And the Mother of the Year Award Goes To....

Not me.

You may have seen me. Or, maybe you didn't see me.

Maybe you just heard me.

Or, if you didn't hear me, maybe you just heard the children.

It started innocently enough. I was just trying to take the boys to have lunch with N at school. N likes it when we visit, and I figure its a good idea to take B there as often as possible since he'll be going there next year. This way, he'll hopefully have an easier adjustment, Also, I figure if they're used to seeing him around, maybe they'll be less likely to kick him out the first time he puts a frog in his teachers desk.

We had a little talk on the way there. About appropriate behavior. About the importance of listening. About how the previous night's behavior at Panera, for example, would not, under any circumstances, be repeated. There would be no running. No screaming. No ignoring one's mother. And if there was running, or screaming, or ignoring one's mother, we would go home immediately.

We all agreed. In fact, they promised there would be no repeat of the previous night's behavior. It was all going well. Exceptionally well, in fact.

And then we got out of the car.

Immediately, there was running. And screaming. And ignoring one's mother.

In the parking lot.

Traitors.

When I finally caught them, I dragged them back to the car, put them in it, and informed them we were going home.

Mutiny ensued.

They're not used to this. Oh sure, they're used to me following through at home. But when we're out, my following through track record is a little less than stellar. We have groceries to get. Or dinner to pick up. Or a sibling's activity to attend. I realize when someone is behaving badly  that I should drop everything and get everyone back in the car and go home, but it's just not practical. Sometimes, we really, really need that six pack  gallon of milk that we came for.

But this time, there was no reason not to go home. N didn't know we were coming, and they were clearly testing me.

So we left. Well, at least we tried to leave. As soon as I put O in the car, he bolted into the front seat. I went around to buckle B's seat belt and then came back to get O. As I put O in his car seat, B unbuckled his seat belt and jumped into the front.

Repeat.

Several times.

At first, B was laughing. Then he was screaming. At me. His mother. Who eventually resorted to tying his coat around his body so that he couldn't reach his buckle. Then I drove off.

Only to find that he unbuckled his seat belt anyway.

I pulled over. I re-buckled.

I got back in the drivers seat.

He unbuckled.

I yelled. I threatened. I almost cried.

But I didn't.

I stopped. I buckled it again. I drove away.

He unbuckled it. We stopped again.

I told him, rather loudly, that I didn't care if he buckled it. In fact, he could leave it unbuckled if he wanted.

But the police would stop us and take him to jail.

Where they do not serve peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Or let you watch cartoons. And where they do not read you bed time stories before bed.

He stayed buckled after that.

I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my episode of temporary insanity. I don't think they did, but just in case, I decided to stay in the car at pick up time today.

Wearing dark sunglasses. And a hat. With a book in front of my face.

I don't think I'm getting mother of the year for this one, but at least my four yr old is determined to stay out of jail.

That has to count for something, doesn't it?

Liars...

So, the world is full of liars.

First, before you get married, they tell you that you should definitely get married. It is so great to be married, and to come home every single  day to the person you have sworn to be with for the rest of your life.

Oh sure, this isn't really a lie. There are parts of marriage that are great, but what these people are really saying is "Pay attention. Read between the lines! I just told you that you will be coming home to the same person, every single day, for the rest of your life. Quick! Run!"

I'm convinced of it.

Then, before you have kids, they tell you that you should definitely have one...or two...or five.. because kids are so much fun.

Again, there's no obvious lie in that statement. Kids are so much fun. But there is a big ol lie of omission here. BIG. As in, Kids are so much fun but....

They are so much work.
Really. You have no idea.
You will be really, really tired.
No, I mean it.
You can't even imagine how tired.
No, believe me. It's true.
You will, at some point, quite possibly be really really broke, especially if you become a one income household after you have kids.
Your social life, while not over, is forever changed. OK, maybe not forever. Just for the next thirteen years or so (unless you are lucky enough to live in one of those states that has no minimum age for when you can leave your kids alone. Oh, I'm kidding).
Those cute babies will turn into toddlers, who have an ability to trash your house unlike anything you have ever seen. Your house won't be clean again until...well, I haven't reached this part yet, so I have no idea when it will be clean again
Those sweet babies for whom you stayed up all night, went broke, gave up your social life, and allowed your home to be turned into a toy store (minus the people whose job it is to put the toys back on the shelves), those sweet babies will get bigger, and mouthier, and at times, meaner. Yes, I said meaner.

Sometimes even toward you.

Yup, its all true.

And I can't even speak to the teenage years yet.

Not that any of these things is a reason NOT to get married and have a baby, of course. I mean, look at me. Even knowing most of the above, I've stayed married and had two more kids.

I guess I just believe in full disclosure, especially since no one really did me that honor. At least, not that I remember. Not before I got married. Not before I had kids. (Not that I would have done either of those things differently, I swear). And not before we got the goldfish.

N asked for goldfish for Christmas two yrs ago. I was quick to tell her that Santa did not bring goldfish. Mainly because I had a five year old,a  two year old, a five month old, a dog, a husband, husband's new business, a house, and a job. I was quite sure there was no room for goldfish in my life.

And this Santa was quite comfortable with the fact that there would be no goldfish for Christmas. The problem, however, was that the other Santa thought goldfish were a great idea. And after he talked to some people who had them, he thought they were an even better idea. He even assured me that I wouldn't have to do a thing, because the goldfish people assured him that N could take care of them all by herself.

The goldfish people told us goldfish were great. They were easy. They involved minimal care.
Jimmy believed the goldfish people because the goldfish people were experienced goldfish owners. They were our friends. They were our neighbors. They could be trusted.

Me, I was onto them. I knew it as soon as they said "Goldfish are great, You should definitely get some. In fact, you could take ours".

Now why would someone want to get rid of such a great, easy pet that required minimal care?

I'll tell you why.

Because the goldfish people were liars.

The truth is that goldfish are easy. Compared to a dog. You don't have to walk them, or paper train them, and they don't shed in your house.

But easy is kind of a relative term.

The truth about goldfish is that, well, they die. Eventually. But not nearly as soon as you might hope think. It can apparently be quite traumatic for goldfish to adjust to a new tank, and it can be a little tricky to get the water just right, and you might even think the goldfish aren't going to survive the first few days of their new life. In fact, when they do certain things--like swim upside down, or lay on their side for long periods of time, or lay on the bottom of the tank--you may even become convinced that you are going to have to run out to find a twenty four hour fish store to buy replacement fish at two in the morning so that your five year old doesn't discover her brand new Christmas presents DEAD in the morning.

You become quite familiar with the signs of impending goldfish death, as you are often up with your infant in the middle of the night, and there is little else to do but be on goldfish death watch, as they swim upside down again--which you are pretty sure is not a good sign- and which causes you, in your hormonal and sleep deprived state, to wonder what they hell Santa was thinking, bringing such a depressing creature as a Christmas present for a five year old.

This goes on for weeks. They look better. They look worse. They start eating. They stop eating. They swim around normally. And then, they start swimming upside again, or sideways, or laying very still on the bottom of the tank for long periods of time.

But not long enough.

I mean, if you're going to die, could you just die already?!

Somehow, those original goldfish pulled through.There's no rational explanation. I don't know how one goldfish--let alone four--comes back from the brink of death. But they did. I'd like to think it was a Christmas miracle.

Over time, we learned some more about goldfish. Mainly, that "minimal care" is not the same as "no care". You still have to clean their tank, which involved emptying all of the water into buckets, and emptying all the buckets into the toilet, and filling more buckets, and refilling the tank. Also, it's generally frowned upon to flush the goldfish down the toilet with the old water. 

As this is all a little labor intensive for a five year old--way more labor intensive, in fact, than the goldfish people would have had us believe- it became a family endeavor. Remind me to tell you sometime how great family endeavors can be.

Eventually, we lost one fish, and then another several months later, but two of the original have remained, along with two additions.

Lately, one of the originals has been looking a little...sleepy. She'd lay around for a while, and wouldn't eat, and I'd think the end was near. And then she'd come back around, swimming normally, and eating, and I'd think maybe she was fine. Only to repeat the same pattern a few days later.

I found myself checking the tank several times a day, tapping the glass to see if she'd move. It was official, I was on goldfish death watch again. And though she wouldn't admit it, I noticed that N was, too.

It was like we were running our own little goldfish hospice.

Today, N came home from school and fed the fish. She couldn't find the black one. As I looked around the rocks in the tank for it, N paced. She cried. She made this little sound that should definitely be reserved only for actual people who have died, and not goldfish, and then she ran up to her room in tears.

I found the goldfish. In the corner. Almost dead. But not quite.

I broke it to N that the goldfish was quite likely going to be leaving us soon. She sobbed. And freaked out. And begged me to get rid of them.

As it turns out, my sensitive child finds goldfish too stressful. Every time she feeds them, she finds herself looking to see if one has died.

She also said she has nightmares about someone flushing them down the toilet.

Huh.

As it turns out, she and Jimmy managed to work out a deal that, for some reason I totally don't understand, they are both happy with.

He's giving her two dollars to take over ownership of the goldfish.

He's paying her to take care of the stupid ass fish that our dear friends, the Liars, convinced him to get her in the first place.

The fish will stay just where they are. Well, with the exception of the nearly dead one. She's getting a burial at sea. Assuming she ever actually dies.

In the midst of this evenings goldfish death watch, O grabbed my phone, pressed a few buttons, and dropped it on the floor. I picked it up to see that he had not only gotten online, but was "just one click away from a years subscription...

To Match.com"

Right, like I have time for that. I have kids to raise, and a house to not clean, and a husband not to say I told you so to.

Besides, I'm busy running a goldfish hospice.

On the other hand, maybe I could just fill out the part that asks what type of person I'm interested in.

Wanted: Experienced hospice worker to assist with goldfish euthanasia.

Unbelievable work environment.

Really.

December...

It's almost that time of year again. December. Time to shop. Time to go see Santa. Take Christmas card pictures. Order Christmas cards. Send Christmas cards. Decorate. Get a tree. Decorate tree. Bake cookies. Wrap presents. Plan parties. Shop for parties. Wrap for parties. Attend parties. Eat too much. Drink too much. Stress too much. Attempt to remember reason for the season. Anxiously await end of Holiday season. Take down decorations. Take down tree. Wonder where I'm going to put all this stuff. Wonder how to pay off credit card bill. Go on a diet.

Resolve to do it all differently next year.

Oh, but wait, there's more. Apparently, I also need to buy an elf. On a shelf. Because, you know, I don't have enough to do.

OK, so I don't have to buy an elf. But I keep hearing the hype, and the kids have mentioned wanting one, and it occurs to me that, in twenty years, they won't remember that I shopped for presents, decorated the house, sent Christmas cards, wrapped presents, or stressed too much.

They will remember that they didn't get an elf. On a shelf.

People, by the way, can get way into their elves. And by people, I mean moms. Apparently, these elves are known to be quite mischievous. Some moms have told me that, sometimes, their kids wake in the morning to see that their elves have baked cookies. As in, the kitchen is covered in flour and sugar. Other moms have told me that their elves have been known to have pillow fights, and the kids wake to find feathers all over the floor. Some elves even get into the craft supplies and leave glitter all over the house.

Call me a Scrooge is you will, but if we do get an elf, his little elf ass better be staying on the shelf. I don't need any more mischief in my life. You want mischief? Try having to buy a new water dispenser because your sweet two year old put chicken into the old one when you had the bottle off to refill it. Then, two weeks later, try having to buy another new water dispenser because your no longer quite as sweet two year old poured milk into it. We now know how to make yogurt. Too bad we have no way of getting it out of there. Mischief is having your husband snake the toilet on an almost weekly basis because someone keeps putting something into it.

My point is, I have enough real live people trashing my house. I don't need the pretend ones to start doing it. And I'm certainly not going to help them.

Mischief is also waiting at a red light, happily singing songs with your two and four year olds, only to get smacked in the back of the head with a sippy cup. Mischief is listening to two boys come up with twenty five different words that rhyme with "stupid", so they can tell you that "I just said a word that sounded like "stupid", mom. I didn't really say "stupid". I know "stupid" isn't nice, mom, so I wouldn't say "stupid". I just said a word that rhymed with "stupid", but I didn't actually say "stupid". OK, mom?"

At least Elves don't talk.

The good things is, I have heard that sometimes these elves can help keep the kids in line, since they know he's watching them and he has a direct line to Santa. That's reason enough for me to get one.

But that Elf and I will be having a little chat. He needs to know his place in this family. Not in the kitchen. Not in the bedrooms, and definitely not in the bathroom.

On the shelf, Elf.

Our elf wont be baking cookies, or having pillow fights, or getting into the craft supplies.

But if he wants to be helpful, we can work something out.

He can start by pouring me an eggnog.

Growing Up...

N grew six inches last night.

I swear.

OK, so I shouldn't swear, since maybe it wasn't exactly six inches. But really, she grew overnight.

A lot.

She also lost a second tooth this week. And she cleaned her room. All by herself. Without being told. It may have something to do with the fact that she heard that girls who don't clean their rooms won't get their ears pierced until they're twelve.

And, oh by the way, her room's already trashed again.

But at least she cleaned it.

The lost teeth make me a little sad. But hey, she's cleaning her room. Maybe I can deal with this growing up thing after all.

At least, that's what I thought, until she refused to dance with me in the kitchen last night.

She has always danced with me in the kitchen. First, we danced to the little refrigerator toy that played The Farmer in the Dell when you pushed the buttons. Then to my silly made up songs. Then to her silly made up songs. Then to the radio.

Then....no dancing.

She just refused. Apparently, because she's too cool for me.

I just want to say, this is really, incredibly, unbelievably unfair.

Couldn't we just get to the point where she cleans her room, but gets to keep her baby teeth, and still dances with me?

She's not the only one betraying me, by the way. B no longer looks back at me longingly in the morning when I drop him off in his pre-school classroom. He just marches right in there, all excited to see his friends, which are now apparently more important than mommies.

On the other hand, he is finally putting his own shoes on. Thank you God, for that one, because I was starting to think that I was going to be putting on his men's size twelve shoes for him when he was a senior in high school, and I was getting a little concerned.

B's also decided that he's turning over a new leaf. He informed me the other day that he wasn't going to hit N or O anymore. Instead, he was going to ask for a punching bag for Christmas.

So considerate, that boy.

Don't even get me started on O. He won't even let me help him into the car anymore. He wants to do it all by himself. Repeatedly, in fact.

Which, by the way, is enough to make a mommy lose her mind.

On the other hand, at least he still thinks I'm cool enough to dance with.

I was thinking about how they don't need me quite as much as we were getting ready for bed last night. Two of them can brush their teeth without me, at least to some extent. They can put on their own pajamas when the mood strikes them. Sometime, it's N who reads the bedtime story.

And because of this, we had a few extra minutes, where we sat down and watched TV. And as we did, B and O actually sat quietly for a few minutes, and N moved over from her end of the couch, and put her head on my lap.

On my lap.

Because even though she's too cool to dance with me, and she's losing her teeth, and she cleans her own room because she can't wait to get her ears pierced, I'm still her mommy.

And that's what our laps are for.

Just Another Day In Paradise...

I think I have ADHD. In fact, I'm convinced of it. If it had been in vogue when I was in grade school, I would have gotten a formal diagnosis and a prescription for-well, whatever they were prescribing for ADHD back then, which probably wasn't much, come to think of it. But at least I would have gotten the diagnosis, so when, in tenth grade when I forgot to do my homework for approximately two months, I could have just said "Sorry, I have ADHD" and maybe I wouldn't have had to repeat chemistry. I thought of that chemistry class recently, as I came across a twenty-something year old sweatshirt with stains on it from whatever chemicals were involved in that bunson burner incident.

I don't have the hyperactive type of ADHD, though. I have the sluggish variety. It causes me to wander around my laundry room in the morning, picking up random socks and wondering why no one has matched them. AGAIN. Great, so now I have to do it. Or, at least I have to find another sock that kind of, vaguely, sort of resembles this one, as I do a mental check of which of my children might have to remove their shoes today for gym, or for dance class, or for some weird foot painting thing in preschool (they got me with that one once--they won't get me with it again).

 I manage to find six socks. They are clean. I think some of them match--at least they did when I carried them upstairs. I can't guarantee they matched once they were actually on someone's feet. Eventually, after waffles (frozen), and milk (organic), and teeth brushing (by them) and hair brushing (by me) we all somehow get in the car. N was going to take the bus, which stops in front of our house, but somehow, with all the sock searching, I couldn't get her there on time. To the bus stop. In front of our house. So since I have to drive B to pre-school anyway, I decide to drive her, too.

N makes it to school on time. She is, however, obsessing over the fact that she couldn't find her math homework in her binder last night. She looked. J looked. I looked. She cried. J shook his head. I blamed myself, because if I wasn't working last night, I could have been home all evening and would have had hours to spend searching for the math homework that somehow got lost somewhere between school and home, though the binder was never opened until it was on the dining room table last night. Instead, because I was working, I came home to my daughter in a full blown frenzy, and I wavered between allowing her to obsess, since after all, second graders need to learn to keep track of their own homework, and calling the principal at home to open the school so we could go look for her homework in her desk (oh I'm kidding. Like she'd give me her phone number). Eventually, I settled for emailing her teacher at ten o'clock last night to let her know that N couldn't locate her homework, so that at least N wouldn't hide under desk today, rather than tell her herself.

I dropped B off at pre-school, came home and paid bills, chased O, did dishes, put O in time out for saying the word "stupid", finally had coffee, chased O,  had more coffee, put O in time out for saying the word "stupid", and realized it was time to go get B. I was running late. As we got in the car, O decided to flip himself over into the very back of our way too big SUV, behind where he actually sits, and I am now chasing him around the interior of the car before I can even attempt to strap him in, which has become a game in itself. I'm now even later. As we walk into the preschool, I realize that I never changed out of the clothes I hastily threw on after my shower this morning. The gray shirt. The camel colored cords. The blue tennis shoes. Really? What is wrong with me? I remind myself that I have ADHD. I wonder if my socks even match. Then I wonder if I even have socks on.

 We're only five minutes late, but B is the last one in the classroom. He is standing there, wearing his Elmo costume for their belated Halloween celebration, and he gives me a look that in four year old body language clearly says "You suck. And your clothes don't match".

His teacher smiles and says good-bye, and then adds "Please make sure you practice the alphabet with B" and suddenly, I feel like I am back in preschool and have just been told to go stand in the corner. I have never heard her tell anyone else to make sure they practice the alphabet. No one ever told me to make sure to practice the alphabet with N when she was his age. In fact, they said things like "Wow, you must really work with her. You must read to her a lot. You must spend a lot of time with her". And I smugly thought, Well of course I work with her. And read to her, and spend time with her. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?

Only now, as I am walking out of the classroom after B's teacher told me to make sure I practice the alphabet with him, I think that I don't read to him nearly enough. And when I try, he really doesn't have the attention span for it. And then I think that I'm too busy breaking up fights, and teaching people not to say stupid, and finding socks that match, to read to them as much as I'd like, plus to tell you the truth, by bed time, I am just really, really tired and can only get through one book. And by the way, I have ADHD, and I was the last mom here to pick up my child, and my clothes don't match, and I suck.

And then I think, Oh, we should probably take O home with us, too. So I ask B to go back to his classroom and get him.

I am obsessing over all of this on the way home--this is why N is so good at it--when it dawns on me. What are they even talking about? "B?" I ask. "Why does your teacher think you don't know the alphabet?" Because he does know his alphabet. I've heard him. And he knows most of the letters by sight and sound. I've heard him do that, too.

But I've also heard him refuse to acknowledge that he knows a single one. Because he's just sweet that way.

He doesn't answer me, and when we get home and I ask him to show me the letters in his name, he pretends he doesn't know them. Until I tell him I'm getting rid of all the Halloween candy, and he suddenly knows every one of those letters. (What he doesn't know is that I've already gotten rid of most of the Halloween candy. Namely, by eating it. I think I'm self medicating for my ADHD).

I think of sending B's teacher an email, telling her that while I do have ADHD, and I was late today for pick up, and my clothes didn't match, and I did almost leave my two year old there, I don't suck as much as she might think I do, because B really does know his alphabet.

But I decide against it.

I do get an email response from N's teacher, letting me know that her homework was in her binder the whole time, but it looked different than it usually does, so it was easy to miss and it was totally fine and not a big deal at all.

Which I'm pretty sure is code for "I heard your clothes didn't match today, and you probably didn't even have socks on, and you were late to pick up your four year old (who you don't read to nearly enough), and you almost left your two year old at his brothers preschool, but you don't really suck. You probably just have ADHD. Now go treat yourself to some more Halloween candy."

Wow.

How sweet is she?

Election Day...

As we were finally getting ready to leave the house this morning, I told B that I had to go vote. I explained that grown ups get to vote for who the next President will be, and that the person who gets the most votes wins.

"Really?" He asked. He was obviously fascinated by our electoral process. "And then do they get a trophy?"

"No trophy", I tell him as I search for his other shoe. "But they get to live in the White House".

"Wow! That is so cool!" With both shoes finally on, he runs off to share this exciting news. "O! Did you know where the President gets to live? He gets to live in the LIGHT HOUSE!"

I decide that I will clarify this bit of mis-information at some other time, and we go run a few errands and eventually make it to the Senior Center so I can vote. There are only ten or fifteen people in front of us. I think we'll be through this line in no time, which is particularly good since we're now an hour past nap time. As we wait in line, I give them the lollipops that the nice lady at the bank gave us, thinking this will keep them occupied for a few minutes.

Six minutes, to be exact. At which point we've hardly moved in this line.

Eventually, we move into the voting room, which is the Senior Center's gym. B and O are in the stroller, but getting restless. They are hitting each other in the head with their lollipop sticks, and starting to get louder. N is standing next to me, rolling her eyes.

For some reason, this line is moving much more slowly now. We stand in one place forever. B and O are laughing, and screaming, and kicking. I realize that giving them the lollipops before we came in probably wasn't the best idea I've ever had. I whisper for them to be quiet. I threaten to take their legos away. When that doesn't work, I tell them that if they can be quiet until we leave, I will take them for ice cream.

"Ice cream!" B yells, "But Mom, why would you get us ice cream today?"

I'm not sure why he's suddenly questioning my motives, but I decide to answer his question in hopes that he will stop talking.

"Because, I'm bribing you". I whisper.

"You're what?" he asks. "You're whating me?"

"I'm bribing you, B. It's called bribery". I am still trying to whisper, but then he asks me again, and I raise my voice a little to be heard over O's screaming.

"It's BRIBERY".

Only, O has stopped screaming. And I have just loudly said the word "Bribery" in the voting room. I'm waiting for an election official to come over, but instead, they just stare at us, along with most of the people in line.

I notice two little boys a few people in front of us. They are only slightly older than B and O. One of them is wearing a Spiderman mask, and I realize what a great idea that is. I'm wishing I wore mine, too.

Their mother is staring at B and O, who are much louder and more rambunctious than her sons. I know she is smugly thinking that she is happy that hers are so much better behaved. I'm thinking I should tell her that something is clearly wrong with them, and maybe she needs to have them checked for low testosterone.

B and O are now getting louder again, and B starts yelling "Adopt me! Adopt me! Adopt me!" over and over and over again. O soon joins in. I have no idea where they heard this, but I'm thinking it might not be a bad idea. They are cracking themselves up. "Hey O! Adopt me!" B yells. O laughs and responds "No, you adopt me!"

I have to admit, its just a little bit funny. But no one else is laughing.

We are finally getting to the front of the check in line. It's finally our turn. Only when I start to push the stroller to the table, the man holds up his hand and tells me to wait. Apparently they're not ready to check anyone else in yet.

An elderly lady with a cane walks in front of us, up to the check in table, and says "I can't wait". And they help her. Because she's elderly, and she has a cane. And she can't wait.

Makes sense to me.

Except, well,  what about me? Do I look like I can wait? So she has a cane. I have a stroller. She is old. I feel old. She needs to sit down. I need a bottle of tequila.

It seems to me we both have valid reasons to get the hell out of this line, no?

A lady at the check in table reads my mind and waves me over.

B and O are screaming again. She smiles stiffly.

 "Is this the line for the day care drop off?" I ask
.
She smiles, and tries not to laugh--I think election volunteers are supposed to maintain their full composure at all times--but she laughs anyway. Thank God someone has a sense of humor in this place.

We go wait in another line. B and O have stopped laughing, and are now looking around. They are quiet for a minute, and I think maybe the worst is over, when B yells "Hey O! Want to pick the next President? Who should we pick?"

I pray they haven't overheard me talking at home, and aren't about to announce to this whole room who I am voting for.

 It turns out that I didn't need to worry about that. Instead, B looks around and points to a young guy nearby and loudly says "How about him, O? The guy in the blue sweatshirt? You want him to be our President?"

The guy in the blue sweatshirt doesn't laugh. Sure, like I'm ever gonna vote for him. Clearly, he has no sense of humor.

We wait in line some more, and B and O get louder and louder. I have given up trying to stop them. Nothing is working. I notice a sign on the wall that the seniors must use when they do aerobics. It's a chart to tell you how hard you're working. At the bottom, in red, in bold letters, says "Maximum Exertion".

And I think Yes, exactly. That's exactly how hard I am working at this very moment, to maintain my sanity.

B drops his legos and they go flying. He starts to cry. I look around to see where they went. They are under people's feet. People step over them. They step around them. No one, however, makes an attempt to actually pick one up.

I gather the legos, give them to B, and pray that someone finishes in the voting booth so that it can be our turn.

B and O start laughing again. Loudly.

I can feel peoples stares on my back. I wish again that I had that Spiderman mask and then I decide that I don't care. I turn around and attempt to make eye contact with every single one of them.

And I smile.

As I think "Bite me".

Cause it's a free country.

And I get a vote.

Thoughts of a Bra Wearing Feminist

I am tucking N in, and reminding her in the midst of her Sunday night blues that she only has four days of school this week, as she has Tuesday off for Election Day.

"Mom," she asks me, "Why hasn't there ever been a woman President?"

I try to think before I answer--not a frequent occurrence for me. Mainly because, in the day to day chaos that is my life, I am either able to think, or I am able to speak. Not both. Certainly not both at the same time. But I realize that this one requires a thoughtful answer, so I try to step outside of my comfort zone.

Well, um, because, well, there just hasn't been.

I have friends who would be really, really good at answering this question. They would rattle off details on history, and government, and the women's movement, and by the time they were done, N would not only have her question answered, but would think how incredibly dumb it is that men get to be president at all.

Not that I want her to think that, of course.

And therein lies the problem. I've really never been all that women's libby. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful that I get to vote, and that I could run for president if I wanted to--and I would to, if I wasn't so tied up with all this laundry...and dishes...and diapers...and well, frankly, if I wasn't so busy being barefoot in my kitchen, though you will be happy to know, not pregnant and barefoot in my kitchen. Besides, I'm thinking the President is really pretty busy, and when would I have time to blog?

 I am really, truly, grateful for all the women who fought to make sure that women like me would have the same rights as men. But the thing is, by the time I came of age, it had all happened already. Of course I could go to college. Of course the fact that I'm a woman wouldn't (legally) prevent me from being hired to do the same types of jobs as men. Of course I could get a mortgage, or a car loan, or a credit card, all by money-earning self. That is, assuming that I was actually earning enough money to do any of those things, instead of spending my time barefoot in the kitchen.

And truth be told, though I would have loved to hang out with some of those bra burning chics, if bras were being burned today, I'd probably be keeping mine on. And no, it's not just because those babies are no longer in the same hemisphere as they were before I had children.

I just don't think I'm a bra burner. And I don't happen to think that some of today's feminists are fighting for the same things that the bra burners were fighting for. I don't think, for example, that women who want to be perceived as strong, and independent, and capable, do themselves--or the rest of us-- any favors when they say things like "I think the government should pay for my birth control".

Especially when there are women in places like Afghanistan who can't go to school, or speak their minds, or show their faces.

But of course, I'm not going to say any of that that to my seven-year-old.

So instead, when I eventually answer her question, I tell her that a long time ago, women weren't even allowed to vote. Because women's jobs used to be to take care of their homes, and their families, and their kids.  I struggle with how exactly to say this, because that's still the primary job of many women--myself included--and I don't want to diminish its tremendous importance.

And yet, I don't want her to think that that's all she can do.

And I also don't want her to think there's anything wrong with deciding at some point that that's all she wants to do.

Providing she gets her PhD first.

So I tell her some more about how men were the ones who had the education, and the jobs, and the power, and that women had to stand up for themselves and say that they deserved to vote, too. And that now they could vote and be President.

And she said "I think I'll do that. I think I'll be the first woman President".

I told her I would vote for her, and asked her what she would tell people that she would do as President.

"Well, I think I'll pee standing up." she said, as she collapsed into giggles. "Even though boys are better at that."

I acknowledged that it was a little easier for them. In fact, just today, I took B around the side of a building, while N had to wait twenty minutes until we found an inside bathroom. But then I told her that we could also work on her outside peeing skills.

After all, it might be a useful skill when she's on the campaign trail. Or, at keg parties.

She was quiet for a minute, and then she said, "You know, if girls could pee in the grass as easily as boys can, everyone would know that we can do whatever they can do".

I think she just might be onto something.

Dare Not to Care...

So I'm not a perfectionist. Far from it. In fact, I think I'm generally pretty OK with all of our imperfections.

But occasionally, I get a little...well, stuck on something.

Like the fact that my house always such a mess. I try. I even manage to clean it sometimes. And then, within a day, or an hour, or five freakin minutes, it's a mess again.

So I give up for a while.

Like the fact that I can never manage to get laundry put away. I wash it. I dry it. I fold it. I put it in baskets, and occasionally I even take up it to the correct person's room.

And there it sits.

Like the fact that I am always looking for something. Usually it's something I know I put in a safe place.

If only I could remember where that place was.

Like the fact that I have a grand total of ONE picture in which all three kids are looking at the camera, smiling, and not making goofy faces or waving a corn dog in front of the camera. It was taken in 2011.

 I took approximately 500 pictures that year, which means that in 1 of 500 pictures, my kids look normal.

Come to think of it, that's about how often they actually are normal, so maybe I shouldn't complain.

 I wish these things didn't drive me crazy. I wish I could be one of those people who could either keep it all together, or stop caring that it's not all together. Because the reality is, some people are just better at keeping it all mostly together than I am.

And the other reality is that some people are better at not caring because they drink a bottle of wine and pop three xanax for lunch every day.

But I'm realizing what an absolute waste it is...this time spent caring about all of that. And really, worrying about things you can't change never got anyone anywhere. And, as far as I can see, the fact that my house gets trashed five minutes after I clean it is not going to change anytime soon. Neither are the piles of laundry. Or the corn dogs in the pictures.

So I'm working on embracing it.

The messy house? It means kids live here. It means they have toys, and they know what it is to play. It means that they have books that they can or will be able to read. It means they can run around, strewing crap everywhere they go, because their little bodies work the way they're supposed to.

The piles of clothes? At least they're clean. I don't always have time to put them away because I'm busy with the kids who wear them. OK, fine, sometimes I don't put them away because I'm hiding in the bathroom for a brief reprieve.

I'm a much better mother for those bathroom moments.

Those intentionally goofy grins and poses that seem to be in every picture? They encompass the amazing spirits of these children, who remind me every day that laughter and joy are more important than appearances.

And the corn dog is proof that I fed them that day.

People who have been where I am (though probably without the same magnitude of laundry problem) tell me that someday, my house will be orderly. My laundry put away. My family pictures perfect.

But that, in spite of all that, I will still be looking for something.

I will be looking for kids who don't always sit still and smile in pictures. For a house that has too much life in it to be clean all the time. For more important things to do than put laundry away.

I will be looking for all of this.

And I'm trying hard not to forget it.