Why I Hate Election Years

Let me start by saying, I love election years. I love that we have election years. I love that I live in a country where I can vote, and you can vote, and in the end, we have more or less selected the people who will, at the most, lead the country the way we want them to, and at the least, well... lead the country.

Hopefully.

Now that I've said that, let me say this:

I hate election years.

 It all just gets so....icky.

Pre-election year, I had friends. In most cases, I didn't know if they were Democrats, Republicans, Independents, Green Party, or something else. And if I did know, it wasn't something we talked about much. It wasn't something that divided us, or separated us, or caused us to think horrible thoughts about one another. It didn't matter. They were my friends first, and everything else second.

But now, thanks to Facebook, and Twitter, and email, I'm pretty clear where many of them stand politically, which is fine. But I'm also pretty clear on what a lot of them think about people like me. And I'm clear on what some of them think about people like you.

Because, somehow, that's what it's come down to. If you vote this way, you're one of those. And if you vote that way, well, you're one of those.

Did you know that someone shot at an Obama campaign office?

Did you know that there are now death threats all over twitter against Romney?

Really?

OK, fine, so those are extreme examples. But attacks are taking place every day. Most of them just don't happen to involve actual guns or death threats.

Most just involve incredible amounts of name calling, and head shaking, and finger pointing.

Somehow, electing our country's next President has come down not to what great things I think my guy can do for this country, but how horrible your guy is. It's not about the strengths of my candidate. It's about the weaknesses of yours. It's not about the hope I feel when I think of what good thing can happen if mine is in charge, it's the depression I feel when I think of yours.

Not to say that there isn't some validity in that line of thinking, of course. We're all entitled to our opinions, and I for one am grateful to live in a place where we can share them freely.

But it's no longer just about the candidates. It's also about the voters.

As this election draws near, it's not about what you or I want for this country. It's about how what I want is better than what you want. Because I'm one of them and you...well, you're one of those. More than once, I have seen posts or emails by otherwise compassionate, intelligent people calling anyone who would vote for the other guy names like "stupid", "naive", "clueless", "hateful", and "crazy".

Senders of emails I've received have clearly assumed, for whatever reason, that I am "one of them", as if it never occurred to them that, with all that we have in common, I could lean in a slightly different direction than they do politically.

I realize there's a lot at stake here. I realize that people love this country and want what they believe to be best for it, and have a hard time imagining what will happen if their guy doesn't win.

But I just have to say: Please, get a grip.

Call me naive, but I thought we all wanted the same things.

I thought we all wanted to live in a peaceful world, with healthy kids, where there's help for people who need a hand up, but also jobs, and social security, and laws that protect us, while still allowing us the freedom to make the decisions that we decide are best for us and our families.

I mean...is there anyone who doesn't want those things?

We just have different ideas of how to get them. My way may not be your way. Your way may not be my way. But neither of us is stupid, naive, clueless, hateful, or crazy just because we don't vote the same way

For other reasons, maybe. But not for the way we vote .

If your guy gets elected, I will drink several beers and rant to my husband, who will roll his eyes at me and ask why there's no football on TV, and then I will get over it, grateful that I live in a country where we had--and have-- a say.

I will also know that life goes on, and that if things don't go well, there's always next time.

What I won't do is call people stupid, naive, clueless, hateful, or crazy because of the way they voted. I'll assume that the vast majority of them voted thoughtfully and with their conscious, with what they believed to be our country's best interest at heart.

Then I'll pray that God changes their minds by the time the next election comes around.

But I'll never tell them that.

 I'll also hope for the best, and live my life the best way I know how, and remember that regardless of who's in office, we're all supposed to be on the same team.

And the irony is, if my guy wins, well, I'm pretty sure I'll do the same things.

Thank You, Turtle Man

As I was driving B to pre-school this morning, I was trying to ignore the fact that we were late, and instead focus on how well he was doing in school.

We were late because, for the third night in a row, both boys woke up in the middle of the night. This time, B had a nightmare that the fish in his fake aquarium "got really, really big and turned into sharks". As I was sitting on the side of his bed at 3 AM, listening to tales of giant imaginary fake aquarium fish, O woke up and said "Mom, I had a nightmare, too. B was driving a car".

Well, yeah, that is a pretty scary thought.

 I finally got back to sleep at five thirty this morning, and slept right through the alarm an hour and a half later, so I opted to drive N to school rather than rush to make the bus (and miss it anyway). As we all finally piled in the car, I noticed my tire pressure sensor flashing "EXTREMELY LOW TIRE PRESSURE", so after driving N to school on a mostly flat tire, I stopped to get air in it before taking B to school.

So there I was, thinking that at least he wasn't fighting me about going to school, and that at least he loved it, and wasn't having any trouble, and seemed to be following all of the rules--well, except for that one about needing to stop running before he reaches the gym wall--or, more precisely, before his head reaches the gym wall--but he's working on that one.

And, at that moment, as I was thinking about how well he was doing at his preschool, which just happens to be run by a Baptist Church, he said,

"Mom? What's an evil bastard?"

I forced myself to put on my stepford wife mommy voice and said " What did you say, B?"

Because surely, I heard him wrong.

" I said an evil bastard, mom! What's an evil bastard?"

Huh. No, I'm pretty sure I heard him right.

Now, I could point out that I worked last night, and I could also point out that if I was the type to document the times and dates of when these types of words come out of my sweet boy's mouth, they would almost always come out of his mouth after I have been working.

When he was home with his father.

But I won't point any of that out.

"MOM! Please tell me! WHAT is an evil bastard?"

I rack my brain trying to think of where he could have heard this. It had to be on TV--I'm pretty sure we don't know anyone who uses words like "evil" and "bastard" together in the same phrase.

Admittedly, I have gotten lax about letting the boys watch N's TV shows with her. I would prefer that they all watch Sesame Street until they're twelve, but I'm reluctantly accepting that N is past that point, and sometimes she wins the TV coin toss. But has it gotten that bad? Is Evil Bastard now an acceptable term on the Disney Channel?

I never really liked that Phineas and Ferb. I don't like their language. And more than once, I've had to say that just because Phineas and Ferb say something doesn't mean that we say it.

But evil bastard?

B is drawling a blank when I ever so sweetly ask where he thinks he may have heard those words, which by the way, aren't very nice, and we probably shouldn't be saying them.

Especially not in preschool, which we are arriving at as we speak.

I am still trying to figure out where he heard it. Though I haven't watched much of them, I heard that the presidential debates were getting pretty intense. Maybe B saw some of it with Jimmy last night. Are they now calling each other evil bastards?

I dropped B off in his classroom, with a hug and a kiss, and a whispered reminder not to say those words we just talked about in the car, and as O and I drove away, it dawned on me.

Turtle Man.

Of course.

Since the Discovery Channel is one of the few allegedly "safe" channels we watch with the kids, Jimmy had let B watch a few minutes of Turtle Man's show with him before bed last night. Turtle Man is a little rough around the edges, but his antics are generally limited to diving into murky green swamps and coming up with a snapping turtle that has been tormenting some poor rural family, so we figured it was probably OK.

Except that Turtle Man has some colorful language sometimes.

And sometimes, apparently those turtles can be evil bastards.

Thanks, Turtle Man. One more thing that the kids can't watch.

I am happy, at least, that our presidential candidates aren't calling each other names like this.

Yet.

As it Turns out...Pre-School is Cool

So when B makes up his mind about something, there's usually no point in trying to change it.

From the time we first started discussing potty training, he was determined that he wasn't going to pee on the potty, and he didn't.

Not until he was four, and I locked the two of us in the bathroom and told him we weren't leaving until he used that toilet.

Before that, he was adamant that he wasn't getting his hair cut, and he didn't. Not when I took him to the nice ladies at the kids hair salon. Not when I took him with me to the Hair Cuttery. Not when Jimmy tried cutting his hair in our kitchen.

Eventually, Jimmy took him to the barber shop with him, and B decided that that was an acceptable time and place to get his hair cut.

So when B declared that he wasn't going to preschool, I was little nervous. Of course, I knew otherwise. I knew that he was going to go to preschool. I just didn't know what was going to happen when he got there.

Would he kick?

Scream?

Throw things?

What actually happened was this: We went one morning together, and he started to cry as I went across the hall, and he was off by himself, hiding, when I came back to pick him up an hour later. We went back again a few days alter, and as I dropped him off, he gave me a look that said "I know I'm staying, but if you stand in that door way one more minute I'm gonna cry". So I left.

And I cried.

And then he came home, and he told me that he liked his teacher's pretty red dress, and he hoped she would wear it again soon. And he started asking when he could go back to school. He started counting the days. He talked about his friends. And his teachers. And he smiled.

Now, when we pull into the pre-school driveway, he claps.

Claps.

And cheers.

And I wonder what I was so worried about.

B recently asked me about college. The part about possibly moving out of our home didn't go over so well. He informed me that he wasn't going to college. He wasn't moving out. He wants to stay here with me.

After all, I make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and read him stories, and lay down with him at night before bed.

Besides, we have a cool play room. Who would want to give up all of that?

I thought of telling him that he doesn't have to move out, and that I'll make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches until he's fifty, but I realized that probably wasn't the right answer.

Instead, I told him that he might change his mind when he's older, and that if he has a wife someday, she probably won't want to live here and have me lay down with him at night before bed.

"No wife!" he yelled.

Phew.

I made him put it in writing.

Of course, I don't really want him to live here forever. I hope he can at least make his own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the time he's thirty. And if he ends up with some bitchy wife who won't let me lay down with him at night and read him bedtime stories, I can probably deal with that.

I just want him to WANT to live here when he's thirty.

I want him to be happy playing with the miniature cars in the playroom, instead of wanting to drive a real one. I want him to be in my kitchen drinking milk instead of out in a bar doing shots of Jagermeister.

I want to be able to sneak into his room at night to watch him while he's sleeping, instead of having him sneak out of his room when he thinks I'm sleeping.

But if past experience is any indication,  the things he tells me he never wants to do are the exact things that he will someday love.

"No haircut! No potty! No preschool!" was his mantra for a while.

And now he's quite enamored with all three.

I guess that means that someday, our playroom won't be cool anymore.

In spite of his declarations to the contrary, I suspect that he'll someday move out, and go to college, and maybe even find a wife.

And that, of course, is how it should be.

But me?

I'm still making him peanut butter and jelly until he's fifty.

Just try to stop me.

Dear China...

First off, China, I have to say thank you.

Thank you for Chinese food. Egg rolls really are the best thing ever invented. Granted, I'm not always sure what's in them, and I know what people say about the mystery meat, but really, it's OK with me.

Just as long as it remains a mystery.

Thanks, too, China, for your beautiful children. I mean, it would be good if you would value the female ones a whole lot more, but hopefully you're working on that. I know people probably think I'm a stalker, but when I see a beautiful Chinese baby, I can't help myself. I want to ask if I can hold her. I want to ask how to pronounce her name in Chinese. I want to offer to baby sit. Yes, I realize that actually doing anything of those things would be, well, extremely weird, which is why I don't actually do them.

There are a couple other things I need to mention to you though. One, the made in China pieces of crap have got to end. I mean, enough already. Some people have wall to wall carpeting. We have wall to wall made in China pieces of crap. Please, just stop. And if you have to make stuff, at least make stuff that lasts, or that won't be recalled in three weeks due to lead paint, small parts, choking hazards, or potential exposure to typhoid. (Maybe if you had a few million more women in your country, they could help you figure out how to make stuff that actually lasts, and people would stop referring to it as made in China pieces of crap.They would refer to them as Authentic Handmade Crafts from China instead).

Lastly, stink bugs. Please. I don't know why you ever decided to send them here. Maybe they snuck in with a shipment of made in China pieces of crap, but really, enough already. Those things are everywhere, and they have got to go. I have a four year old who wants to keep every one he sees as a pet, and a two year old who wakes up screaming at night if he so much as thinks there's one in the house. How do you think that's working for us?

Yeah, not so well.

I realized the role you play in our lives last night, China, at about 2 AM, as I got up to assure a certain two year old that there weren't any stink bugs in our house. On my way to his room, I tripped over several made in China pieces of crap, and then when I actually found a stink bug on his wall, I was thinking that one of those made in China pieces of crap would have made a really good stink bug smoosher.

Except that I heard that you shouldn't smoosh stink bugs because well, they stink.

Go figure.

So instead, at 2 AM, I was gently picking up a stink bug with a tissue, and attempting to walk him to the bathroom, when I tripped over more made in China pieces of crap.

Then I flushed his ass down the toilet.

I think we need to work out a deal. For every one thousand pieces of made in China pieces of crap you send here, we'll send you five thousand stink bugs. I think it's only fair. Alternately, maybe they can be incorporated into the mystery meat in some of those restaurants.

Please, just keep them out of the egg rolls.

The Family Bed...

So I'm not really a crunchy mom. I think attachment parenting-with its focus on co-sleeping, baby wearing, and nursing on demand for as long as a child wants -- is a good thing for those who choose to go that route. But I also think that when you spend the vast majority of your days and/or nights with your kids, you tend to attach pretty well. Regardless of where said baby is sleeping, where their nutrition comes from, and whether or not they are physically tethered to one of their parents.

The important thing is that they are sleeping somewhere, eating something, and tethered to something.

Oh wait, scratch the tethered part. I think that's frowned upon in uptight mommy circles.

In spite of my feelings on this, it did happen that I was quite literally attached to each of my kids for a good nine months since I nursed them until around the time they started getting teeth. Sorry, but that was the end for me. You got teeth? Good. Here. Have a steak. (Oh, don't give me that look. I pureed it first).

I tried to be a baby wearing mom so that I could have my hands free, but I could never figure out how to get those slings, or wraps, or carriers on and off by myself, let alone actually get a baby to stay in them, so for the most part I carried the babies around. Besides, even when I was successful in getting them into those things, they never looked all that comfortable, and I always felt like I was well, wearing a baby.

It didn't really work for us.

I wasn't real big on co-sleeping, but I did frequently have a baby in our bed when they were nursing.

It wasn't about bonding. It was about sleep. Namely, mine.

Having said all of that, I recently realized that, even though the kids are now two, four, and seven, we still have the family bed thing going on. Or, more precisely, family beds.

Last night, for example, N climbed into our bed with me because it was raining, and it's been scientifically proven that rain sounds quieter when you're in bed with your mom. Rather than move her when he came upstairs, Jimmy fell asleep in her bed for a while. Eventually, they switched, and he came back into our bed, while she went into her bed. Around that time, O woke up and I brought him into our bed so that he wouldn't wake up B. Of course, B woke up a short time later and was upset to be all by himself, so I put a now sleeping O back in his own bed, and laid down next to B until he fell back asleep. When I got up to see what time it was, N woke up and saw me, and since it was almost time for her to get up anyway, I climbed in bed next to her. B joined us a few minutes later. When Bella and our visiting dog Arthur decided to join us, I thought it was probably time for me to get up.

I was making our bed this morning--the one I barely slept in--and found two Thomas the trains, a teddy bear, a toothbrush, a stuffed Elmo, and a Children's Prayer book.

What did I expect? It's the family bed, after all.

Well, you know, one of them.

If only I could find the one that I actually get to sleep in.

Butt Heads

This morning, Jimmy asked me to go pick up a part for his fork lift. Or maybe it was for his saw. Or his big fancy drill. Or, well, some other mechanical thing that needed a part. Before I left, I heard him call the place and ask them to have the whatchamacallet for the doohickey ready. So I put O in the car, picked up B from preschool, and drove 20 miles into a neighborhood I would not typically frequent so that I could pick up the thingamajig.

I knew where I was going because the kids and I went there once before to pick up a thingamabob. That time, even though Jimmy had called ahead, we waited twenty minutes for someone to figure out what we needed, another ten for them to get it, and another fifteen for them to process the payment. I was hoping this time would be a  little faster.

I knew that Jimmy had talked to Frank, so we walked in and I asked for him. The man working sent us upstairs and told me to ask for Bob. Then I heard him call Bob and say "You'll need to help this lady coming upstairs". And yet, for some reason, when we got upstairs, Bob looked surprised to see me, and had no idea why I was there. Frank was nowhere to be seen.

Two other people were at their desks and just stared at us. Bob said he'd need to look in a book to figure  out which dohickeymajobber we needed. Then he spent five minutes trying to figure out which book it was. As B and O stared out the window, I heard Frank's name a few times, in a tone that clearly said "Where the hell is that bastard Frank?". Eventually, someone said Frank was at lunch.

I think Frank was actually out to lunch.

After a few more minutes, Bob found the book. B and O were getting restless and trying to wander around the room. Then they got tired of being quiet. Bob was still looking in the book. Then he put the book down and started looking at something on his computer. B and O were getting louder. I really wanted to tell Bob that our time here was running out. I think that I need to start wearing a t-shirt that says "Fast Service Means Less Time for My Kids to Trash Your Office", but instead I focus on telling B and O that people are working and they need to be quiet.

They ignore me.

An older guy walks in and puts a box on Bob's desk. I recognize him from last time. It's Frank. I'd know him anywhere. Bob tells him who I am. I want to ask him if he had a nice lunch, but as he walks past me without saying a word and goes to look in some other book, I realize he's still out to lunch.

I don't know what these people are doing. I think the box may be mine, but no one is saying anything. They are still looking in books. Or on the computer. B and O are trying to run around the room, and starting to scream. I tell them to be quiet. I threaten that I won't bring them next time (yeah, right..as if  there will be a next time). They're tired. It's past nap time. They're cooped up in this office that we have now been waiting in for close to twenty minutes, for some thingamabob that was called ahead for.

B and O ignore me.

Eventually, Bob asks how I'm paying for it.

Can't he see how I'm paying for it? I mean, obviously, whatever I did, I am clearly paying for it right now at this very moment.

Instead, I hand him the credit card. For some reason, it takes a full five minutes to run it. B and O are still screaming. In unison. And then laughing at how funny they are. Yeah. Hilarious. A guy sitting at his desk in the corner, who until now has not not looked up, spoken to, or acknowledged us in any way, says "Uh, excuse me, but Frank's on the phone over there".

Really? I want to tell him that Frank obviously doesn't remember any of his phone conversations anyway, since he is clearly out to lunch. But instead, I grab my credit card, grab my thingamajig, grab my children, and drag us all back to the car.

As we get in, B says loud enough for anyone passing to hear "Butt heads".

Butt heads?

Where did my four year old hear this word?

I wonder if he learned it from the other kids at preschool. I wonder if he taught it to the other kids at preschool.

I wonder if he's said it to his teachers. Yet.

I wonder why he couldn't have said it when we were still inside.

The Tooth Fairy Rules

When N lost her first tooth yesterday, I realized that I'm really not up on all this Tooth Fairy stuff.

 After all, until yesterday, I was a Tooth Fairy virgin.

As I was tucking N in last night, she told me that the Tooth Fairy gave a friend at school new clip on earrings.  Then she looked at me pointedly and said, "I hope the Tooth Fairy brings me clip on earrings, MOMMY".

I suspect this is not so much an I KNOW you're the Tooth Fairy as much as an I suspect you are the Tooth Fairy but I'm not completely sure and besides, I'm not really sure I want to believe it just yet, so I looked at her quizzically and said "I don't know why you'd tell me. It's up to the Tooth Fairy what you get".

I didn't tell her that I was pretty sure that our Tooth Fairy didn't do earrings.

Then I kissed her good night and went downstairs to start the nightly routine of dishes, and cleaning, and email, and blogging, and back pack checking, and lunch making, and well...you get the picture.

Several times I thought of getting Tooth Fairy money out of my purse.

And then I almost went to bed without doing it.

When I did remember and attempted to put it under her pillow, my usually heavy sleeper woke up every time I walked into her room. I managed to put a few bucks under her pillow as I kissed her good night for the third time.

But I didn't manage to get the tooth. And though I'm kind of out of touch with the Tooth Fairy details, I'm fairly certain that the idea is that the Tooth Fairy takes the tooth.

Right?

The fourth time I tried to go into N's room, she woke up and stared at me, and asked me what I was doing.

I told her I thought I heard the dog whining to get out of her room.

She looked at the dog, who was sound asleep on the floor, shrugged, and rolled back over.

I still didn't get the tooth.

So I gave up, and the Tooth Fairy wrote a note instead. A poem about how the Tooth Fairy would let her keep this one tooth, since it was the first one to fall out.

Just this once.

It was signed TF.

I slipped it under her door and she found it this morning. She was happy to have the money and the tooth, but didn't seem all that surprised to get  a note from the Tooth Fairy.

When she came home from school, and I mentioned how cool it was that the Tooth Fairy let her keep her tooth, she looked at me, clearly confused, and said "Well I left her a note asking to keep it".

Oh. You did?

And then she showed me the note she'd left on her desk before bed last night, asking the Tooth Fairy to please let her keep this tooth.

Just this once.

Phew.

Score one for the TF.