You too can join in this cause by surprising a deserving teacher in your community by purchasing your own A Day Made Better box of classroom supplies available for $25, $50 or $100 at www.adoptaclassroom.org/better.

Want to reward a deserving teacher in your hometown? Start by nominating your favorite teacher to receive a mini Day Made Better box and a $50 gift card for school supplies donated by OfficeMax.

Entry Requirements

1) For a chance to enter and win, please post a comment below that describe how the teacher you'd like to nominate is positively impacting his/her community.

2) As an additional entry, you can visit ‘A Day Made Better’ on Facebook and post a comment about why you believe teachers deserve our support.

Contest starts NOW and ends this Friday, October 7 at midnight EST.

Terms & Disclosure: No purchase necessary to be eligible for a chance to enter or win. The winner will be selected randomly through http://random.org. The gift box of teacher supplies was provided by OfficeMax. The gift card was provided by OfficeMax as part of its cause for teachers. The views written here are my opinion.

Curved Planters

What did you do this weekend?

We made curved planters in our front yard.

It was about as fun as it sounds.

I had big plans to lay into the Neighborhood Improvement Committee Chairperson over what my husband and I perceived to be an unreasonable and ridiculous request for our front yard. These plans evaporated the minute that I met the man and saw that he had a hearing aid and was no less than 75 years old.

That would be like picking a fight with my grandpa.

Needless to say, my conversation with the NIC Chairman ended with me asking what I could do to my yard to make him happy.

Hence, the curved planters.

My husband and I have done enough home improvement projects over the years to know what goes into making a curved planter: namely, a lot of time, elbow grease, a smattering of curse words, and a few hundred dollars worth of plants that will probably die within the month.

We also had the problem of our children with which to contend, and, specifically, their inability to entertain themselves for more than two minutes.

We started out the day by pulling chairs up to the front window and encouraging them to eat popcorn and watch us work through the glass.

Within ten minutes, all four of them were standing next to me.

"You smell," Cortlen observed.

"Don't talk to me right now," I snapped as I attempted to maneuver a 2 million pound sod cutter into position.

"We want to help," Camber announced. She was wearing a church dress and sequined Michael Jackson gloves.

"You can unload plants from the back of the car," I told them, gesturing to the driveway.

No one moved a muscle. That's when I learned that my children were only interested in manual labor if it involved operating an expensive machine with a sharp blade.

Kellen stared longingly at the electric hedge clippers. "Don't even think about it," my husband warned.

"I'm strong enough to do that," my daughter said, pointing to the sod cutter.

"Me," said Cameron, as he picked up the end of a weed wacker.

"This isn't going to work," I told my husband.

He nodded knowingly. Before we officially gave up, we gave each of our children a small hand spade and asked them to help us dig shallow holes for our new plants.

It took them less than five minutes for one of them to hit and crack open an underground sprinkler pipe.

Think Hoover Dam.