The Meanest Mom on the Block

Swim fan

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 02:58:00 +0000

Fishes in the ocean

Fishes in the sea

Do not wait ‘til we’re in the pool
To declare, “Gotta pee!”

Only 4 weeks go to before the Midget can swim on her own…or at least without me in the water with her. That day can’t get here fast enough.

The key to my heart

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 01:16:00 +0000

As with any large city, San Francisco has its share of major intersections, with anywhere from 8 to 12 interweaving lanes.

Not actual intersection. But today it felt like it.

We have one of these only three blocks from our house. We navigate it at least twice daily (without incident) when dropping BMOC off or picking him up from school. Today Midget decided it was *also* the ideal spot to drop our spare house keys out the window as we rolled right on through.

“Mommy, what does this button do?”

“Mmmm…”

“Mommy, I feel the wind!”

“Ugh huh…”

“Bye bye-EEE mista keys!”

Clink. Clink, clink…down the side of the car they go…

“SAMANTHA!” whipping my head around while still trying to navigate the intersection, “Where are the keys?!”

Silence.

“Oh. Mygod. SAM! Where ARE they?!”

Petrified silence.

F@$K!!!

And yet…look here. All is not lost. See what we’ve got back?

keyring—once red—not originally designed to look like a pretzel

Imagine, if you will, me obnoxiously double parking the car on the side of the road. See the looks of bewilderment-mixed-with-fear on my children’s faces as they sit helplessly strapped into the backseat. Sympathize as they sit wondering what has possessed their mother to exit the vehicle and march brazenly into commuter traffic.

Now picture me waving my hands in a frenzied attempt to stop tour buses, MUNI buses and all other motorists who couldn’t give a care about my pedestrian, house key issues. Marvel at how my anger and frustration overwhelmed any sense of logic and reason. (Because—hello?—these are just keys and it would have been a big fat bummer to get sent to the ER in an attempt to retrieve them.)

And be glad that today that wasn’t you (it was me.) Because today being the mother of a 2-not-sure-if-she’ll-make-it-to-3 year old fell just a little short of awesome.*

####
For you wondering why we we cruise around the city with the spare keys: it’s because the Midget already hid our main set; they have been “hiding” since Monday.

And why exactly did she have direct access to the keys or the window controls in the first place: I’ll thank you to shut up with your 20/20 hindsight.

A is for Anarchy

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 20:26:00 +0000

In 48 hours the Meanest Mom is leaving the Block…well, at least for one night. That’s right, friends: be jealous. Be very, very, super-trouper jealous. It’s time for my Girls Weekend! All the luxury; none of the lame-ass matching t-shirts.

Yippee!!!

Yet...because I can find a way to be negative about almost anything—including my luxury weekend—I’ll admit I’m a little freaked out about leaving the nest unattended. ‘Cause when Mom’s away, the kids will par-tay.

Here's a window to my why: The ABC’s of Daddy Daycare

A is for Anarchy, the political state that will immediately ensue the minute I leave the premises.

B is for Bacon. Despite my having laid out perfectly assembled and labeled meals in the fridge last time I went away for a girls’ weekend, Husband fried up several packs of bacon and served this to himself and the kids. Only bacon. All weekend. I’m not joking.

C is for Craigslist. If I find any new crap in our house upon my return, I’m going to lose whatever’s left of my mind. (C is also for crap.)

D is for Daddy. But it’s also for Don’t. And Discipline. (And if I think that Daddy will use the word “Don’t” or apply “Discipline” this weekend, I’m clearly Delusional.)

E is for Emergency. Please, for 24 hours, can we not have anyone wind up in a room preceded with this word?

F is for Farts. Without me around to ruin the fun, a tournament of Flatulence is sure to reach Olympic levels.

G is for Grandparents. This is one of those (rare) times when I think it would be really great to have them close by. For moral support. Or just even out the alleged adult/child ratio.

H is for Haircut. There are to be no unauthorized haircuts while Mom’s away. And in case it wasn’t clear, Mom is the only one who authorizes the haircuts in the first place. Put down the scissors.

I is for Internet. Just because they are little doesn’t mean the kids don’t know how to use it (which—I’ll admit—I found out the hard way.) No unchaperoned YouTubing, please.

J is for Juice. Juice is juice. It’s not fruit. Don’t let Middle Man try to tell you differently. Over the weekend he still needs to choke down something that grew out of the ground or fell off a tree. (And good luck with that.)

K is for Kraft. Who you might assume is sponsoring my weekend away. Because chances are Husband will default to Mac-n-Cheese for breakfast, lunch and dinner since he has “mastered” the dish. Unless of course he makes enough bacon to get the team through instead…

L is for LoJack. Which we should probably set up in case there is a sudden urge for an outing with kids. (Hide and seek loses a lot of the fun once Security Guards and Amber Alerts are involved.)

M is for Make up. At no point is anyone allowed to play in, apply or prance around in mine. Period.

N is for No. It’s a word I like to use often. Try it out on the kids. I promise they’ll still love you despite your deployment of it.

O is for Opportunity. Husband, this weekend is not your opportunity to start home improvement projects without me around to question them. If you have time to wield a hammer, the kids have time to light the house on fire.

P is for Pajamas. Feel free to change out of these at least once while I’m gone. Even if it’s only to change into clean pajamas.

Q is for Quiet. (OK, you got me. This word has nothing to do with my family. Psych!)

R is for Rules. Of which, I’m sure, there will be none in the House of M.

S is for Sharpie. Washable markers are bad enough; please don’t use the permanent ones. Besides, there will be plenty of time to be chiefed by your friends in college…no need to rush the experience and do it to yourselves now.

T is for Television. Alas, I know it will be on. All. Weekend. Long.

U is for UPS. Please don’t make any deliveries while I’m gone. I like being able to sneak my purchases into the house. If you want to keep seeing me on a regular basis, you are going to have to stay away until Monday morning. Otherwise the jig is up.

V is for Vacuum. Husband, if you were smart enough to marry me, you are smart enough to know how to use one of these. Try it out. You might actually like walking on a clean floor. You never know.

W is for Water. Please combine it with soap and apply you your bodies at some point during my 24 hour absence.

X is for XxXx. As in all the kisses you’ll get when I return. However at the moment I’m looking forward to loving y’all from a distance. Of 47.8 miles to be exact.

Y is for Yogurt. This is a food, not a toy. If the kids ask for it, make sure you ask them what they are planning to do with it. Seriously. I don’t want to have to repaint the walls yet again.

Z is for Zzzzz. As in all the sleep I’m going to try and get while I’m gone. I have a feeling I’ll need my strength reestablishing order upon my homecoming.

Cooties

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 20:56:00 +0000

Both BMOC and Middle Man practice an ancient form of Korean martial art known as Tang Soo Do. Its focus is the development and unification of three basic elements: body, mind and spirit. I like it because the kids can knock each other around in a controlled environment (and not my house, which is clearly not controlled).

As a bonus, the boys have taken to answering me with a military-style “Yes, ma’am!”

I believe the Chinese characters for Tang Soo Do (唐手道 ) literally translate to “the way of the hand.” This further resonates with me since I often employ the way of the hand in my parenting. Although I’m not sure my interpretation is consistent with what the Eastern founders had in mind...

Anyway, as the name suggests, one who practices Tang Soo Do uses their hands. Both teacher and student. So when a fellow parent asked the instructor not to touch her son because the teacher had the audacity to cough before class, and this parent didn’t want to risk her son getting sick, I pretty much almost fell off my chair.

“Ummmm…this is a little awkward thing to bring up, but I noticed you were coughing…”

“Mmm?”

“Yeah, well, we’re *really* trying to stay healthy…so…could you maybe not touch my child today? Is that a weird thing to ask?”

Yes.

“I mean, I know I could just take him home now...but I’d hate to have him miss this class...and I just *really* need this hour to myself. It's just that as a family we are committed to staying healthy this winter.”

Because obviously other families don’t work collectively to stay booger-free. Dammit, that’s been our problem all along…a lack of unified commitment to resisting infection at all costs.

“Umm…well, I can’t really promise that I won’t touch your child. As their teacher I’m all over them during the class. I will try to reduce it, but it is almost impossible for me not to not touch the students. It’s my job to show them how to position their arms, legs, feet…”

“Yeah…maybe you could just not touch his hands? Or try to take Purell breaks during class? What about that? Could you do that?”

OMG. Are you for real?

“Hmm…OK, well, like I said, I can’t promise that will happen, but we’ll do our best to keep your son cootie-free.”

“Oh, that’s so great. I *really* appreciate you doing what you can. It’s just *so* important to us to stay healthy.”

Because again, it’s not important to anyone else in here. Nor is it important to realize that typically it’s the children fueling the Petri dish, not the teachers. By the way, your son is licking the practice mat right now.

“OK, well, just had to get that off my chest. I’m off to do a little shopping. See you after class!”

Looking forward to it, sister. Like, *so* much.

Porta-potty

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 03:12:00 +0000

The saying goes, “Third time’s a charm.” I’m not sayin’ it’s the reason to keep having kids, but it really has been helpful learning from my triumphs and failures with each successive child.

With toddler no. three I finally figured out that if you keep a potty in the back of the car, you can avoid having to dash like a mad idiot into the nearest Starbucks as soon your little darling announces, “Gotta pee!” (That you JUST asked 2 minutes ago before leaving the house is irrelevant…) Add to this that my current toddler is a girl, and it is all the more brilliant keeping a potty nearby. Where boys love to whip it out any chance they get, nature pee-pee is ever so difficult with your two-year old daughter.

And so now, after six years of parenting, I’ve learned to tote around the porta-potty. As gross as it sounds, it really does work wonders. Here’s how you too can be awesome like me:

Go to Craigslist and get yourself one of these babies for cheap. Because—let’s be honest—who needs to spend big bucks on brand new plastic that’s just going to be defecated in.

Put in the back of your car.
When your child needs to relieve his/herself, place a biodegradable kitchen bag over the top of porta-potty. This allows for comfortable seating for “doin’ business” combined with easy removal of said business. And because it’s a BioBag you can have a moment of superiority while doing the environment a favor.

Once child is done, tie up bag *well* and remove business to nearest trash can.

That’s it. Four easy—but essential—steps. Especially step no. 4. Which I learned the hard way last weekend.

Husband, as we are pulling up to our house after a day in the city: “OK, you get the kids inside, I’ll take care of the bikes and bags in the back of the car.”

Me: “Fine, fine.”

Me, to three wiped-out children: “Come on, guys. Yes, I know you are tired and hungry, but let’s get inside. Daddy’ll unpack the car; I’ll figure out what we’re doing for dinner.”

Husband, from street: “What is…What?!...What spilled back here?”

Me: “Huh?”

Husband: “OH MY GOD! Did you NOT take care of the piss bag? Disgusting! We have pee all over the back of the car!”

Oops. But guess who is finally allowed to get her car professionally cleaned and detailed.

Holiday Letter

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 01:48:00 +0000

Christmas is down, the decorations are in boxes ready to be banished under the house for another 11 months…and I’m sitting down to reread my holiday cards one last time before tucking them away. I smile at the cheery faces of kids I know…and those I don’t (who are you people and why are you still sending us a card?!)…and I lament that another year has gone by where I didn’t include a Christmas letter of my own.

It is quite a travesty actually that my family and friends are not up to speed on the lives of Team M. If I had pulled my finger out to made it happen, our letter might have read a little something like this:

Dearest Friends and Family,

This has been another blessed year.

Zach (BMOC), our eldest at age 6, boldly finished top of his class in preschool and has started attending a prestigious Kindergarten in San Francisco’s highly-regarded public school district. Heavily recruited by several schools, Zach based his final selection upon whether he could avoid wearing a school uniform. His ability to write his name and recite his phone number suggests Zach’s on the fast track to becoming a member of Mensa.

Liam (Middle Man), age 4, showed more than just athletic prowess this year while playing club soccer. In addition to a fondness for the sport, Liam revealed that he also has superhuman ability similar to Spider Man and spent an inordinate amount of game time casting spider webs on people (rather than chasing the ball, defending his goal or generally paying attention to the game at all). We hope Liam chooses to use his powers for good rather than evil in 2011.

Samantha (the Mighty Midget) is our baby no more. This sweet little bundle of love has developed a vocabulary beyond her two wee years. She has body language and gestures to go with some of her favorite sayings, including “You don’t talk to me like that. I am a big girl and I can do what I want” as well as “Give me a break and get out of my way.” Another child prodigy, her naturally dramatic tendencies suggest she’ll be a Hollywood D-lister in no time.

Husband relentlessly endeavors to make our lives a circus…of fun. This year he’s continued to stock our house with furniture and sporting equipment from the "FREE" section of Craigslist. He’s also made several improvements to our home. When not sprucing up the house, he likes to watch football. Especially reruns of the World Cup USA/England game.

Our extended family—the children’s grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins—have also spent lots of time with us this year. It’s probably because we are just that awesome. The privilege of playing halfway house has extended to about 8 weeks out of the year. As in two months/year. As in a lot. But we love sharing space with the family-at-large. Especially the bathrooms.

As for moi? I am just the best. The end.

So, wishing you Happy Holidays. But not happier than mine.

And this is why I can't be bothered with making (new) mom friends...

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 21:25:00 +0000

I have to believe that San Francisco is not the only hotbed for crazy women taking competitive mothering to new heights. You know who I mean: women who are the dysfunctional combination of Head Cheerleader meets Wall Street Tycoon meets Mother Earth. They shun common sense parenting in favor of “techniques” and “philosophies” espoused in every book on child rearing they can get their overzealous hands on.

Often with their bodies, minds and careers in a state of limbo (typically a result of their new role as mom—or even better, stay-at-home-mom) I suppose they have to exert their drive for success somewhere. And so, they live vicariously through their children, passively competing through them and with them. It’s so g*ddamn lame.

One of my fellow mean mom friends shared this video with me. You’ve got to watch; it is so on the money. (If, however, you accidentally found yourself here, but sympathizing with the Turbo Parent I have aforementioned, you might want to log off instead…)

Click Here: Why I Can't Make Mom Friends, Posted by val1107

Thank g*d for the friends I’ve already got. If I had to start over, making new BFFs on the playground, I’d stick my finger in my eye.

Random acts of malice, pt. 5

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 20:10:00 +0000

Let's face it: shit rolls down hill. So when I'm in a bad mood, the kids need to watch out lest they bear the brunt of my wrath.

To make up for today’s maternal malice I bought cookie dough. The plan: children and mother will reconnect over melty, chocolate chip happiness.

Except that in an effort to make myself feel better immediately, I ate most of the cookie dough before it got in the oven. I have enough left for about...let's see...yep: three cookies.

Good thing I’ve only got three kids.

Like a soldier who goes MIA

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 03:43:00 +0000

Yesterday a friend of mine e-mailed and asked what had happened to the Meanest Mom: why no posts? Was it possible that I was no longer mean? That I was out of material?

Rest assured fine people, that is not the case. The number of stories that have gone undocumented over the past few weeks is criminal. (The acts as well as the fact that I haven’t blogged about them.) And though in many ways I welcome the day when I can abandon my dubious title, the Meanest Mom on the Block is still plenty mean. She’s just on a new block. For the time being at least.

God save the Queen? Yes, and all her subjects, too. Team Murdin has come to town and we’ve got our game on.

****

Stay tuned for more on

Expedition to England, Summer ’10:

2 Weddings +3 Countries + 0 Communication = Infinite Chaos

Operation “Toddler Takes Toy Story 3” = FAIL

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 01:35:00 +0000

Today I met a couple neighbors and their kids at the local cinema for a viewing of Toy Story 3. May I just say, Pixar does some fantastic work. This movie does not disappoint: it is adorable and well worth the $$$ that a trip to the movies will run you. But, may I also make one simple suggestion? Please. For the love of all that's pure and good in the world:

LEAVE YOUR TWO YEAR OLD AT HOME.

I was warned by friends: 2 year olds are too squirly. They don’t have the attention. You’ll regret it. But with three kids so close together in age, it hardly seems fair to keep the boys under house arrest while we wait for Midget to develop some (much needed) social skills. So foolishly (and stubbornly) I did bring Mighty with the boys and me. Afterall, she loves movies and watches anything that her brothers do, so why not this show? But again, the subtle-yet-important difference being this: it’s not what you watch, but how and where you watch it. Watching a movie in your own home where you can get up, run around, and generally not worry about making anyone else’s life miserable is a very different experience (for child and parent) than being in a theater.

Let me elaborate:

10:00 Enter cinema complex. Tell Midget she must take the stairs instead of the escalator. Experience Midget’s first fit.
10:02 Finally get to top of stairs.
10:03 On way to theater, pass restrooms. Listen to Midget announce emphatically “NO PEE PEE!”
10:04 Step into theater; pick best seats. Switch seats with brothers; switch back. Repeat.
10:07 See other friend arrive with Cool-Dad-Who-Buys-Son-Popcorn. Brothers M and Midget demand to know where their popcorn is.
10:08 Mom gives in and attempts to take Midget to concession stand. Midget denies Mom. Insists she will sit quietly with Brothers, Friend and Friend’s Mom. “No go! You go! Stay here!”
10:10 While Mom is in line buying popcorn, Friend’s Mom appears with Midget. Apparently Midget tried to make a run for it while Mom was out of the theater. Friend’s Mom passes Midget back to Mom.
10:12 Back in theater—with Midget and popcorn. All are happy. Trailers start.
10:15 Trailers continue.
10:20 Trailers are interesting, but Mom worries about losing the kids before the feature film even starts.
10:22 Trailers drag on. Midget and Middle Man fight over who gets to use the shared armrest. Much shooshing and placating is done by Mom.
10:25 Last trailer and Middle Man finishes the popcorn that was supposed to last him throughout the movie. Demands more. BMoC agrees to share the rest of his if a trip to McDonald’s is in the near future. Mom agrees to shut everyone up.
10:30 Movie starts. Mom sighs with relief. All are happy.
10:50 Midget jumps out her seat and announces, “Gotta pee!” Mom grumbles something in appropriate, especially given other children are in earshot.
10:55 Trip to facilities successful. Mom and Midget settle back into their seats.
11:10 Midget announces, “Gotta poo!” Mom ironically less annoyed just comes to terms with the fact she’ll have to watch the movie when it comes out on DVD. Takes Midget back to facilities.
11:15 Trip to facilities unsuccessful. (Unless just playing with the toilet paper constitutes success.)
11:16 Mom and Midget try to sneak back into the theater. Again.
11:25 Midget wants to switch seats.
11:30 Midget wants to dance in the side aisle.
11:35 Midget makes a run for it. Mom catches her before she can get to the bottom step.
11:40 Midget runs up and down an empty row of seats while Mom sits on the bottom step.
11:45 Suspecting Midget is becoming too much a distraction for fellow patrons, Mom benches Midget outside of the theater and she attempts to watch movie through small window in door.
11:50 Midget’s wails of woe subside with promises that she’ll be good.
11:55 Mom and Midget find new seats in theater: on the floor in exit path. New seating allows ample room for Midget to dance, do somersaults, and also provides easy access to main hallway where possible future screams of frustration cannot be heard (well) by fellow movie goers.
12:15 Midget settles down and finds a comfortable spot, laying in Mom’s lap.
12:20 Mom returns with Midget to original seats (and her two abandoned children, the Brothers M).
12:21 Midget spies empty bag and demands more popcorn. Mom placates her with “OK, OK, just hold tight, it’s coming, we'll get some in a minute, hold on…” Mom is actually thinking, “I’m going to beat you with the popcorn if you don’t shut the f#@% up.”
12:30 Movie ends. The Brothers M turn and ask Mom when they can come back and do it all again. The answer to which being either “when Hell freezes” or at the very least “when your sister turns 4.”

I will now be changing my name from Meanest to Dumbest Mom on the Block.

The war for independence

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 23:24:00 +0000

It’s tough letting your kids do things for themselves. While I’d like to pretend it’s because I'm reluctant to let them go, sad to see them moving just a little further from the nest, really it’s just because that learning curve often creates more mess for me in the here-and-now.

Sam (aka, the Mighty Midget) is all of 2 years old. And her favorite word is “SELF!”

“Here, honey, let me help you get those shoes on.”

“SELF!”

“Baby, can Mommy help you put that dress on?”

“No! Go’way! Do it self!”

“Sweetie, let me help you with this bottle of water. No, come on, it’s too full. Let me help.”

“NOOOOOO! SEEEEEEEELF!”

That the shoes wind up on the wrong feet, the dress is inside-out, upside down, and she’s drenched herself with the bottle of water is irrelevant. She’s 2 going on 22, and she knows best.

It just makes me CRAZY! I’m thinking, “For the love of all that’s holy, please let me put the goddamn shoes on your stubborn little feet so that we can get out the door! We are already late!” But I can’t. I let her do it herself because I know that I have to sooner or later. And hey, eventually she will be able to do it all by herself. (I just pray she won’t wind up color-blind like her brothers…who really puts a red-and-blue striped shirt with khaki camo shorts anyway? What Not To Wear? We’ve got a candidate for you right here. His name is Zach.)

Anyway...

Yesterday Mighty announces with a wave of her hand, “Poo! Gotta go poo!” as she prances out of the kitchen on her way to the toilet.

“OK, let Mommy come and help you.”

“No! Self! Pri’cy (privacy). Do it self. Go’way.”

Fine, you little prima donna. Go for it.

Not more than a minute passes and then I hear gagging coming from the general direction of the bathroom. Oh god.

“Honey? What’s the matter...OH MY GOD! What happened?!”

There is poo everywhere. On her dress. On her hands. On the floor. And yes, folks, on her face. Hence, the gagging. Because if you have poo on your face, I’m gonna bet you’d gag, too.

Crying. (From Sam. Not me, surprisingly enough.)

“It’s OK, baby. Mommy’s here. Let me take care of this. You’re OK. Alright. Let’s rinse off your face. Here, drink some water. You’re fine.”

There are just sometimes when asking for a hand is OK. And yes, I guess I should remember that when I find myself in deep shit—it’s OK to ask for help. You can’t always do everything by yourself.

****
Hope you have a great Independence Day of your own. Happy 4th, everyone!

Always a winner

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 19:58:00 +0000

I don’t have any trophies. Well, not anymore. I used to have some from ponytail-league softball (like, from when I was 10). I even had a few cheerleading medals—but isn’t THAT a story for another time.

Now: nothing.

As an adult I’ve managed to go without recognition. Some might think this is wise: flying under the radar and all. But my neglected ego (stop laughing) could use a little faux gold bling on the shelves. Something to let me know just how fabulous I am.

And so, I’m creating my own: the Deadbeat Mom Awards.

Being a Deadbeat Mom comes more naturally to some than others. Some probably learn from their own moms. For some, maybe it's just their cultural norm. For whatever reasons, most of the women I spend time with don’t really fit the image (see above). They’re all cute. And fashionable. And super into buying overpriced-organic-anything-as-long-as-it-fits-in-their-reusable-canvas-bags. They do whatever it takes to make sure their kids are healthy! And fit! And ready to take on the 10+ club activities crammed in post-preschool.

Still...I contend that while no one really aspires to be a Deadbeat Mom, we are all part of this group every once and a while. You just get caught off guard and WHOOPS! you drove home forgetting to buckle Junior into his carseat (and you don’t realize it until you are—thank God—safely home). Or YIKES! I totally didn’t mean to throw the baseball that hard, and no I wasn’t trying to give you a bloody nose while we played catch.

There’s the time Liam fell off the top bunk, and instead of racing him to the ER, I nonchalantly informed him that with my Mommy Powers I could “kiss it and make it all better.” Xrays about a week later showed that he did, in fact, have a broken arm. My Mommy Powers: sucky at best.

Then last week I caught Zach watching True Blood. Yeah, he’s 5. And at 5 he really shouldn’t be watching a show filled with violence, blood and frenzied vampire sex. Unfortunately Husband’s series recording picked up the East Coast airing and thus cut off the episode of Dragon Tales Zach had been previously watching. Awesome.

So, come on, ladies, time to fess up. You can put on your Jackie-Oversized sunglasses and hide behind your huge Orla Keily bag all you want, but I know you are out there. Won’t you stand up with me and accept your award with whatever dignity is left? And, yes, while might all wind up in Hell, at least we'll be there together. (I’ll bring the boxed wine.)

The next best thing

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 23:04:00 +0000

So yesterday I lamented the fact that I do not yet possess a vuvuzela. Since I never learned how to whistle like a freight train (you know the kind: where you stick two fingers in your mouth and let rip a shrill that can be heard across town), I must rely on devices such as these to get the kids’ collective attention.

But just as I sat down to see how much they were on eBay, I heard the low bleating of some kind of horn from downstairs.

Low and behold: the boys have found our didgeridoo. Not quite as portable as a vuvuzela, but I’m excited thinking of all the ways we can use it in the meantime.

****
Why do we have an authentic didgeridoo? Oh, we got it as a wedding present. Because really, nothing says “wishing you luck and love in your married life” like an aboriginal wind instrument. What? Why are you laughing? You mean YOU didn’t get one when you got married? Huh…Too bad for you.

Deep thoughts, brought to you (in part) by FIFA

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 00:34:00 +0000

While it’s far from over, with both the US and English teams knocked out of the World Cup, the intensity has lessened considerably at the House of M. And so now I can sit back and reflect on some things I’ve learned while enjoying the world's most-watched tournament thus far:

Despite having soccer on ALL THE TIME at our house, I still don’t understand the rules of the game.
The world’s oldest sport needs to catch up with modern-day technology. Listen footballers around the world: instant replay could save us from much unnecessary grief! Was or was not the goal justified? Was there a foul? Was he offsides? Or...in our house: which boy threw the first punch? How did the Sharpie hieroglyphics really get all over the bedroom wall?
I should have been handing out yellow and red cards to my kids long ago. Thinking about all the times my offending offspring should have been benched from penalty behavior makes my head swim.
From what I know of their international reputation, our 2 year old’s tantrums suggest perhaps a future playing on the Italian national team.
And lastly...When you have a baby, why doesn’t the hospital send you home with a vuvuzela along with your prescription for Vicodin? I’m not saying you’d need it right away, but I know it would come in real handy every now and again at our house.

Extreme make over, the blog edition

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 17:46:00 +0000

Don't worry: yes, you are at the right spot. I just got a little carried away playing with the new blog templates and creating a new look.

Whatcha think?

(Sorry for all you e-mail subscribers...you have no idea what I'm talking about...you'll have to go to the site to see!)

More soon...stay tuned.

Why I'd like to punch a gift horse in the mouth

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 23:03:00 +0000

In case you didn’t know this about me, let me share: I cannot stand clutter. Thus, the decision to have three children suggests I must be some kind of masochist. My house is cluttered with children, let alone the clutter that children collect. Like toys, for example.

One of my favorite things to say is, “if you don’t clean up these toys right now, they’re going in the trash.” 1) This hopefully gets the kids to move into action, tidying their books/cars/trains/blocks/whatever lest they lose the beloved playthings. 2) It makes me feel OK about junking a few items here and there. Nothing major—I have yet to actually send Spiderman or a Star Wars light saber to the dump. But just enough of a clear out to feel like we’ve got some much-needed breathing room, and (if anything) rid ourselves of those weird items extracted from birthday goodie bags or trips to the dentist.

Yesterday I once again let the kids play out in the front yard. The toys of choice: my gigantic cardboard boxes from numerous UPS deliveries, proving my point that the kids don’t need all the plastic, battery-operated, shrieking crap they’ve got. All they need is for mommy to keep shopping online and everyone should be happy.

But I digress…the kids: playing outside…

And then I hear a trio of “Wow!” and “So cool!” and “Thank youuuuuuuuu!” and I go out the front door to see one of my neighbors has brought down an entire shopping back of—let’s just call it what it is—crap. Crappy toys that he’s apparently been collecting since the dawn of time.

This is what I like to call the “Disney” collection. Poor Mickey. Obviously got the worse end of a fight with Donald. And, hey! A megaphone! Exactly what this house needs: amplification for noise from the kids.

This we’ve named the “Tin from the 50’s” collection. These toys are not only old and rusty, but they make lots of noise. Yippee! A tin tambourine, complete with sexy gypsy. A scarey-ass clown clacker. Rattles leftover from a New Year's party circa 1955. Twirly gadgets that should have been left on the set of The Howdy Doody Show. And a single wind up firetruck that all three kids are now fighting over. Sweet.

I am not sure what the hell this stuff is. A brass dish? A string with a fly-fishing fly? A miniature sombrero from the neighborhood junkeria? Who knows. And unless it crosses your threshold, who cares.

And my favorites: ceramic figurines. Perfect for play as well as décor.

So awesome.

I need to get those kids to play in the backyard from now on.

Driver’s ed

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 18:42:00 +0000

I’m a good driver.

Seriously, I am.

I’m the beautiful harmony of safe-yet-efficient on the road. I observe the zipper principle (when two lanes narrow into one, you take turns merging with your fellow drivers in adjacent lane). I give those turning into traffic a chance to pull out. I get a small high from the warm-hearted hand wave saying, “Thank you, lady! Giving me the chance to pull out of this here gas station before next Tuesday has TOTALLY made my day!” I don’t run red lights…but I also don’t stick it to the drivers behind me by slowing to a snail’s pace when I see yellow. (There’s not much worse than a hyper-safe driver who stuffs you up by making you miss the light because they drop to 5 miles/hour as soon as the light goes amber.) I have never hit a cat, dog, or anything that breathes for that matter. I can parallel park my SUV or truck in a way that makes my tractor-driving dad proud.

I’m a good driver.

So imagine my surprise when last week, as I’m merrily driving along, I hear honking followed the sound of an engine gunned, then see a car rocket in front of me. I mean, this is the City, and people drive a little more recklessly than in the ‘burbs, but you still wonder “what the…?” The light turns red; we all stop. Then I see the driver of this car get out and seemingly approach mine. What?! I’ll be honest: my mind went a little blank. I couldn’t figure out what to process first: that I’d found 50 Cent’s long-lost brother, or the fact that I was in the bowels of the City with him approaching me and my car (complete with a tinge of malice).

So, apparently I cut him off. (Between you and me, I beg to differ. Especially as he wound up in front of me.) Figuring a battle of logic wasn’t going to help me out of this situation, I just apologized and made sure my doors were still locked.

** Quick PSA: immediately apologizing stuns aggressive people. They can’t do much with an apology except repeat it really loudly on their way back to their own car. It might sound something along the lines of, “That’s right you're sorry. Stupid lady driver. You’d better be sorry, cuttin’ me off. Open your eyes...Sorry ass driving...blah, blah, blah...” **

Did I mention that my kids were in the backseat during all this? Yeah, that makes this all the better.

“Mom, why was that man yelling at you?”

“Well, he was concerned that Mommy wasn’t driving safely, and he wanted to come over and remind me to be careful.”

“He seemed really mad.”

“No, baby. He was just worried I wasn’t being as safe as I should be.”

“Oh.”

I’m guessing a split screen conversation with my do-rag-wearing guardian angel wouldn’t have featured the same explanation or choice of words.

Still, I maintain I’m a good driver.

And then I got this two days later.

My guess is that Husband’s going to be teaching the kids how to drive.

Random acts of malice, pt. 4

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 23:00:00 +0000

Thanks to a FUN case of food poisoning, I’ve been the unwilling creator of the most fragrant wind. Unforutunately this did not go undetected for long, and as soon as the boys started writhing on the floor from the foul odors, I maturely blamed the fumes on their sister. Because, hey, at two she can’t really argue otherwise, and my boys are easily duped.

In the meantime, y’all might want to stay upwind.

Labor of love

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 04:18:00 +0000

This weekend we celebrated Liam’s fourth birthday. (Liam, also known as Middle Man, but now simply referred to as Liam because all the code was starting to do my head in…)

Like all neurotic parents of my generation, I was compelled to indulge my boy with a big ol’ birthday party. In my defense, I had yet to actually throw a party for him (despite the fact that his older brother has already logged a gala at the zoo, a neighborhood-wide Halloween/Birthday bash, and another we like to call “The Chuck E. Cheese Incident.”)

Because the weather in San Francisco is so unreliable—especially in the summer—I decided to hold a little soiree at The Party Playhouse instead of our own home. Read: a warehouse in the middle of a low-rent industrial area, not even within the city limits. And I'm sure that just because I’m a big fan of irony, we were actually blessed with one of the hottest days on record anyway, so essentially we invited family and friends to sweat-it-up in a ghetto-fabulous warehouse on the outskirts of hell. Of course. But who cares because the kids loved it. The sweatier and stinkier, the better.

The décor (if you can call it that) at The Party Playhouse is all castles and dragons, so I OF COURSE felt compelled to stay within the theme.

“I want a Spiderman party.”

“I’m not sure…How about a knights and dragons party?”

“Is Spiderman a knight?”

“Ummm…he could be. As long as we can make sure that he’s a purple and yellow Spiderman. And very small. Maybe like an invisible Spiderman.”

“OK.”

Man, sometimes Liam is such an easy sell.

“And you know what kind of cake we should have, big boy?!”

“What, Mom?!”

“A DRAGON CAKE!”

“Like with Spiderman on it?”

“No. Just a dragon. Here, let’s work on it together.”

OK, now THIS Liam loved. He got to be in charge of the green icing. Especially the part when he kept scooping it out of the bowl with his fingers while I was trying to ice each damn cupcake. (My sincere apologies to everyone who actually ate the aftermath of our teamwork-in-cooking.)

“There. We’re done. What do you think?” Smiling, almost ready to pat myself on the back. “We do good work, don’t we?”

“Mom, where are the dragon’s wings?”

Really? Remind me about the wings AFTER the cake is done?

So it turned out to be more of a gigantic salamander cake. But again, it was a cupcake arrangement for four year olds. Four year olds who only care about how much icing is actually on each serving of cake they are given. In fact, they don’t even care that I forgot to add vegetable oil to one of the batches of cupcakes. Not one of them said, “Hey, this cupcake would be great, but it seems to be missing about a 1/3 cup of vegetable oil.” Four year olds are very very forgiving and therefor very awesome in my book.

Anyway, all in I think I invested about 9 days of planning, shopping, goodie-bag assembling, inflatable knight sword blowing-upping, dragon cake sort-of making, and general hand-wringing. In comparison to 9 months of pregnancy, I suppose that’s not bad. And yet, throughout the process I saw some similarities to the birth of a child and the annual celebration of said child’s birth.

Preparing for these celebrations involves a lot of labor.
In order to handle the labor successfully you can either A) plan ahead with classes, a birth/event plan, and (at the very least) making sure a camera is in your bag, or B) do a lot of screaming, swearing and crying at the last minute. Ask strangers to e-mail you pictures because you can't find your camera.
The labor becomes MUCH easier once you are on your drug of choice (Epidural. Gin & tonic. Whatever.)
The exhaustion/elation you experience after these blessed events often prevents you from properly retaining important details—details that were you to remember them, would make next time easier. Like, maybe, “why exactly am I putting myself through this hell again?!”
You do it all because you love the child you are doing it for.

(Sigh)

Lastly, I feel compelled to make a few shout outs to some of our most generous guests…

To the multiple friends who gave bug collection devices, kits and CAGES for said bugs—cages that enable crawling, flying and buzzing critters to become inside pets, I say: THANK YOU! I can’t wait to be invited to your kids’ birthdays now. I totally know what I'll give to your children.

To the particular family member who gave the large rubber bouncy ball: THANK YOU! However, you might not want to read about the fate that befell our beloved yoga ball…

And to the family member who gave not one, not two, but THREE loud, blinking, shrieking, plastic, battery-operated Spiderman vehicles: THANK YOU! I guess you forgot that I know where you live and I that have the code to the gate. You might want to sleep with one eye open for a while and definitely not let your rose bushes go unguarded. (And please spare me the line about payback being a bitch, etc., etc. You are my mom first, and the their grandma second.)

My name is Jen, but you should call me Zach’s Mom

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 01:31:00 +0000

So this is my latest conundrum: what should I have my kids’ friends call me, and likewise how should I have my kids refer to their friends’ moms and dads?

I don’t know where along the way we lost our manners. When I was growing up it was always “Mr. This” and “Mrs. That.” I never dreamed of calling my parents’ friends by their first names. Whether the Mr. and Mrs. titles subliminally elicited respectful behavior is something my mom would have to answer. But at least it sounded better.

Nowadays we are so psyched—and overanxious—to have our kids start talking, we grab the first and easiest name that we can use. I mean, really, can you imagine sitting around some happy-clappy circle time at Gymboree trying to get your 2 year old to sing “Bye bye Mrs. Really-Long-Multi-Syllable-And-Lots-Of-Consonants-Last-Name”? Get real.

Up until recently I hadn't given this (boring) topic much thought. But with an increasing number of play dates, I’m getting the SUPER AWESOME pleasure of spending too much time with my son’s friends. Five year old boys with attitude like you would not believe.

“Hey Jen. I’m really thirsty. I want some juice.”

What?

“Ugh, Jen. I like my sandwiches withOUT the crusts.”

Mmhm.

“Jen? Jen! I just went poo. I need you to wipe my bottom!”

Sweet LORD!

Now, swap out all those commands/demands with a Mrs. M or at least Zach’s Mom instead. Isn’t it just a little less harsh? Obviously the word please would soften the blow tremendously, but let’s not ask for miracles, people.

What do you think? Am I really parenting in the wrong decade? Or are manners something that we can make fashionable again. Like victory gardens. Or even wayfarer sunglasses.

****
An PS...In case you didn't gather, I'm selling out and calling my kids by their real names. My nicknames are too tough to use, and if all my kids come after me for is libel, I'll consider myself lucky.

If it’s brown, flush it down

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 23:00:00 +0000

You’d think with the Mighty Midget 99% potty trained I’d be dancing a jig. Well, I am, because I don’t care what kind of mother you are—you could be Mother Theresa for all I care—no one likes dealing with poo.

And so, we are just so close to being done.

Except now the Middle Man has decided to leave calling cards after he uses the facilities.

“What the…? Duuuuuuude. Why didn’t you flush toilet, buddy?”

No response... other than a couple of long-lashed blinks.

“Seriously, what is going on? Why didn’t you flush?”

“I don’t know. I guess I forgot.”

How is that even possible? You are right there and there is a TURD STARING BACK UP AT YOU.

“OK, well, please try to remember next time. Because it’s not a pet. It’s poo. And we need to flush once we are done with the toilet, OK?”

“Got it, Mom.”

(Repeat this conversation twice daily for two weeks straight. Now you are experiencing my pain.)

****
Any tips on how to handle this? And is this just a boy thing, or is short-term shit amnesia something that affects girls as well as boys?

Random acts of malice, pt. 3

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 23:00:00 +0000

Sometimes I do things that I know Husband is going to freak out about but then just blame the offensive acts on our children.

For example, I have always hated our yoga ball. It takes up a huge amount of space and has never been used for anything other than bowling down any unsuspecting child. Husband bought it at Ross for $3.99, thereby justifying the acquisition. ‘Cause, if it’s a deal, we MUST get it. Even if we’ll never use it (in the manner for which it is intended).

I just can’t believe that THE KIDS ACCIDENTALLY POPPED IT.

Whoops.

The baby shower

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 23:00:00 +0000

Last weekend my family—as well as my sisters and their kids—trekked from the Bay Area down to my parents’ home in Southern California. It’s a little slice of Eden down there: the weather is always warmer, the sun is always sunnier, there are activities a ‘plenty for kids and adults alike, and booze flows like water. It’s a wonder we don’t spend more time down there.

Our travels were aimed at not only taking advantage of the long weekend, but to also celebrating impending arrival of another baby in the family: my cousin’s wife is pregnant.

For most people, celebrating a cousin’s kid’s anything is a fairy tale. You have your siblings and maybe the random niece or nephew. The extended family is something of days past (or The Sopranos series.) But not on my side of the family. There are a total of 16 cousins in my family, and 9 of us already have kids of our own…so that number’s only going to go up. This past weekend we had almost two dozen kids running around my parents’ place during a “baby shower” inflicted upon this poor girl.

I don’t know if there’s a crueler way to treat a woman who is 9 months pregnant with her first child than to make her sit through a sugar-induced pool party with 18 kids running around. I mean, hello? It’s too late for protection now, and here she is looking down the barrel of her child-rearing future, of which she is surely ill-prepared.

Plus, what happened to the dignity of a ladies’ luncheon? Where guests sit around in a civilized fashion, make polite chit chat, and pay attention to the mother-to-be? Isn’t the shower supposed to be for her? So what’s the deal with the whole “couple’s shower” where not only spouses but kids are invited? I can think of no faster way to take the spotlight OFF the poor pregnant guest-of-honor than introduce children to the occasion. Children doing cannon balls, hurling water balloons, and shooting you with either water launchers or laser guns.

To be fair, I think my cousin (and my mom and aunt who co-hosted the shower) thought that an early summer bbq would be casual and relaxed. Judging by the pictures below, you can see that my mom interprets a hot-dog-and-hamburger pool party as something that necessitates rented linens, centerpieces, and the wrath of God brought upon anyone who touches her napkin display or puts fingerprints on the windows. Totally laid back.

I just hope that my cousin’s wife got some good loot out of this shower. And I do have confidence that now that she’s survived her couples baby shower, she can survive anything that motherhood throws her way.

****
We love you MH!

15 minute bliss

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 20:46:00 +0000

Twice a month I get to enjoy about 15 minutes of Pine-Sol-infused bliss: the 15 minutes immediately following my house keeper completing the monumental challenge that is cleaning my house.

That I'm a stay-at-home mom AND have someone come ‘roudnd to clean up after us is embarrassing, but it's my reality. I am a neat-freak at heart, yet sadly my husband and children don't share my love for a germ and clutter-free environment.

Surely the most absurd piece of the puzzle is how frantically I do clean the house before the cleaner herself comes over.

“Babe, why are we cleaning the house before Evelyn comes?”

“Look at how filthy this place is! I can't have her see that we live like this!”

Really, it makes sense, no?

I justify the massive amount of time I block out each cleaning day as “tidying” rather than “cleaning”. I pay my dear, sweet Evelyn to clean the house. I don't want a second wasted on shelving toys and books, nor do I think she should be paid to put away the golf equipment and weights that migrate their way into the house.

My Evelyn, the cleaning fairy, just left. And not five minutes later I also see Middle Man has finished his snack.

Really, it would just be easier if I lit cash on fire rather than go through the charade that is keeping a clean house. Because let's be honest: having a professional clean your house when you still have kids makes about as much sense as hiring a personal trainer yet eat nothing but Twinkies for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Backside betrayal

noreply@blogger.com (meanest mom on the block) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 20:28:00 +0000

See this function on your phone?

I highly recommend you use it. You never know who your butt may dial while you innocently go about your day. Apparently today my butt dialed a neighbor in my babysitting coop.

A neighbor who isn’t (yet) hardened by raising three kids.

A neighbor who doesn’t let her own 2 year old have a temper tantrum in Target, and then announce rather loudly “Listen up: I’m leaving now. I’m not sure why you are so sad and angry, but if you want a ride home you’d better get off the floor and follow me out.”

A neighbor who isn’t undeterred when followed in public places by the howls of 2 year old woe.

When the distress call ended, my neighbor *69’ed me to make sure that everything was OK. Much the way the 911 operator follows up on a misdial, making sure police, ambulance or fire services don't need dispatching. I guess my neighbor wanted to see if CPS was warranted given the amount and decibel of wailing she overheard.

I have for years hated my butt. Now I have one more reason to add to the list.