Holiday Hysteria

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It happens every year.

As the calendar tumbles its way into November I start to have little, baby panic attacks with every mention of the yuletide season. That Hershey’s kiss commercial with the little kisses shaking like bells makes me shake. The sight of Salvation Army bell-ringers makes me think less of Phoebe Buffay (she once fought for the coveted bell-ringing corner) and more of every small detail hiding on my to-do list. The party invites, the meal planning, the gift giving, the teacher gifts, the tips, the details of my middle child’s birthday extravaganza, make me break into a cold fucking sweat.

This year is going to be different.

This year is going to be fun.

I am not going to buy into the holiday hysteria that corporate America is forcing down my double okay, fine, triple chin. I refuse to spend another holiday season like Clark Griswold.

I won’t do it.

Do you want to know why? Because every year, I stress and I cringe and I worry, and eventually, IT ALL GETS DONE ANYWAY! What’s the point of buying into the hysteria? My kids have never gone without, my family hasn’t ever missed out on the worthy and beautiful gift of hilarious memories and real love. They get it all! I get all of it done, and I won’t have their memories be of mommy, hair in curlers and a robe, running around like a lunatic because she doesn’t have red and green swirled taper candles. They get all the things and usually they still want more. That’s the megalomania that got us into this mess in the first place. “Whomever dies with the most toys wins,” and they play with it for 5 damn minutes and then they forget they even wanted it in the first place. If I get a hug or a thank you that’s an awesome bonus, and my kids aren’t even huge, ungrateful, assholes. I’ve definitely seen much worse, but they are. just. kids. This year I will keep my expectations of their happiness through material things very low.

We all have that Facebook friend who, right at this very minute, is bragging that she already has all of her holiday shopping done. I always laugh when I see these posts because not only does homegirl have to now come up with a place to hide her children’s goodies for the next 2 months, she also will find that 1 week before Christmas one of her kids will come to her with an updated Christmas list. Ruh Roh, news flash… you’re never “done” Christmas shopping. Not until December 26th anyway.

Corporate America will continue to play to our fears as long as we let them. Black Friday is the perfect example of our holiday hysteria realized. They play on your fear of missing out. The idea that people will leave their Thanksgiving tables, full of booze and triptafen, in order to get “deals” that don’t really exist is the biggest mind fuck in the universe, and this year will be no different. The day after Thanksgiving, I’ll be eating turkey and waffles in my pajamas while I watch normally sane individuals fight over ugly Christmas sweaters and gaming consoles on the news. Let’s not even think about he poor retail workers who have to leave their families to run a pretzel store in the mall so Aunt Edna can have more subsistence to knock-a-bitch-out who tries to take her marked down TiVo.

In the hoopla that is “the need to have all the things” we’ve lost the message of the holiday season, the real message. As someone who lives in a mixed faith household I often cringe when I hear people say that they refuse to answer holiday greetings that don’t mirror their own beliefs. The holiday season is just a time to magnify what we all should be preaching everyday, “Kindness to your fellow-man!” And if you aren’t someone who talks about that on the daily, then I’m pretty sure no material objects will ever really give you what you’re looking for. Every religion has this as their primary teaching, especially around the holidays, and if you think I’m going to snub my nose at someone because they greet me with “Happy Kwanza” as opposed to “Happy Hanukkah” or “Merry Christmas” you are sadly mistaken. I’ll just let my heart swell with the fact that someone thought to greet me in the first place, because we all need it. I most definitely need it because the majority of my day is spent talking to an individual who cannot yet talk back. We need to feel that connection that is the real meaning of the holidays, and I have to say, writing this down, throwing my middle finger up at all the material shit that everywhere I turn makes me feel like less of a mom, has been really cathartic.

I feel better already.

Bring on the holidays!

Ode to the High School Acquaintance I’ve Already Unfriended On Facebook who Keeps Friend Requesting me

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You again?

Back in High School, you never gave me the time of day,

That is fine, actually, better than okay,

I moved, and found myself very far away,

I barely remember you.

When I received your first friend request I was in a giving mood,

The sun shined on a dog’s ass that day, my kids ate all their food,

And the world was pretty good,

Harmonious.

You entered into my circle, our in-common was the past,

But then I saw the drivel you post,

Wasting my time, wasting your time,

How long would this shit last?

Forever.

Anger and violence, bitterness and revolt, was all your timeline showed,

Conspiracy theories, ridiculous videos, pictures of scantily clad hoes,

You were relentless and argumentative, condescending and strange,

So I hit the unfriend button and went on with my day.

Virtual freedom.

Hours passed, then days, then months, maybe a year.

Hadn’t even thought of you, your ranting and your fears.

Then today, the pop up came… “you have a new friend request,”

I looked up, and saw your name,

And laughed my fucking ass off as I hit decline.

Peace out.

It’s the Most Threatening Time of the Year

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As a mom, I’m not one for empty threats. I’m not overly fond of threatening my kids at all, but in my world, when all else fails, threats work. After 4.8 billion times of making the same request to an audience that’s chosen to ignore you, eventually you’ll start chucking anything out there. “If you don’t pick up your toys I’ll throw them all away.” The problem with that threat is, it’s usually an empty one, which you realize when you’re astute and stubborn child says, “Fine, I was tired of these toys anyway.” That’s when it dawns on you how much time, energy and money it will cost to follow through on that threat and you change your tune. Now your spawn has you by the balls, and they know it. I learned this early on, when I only had one child. Now I only make threats I’m damn sure to follow through on.

At least I thought I did.

While getting ready for school this morning the 3-year-old was being his normal,willful, 3-year-old self.

“Okay, let’s get dressed,” I repeated once, then twice, then many, many more times, over and over again before he finally muttered, “I not listening to you.” That was plainly obvious. That’s when I whipped out the big guns. SANTA threats. “You know who really doesn’t like when little boys don’t listen?” I answered in a very serious tone… “Santa.” His name hung in air as I spoke it in a type of whisper, almost like Harry Potter speaking the name of Albus Dumbledore… with reverence. The monkey’s eyes grew very wide. That little shit was listening now. Gotcha. “Yeah, Santa is watching everything you do,” I continued, “and if you aren’t being good, and listening to Mommy and Daddy… {here it comes, the kicker} he’ll give you a lump of coal!” The 3-year-old looked relieved? {Really? What?} “Yeah, Cole doesn’t like to listen either.”

Oh shit.

HE THINKS I’M TALKING ABOUT HIS FRIEND FROM SCHOOL.

“No, not Cole your friend, a lump of coal,” I tried to clarify, failing miserably. “What’s a lump of coal?” he said curiously.

And there you have it, the emptiest threat of all! A threat he doesn’t understand.

As I started to think about how to explain coal to a 3-year-old I found myself laughing. Sure, coal is mined and widely used here in the United States but we live in Florida. You don’t have coal miners here. Sure, we have charcoal, but that’s not coal. Have I ever even seen an actual lump of coal myself? I just accidentally broke the cardinal rule of dealing with a toddler, “It doesn’t exist if I can’t see it.” This is Mom 101 here and I’m failing like an out-of-state Freshman. I had to come up with something quick to cover my ass. Something he’d understand. Something that would make sense to him as the equivalent of coal, as the anti-gift from the jolly Saint Nick that would leave him spinning in place all day, thinking about how he needs to start listening so he doesn’t get screwed on Christmas morning. It had to be real. It had to be tangible, and it had to be something that wasn’t an empty threat.

“Coal is a brand new iPad without a charger, and no one else’s charger will work either.”

The monkey got really quiet.

“I’m gonna listen from now on, okay Mommy?”

Mission accomplished.

I’m sure this will come back and bite me in the ass when he eventually learns about fossil fuels.

 

How Mommy Got Her Groove Back

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I’ve been stuck in a bit of a parenting rut.

Life as I’d known it had come to feel like the directions on the back of the shampoo bottle. Instead of lather, rinse, repeat, it was more of: get up, tend to the needs of 3 small dictators, repeat. I didn’t even know it was happening. Not really. I felt my patience thinning, I heard myself yelling a bit more, I tended to catch the majority of my exasperated sighs as they were leaving my lips, but I excused away all that behavior as just par for the course as a mother. Now I see it for what it really was… burnout. Everyone is always talking about mid-life crisis. This was mom-life crisis.

This past weekend was my 20th high school reunion and I had a laundry list of reasons I wasn’t going: cost, travel, the fact that I’m an insufferable control freak. I wasn’t going. Case closed. Then my husband caught wind of the event. “You’re going!” he said with conviction. “You need a break, we’ll be fine without you.”

There it was. My biggest fear hanging in the air like a garbage fire…

They’d be fine without me.

As I made all the preparations for my weekend out-of-town, I left my husband with all the tools for success. Of course I wanted my family unit to continue smooth sailing while I was away, I love these people. They are my everything, but what if they barely even noticed my absence. What if they didn’t miss me when I was gone or get excited upon my return? I wanted my husband to enjoy his time with our sons but I found myself hoping it wasn’t a total cake-walk. If he could tackle two days without me hiccup free, what would that say about my ability as a mother?

As a stay-at-home mom I’ve become accustomed to equating my self-worth with their happiness and well-being. My only joys coming from their successes my only sorrows being supplied by their failures. I felt insufferable guilt when I choose “me time” over “their time”. This is the kind of thinking that landed me in my mom-life crisis in the first place and if I let it continue I would find myself more resentful, more miserable, more insufferable to live with as time went on. I was too close to the problem to see that my mindset was the problem.

I embarked on my trip with a pang of guilt, a cocktail in hand and a feeling of loneliness. I tried to look on the bright side, since the birth of my youngest child, 8 months ago, I could count on one hand the amount of hours we’ve spent apart. The older two and their normal boy behavior had been driving me to the brink of sanity lately. They would all be fine, and maybe some time apart would be good for all of us. As I sat on an airplane, making the return trip to the place I’d called home for 18 years, I got a bit excited at the thought of seeing my best friend since childhood. Laughing big laughs and eating rich foods, drinking lots of booze and staying up later than my bedtime was guaranteed. I watched the beautiful horizon from my window seat and thought about how flying in a plane is so much like parenting. Sometimes it seems like the world is standing still, but time is in fact moving, and you are traveling at a faster pace than it seems. When I landed in the city I began to enjoy the busy around me that was none of my business, unlike home where all the busy was my only business.

As soon as my best buddy enveloped me in a hug I realized how much I’d needed this trip. Connecting with the people I knew when I was just becoming the woman I was destined to be, the mother I would eventually become, was both mind-blowing and cathartic. We ate too much, we drank too much, we laughed so much that my unused abdominal muscles began to feel again under the scar of three c-sections.

My reunion was surreal. The memories I had of these shadows from my background weren’t the same way I had been remembered. Their memories were better. They rewrote my teenage history for me in a way that made me like myself more, appreciating all the small things they’d taken away from our brief times together. It was surprisingly comfortable; for strangers that no longer have much in common, except for the past.

When I arrived back at home I was greeted by a cleaner than normal house, 3 little boys with open arms, big wet kisses and excitement in their voices. My husband was cooking something from a box (not my normal homemade fare) and as he flashed a boyish smile at me I returned the favor with a relaxed grin. “I’ve missed that smile,” he said as he hugged me. “Looks like you handled the weekend like a champ,” I said, fearful that maybe I just wasn’t as good at my job as I thought. Scared that maybe anyone can do it…

That’s when the boys chimed in…

“Mommy, we slept on the couch last night. Mommy, we woke up in our soccer clothes. Mommy, I had gum for the first time. Mommy, we had Ramen noodles for dinner. Mommy, I haven’t taken a bath since you left.”

My husband and I let out big, heavy laughs… “Like a champ? Not so much, but I handled it.”

Mommy’s home now, with recharged batteries.

D is for Dumbass

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We’ve all heard the line, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.’

Someone needs to explain this to my 3-year-old.

Toddlers are little emotional terrorists and this kid has made a sport out of testing my patience. All toddlers are contrarian. They will rebuke any idea. Especially when you are dealing in fact. Even more so when it’s your idea. “The sky is blue,” I sigh, staring at the gorgeous blue sky. “Nope,” the toddler sings, “The sky is yellow with purple polka-dots.” This is just one minute example of every conversation I’m forced to have on loop with this child. I’ve started to just agree with him,”You’re right… I do love a sky with purple polka-dots,” I remark. “Silly Mommy, the sky is blue. You’re so silly.” Groan. He’s trying to kill me.

The 3 and 4-year-old curriculum at preschool is all about the alphabet. The alphabet is our world, and we eat it, we breathe it… we got this bitch. For every week we have a specific letter. Dinner times are spent coming up with words starting with the aforementioned letter. Bedtime is spent reading books where every affected word has to be pointed out, that’s the thing about 3-year-olds… they can be adorable and charming, witty and funny, filled with enthusiasm and empathy, but don’t put your guard down. No matter how cute they act or how much wine you’ve drunk, toddlers are the human equivalent to a feral cat. It’ll take your food, but it will go psycho ninja if you try to pet it.

This week we are on letter D. It seems like such an easy letter. A letter filled with promise and hope… that’s until my kid got hold of it.

We were driving home from school, “What would you like to bring in for letter D show-and-tell tomorrow?” I can’t believe I remembered this in advance. Even though his teachers just told me. Even if they stapled a post-it note to my forehead… this should be good. We’ve only been talking about this letter for a week. “I. Don’t. Know.” whined the monkey. “How about your duck? Duck starts with the letter D.” I knew what was about to happen… the contrarian that is my child was about to show his face.

“I don’t have a duck,” he muttered with disdain.

“Sure you do, the one your brother won for you, the one in your bed.”

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“MOOOOMMMM…. that’s not a REAL duck!” Oh lord, here we go. “Um, I don’t think it has to be a real duck.” Where the fuck can I find a real duck? Now he’s thinking.

“How about a dinosaur? Dinosaur starts with the letter D.” This is gonna get ugly. Is it too early to start drinking? What time is it?

“I don’t have a dinosaur,” the toddler yells.

“Sure you do, all those dinosaur toys you’re always playing with.”

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“MOOOOMMMM…. those aren’t REAL dinosaurs!” Now he’s screaming. Screaming is bad. “Um, real dinosaurs are extinct. I’m relatively certain your teacher doesn’t expect a real dinosaur.” He rolls his eyes. Rolling of the eyes is a very bad sign.

“How about your doggy? Doggy starts with the letter D.” He loves his stuffed doggy. Maybe I’ll get a stay of execution on this fight.

“I don’t have a doggy!” Now he’s pissed. I’m screwed.

“Sure you do, your Aunt bought him for you when you were born. You sleep with him every night.”

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“MOOOOMMMM…. that’s not a REAL doggy!”

This went on for the entire ride home, and an extra 20 minutes once we were inside the front door. I’d ruled out the possibility of him bringing in his daddy, donuts, disco ball, diuretics, detectives, Doritos, dominatrix, delivery boys, and decomposition. Okay, some of those were a joke, but less than you think. I was about to hand him my most cherished engagement ring, because diamonds, and tell him to have at it so I would be done with discussing show-and-tell for the letter D.

D is for douchebag, D is for dumbass, D is for DRIVING ME CRAZY!

He picked that moment to blow my mind…

“I think I’ll bring in duck.”

{Facepalm}

I’m gonna pour myself a drink (D) and start thinking about the letter E.

The Weekend Book

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My 3-year-old attends preschool, and a week ago… yeah, that’s right, A WEEK AGO, we were fortunate enough to be the first family to take home The Weekend Book. The Weekend Book consists of a basket, a stuffed animal, and a black-and-white composition notebook which you’re supposed to fill out, telling your weekend family story. It’s an adorable premise and I remember enjoying it with my oldest child, but life was a lot less complicated 7 years ago. When Monkey’s teacher handed me The Weekend Book this time I saw stars, spinning Bugs Bunny, and felt faint. I didn’t need to add something else to my list. I think Monkey’s teacher, whom I’ve known for a gazillion years, saw the look in my eye and promised I could keep the book longer than the weekend (as we didn’t have school this past Friday). That was 10 days ago, and I just sat down to fill out The Weekend Book now. Ultimate slacker. At least I’m consistent.

I’d taken pictures of all the smiley moments we’ve had in the past 2 weekends and I cut them out, glued them into the book, and wrote cute, anecdotal stories about the fun weekend and the nice things we’d done. The Weekend Book is like the real-world Facebook. Everyone is all “Ohhh” and “Ahhh” and “my kid is so cute” and “share if you’re the mother of a son with webbed feet and you love him no matter what.” The Weekend Book is a mirage for the family I wish I actually had. The family where babies never cry and toddlers never throw Legos at your ass and no one ever asks for lollipops at 6 AM: where you don’t itch your face and find poop on your finger, where there is no “he hit me” and “he hit me first.”

This got me thinking: What if I were to be honest with The Weekend Book? I mean, yes, there were good times during the weekend, Duh? I have the smiley pictures to prove it… but what if I were to chuck the ridiculous shit in there too? The real-deal truth that happens over here? So here I go…

The REAL Weekend Book.

We were sooo happy utterly mortified to have The Weekend Book this week. On Friday, Mommy made a fantastic dinner, which no one ate because the 3-year-old seemed to think there were onions in it. There were not. After dinner, Mommy did the dishes and cursed under her breath that the dishwasher is falling apart, while Daddy tried to bathe all the kids without incident to no avail. There were incidents. Many incidents. Including the one where the oldest boys wanted to both pee in the toilet at the same time. More clean up for Mommy. She lives for hates that shit.

After desert the brothers cuddled while watching a show attempted to beat each other into submission while fighting for couch dominance. No one was the victor here and bedtime was pushed up by 15 minutes.

On Saturday we had lots of soccer games, and Mommy was totally prepared a complete psycho trying to find all of our uniforms, water bottles, and socks. Mommy is so good at these things completely unable to focus and should probably be on a regular schedule with a mental health professional.

Saturday night we had another gourmet dinner which everyone enjoyed nobody touched again, because the 3-year-old was convinced he saw blood in a fully cooked, boneless, skin-less, chicken thigh. Then Mommy made S’mores for desert drank wine and pretended she was childless.

On Sunday we had a relaxing completely anxiety ridden walk to the farmers market while the 3-year-old rode his scooter scared the shit out of Mommy with his scooter riding fearless ways. Mommy bought 2 pounds of shrimp to make for dinner and it will be delicious no one will eat it because that’s how we roll.

Mommy is really thankful for the teachers’ of her children. She filled out The Weekend Book because there WERE good times in the last 10 days (she has the pictures to prove it) and because these poor teachers already have to deal with her kids at school.

They don’t want to know the crazy shit that happens at home.