Archives for posts with tag: parenting

I’ve said it before, but I often wish I could see the work through my children’s eyes. Monkey #1,  maybe not so much, because the tweenage boy baffles and often annoys me. But monkey #2 still has such a different perspective on things.

Their nana wanted to take them to mass this evening. Monkey #1 wanted to go, monkey #2 wanted to stay with me. My desire to sleep late tomorrow forced #2 to put on her dress and get ready to go.

She came up to hug me and I said, “Oh go brush those teeth. Funky breath! No boy will kiss you.”

“I’m not going to kiss, mom!”

“Not now, but when you’re older like your brother, you’ll want a boyfriend.”

“I only like tough guys. Girls like tough guys, mom.”

My seven year old daughter already has a type? So I needed examples of tough guys. Glitter’s son, Meathead’s son, Mr. Travis all qualify. Last year’s boyfriend does not because he was held back in the first grade, and apparently brains fit in the equation.

I didn’t dare ask if her brother is tough. Scared of the answer.

Where did I already mess up?

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Is there anything harder to deal with than people talking due dates, dilations, and showers when you’ve lost a baby and your own due date approaches? Is it wrong to become quiet, excuse yourself from the room?

I know having a baby is exciting. I’ve been blessed with two.  But this time I miscarried. And I think I’m over it, most of the time.  Life has moved on.

But as that due date draws near, and the family grows excited for a different baby, the old wound reopens. The showers and baby talk are lemons being squeezed into a painful, open sore I thought till recently was healed.  My feelings are hurt, and my logic tells me I’m irrational as my heart screams against the thoughtlessness of it all.

But the baby talk will end soon and the hurt will fade and life will, once again,  go on.

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If parenting licenses were as difficult to obtain as drivers’ licenses, there’d be many feet parents. Not that a driver’s license is hard to get. But there is at least some knowledge and training involved, not just a few minutes of…you know.

I received a lovely invitation to a lovely baby shower today. DH’s cousin is due in a few weeks. The cousin who runs the roads with her husband constantly because her ill-mannered child is supervised by whatever sucker submitted to their request. That cousin.

And DH’s mom is making a to-do because the cousins have so little money and nothing for the baby.


My 2nd child wore a lot of hand me downs. Used a crib that had been through 4 other kids. Used the bottles I saved from the first kid. Our Sunday School class gave us a small shower, as did the girls at my work, but they just wanted to buy frilly baby girl dresses and threw showers for everyone . I know this, because I often did that with them.

I just don’t get the big deal. Why is the family kicking up such a fuss? 2nd baby, 2nd or 3rd shower so far. And though I hate crowds and a big fuss, I might be a little jealous. Because I did not have that.  Or maybe I hate that my kids lose all attention when there’s a new baby in the family.  I don’t know.

I think I’ll drop a pack of diapers at DH’s mom’s and call it done.

Because I don’t want to go.

Because I don’t respect his cousin as a parent.

And because I was supposed to be having a baby now, too.

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Passive-aggressive. That’s what my stepmom says.

Cathartic and avoiding more fights with the hubby. That’s what I say.

I couldn’t tell his family half of what I want to without starting WWIII and sending myself to divorce court. Which, more than once, has been appealing.

I can’t tell his mother to mind her own beeswax and let me raise my kids.

I can’t tell his sister that she’s selfish and spoiled and her brother does the pool league to spend time with her, at the expense of his own family.

I can’t tell his brother that the best thing he and his fiancee did was move far away. They have a shot at their own life.

I can’t tell his cousin to grow up and stop dumping her kid on everyone else.

This is not to say my own family is not fodder for my blog. Don’t get me started on my mother and my sister. The difference? I’ll tell them, in no uncertain terms, what is on my mind. And it blows over and we’re good.

My in-laws are untouchable, sacred cows. God forbid I hurt anyone’s feelings. But they all have a blank check. It’s exhausting.

I stand up to them in my own way, now.

“No, princess needs to come straight home tomorrow. That’s the kids’ day with PaPaw.”

“No, boy-child is failing Math again. He needs to stay home today.”

“No, please keep those toys at your house. The kids lost a St. Bernard last week and I’m not sure which room he’s in.”

It’s not much, but it’s a subtle reminder that I’m the HBIC.

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Is it another sign I’m a bad mama that my cigarettes and I are hiding in the garage, still pajamified at almost 9, hiding from little princesses?

It was one of those weeks.

I’ve had drama at work (classroom management issues in my last block).

Hubby has been busy with work and hunting.

I’m fighting both the boy-child and his school and wishing he was a carbon copy of me.

Hubby and the boy-child were in bed by 8 last night to go hunting at 4 this morning.

And Audie Bear’s best friend spent the night.

I don’t usually do the whole sleepover thing unless we’re on a school break. I like peace and quiet. I deal with rowdy kids all week. I have things to do. I genuinely adore my children’s friends but I need those two little days.

It was a huge favor.

I’m good friends with E’s mom and she was desperate.  She was in a wedding last night, the ex changed weekends on her, and she can’t afford a sitter.

And I know that it’ll be reciprocated.

The boy-child is easy. When his friends come to stay, they hole up in his room with video games and movies. You see them when they ambush the pantry and that’s it. They sleep all day, practicing for the teenage years.

What is it about little girls?

They want to do the Easy Bake and hair and make up and dress up and for some reason Mom has to play, too.

“Can we play with Polly Pocket and the dunking booth?”



“Remember the water bill? The hall carpet?”

“I was little, Mooooom. That was the summer. Puhlease?”

Should I write the check now?

I expect boys to be walking appetites. I’m finding that 7 year old girls are, too. Two frozen pizzas, 2 gallons of kook-aid, a package of fruit roll ups, 2 boxes of cereal, and a gallon of milk. So far. It’s only 9am.

And at 6 this morning,  I woke to a little face, inches from mine.

“We’re bored. Can we paint?

C’mon. You set the recird for staying up all night. Aren’t you sleepy?

“Mom, the dog ate all the toilet paper.”

“Mrs. Katie,  I can’t find the red nail – Uh oh.”

“Mom, E doesn’t like frosted flakes. Can we have Dr. Pepper?”

“Uh oh. Your mom has her grown up cup. My mom says that means we’re getting on her nerves.”

The joys of parenting.

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I would like to thank my children and their Nana for this great honor. I’m so thrilled to be nominated once again for “Worst Parent in the World.”

The first time I was nominated was about the time my son started having problems at school.  Dr. Nana diagnosed the boy child as having ADD, as all of her children have it and several of her friends’ kids. And I was the worst mom for not having him evaluated immediately by whomever she instructed me to use. When I told her that ADD is over diagnosed in the US and provided statistics about side effects and suicide rates related to the use of ADD meds with children, I was pretty much a shoe in for the award that year.

My darling daughter has told her that when Daddy and I are home, I’m always on the computer and Daddy is watching tv or playing video games. Are you kidding me? As a teacher, I work on things at home, usually when the rat finks are in bed. I haul a$$ home every day after work so they’re not stuck in daycare. I make dinner every night. I get them to their activities.  I clean up after them, make sure they have clean clothes, and sign over my paycheck to their schools. We read every night together before bed. I do this from my computer?

The boy child is the one who has me riled today. I need to take the girl child to PSR and I need to work on lesson plans. He’s been fighting with me all weekend about his math, so I told him we’ll miss church today. What does he do?

“Super Nana, can you pick me up for church?”

So I get a phone call and a lecture about the bad example I’m setting. Once again, bad mom.

Reminder: hubby is catholic. I’m not. I’m getting really tired of being responsible for all of the catholic stuff.

But I do appreciate the nomination, folks, and will continue to represent bad parents everywhere.

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It seems like just yesterday Cameron wanted to be “Bob the Dilder” for Halloween. This year, he doesn’t even want to dress up!

I’ve always loved autumn. Maybe it’s because the air becomes crisp (in Michigan,  anyway) and the leaves go Technicolor. Maybe it’s because every school year seemed like a fresh start. Or maybe it’s because I love Halloween.

I went trick-or-treating every year, up through middle school.  I was a bride, a graduate,  a hippie, a gypsy. We were in a small town and even the high schoolers went. We all dressed up, not like the thugs in saggy jeans that show up now. I can still hear the leaves crunching.

These days, I take my kids to the fall carnivals at the churches. We might walk our neighborhood on Halloween,  but it’s not like it was in my hometown. And Cam is 11 this year. Big, bad 6th grader.

Our church always does a little carnival the weekend before Halloween.  We’ve gone every year. It’s often the same activities,  the same food, and I’m sure the church loses money on it. But we always go.

This year, though, they’re doing a pumpkin patch to raise money for the youth. I dropped Cameron at 3:30 to help unload the semi.  With the drought this summer, I was surprised we got so many. And I am surprised at how fast Cameron is growing up.

This year, he wants to work at the carnival. He wants to watch scary movies on Halloween and pass out candy with his Papaw and Grandma.

And I want to dress up in some kooky homemade costume and walk the kids around the neighborhood. Thank goodness I still have Audrey and she’s not grown up yet.

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