My sweet boy is a little sour right now

Yowza! Let's talk about sassy kids over-sassing their mothers. By over-sassing I mean disrespecting. And by kids I mean Gil. The mother? Me.

The consequence I came up with for Gil's recent behavior is a 7 o'clock bedtime. Did I mention he does not like that? At all? At first I wasn't going to let him read in bed, but it's pretty hard to declare LIGHTS OUT! when, well, it's still light out.

My son does not like the idea of going to bed at 7:00, when it's still light out, before his younger brother, and when he knows the rest of us are snuggled on the couch watching American Idol or playing Sorry or some neverending card game.

Dude's gotta be punished, though. And I figure the consequence that angers him the most should probably be the one he receives, right?

I am not dismissing the fact that Gil may very likely be reacting to the unrest between his dad and me. What's tough is trying to decipher between that, a manipulative kid, and age-appropriate boundary testing. At this point my guess is it's a little bit of everything.

Sigh

When I hear the next I HATE YOU!, I will continue to reply as I always do: "That's fine. You can hate me all you want. I will always love you, Gil. I'm not going anywhere."

Bottomless cup of coffee for one

There is nothing quite like the relaxing, quiet, coffee and alone time I get on Sunday mornings. Before the kids' dad picks them up for church, my responsibility is to timely wake and feed them, make sure they get dressed, and that they're clean. The latter is optional and really more about my tolerance of a dirty kid, but typically necessary. I can usually accomplish this by observing the sheen and status of their hair as they emerge from a night's sleep: Greasy? Bed head? Wait. Were they born with those cowlicks?

Not only #1 but also #2

Day one of Daisy's crating seemed successful. Not a lot of options for the pup when she's resting in her very own den - because that's what I hear crate advocates say a dog considers its crate - for about 6-plus hours. However, even after her two walks after the kids and I returned from school and work respectively, there was a pile of shit in the office and a piss puddle in the boys' room.

Let's remember Daisy's shit obsession, shall we?

Lucky for us, we feed Daisy Hund-N-Flocken. There's a reason the company is called Solid Gold. Daisy's poops are solid. And gold.

They don't feed your precious pets THAT at the pound, now do they, Soggibottom!

It's not like pan-able gold or fool's gold, but it's solid. And that's what counts when you're utilizing a thumbless bag mitten outside OR inside, in our case.

After cursing The Maker, it dawns on me to add an early evening walk to her existing Three A Day routine. Maybe she's choosing to toilet in our house because of the cold. Maybe we're not timing the walks to her poops. I hate to blame the victim. While some of you may agree with me and think I'm the victim, I'll give this one to Daisy. Speaking of The Maker, a talking dog wouldn't be too off the wall, now would it?

Life lessons

Last night was an evening of Holiday Music a la my kids and their fellow Suzuki school of music students. Egan had been preparing for this event practicing Jingle Bells daily, several times a day. He was highly anticipating this opportunity to play with the orchestra. At the cue of "Jingle Bells is up next!" he strutted his confident cowboy boot wearing self, viola tucked under his arm, to the front row.

Sweet Baby Jesus, he was adorable. And Allie was amazing. Unfortunately Gil wasn't able to participate with his classical guitar playing because his teacher fell ill just before the show.

So after these events, there's always a buffet of finger foods and plentiful holiday cookies. Brownies. Chocolates. Santa walking around with candy canes. Cocktail weenies. Meatballs.

You see, I am very aware of all of these foodstuffs because of my sweet Gil saving his regurgitated buffet extravaganza for me to clean up in the hallway outside of his room later in the night.

I'm awoken to Allie standing at my bedside, dutifully alerting me to her brother's incident. Poor Gil had literally tossed his cookies all over the hallway floor outside of his room. A mere 5 paces from the toilet.

The Funny Part, which can also be read as FORESHADOWING, is flashing back to our car ride home, when Gil was complaining of a slight tummy ache and not feeling well. I told him that was probably diabetes setting in. I also reminded him that this is not the first time he has gorged on sweets and cookies that leads to the inevitable chocolate infused vomit fest. Although one of those other times, because I'm pretty sure this has happened at least 3 maybe 4 times, Coca Cola was the base. And that time the chocolate came from way too many S'mores. There had to have been a chemical reaction occuring.

The other day my friend gave me a bag of circus peanuts. It was a joke of course, because I'm pretty sure no adult voluntarily injests circus peanuts. Although she did after I opened the package because she swears she's never had one. She's from California, though. That's the only reasonable explanation.

This entire discussion of sugar induced vomiting immediately puts me back to when I had to have been about 5 years old and made myself sick on circus peanuts.

The sweet syrup the pharmacist puts into amoxicillin? To sucker your kid into taking it? Smells exactly like circus peanuts. This is me shuddering in disgust over here.

My midnight activity last night was figuring out how the hell to sop up this sea of chocolate and OH LOOK! A BARELY CHEWED COCKTAIL WEENIE! Rest assured, dear readers, I completed the task with what must be a disposable bath towel because I chucked it off the back porch where it still is today. With no intention of figuring out how to clean it. To the trash it goes.

This morning Egan says to Gil sternly, "You knew this was going to happen, Gil. Why do you do that to yourself?"

Day 15: Bedtime shenanigans

Never am I disappointed with our bedtime routine. Sure some nights are better than others, like when your mom's visiting from out of town and you're all, I've got this great idea where GRANDMA gets to read you a STORY! while my feet are up, beer's in one hand as the other's fondling the remote to find out if Jersey Shore, Intervention, or Real Houswives (of ANYWHERE but Atlanta) is on. Instead only, The Little Couple with 19 Kids and Counting Kate Plus 8 is Enough...what? is on. Jesus TLC, what show won't you do?

Tonight's funny was delivered by Egan. Once snuggled into bed, I asked him if he remembered to pee. I could see him running through the whole night in his head, considering how full his bladder really is and could he make it til morning. After pensively looking up at the ceiling, he said, "Nope. But I will right now."

Just as he was scampering out, he stops dead center in the middle of the room and turns toward his bed, all admiring like.

Egan: Don't you just love my bed?
Me: Of course I do, don't you?
Egan: Mmm-hmmmm...

[He disapprovingly shifts his glance to Gil's bed where I'm lying, waiting for Gil to return from wherever so we can READ ALREADY - the bedtime routine? IT DRAGS ON AND ON AND ON AND ON...]

All bershon, Egan points at Gil's eternally disheveled bed: Why is Gil's bed always so crumbly?

Day 13

My first choice for this year's holiday greeting card.

Day 4: On giving in

I've been contemplating purchasing a Wii for the kids for Christmas this year. I guess it's actually a gift to the entire family because, have you guys played one? Those game-games they have on those things? We all take turns bowling or playing outfield while the other bats. And those adorable bobbing little Mii's. What drives me nuts is the tennis part. Why is it always doubles?

The tough question is What about other game systems? I buy Macs, iPods, iPhones, organic, free range...I'm definitely not a PC person or a Blackberry addict. Nor do I shop at Wal Mart. Wouldn't purchasing a PS-whatever-the-number be like buying an American car? Living in a subdivision? Voting Republican? Eating Wonder bread?

To me the logical choice along the vein of consumerism that pumps through my body is the Wii.

Should I do it?

Duck and cover

This morning I heard California is prepping their school age kids for an earthquake drill. They all have to DROP TO THE GROUND! at some certain time. Jesus, you guys, how scary would that be?

Immediately I was brought back to my school age days of tornado drills: Each class of obnoxious kids lined up along the walls and lockers down meandering hallways, crunched up like a ball. This was still an opportunity for prime socializing, assuming you got to sit next to a friend.

While the teachers were doing their very best to silence the mass of giggling, snorting, shouting kids, hoping to God the impending natural disaster (simulation) would pass, a fart rings out with that perfect gas-on-linoleum vibrato. And everyone bursts into uncontrollable laughter.

I swear it wasn't me.

And they don't even drink coffee

As the boys are dining over chocolate Cheerios

Gil to me: What's your favorite home improvement show?
Me: I don't really have one. I'm not so into home improvement. What's yours? (as in, enlighten me, young fella)
Gil: Mine's The Martha Stewart Show
Me: How do you know her?
Gil: She's packing up her show and moving to another channel.
Egan: [oh so matter of factly] To Los Angeles.

On shifting

It's been bugging me lately that I have this yearning to create a blog entry, but when I go to write one, I CAN'T. I get this great idea for a topic and then POOF! just like that it's gone.

Today it dawned on me: The masthead. It's all wrong. Just like me struggling to go about my daily routine with Jon still in it, this blog still has him in the masthead. See? Up there?

Not only that, you guys, but we no longer have the Sprinter, bless it's heart. Probably went to some electrician, or general contractor, or painter, or courier, or moving company. SOMEWHERE IT BELONGS.

Just like the decision to ditch the Sprinter and finally get a normal family vehicle, I opted to ditch Jon as my husband. Wait. I'm still keeping him on as The Father of My Kids. He's really good at that part. Amazing, even. Not so much in the Emily's Husband role, though.

I'm shedding things over here, you guys. People warned me this happens with divorce. And I'm really thinking I'm starting to believe it. The contract is the first to go. You know, the one that declares this person as your HUSBAND or WIFE? Just a formality? Really? Enjoy it when you get sick of that person you spent however-many years with and want out. And that whole 50% thing? Might be worth paying attention to.

Friends shed like your dog's winter coat. Or that snake skin you find on the vine whilst vintnering (shout out to Molly!). It's amazing how people choose to align with one person or the other, rarely maintaining a balance with both exes. Everyone plays a hearty role in creating this shift in friendships. I've found trusting people I once thought I could to be difficult. If you're friends with Jon, supporting Jon, how can you also, equally, support and help me? And vice versa. You may think you can, say you can even. But I don't buy it. I successfully shoved a pretty good friend away by, well, I'll keep all those dainty details to myself. But see, I clearly needed to shift myself in a different direction than the one I was going. I have found a minute select few who are capable of being friends with both Jon and me. And that group can be shaved down into two more groups: Real and Not So Real. Surface bullshit is no longer a part of any friendship I desire. Being blunt and honest? That's a very strong part of my character. Those who can't handle it, POOF! gone.

There's this thing we call Self Medicating. Are you familiar? Thought so. Being able to shed the need to escape into a bottle of High Life or even Torpedo or Two Hearted and replace it with going to bed when my kids do is a fantastic change. Plus I like to enjoy my beers and not just not just regret having them when I get up in the morning. Ouch.

Part of being married to someone I didn't want to be married to created a lot of conflict within myself. Following the divorce, I continued to maintain a positive relationship "for the kids." Just like that guy Doug from the 80s would say, It's an illusion! I'm all, Wait. Didn't I divorce you? For those reasons? Why are you still here? What am I doing? It's like Sleeping Beauty who was awoken after 100 years of slumber by a simple kiss from her prince. Only I'm waking after 10 years of constantly comparing myself to other wives and mothers, knowing the whole time it didn't feel right. And nobody's kissing me. It's Egan shouting, MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM, CAN YOU WIPE ME?!

It's extremely liberating to focus my energies on my kids, my career, my interests, and me; instead of trying to be someone I'm not with all that pretend stuff in the way.

Now about that masthead...

Zoloft

For about half a year I've been numbed by the fantastic combination of unscrewing a prescription bottle and sertraline hydrochloride. I denied the idea that I couldn't feel. Tears still flooded my eyes when prompted, my patience was certainly tested, and I continued to analyze the world around me no problem. I appreciated the lack of reaction elicited by my children, and the divorce process, that would otherwise send me into a tailspin of a tizzy. But now I'm feeling like my old self packaged in a newly divorced, single, mom sorta way. That's what's in me. It's me. And I like it, you guys. I really like it.

Intelligent weasels

UPDATE! According to a local exterminator, there ain't a rodent to be found in our basement. Can you say Second Opinion?


Hey, so, what are you supposed to do when you have unidentified rodents squatting in your nowhere-near-ever-going-to-be-finished, 112-year-old basement?

Jon and the kids' idea was to set out mousetraps slathered with peanut butter. Jon continues to text and email from Chicago requesting updates on said varmints.

Today I was able to offer Gil's report: I've got bad news. Nothing dead and the peanut butter on one of the traps is almost gone.

When anyone, including the exterminator who finally returned my call last night, asks me what I've actually seen, I am quick to reply, "You're kidding, right? I'm not supposed to really know. Right?"

Exactly. My idea to eliminate the basement dwellers is to hire in the experts. If you ask me? I'm not expected to spelunk looking for these intruders, headlamp lighting my way. Just ask Molly what happens when a bee (?!) buzzes onto my head as I'm breaking down the collection of mailing boxes I've collected at the base of the basement stairs.

Lucky for these little pests I'm mindful of toxic chemicals that can effect my kids' reproductive systems. And at this point, I'm pretty sure I'll be setting up rodent-sized picnic tables covered with a punch bowl, assorted appetizers, a vast collection of chronological family photos on foamcore picture boards, a tri-fold senior picture portfolio, and CONGRATS GRADUATE! mylar balloons when we're ready to celebrate the youngest rodent's graduation from high school. He's on scholarship for his near death escape peanut butter licking. West Point sees great potential.

Holy Wonderful Weekend, Batman!

Here's how small the world is: On my way back to CF from outside of Winterset, I stopped in Des Moines to reunite with three amazing friends. I begin describing my weekend to said friends Leslie, Phil, Reimer, and Sam - who at 13 was far more concerned about the table of cackling 'tweens dressed in dance recital regalia than my stories of fire spinning, cowgirling, and lazy 35-year-old lounging.

Elaborating far further than necessary about The Duchess of Sheets's amazing garden, Leslie stops me. She explains she too knows The Duchess because he gave her a bunch of zucchini one night. Bombarded by my imaginary chorus of "that's what she said's," I remained on topic realizing that Leslie and I not only share our astrological sign and personality similarities, we know the same amazing people.

Sundrenched cheeks, nose, and chest - dubbed "Spring Break," as in, "Braaaaaah, thrashing the pipe at Breck left me with mad goggle face." - I am acclimating to civilization slowly but surely. Against my will.

A memory from the Magic Kingdom

Spring break was spent in Anaheim, California californicating with various Disney characters and riding the dozens of memorable rides between California Adventure and Disneyland, all while melting in 90 degree heat. My kids were beSIDE themselves. Especially Egan as he observed Mary Poppins and Burt, Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, Buzz Lightyear, Woody...THEN, the creme de la creme was when PINNOCHIO! ASKED! ME! TO! DANCE!! You know, at the end-of-the-day CELEBRATE YOU! parade.

Earlier that day we had been treated to the front of the line at the Matterhorn, a coupon for a front of the line pass on ANY RIDE! in ALL OF THE MAGIC KINGDOM!, and a receipt for the sword Egan carelessly lost while on Mr Toad's Wild Ride. Wild indeed, all sword losing and stuff. Apparently the employees at Disneyland are there to not only make our day magical but also spoil us rotten. As Egan and I climbed out of our car from the ride, Egan began sobbing when realizing he had lost his sword.

Appearing swiftly at my side was Jen, the superfriendly, superconcerned employee. I explained that Egan had lost his sword while on the ride. Jen insisted on having the ride STOPPED! so she could go through and recover Egan's damned $5-shoulda-been-$.50 sword. She explained various scenarios for getting the sword, saying stuff about it only taking 7 minutes despite all those people still waiting in the 20 minute line. After Jen assured me they stop rides all the time, I thanked her for her efforts while declining the need to force all these people waiting in line FOR A FUCKING SWORD.

Just then, Allie walks toward Egan arm outstretched, "Egan, you can have my sword."

I think that's what sold Jen on how remarkably awesome we all were. Flash forward to our celebrity treatment AND Honorary Citizens of Disneyland buttons. The way my kids reacted, you would have thought we were handed a key to the city.

That's not appropriate

While schlepping kids here and there yesterday, I overheard a conversation between Gil and Egan from the backseat.

Egan: [referring to his new Valentine's Barbie he pleaded for at the grocery store the other night] She's hot.

Gil: Egan you can't say Barbie is hot. That's not appropriate.

Gender bender

A recent concern around our house...well, a recently addressed concern. Egan has been cross dressing and accessorizing since he could hold a spoon.

This recent piece of familial history comes from Egan's love of his purple sparkly hand-me-down dance recital tutu, affinity for accessorizing, admiration of his aunt's redder than red lipstick, his longing for dancin' shoes like mine, and currently his Valentine Barbie. Egan's biggest critic right now is his brother Gil.

Evidently Gil's masculinity is somehow challenged by his four-year-old brother. Gil is quite assertively educating his brother on Right and Wrong, Good and Bad, Male and Female: "Egan, boys don't wear dresses!" and saying things like, "He can't play with THAT! He's a BOY!!"

To that, Egan says, "Yes. I am a boy."

Lucky for Egan, his mother is one to encourage exploration of different nailpolish colors and textures of taffeta regardless of whether you have a penis or a vagina. What's the big deal if Egan races for his various princess attire, leaving his boy clothes in a heap on his bedroom floor? What if I told you I'd rather have a well-adjusted confident kid than a resentful and repressed mess of insecurties? What if he simultaneously carried a semi-automatic sawed-off shotgun?

Rest assured, he has been known to beg for his purple sparkly dress before plopping down for hours of Power Ranger entertainment while clutching as many Matchbox cars as possible. Does that make you feel better?

I said, DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER. Because this is about you, you know. You and your various hang-ups about what is and what should be. About calling a four-year-old a deviant for feeling good, having fun, and being himself.

According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Egan's supposed "confusion" comes from his "gender identity disorder." There is a diagnosis, you guys, a diagnosis! for CHILDREN!! who choose to do the very activities Egan longs for on a daily basis. This is considered a disorder in our culture. HE'S FOUR!

Who made this shit up anyway? We are swayed, people, programmed by societal norms. Stuffy fucking WASPy norms created by narrow minded homophobes and heterosexists fearful of anything other than themselves. We oughtta be ashamed.

There are many innate gender expectations that just happen. Boys do more often than not go to cars and trucks and guns while girls have an interest in dolls and role playing a family. When a boy wants to dress up in sparkly dresses and paint his nails, or a young girl decides tubesocks with baggy basketball shorts and tennies is what makes her comfortable, who are we to have an opinion one way or the other?

I encourage my boys, and Allie, to express themselves. Label their emotions. Cry if you have to. And if wearing a crown, clip on earrings, a princess dress, and dancin' shoes helps? Go for it.

Being a good parent is exhausting...Any other ideas?

The greatest thought provoking 10-15 minutes of my life occurs in the shower. This morning I welcomed the steaming waterfall just after shouting at my two big kids to SHUT! UP! as they contiuously bickered about everything from Allie demanding bossily that The Prince of Being Easily Distracted Gil needs to HURRRRRRRYYYY UUUUUUUUP to Gil shouting at Allie WHAT THE HECK, AL?! That's Gil's generic response to anything Allie does to piss him off.

All of this while Egan flitters about with angel wings and a halo, sweetly saying, "I'm behaving, right Mom?"

Here's my deal: I don't know what to do with them anymore! The other night at book club I identified with a friend who described "walking on eggshells" in certain relationships. Only the person I find myself trying to keep from blowing up is my eight-year-old Gilmore.

Far be it from me to not teach my kids how life doesn't always go the way they want; people don't always do everything you want them to. It's my job to guide these ingrates, modeling coping skills and encouragement. I get that.

I give Gil a hard time but it's not just Gil. It's Allie too. Actually, it's the deadly combination of the two of them together. You know, like gasoline to a fire...TO A CAR!

Please, you guys. Help me figure out ways to combat this anarchy!

Appreciation

The greatest part of my existence right now, and I can hardly believe I'm going to say this out loud, is helping Egan practice his viola. This morning he came bumping down the stairs toting his pint size viola in hand, rubbing his bleary eyes with the other. In his Spider Man boxers. At 7:30 am.

"I brought down my viola because it's time to practice."

I filled my coffee cup and follwed Egan and his dragging viola case into the family room. He narrated his every move while uncasing his prized instrument.

Something I am beginning to embrace is the very fortunate hassle of parenting. Not sure if it's observing other parents or finally growing into my role. As you may recall I often struggle with what I'm supposed to do. Being selfish and putting off my kids can be a lot easier than forcing myself to spend time with them. Because honestly? That's how I feel most of the time: that I have to FORCE myself to hang out with them. Perhaps falling into parenting created this monster. At this point it doesn't matter. I am doing the best that I can with what I've got. And that's a whole hellofa lot.

Hi Gene!

I take my job very seriously. Case in point: Hygiene has been the Word of the YEAR in our house. Since, like, 2009. I have two pre-pubescent kids I'm working with here. As Mother and Parent, it is part of my job description to outline personal hygienic expectations. And their father gets more uncomfortable than they do about said topic.

What's HY-GIENE Gil asks at the breakfast table this morning. As if I haven't already explained the definition twenty times since last Wednesday.

Allie shouts, I SHOWERED THIS MORNING!

Egan's voice from the living room, "Who's Gene?"

Do they need a wheel?

It's funny what I find myself daydreaming about throughout the day. The most common thought is What am I Going to Make for Dinner. What's even more amusing is the energy I have while contemplating my choices. Do I actually want to cook? Because by the time I finish my schlepping to this kid activity or that, all I want to do is sit on my Big Comfy Couch, read the paper, and drink a beer.

That's when the image of the kids being in a hamster cage lined with wood shavings, an affixed water bottle, and a bowl of feed pellets in the corner, takes over.