It's Cold, Kids, Time to Learn to "Dress for Winter Success!"

The video above is courtesy of South Washington County School District 833: apparently, parents who live in Minnesota (or any cold climate state) have NO IDEA how to dress their children for cold weather, so they must be informed by district employees through a professionally produced video on the correct order cold weather clothes should be put on.  Like parents can't figure out that boots should go on AFTER snowpants or that snowpants need to go on BEFORE a jacket - unless of course one is wearing non-bib-style snowpants, in which case the jacket can go on before the snowpants, but remember, boots go on AFTER the snowpants.
Seriously? Do they really believe parents are this dumb?  Apparently, yes.

How about instead of cutting elementary school band the district cut all meaningless video production?  Just a thought.

Celebrating Fathers

Father's Day is right around the corner.  With that in mind, I'd like to take a moment and get a little personal.

SwimGirl graduated from high school last weekend.  Because her dad lives several states away, we planned her graduation party for the day before the ceremony, so he could join in on the weekend's festivities.  The morning of the party, SwimGirl's dad, IT Guy, picked her up for breakfast.  My neighbor happened to be outside when IT Guy came by, and asked me if it was an awkward situation for us - having IT Guy here and involved with the festivities.  I didn't have to think long for my response, "No," I answered, "We've been divorced for many years.  At first it was hard: adjusting to sharing the kids, scheduling and getting past what drove us apart in the first place. But, fortunately, we figured out how to make it work." He was surprised by my answer, since his own personal experiences with family divorce has not been very positive.  I totally understand this as my own parents divorced when I was a young adult; we've all adjusted for the most part, but holidays can get a little stressful because of the family rifts.

It is because of our own experiences with divorced parents that has led IT Guy, The Man of the House and I to do our best to be flexible and accommodating with SwimGirl and TBone.  When parents divorce, the stress and pain is not felt only by the couple splitting up, but by the children as well.  When parents forget that the kids are also in pain and/or use their kids as pawns, it only creates more pain and havoc in an already potentially devastating period in the children's lives.  If one is unable to separate the reasons for the divorce from the kids, the kids are the ones who ultimately pay the price of the failure in the marriage.

Ironically, it was The Man of the House who taught me this fact.  He came into our lives when SwimGirl and TBone were still quite young, and tried very hard to let IT Guy know that he was there as a bonus parent, not as a person trying to take over IT Guy's job as "Dad." There were times, early on, when IT Guy and I were unable to communicate without animosity; it was during those times when the three of us would have to attend TBone's hockey games together and TMotH would stand between us, talking to both of us, but also providing a buffer - a sort of "No Man's Land" in human form.  Because he was willing to be that neutral person, IT Guy and I were able to present a civilized front to the children, something they desperately needed to see their parents do.  The kids also were able to see that even though IT Guy and I couldn't make it as a married couple, our love for them, our involvement in their activities, and our presence together in their lives would not change.  It takes a strong man to do what TMotH did for us and the kids.  He taught us how to get along by his example of being willing to not take sides and get along with both of us for the kids' sake.

There are those people who are quick to criticize those of us who have experienced failure in marriage; as though somehow that failure represents some kind of moral incapability or character deficit or an inability to understand the gravity of the marriage vows.  The sad thing is, that criticism is nothing compared to what a divorcee` feels or tells his/herself about their divorce.  No one can beat up a divorced person more than that person has already done to themselves.  For a person like myself, who detests failure so much that they will not even attempt something if failure is an option, divorce represents the ultimate failure and can take many years to understand what went wrong and how things could have been different.  No one can beat me up more than I have beaten myself up over the years because of this "failure." Self-righteous attitudes toward divorce is not what a person going through that experience needs; love and understanding goes much further and can help lead that person to healing and potentially the ability to start new - either with the first marriage or with someone else someday.

Back to fathers:  What I experienced this weekend was a good outcome from my own personal first marriage failure.  Where some kids only have one parent or both parents present to celebrate the achievement of their high school graduation, SwimGirl had three doting parents happy to cheer her accomplishment.  SwimGirl and TBone have benefited from having two parents AND two bonus parents in their lives.  Without TMotH, TBone would have probably never played hockey - TMotH is the one who originally bought him skates and took him out to the rink for the first time, marveling at TBone's balance and almost instantaneous acclimation to the feeling of blades on his feet.  Without TMotH, SwimGirl would not have had the opportunity to try different activities before finding that swimming was her talent and passion.  Without the support of IT Guy, the kids wouldn't have been able to continue those activities due to financial constraints.  Unlike many separated families, I cannot complain that IT Guy has not done well by his kids financially.  He's never been late, never missed a child support payment, has always made sure they had health insurance, and even when he moved hundreds of miles away, he always did his best to be part of his kids' lives.  Because of him, the kids have experienced things and visited places I would have never been able to show them.  Because of him, TBone has learned how to fix computers and be my own personal Techie here at home.  Because of him, SwimGirl had an early start with computers and will be taking that knowledge with her to college to pursue a degree either in graphic design or architecture.  Her passion for architecture was also nurtured by IT Guy and the trips he took the kids on - showing them cities and buildings that do not exist in the Midwest.

Recently, Kathleen Parker wrote a column titled "Say it. Go ahead, say it! 'Father'" in which she discusses the fact that even with more women becoming the sole breadwinner in the home, which is causing some people to question whether women need men at all, that we do indeed need fathers in the family unit.  Not only that, but that fathers should be celebrated.  I couldn't agree with Ms. Parker more.  In our home, TMotH is often away, building powerlines or restoring power after storms; leaving me as the sole caretaker of our four children.  I've learned to be very self-sufficient, accomplishing tasks that earlier in my life I'd have never known I could do on my own.  It is a humbling experience to be the single caregiver; I've had to learn to ask for help when my pride is screaming, "NO! I CAN do this on my own!" There have been times when the trials of raising teenagers become too much for one person to handle, so calling IT Guy and asking for his assistance has been necessary.  There has not been a time when I've called him and asked for his help in something where he hasn't shown sympathy for the situation - has stepped in and said, "Don't make me have to get on a plane and fly up there!" something for which I am eternally grateful.

No matter how self-sufficient we as women get, no matter all the technology and social safety nets we have to be able to raise children on our own, there will not be a time when children do not need a father-figure - their biological dad, a step-dad, a grandpa, uncle or even a great male friend - in their lives.  Girls learn what it means to be a woman by the way the male-figure in their lives treat them and the women around them, just as boys learn what it means to be a man from how their mothers and other women around them treat them.  Boys need men to teach them how to be men and how to treat the women in their lives just as girls need women to do the same for them.  Feminism should not be something that becomes women accomplishing goals to the exclusion of needing men in their lives; it should be a means of equal pay for equal work and an appreciation for the roles that both sexes play in society and in the family unit.

This weekend showed me that even though IT Guy and I failed at our marriage (something that occurred when we were both very young and had a lot of growing left to do, including finishing college and all the stress that comes with that while holding a household together and raising a young family), that the outcome did not have to be one of failure as well.  Even though we were unable to complete our journey together under the same roof, our children need not suffer adversely because of our inability to make things work between us.  The proof of that fact was evident on Saturday night when IT Guy, TMotH and I sat together, with friends and relatives, chatting like the old friends we now are, basking in the pride of our daughter's tremendous accomplishment: finishing high school and preparing to set off on her own life's adventure starting with a scholarship to a Division I school and ending wherever her talents and dreams can take her.

Updated 6/6/13 11:12am

Hockey & Craptastic Refs

Funny how this blog's title references hockey and yet I very rarely mention hockey in my posts, huh? That is going to change right now:

HOCKEY. I love it. Especially during games like the one I had the pleasure of watching last night.  My son's JV team has been struggling all season.  They started out strong with four wins in a row, then sputtered, losses piled up, the team seemed to have forgotten how to play together or what positions were, how to catch a pass, how to ice the puck, how not to screen your own goalie. Morale dropped and every game became painful to watch.

Last night our team was taking on The Ponies, a team that had beaten our boys 9-1 in the last meeting.  Optimism was not very high in the stands, but still, the hockey moms and dads showed up, ready to cheer for our boys, win or lose.  And cheer we did! The team that won four straight games at the beginning of season suddenly reappeared on the ice.  The passes were crisp, the boys' feet were going, going, going, positions were remembered, players moved on the ice in sync with one another, the opposing goalie was pressured and peppered with shots - it was gorgeous.  And then came the refs....

Every parent at one point or another feels that their kids' team gets screwed by poor reffing or one-sided reffing or blind refs or refs who should be "home-town" but who aren't or "home-town" refs handing the game to the home-town team.  It happens all the time, I know. But seriously, I swear, I haven't watched a properly ref'd game since during last year's season when our Bantam A team played the Bantam A team from the other "rich" suburb, which is despised more than our supposedly "rich" suburb, so since the refs hated both teams equally, the game was actually ref'd pretty fairly. That was not our experience last night.

We, like all hockey teams, have a few kids who tend to get more required two minute breaks in the little special glassed-in box than other players - it is just how it goes with a sport like hockey.  Sometimes those kids really deserve the time out but sometimes one can understand why they did what they did that got them tossed.  Last night, we watched as Pony player after Pony player cheap-shot our kids right in front of the refs and were ignored.  At one point, an opposing player literally tackled our goalie, crashing him to the ground so hard that our goalie was very slow to get up, so slow that the EMT actually went out onto the ice to check on him. Did that Pony player get tossed into the box? Nope. But one of our kids did. Why? I have no idea. In fact, when one of our kids got tossed, another one asked the ref why that kid was getting a penalty, so the ref threw the questioner into the box with a 10 minute game misconduct penalty.  That was how it went all night long: the refs ignoring the other team's infractions and tossing our kids liberally, in what seemed an attempt to give the game to the opposing team.

Whatever the refs were up to with their plan, our boys were having none of it.  Battling through three or four three on five penalty kills, getting beat up by the other team, and a penalty about every three minutes of every  period, they allowed no goals through three full periods of play.  The goalie who was crushed in the second period finally got up, shook himself and continued to play, playing better than he'd played in a long time, and definitely earning his shut-out.

Hockey parents are a different breed. I don't know if it's because of the amount of time we have to spend in refrigerated arenas from the time our kids begin hockey (in Minnesota, usually around age 4) until they reach college or if it's just that hockey is an aggressive sport which in turn causes the parents to be more vocal than say, swimmer parents (I am definitely one of the loudest swim parents in the clubs in which we belong), and quite excitable.  Last night, with the way the refs were calling the game so completely one-sided, the hockey parents came out in full force.  Is it wrong to yell at a ref? Yes. Is it wrong to yell at a ref who is allowing the play to become dangerously rough and out-of-hand and who is calling the game completely one-sided to the point that the team getting away with illegal hits/play know they aren't getting called and the team getting called on everything decides that it doesn't matter since they'll be tossed anyway so that instead of a game, it becomes an all-out brawl on skates? No. I don't think that is wrong at all.  I often wonder what role the referees played with the tragic hit on Jack Jablonski last year that resulted in Jack being unable to walk ever again? Did the refs have the mentality of "Let 'em play" or were they calling one side more than the other and allowing frustration and anger to boil over into violent play that night?

The whole time following the Jablonski tragedy, the focus was put on the players, the coaches and the parents.  The refs were not brought into the equation.  Why not? Out of all the people in an arena during a hockey game, the refs have the most power to control a game.  Yet time and again, they fail in their duties to make fair calls, to set the control early in the game, to show both teams that violent play will not be tolerated.  Instead, they ignore all but the most egregious of hits (and, sometimes, that all depends on which team they've decided to call that night), putting kids in danger from some sort of ridiculous bias that infiltrates their calls.  Who supervises refs? Where is MN Hockey in their oversight of refs?  Are refs sanctioned when they allow play to continue even when it is obvious to all watching that every hit is moving toward a hit that will put another kid in a wheelchair?  Not that I know of.

I'm not advocating taking hitting out of hockey.  In fact, I thought it was ridiculous when Minnesota Hockey changed the rule on checking from Peewees to Bantams.  (If anything, they should move it all the way to Squirts - at least at Squirt level the inexperienced players can't hurt each other as much - they're all small at that age - as compared to the size disparity between boys once the kids hit Bantams.) What I am saying is that the refs have a responsibility to the players to not only call penalties fairly, but to remember that if someone gets hurt on their ice due to the lack of calls or one-sided calls, that kid's blood is on their hands.

Back to last night's game. One positive of the poor reffing: our boys not only remembered how "to play like they play when they really play" (Thanks, Dennis Green, former Vikings coach), but they also overcame the team that schooled them the last time while also overcoming refs intent upon giving the opposition every opportunity possible to score.  That's a win of which they can be proud.  They overcame adversity, pulled together, worked as a team, and got 'er done.

Sandy Hook Tragedy

I almost had a panic attack this morning. It isn't that unusual, truthfully, since we're almost always running late and getting the four kids out the door can be crazy, especially combined with a dose of talk radio - all those factors can make me feel the need to curl up and rock myself like the little monkeys on the videos shown in Psychology 101.  Today's feeling was different.  Today I found myself hugging my kids closer and for longer and giving them more kisses and telling them "I love you," as I sent them out the door. Especially Buttercup.  Buttercup is 6 years old. Buttercup is the same age and in the same grade of the little ones killed on Friday at Sandy Hook Elementary.

I spent Friday morning at my daughters' elementary school.  A group of parents had volunteered to prep mountains of fleece for the four third grade classes to make into blankets for some homeless shelters in St. Paul. What I had expected to take about an hour ended up taking three as we evened out edges and cut the "ties" into yards and yards of fleece.  Conversations between strangers, brought together by our kids, ranged from the silly to the deep - like conversations often do when a large group of women are tossed in together on a project.  It was a lighthearted morning with lots of laughter ending with the fleece ready for the little third graders' fingers today.  My knees are still sore from kneeling on the floor to trim the edges of numerous would-be blankets.  I chatted with the office admin  for a bit after we were finished.  She's been part of our elementary school as long as I can remember - SwimGirl started there in 2nd grade and is graduating this year, so we've had at least one child at the school for ten years now - and is probably one of the best elementary school admins I've ever known.  The school principal was also in and out - popping into our conference-room-turned-workroom to check in and chatting with parents as they moved through the office.  The school is warm, inviting and staffed by absolutely wonderful teachers, paraprofessionals and administrators; we've loved our years at "our school."

When I got home, I received a text message from SwimGirl telling me about the shooting at Sandy Hook. Instead of turning on FoxNews, I went to my laptop and checked the news online.  My heart hurt and tears filled my eyes as I read the news.  The question going through my head continually was "Why? How could anyone kill little babies like this?" which I know was the question being asked by us all.  Then the news broke about the ages of the children and I realized that they were Buttercup's age, causing the tears to flow again.  I looked at our Christmas tree and thought about how there were children who wouldn't be opening their gifts, so lovingly wrapped and placed under the tree by their parents, on Christmas morning.  My heart broke for the parents and siblings of the lost children.  Then I started thinking about the terror of the surviving children - how will they ever go back to school without fear?  Will they ever face a night where there are no nightmares to invade their slumber?  Will they forever be looking at people, wondering if that person or that person or the one standing over there is actually someone bad who wants to kill them?  How will they heal?

So, as I was sending my little girls to the bus, I caught myself clinging to them more tightly and having trouble letting them go.  I found myself almost not sending them to school today.  I know the school staff have regular emergency drills (I've participated in them as a volunteer) and procedures in place in the case of something horrible happening.  Logically, I know these things.  But my heart is another story. My heart tells me "This is a place where my kids should be safe.  But they're not safe.  Those parents thought their kids were safe at school and look what happened." So I clung to my kids a little more than usual this morning, regretting the days when I couldn't wait to see them all out the door and the house to be quiet for a few hours again.  I can't imagine the heavy quiet at the homes of the victims of Friday's tragedy.  I can't imagine a home where the anticipation of chaos isn't always hanging in the air until the chaos of my four wonderful kids invades my house.

My heart hurts for the parents and families of those poor children and the adults who died trying to protecting them.  My prayers are with them.

Swim Meet Rules of Etiquette

MNHockeyMama's Swim Meet Rules of Etiquette

1. Never ever block other parents' view of the pool.  If you cannot find a seat, then please, at the very minimum, kneel down or sit on the steps in order to remove your fat butt from obstructing the view of the pool.  (If you choose to stand in front of me and block my view, you can be sure that you will be told to sit down. Arguing with me and swearing at me will only serve to make you look more foolish. Most swim parents are pretty laid back and as Minnesotans, are more likely to whisper with one another about their irritation with you. Not me. I am a hockeymama at heart and have no problem telling you "SIT DOWN.")

2. When the sign states: "No Parents Allowed on the Pool Deck," that is exactly what it means.  No coach wants a helicopter parent hovering near little Billy, making sure that he knows to put on his goggles before he steps up on the block. 

3. Saving seats: STOP IT. The meet is four hours long. Your child will swim maybe about five minutes of those four hours. Find a seat, watch your child swim and leave. There are places to hang out at every swim meet outside of the pool area.  It is not necessary for you to watch every event of every meet just because you are worried you will lose your "prime" seat in the bleachers.  If you choose to put a blanket, jacket or other personal items on a five foot section of the bleachers in case you do leave or your "friends/kids/parents" finally choose to show up, don't expect other people to respect that "reserved area" and not push blankets/jackets/personal items aside when they need a place to sit for the few minutes they are in the pool area to watch their own children.

4. Swearing at all, but especially at someone kindly (loudly) telling you to sit down, is absolutely forbidden.

5. Memorizing your child's best times is encouraged. Memorizing the best times of all the kids in his/her age group is creepy.

6. Cheering for your child and/or their relay team is also encouraged. Cheering, screaming and loudly proclaiming that your child's relay team just "Obliterated the record for ___________ event for 9-10 year olds" is also creepy.

7. Talking with other parents about swimming and other topics is encouraged. Talking loudly to other parents or on your cell phone about surgical procedures, bodily functions, gossip about other parents, etc. is wrong and shouldn't happen.

8. Getting antisocial toward other parents when they discuss topics with which you disagree should be discussed, i.e. politics/religion, and insisting on horning in on their discussion to voice your disapproval will cause you to be ostracized from the other team parents and therefore is discouraged.

9. Talking loudly during the start is forbidden. Respect the swimmers need for quiet so they can actually hear the start.

10. Talking smack about the other swimmers on your child's relay because they didn't perform as well as you think they should have is very wrong and therefore, forbidden.

11. Encouraging friendly competition between swimmers on the same team to get them to do their best is good. Asking other parents how their child swam ______ event only so that you can "one up them" by bragging about your child's massive time drop is rude.

12. Encouraging your child to cheer on teammates is strongly recommended. Condoning your child telling their teammate "good job" when he/she knows his/her teammate didn't come near a best time in ________ event, so that he/she can be smug about his/her own performance is in poor taste and is strictly forbidden.

13. There are no "Refs" in swimming, only "Officials." Yelling at the Official for disqualifying your child is never okay.

14. Do not show up to a 6am warm-up dressed like you just came off the pages of Vogue. Comfortable clothes are acceptable and encouraged. (Pajama pants are strongly encouraged.)

I Want a Wife

When the snow was falling on Sunday, it was beautiful and serene (other than the four times we had to shovel, that is).  With a fire burning merrily away in the fireplace, football blaring on the TV, the newspaper in my lap and the kids off at the sledding hill, I was reminded why I love Minnesota.

Not so much now.  It isn't the cold or the endless gray sky days.  It is the fact that as soon as the snow comes, it becomes impossible to keep my floors clean.  Even if I insist that everyone walking into the house take off their shoes before getting past the foyer, the floors still are covered in nasty dirt brought in by my dogs and/or husband (or, admittedly, me sometimes) who don't have the capacity to be trained to wipe their feet or choose to walk wearing giant, snow covered boots directly into my kitchen in order to refresh a mug of coffee.  I've tried covering the bare floors with numerous rugs or putting slippers near the door to entice new behavior, but those measures always fail.  My floors are only clean for about five minutes after they've been swept and mopped in the winter months.  Add the dirty floors to my family's penchant for leaving whatever is in their hands on any available surface and you have a recipe for absolute chaos in a charming Tudor-style suburban home.  (Add to that the "hidden" candy wrappers constantly discovered behind the couch when a garbage is two feet from said couch and there's a recipe for a parent's head to explode.)

It's not that we're inherently dirty people.  Generally speaking, the kids are decently dressed in mostly clean, neat clothes.  They're bathed (or bath themselves) on a regular basis (although in the summer a dip in the pool sometimes substitutes for a bath), their hair is brushed, their teeth are clean (the little ones are required to give me a "breath test" if I think they haven't properly brushed) and usually, their clothes pretty much match. (Although I did let Buttercup leave the house yesterday in a rosy-red sweater paired with a hot pink leopard print skort and black and white leopard print leggings; I figured that I couldn't wear that outfit, but at six? Who's going to complain?) But we have a problem with clutter.  The usual clutter that accumulates in any family: school papers, newspapers, random mail, receipts, toys, electronics, knick-knacks, etc., seems to cover much too much of the available space in our home.  (If I really want to scare myself, I watch "Hoarders" and freak out with the fear that eventually we'll be carving pathways from the bathroom to the living room and eating on our beds because we can't find the dining room table or kitchen island.)

When I visit my friends' homes, jealousy flows through me as I gaze in awe at their well-ordered rooms.  The craziest thing I ever saw in one friend's home was when she and her husband decided to buy a bunch of ammo and it was stacked on her dining room table.  This wouldn't be an unusual sight at my BFF from Up North's home: they're hunters and her husband is a taxidermist.  But in one of the "best" neighborhoods in my city, in a very beautiful expensive home, encountering a dining room table loaded with ammo was pretty surprising (and very entertaining!).  Another friend of mine has a house that looks like it could be a model home, it's so clean and beautiful.  She has two kids and a husband (who works from home) and other than the dozens of family photographs hanging on the walls, you wouldn't know that a family lived there.  I'm totally jealous by the motivation it takes to keep one's house in such cleanliness.  (For all the spotless beauty of both these homes, they are by no means cold in any way - always cozy, warm and welcoming are my friends and their homes.)

I have the desire to have a spotless, orderly home.  I regularly dream of a home where I'm not freaking out if someone calls to tell me they're stopping by in a few minutes and worrying that I'll die of embarrassment when they arrive and see the state my house is in.  However, I don't seem to have the attention span to do what it takes to get the house spotless or to keep it that way.  That actually is a big part of the problem: I can get the house clean (especially if I have some empty totes in which to shove all the crap covering the counters), but I can't seem to get it to stay that way.  This I blame on my family's inability to put anything back where it belongs or to actually get their shoes into the boot box in the foyer (or to hang up their coats or put their backpacks someplace other than in the middle of the hall or to wipe up the eyeliner shavings from the foyer bathroom's counter...).  Considering that I am the one home alone most of the day, though, it probably isn't fair that I put the blame all on them.  And supposedly, since I am home all day, it is my job to clean up the house and keep it nice along with doing the finances and making sure that everyone has what they need every day.  That's what being a "Home Executive" is, right? And if I didn't have the option of being a home executive, then I would have a job and STILL be dealing with every one else's crap when I got home from the job.

In order to combat the disorder of my house, I make lists of all the "projects" I need to complete so that I can have the joy of marking each one off the list.  The problem is, making the list usually overwhelms me, so by the time I finish the list I'm already feeling defeated and discouraged.  The current list is as follows:

1. Clean the floors.
2. Clean off the kitchen counters, get rid of the newspapers and other random papers.
3. Clean - ok, CLEAN EVERYTHING. (That actually takes up a big a chunk of the list.)
4. Sort and toss the crap in the multitude of bins in the house, beginning with the ones in master bedroom.
5. Clean out and organize the "sun porch" (which is what it would be if it didn't end up being a place where everything without a real home gets tossed).
6. Dust all surfaces and wash windows and patio doors.
7. Bathrooms=disgusting. Git r dun.
8. Buttercup's bedroom, painted in September, still hasn't been put completely back together and organized. Get that done.
9. File all "keeper" paperwork.  Clean out "office-area" bookshelf, replace bookshelf with one that has shelves that aren't constantly threatening to dump contents onto floor.
10. Clean out three (yes, THREE!) junk drawers and one misc. cupboard in kitchen.
11. Finish putting up inside Christmas decorations (no, the stockings cannot just stay on chaise lounge in front of the tree).
12. Declutter Declutter Declutter.
13. Organize and find home for all crafting supplies.
14. Finish Christmas craft gifts (time is counting down).
15. Design and order Christmas cards.
16. Send Senior Portrait into Yearbook company so SwimGirl is not excluded from her Senior Year Yearbook.  (This also includes scanning in SwimGirl's baby picture and getting her to send me her 60 word quote. Hard to do when she isn't currently allowed on the computer.)
17. Clean the floors. (Again.)
18. When list is completed, start all over again.

Number 18 defines the real problem: keeping a house clean with four kids, two dogs and a non-inside-an-office working husband is a gross example of the guy who got stuck pushing the boulder up the hill in Greek Mythology: the house can be cleaned, sparkling and beautiful, all clutter stowed or tossed away, the floors shiny and dog-hair free, the bathrooms sanitary and smelling of lavender, but it only lasts about a day.  Then we're back to the same old behavior that puts us into the house of chaotic mess.  Frankly, I get BORED with doing the same thing day after day, cleaning and cooking and driving them to and fro.  Am I grateful to be able to stay home and maybe work on writing? Absolutely.  But seriously, is it too much to ask to have them put their darn shoes in the boot box and hang up their coats and not drop candy wrappers behind the couch? Is it too much to ask the man to take off his flipping boots already before he stomps across my kitchen floor?

After several years of "just" being a home executive, I'm more understanding of the housewives in the '50s who turned to Valium and speed to get through their days.  At least nowadays, I'm not also required to wear a dress and pearls while I vacuum the floor for the 80th time that week.  (If I met my husband at the door with a kiss and was wearing something other than my cozy fleece pants, he'd wonder where I'd been that day or where I was planning on going later.)  Now, instead of Valium, we have Facebook, Words with Friends and Angry Birds to numb our brains and RockStar and Red Bull to get us moving out of the video-gaming induced haze.

I have to believe that I am not the only woman (or stay at home dad) that feels this way.  When people talk about "Angry Housewives" they usually seem to be referring to the women who go off and cheat on their husbands for lack of something better to do or as revenge for whatever slight they're feeling at that moment.  In my honest opinion, that's exactly the dumbest thing any woman could do: Why on earth would you want to add one more person to the list of people who already are asking for everything from you in the first place? Good grief, I have trouble keeping one man and four kids happy as it is.  Why would I add another man to that group?  If anything, I want A WIFE. Not like "Sister Wives" (although, seriously? Other than having to get over the whole jealousy "I-am-going-to-freak-out-on-you-if-you-touch-my-husband" thing, how bad would it be to be able to say "No, honey, not tonight. Go ask one of the sister wives..."?) where there was sharing of one man going on, but someone who actually enjoys cleaning and cooking and driving duties and could do those things so I could write all day.  I guess that is also called a "Housekeeper" and/or "Nanny", isn't it?  Unless we win the lottery, that'll not be happening anytime soon.

Off to clean the floors.

Random Thoughts

12.5 inches of snow fell on my house over the weekend. It's great that we'll have a white Christmas. Hopefully we'll get a January thaw on the 2nd and all the snow will melt.

Receiving one of my kid's grades recently made me realize how strongly I feel about failure. Basically, I believe that failure isn't an option. I believe that so strongly that I won't even start something if I feel like there's a chance that I might fail in my attempt to succeed.  (This is good in some ways but has also caused me to miss out on trying something new because my fear of failure is so bad.) Unfortunately for my daughter, she's having to come to the same understanding the hard way.  Nothing like having to crack down on a kid the last Christmas she'll be home before she starts college next year.  The frustration I'm feeling as parent is unbelievable. The saddest part is that she doesn't seem to get that she's the one with the power here: follow my plan and privileges will come back; fight it and suffer the extended consequences.  Sometimes having to be a good parent really stinks. (I'm naturally a forgiving person; I prefer to get whatever issue is there out in the open, talk about it - sometimes really loudly - and let it go. Or just sort of forget about it.  So having to follow through on consequences for an extended period of time is really hard.  Especially when my child looks at me with her big brown eyes full of tears.  However, the tears will be forgotten when she opens her mouth and says something totally irresponsible and out-of-line.  That's what's helping me continue with her consequences. Still hard to do, though.)

How is it possible to lose a book in my own house? Oh hey, there it is. Right next to me. Good grief.

Made a double batch of rosettes today. The oil got to the smoking point. Now my house smells like a giant fish fry. I'm not sure if it is a good or bad sign that I didn't set off the smoke alarms.  The rosettes, however, ROCK.

15 days left til Christmas.  Even with our house Griswolded out and the tree (the prettiest tree ever, btw, even though it has a slight case of scoliosis and seems to be doing a peepee dance) is up and decorated and all the white crappy snow on the ground, it doesn't seem like it is really Christmas time yet.  Maybe I need to get more face time with the Hallmark channel movies?

Speaking of Hallmark Channel Christmas movies: I watched one with Tbone over the weekend.  He was scoffing at it at first.  Then he got into it. He was amazed by my powers of prediction - I was telling him what was going to happen (hadn't seen the movie before, I swear!) and he was shocked when I was right.  I then had to explain to him that the Hallmark movies basically follow a formula that begins with two people meeting, falling in love, having their love tested in some way, then ultimately getting married, usually about 2 weeks after they meet and usually on Christmas Day.  Even with all that, he still liked the movie.  I love it that my 16 year old son is still sweet and innocent enough to not have become jaded and cynical yet.  Which can't be said about all kids his age.  For example, I perused my daughter's friends' Twitter posts the other day and discovered that the boy with whom she was supposed to go to the last dance is a very sick-minded individual.  (The fact that her grades caused her to be grounded and unable to attend the dance with the disgusting boy was one little glimmer of happiness for my husband and I in what is a very unhappy situation.  Now if the attraction wears off during her time of groundation, life will be very good.) It does make me wonder what is going on with my daughter's head that would cause her to be attracted to this boy, too.

What would cause kids to think that using the n-word or the c-word in their tweets is acceptable behavior? Is it possible that they don't understand that unless their account is protected that ANYONE can read their tweets? Honestly, I don't get it.  I'm waiting for his next tweet to be Anthony Wiener-esque. Why would anyone believe that their 140 character thoughts on masturbation is something the whole world should see?  It is a sad commentary on what has become acceptable in our society.

Finally, conversations between my children that I recently overheard:

Buttercup (6): "Tbone, was that your stomach?"
Tbone (16): "Nope."
Buttercup: "Huh. Must have been mine."
Sparkles (8): "Yep, she gets gassy sometimes."

Sparkles: "Today I tooted and it smelled just like Daddy's toots!"
Buttercup: "I know because you made me smell them."
Sparkles: "Didn't they smell just like Daddy's?"
Buttercup: "Nope. They were worse."
Sparkles: "They smelled great!"

(I have an idea now of what my kids will be posting someday when they have Twitter.  Why are bodily functions funny anyway?)

A Snapshot of My World

A Typical School Day Morning:

5am Hubby leaves for his 2+ hour commute to current job location.

6:15am Re-awoken by alarm blaring (enter title here) song from local Christian Radio station, slap snooze.

6:25am Alarm goes off again; new song blaring. Slap snooze again.

6:30am Decide to turn off alarm as brain is running anyway and sleep is no longer possible. Lie as still as possible while ruminating over the day's upcoming events (kids off to school, errands to run, chores to complete, hockey games, swim practice....)

6:32am Remember that there is still half a DVR'd Hallmark movie to watch, flip on TV and resume movie.

6:39am Tearing up over sweetness of Hallmark movie love story plot.

6:44am Hear basement shower go on; oldest child in shower. Glance at clock to check start time.

6:49am Cry a little more over Hallmark movie, check child's showering time so far.

6:55am Shower still going. Movie almost over.

6:59am Think: That child better get out soon or her brother won't have any hot water! Wish I knew how to turn off the hot water and surprise her...

7:01am Hear the CLUNK as basement shower is shut off.  Movie over, flip to Fox News.

7:05am Decide that am still burned-out from the election and really don't give a crap that Romney is having lunch with Obama, so Obama can a) look like he's a real gentleman and b) steal Romney's ideas and pass them off as his own regarding the budget crisis, so turn off Fox News and roll out of bed.

7:15am In kitchen hoping for some coffee, only to find that hubby has emptied coffee pot completely.  Mutter to self about no coffee while grinding coffee beans.

7:16am Oldest child attempts to get into my coffee-making space to make breakfast for herself. Tease her by getting into her space right back.

7:17am Dancing in circles in middle of kitchen, hand over my eye, saying "Gross! Gross! Gross! You licked my eye!" while oldest child and 16 year old son laugh at me.  Say to oldest child "Don't lick your friends!" Her response: "At least I didn't bite you."

7:21am 16 year old son hands me dress shirt and pants and says "Thanks mommy," before going downstairs to a (probably cold) shower.

7:23am 8 year old child comes into kitchen still in pjs, saying "It's pajama & movie day at school today, so all I had to do was put on my boots and hat on. We get to watch 'Santa Buddies' and not 'A Christmas Story' or 'Inkheart' because my teacher forgot to tell us we can only watch 'G' movies." ("A Christmas Story" isn't Rated-G? Who knew? Good thing I didn't let her take "Christmas Vacation" like she wanted to!)

7:28am Ironing shirt and pants. Get into argument with oldest child over her date for the Sadie Hawkins dance. Feeling very much lied to. Am told "YOU NEVER LET ME DO ANYTHING!" (Lies! Lies! Damn lies!) Take away oldest child's car keys and tell her to find a ride or ride the bus.

7:31am Still fighting with oldest child over fact that boy she "isn't dating" is disrespectful because a) he rarely drives, b) when he does drive, he doesn't even pull into driveway to pick her up, c) and the fact that he needs to get over his "fear" of me and come into our house, because really? That text message telling him that if he drove her car again and I found out that I would report it stolen was so 7 months ago - get over it already, man up and come into the dang house or I really will give him a reason to be scared of me.

7:40am Boy-child comes upstairs in shorts, wondering why he has no clothes yet, and if he has to ride the bus, how will he do it without pants?

7:42am Finish ironing boy's pants and shirt, vowing that he will get better shirts than the 65/35 poly/cotton blend hubby bought him (no wonder the shirts "tear up his neck"!).

7:45am Make youngest child her requested PBJ sammie for breakfast.  Fight some more with oldest child. Text BFF today's troubles. Fight irritation over the fact that maybe she is right and that I am overreacting (I NEVER OVERREACT!) again. Happy she agrees with me about being lied to and that boy needs to be more respectful.

7:50am Grudgingly give keys back to oldest child, with conditions: a) She finds other friends than boy to hang out with this weekend, b) that he drives and comes to door to pick her up if she does hang out with him, and c) that they start hanging out here more often because it is impossible to trust someone with my baby-girl who refuses to actually let me get to know them.  She agrees and snatches the keys from me.

8:15am Two oldest children run out the door to school. Youngest children dressed, teeth-brushed, hair-brushed, on couch, playing Wii.  Think, I have time to check my email before they have to be out the door... crack open laptop and log-on.

8:31am See email from son's hockey coach, telling us that 8 year old "Sparkles" will be welcome to sing "National Anthem" at hockey games when there isn't a music student there to do it.  Tell Sparkles, who bounces around like a puppy in happiness.  Ask her, "Some of the games you'd have to miss swim practice in order to be there to sing for the Varsity - would that be ok?" Her reply: "UM, YEAH, MOM! I'd rather sing than swim any day!" (Guess her getting a swimming scholarship to college like her older sister is out.)

8:47am Look up from computer and realize that the girls have 4 minutes before their bus will come; yell "Girls! You gotta Go!"

8:48 Mass panic ensues, reminiscent of the proverbial "Flying around like a fart in a mitten," as the three of us run around trying to find boots, mittens, hats (heehee cute sparkly Santa hats!), backpacks, agendas, jackets, snowpants, etc.

8:51am Girls at bus-stop. Did not miss bus. Back to the computer for me.  Now what?

Adventures in Mowing

A kid's paradise. Note the hockey gear airing out on the deck - sunshine is the best deodorizer.

I have four children, two of which are old enough to mow the lawn; however, it is easier to do it myself than to spend 13 hours nagging one of them to get off the couch and mow.  Realizing that my lawn was the scruffiest of the neighborhood (ok, so that's not exactly true, there are a couple down the block that seem to be growing dandelions instead of grass...) and that tomorrow it is supposed to be in the 90s, I decided to mow instead of doing other chores, like vacuuming or cleaning whatever yellow substance is now in my front hall (youngest child just informed me of its presence).  (Have you ever noticed that mowing the lawn is satisfying because the lawn stays looking nice for at least a few days as opposed to cleaning the house, which might stay clean for 2 minutes or less if hurricane-children roar through?)  One of the reasons why I like mowing the lawn myself is because it is something I can look at and think "ah, clean" for at least a few minutes. And since I spend as much time as possible avoiding the inside of my house - I mean seriously, we have like 2 weeks of summer in Minnesota when we can be outside, so why wouldn't I spend every minute possible on my awesome, giant, albeit in need of stain, deck? - and since I consider mowing a form of exercise, I decided to do it myself.


Donning my earbuds and failing to change out of my flip-flops for sturdier shoes (which has resulted in a few hot spots on my feet now), I headed out to mow.  Mowing at my house is a major undertaking, not only because we have a large corner lot (about .25 acre, which for in the burbs, is a good-sized lot), but because there's a multitude of tasks that must be done prior to mowing, which include: picking up dog poop (something I try to get the kids to do, but usually do myself due to the same reason I end up mowing), picking up various toys, bikes, balls, sticks, pool toys, random shoes, random clothing, towels, scooters, hoses, sprinklers; unhooking the extension cord from the pool filter cord and rolling each up (woe be to anyone who forgets to do this small task - the man of the house would cork if either were run over by a lawnmower, never mind the fact that the MotH is a high-voltage lineman and perfectly capable of repairing any type of electrical cord, as he proved when I was digging a new veggie bed and sliced through the underground dog fence line.  He was a little peeved, but fixed it with some electrical tape while muttering something about women...the dog only gets out that side of the yard now and then now.) and putting them out of reach of the mower.  Once all those tasks are completed, then the mower comes out.  I'd love a rider, and know for certain that if we had one my son would be all over cutting the grass.  But just like the snowblower we keep talking about buying (it would have been great the winter of '10-'11 when we had 88" of snow), we still don't have a riding lawn mower, but a self-propelled one.  Last year, the self-propelled mower was great during the last cutting as I plowed through several inches of oak leaves (I was seriously sick of raking at that point) and only died when I nailed a large rock.  I was almost done, so even though I killed the mower, I fired it back up and kept going.  Apparently, the blade was bent quite dramatically because not only was our grass cut pretty funkily, but I also managed to take off the head of one of our sprinklers.  Oops.  (That caused a fair bit more than muttering by the MotH when he saw what I had done, but he wasn't home when the lawn needed cutting and a girl has to do what a girl has to do, right?)


TMotH is very particular about how I mow, especially after the rock incident, but since he's hardly ever home, his main directive I try to follow is not getting grass in the pool.  One would think that a 15'x48" pool would be easy to avoid and that grass wouldn't be able to scale 4 feet to jump into our pool, but if one isn't careful, a lot of grass goes right into the water and then has to be fished out or else the pool turns green. (Which is pretty gross.  We had that happen the first summer we had the pool - made the mistake of going to Wisconsin Dells for a week during which the MotH unplugged the filter but left the cover on during the hottest stretch of weather that summer.  When we arrived back home, our pool was one big algae pond. NASTY. By the time we got the algae out, the weather was no longer warm and we had to take the pool down anyway.) The plus side of trying to avoid shooting grass into the pool is the cool pattern that is made by circling the pool in one direction.  Since there's only about three feet between one side of the pool and the garden fence, I end up going over the same strip of grass about ten times, but keeping grass out of the pool (and the MotH's ire down) is worth the extra steps.


So, as I puttered along behind the mower (trying to remember that pulling it backward works better when I release the "drive" lever), I was struck by the random thoughts that flitted through my brain, such as:

• "What the heck kind of song is this? That's what I get for downloading music off the boy's iPod. Dang it."
• "I wonder what the hurricane girlies are up to? I hope they haven't dragged out the paints."
• "Was that dog poop?  Did it get on my shoe? No? Whew."
• "All the Singlelies...All the Singlelies..." (As in Beyonce's song, "All the Single Ladies", which, btw, isn't even on my iPod.  "Singlelies" comes from my bff's nieces - it is how they sing it. I don't hear this in kids' voices, but in my bff's, which makes me laugh.)
• "I should write a book for teens about my teenage years."
• "On second thought, I don't want my teenagers reading my story from when I was a teenager; it might give them ideas."
• "On third thought, I don't want theMotH reading my story, either. Scratch that."
• "Easy come easy go...."
• "Hmmmm, I wonder what the girls are up to now? Boy, I hope they haven't decided to play with playdough."
• "What is that smell? Where is the dog poop?" Check shoes. "Nope, not on my shoe. Where the heck is it?" Start looking all over the mower, discover poop riding along on the "mud flap" on the back of the mower (no, I don't know the technical term for that particular mower piece). "Gross." Take stick and try to flick the poop off, only to smear it. Give up.
• "Is that screaming coming from the house? I hope they haven't got blood on the carpet." Take earbuds off. "No screams from my house. Good."
• "I wonder what's going on on Twitter?"
• "Criminy, being the only one for the kids is getting old. I hope the MotH gets work closer to home soon."
• "How is it possible that I am the mom of a senior?"
• "Ooooo, that's a cool pattern. I should try an s-curve now.  Wow. Pretty."
• "It sure would be nice if theMotH was home to see my cool patterns."
• "Is that screaming? That has to be screaming. Oh wait, that's on my iPod. Stupid new pop music."
• "Oh yay, another Taylor Swift song. How many Taylor Swift songs did oldest child have on her iPod anyway?  At least I made a playlist that avoids all the Chipmunk and High School Musical songs. Thank goodness."
• "How can Romney even be considering Pawlenty as a VP pick? Man, I really hope he doesn't pick him. I'd be embarrassed to harass the liberal neighbors with a Romney-Pawlenty sign in my yard."
• "I wonder if I can still get a Bachmann sign or two for my yard this year even though her district has changed? I hope so. The lib neighbors just love that one. Hehheh."
• "I'm sexy and I know it!" Do a little dance with the mower. "I bet the neighbors think I'm nuts. Oh well, they're probably right."
• "Is it really only Tuesday?"
• "Was that a hurricane-child grabbing another popsicle? I wonder if Michelle Obama thinks letting kids live on popsicles contributes to obesity? She ought to see my kids - not an ounce of fat on any of them. So dumb."

That, my friends, is a sample of my random musings while mowing.  The yard looks great now.  I should get out the weed-whacker and attack the clumps of grass along the flower and veggie beds, but the last time I tried that I got a little crazy and got all the way down to the dirt in some places.  The yard still hasn't recovered. Not to mention I'm kind of scared of the string.  That thing is wicked. And I don't want to put on pants. No, I'm not mowing in underwear, I have on shorts. But it is too warm out for jeans and sneakers and did I mention I'm scared of the weed-whacker? Same goes for the hedge trimmer - haven't tried it and don't want to start.  I mean, if I started doing all the "man-jobs" around here, whatever would theMotH do when he actually is home? I have to leave something for him to do otherwise he'll decide he's unnecessary to our survival, I mean other than the usual replacing the burned-out light bulbs in the kitchen or asking oldest child and I if we've checked the oil in our vehicles lately or not.  He needs something to complain about having to do, right?


Next up: cleaning the pool.  There seems to be some sort of mass suicide pact among large beetle-type bugs and they're using drowning in my pool as their preferred method of death.  I think if I were a bug in on a suicide pact I'd vote for flying directly at cars. Seems like a quicker more painless form of death, especially compared to drowning. (Oh man, now I'm listening to Justin Bieber. Definitely time to go through the ol' playlists. Ugh.)  I'll get right on cleaning the pool after I figure out what the yellow substance is on the floor of my front hall.  I hope it's just yellow popiscle residue and not something from an overly excited fat geriatric dog.