RIP Our Beloved Play-Doh
Posted
July 8, 2008 at
11:38 am by
Kadi
We are gathered here today, to share our fond memories of Play-Doh and bid it a final farewell. Play-Doh has always been an integral part of our family’s home life. We spent many carefree days, sitting around the table, employing our dear Play-Doh in the art of mess-free sibling bonding. Our kids would spend hours, yes hours, sculpting it into various shapes of the imagination. Miraculously, they never fought while in the company of Play-Doh. It had some innate peace evoking quality that seemed to bring the kids together in one harmonious quest to build the perfect art form. I will never be able to explain how it was able to do this. No other object, art supply or over the counter medication educational television program sedated my naturally crazy children long enough to allow them to get along with their siblings, the way that Play-Doh did. It was pure magic in the form of modeling compound.
As the children grew, their creations became more magnificent. The time that they spent with their friend, Play-Doh, became increasingly productive and educational. The kids would fashion literary characters and play out scenes from their favortie stories. Sometimes, we would have contests to see who could mold the most interesting abstract picture or fantastical creature. It was quality family time at its cheapest finest. Most days, however, I took advantage of the battle free period to do some blogging chores. It was the only time that I could do anything without being constantly summoned to mediate an argument or stop a kid from bludgeoning his brother’s face. There was something so stress relieving in watching the kids scamper to get the Play-Doh from its designated spot in the art cabinet. It was the greatly appreciated granting of God’s permission to be lazy productive in an area of my life that did not entail threatening persuading seven kids into taking a nap, in order to do so.
Sadly, those days are over. We knew that Play-Doh would not be around forever. It was not the death that shocked me; it was the way in which it went that really left me at a loss for words. I had always imagined pre teen kids telling me that they no longer were interested in sculpting the vividly colored dough, because it was no longer cool and did not require batteries. I thought that, surely, we had a few good years left with our dear friend. Today was not the day that I had ever pictured having to bag up its remains and lay them to rest in the big brown receptacle, outside. Alas, we know not the hour, nor the day that our children will outgrow us. For my family, it was today…the day that Trenton decided to take his knowledge of the human body and design a detailed replica of one of the most fascinating, yet taboo, parts of the male (complete with pubic hair.) His phallic creation was a sure sign that we could not prolong its departure from our home. The days of innocent sculpting and occasional sibling camaraderie are gone forever. We will miss you, Play-Doh. Your memory will live on in our hearts forever.
Raising Up Manly Men
Posted
July 3, 2008 at
3:00 pm by
Kadi
When my oldest son was a toddler, he fell in love with my daughter’s red, patent leather shoes. My husband just about shit his pants when he saw his namesake, prancing around in pretty little mary janes. He demanded that the shoes be taken off and hidden from his son’s view. Talk about paranoid! Our families tried to convince my husband that wearing girly shoes would not turn him into a flaming homo, but my husband was not about to take any chances. As little girls, my sisters and I absolutely adored dressing up and playing pretend. Sometimes we pretended to be men. Did any of us grow up to be lesbians? Nope. It was just fun to be something that we knew could never really be (without an expensive operation, of course.) My husband, being the black and white thinker that he is, did not give a rat’s patootie about my childhood stories of cross dressing and its harmless implications. No son of his would ever, ever be allowed to play with a Barbie or look like a drag queen. That was about six years ago. My how some things have changed…
Five kids and four sons later, my husband has learned to loosen up. Not because he found some source of enlightenment, but out of sheer necessity. It takes way too much time and energy to try and keep five boys from doing anything remotely emasculating. Sure, he tries to instill a love of football, ultimate fighting and belching the alphabet, in each son. What father doesn’t? He does, however, let certain behaviors and activities slide now. He has given up the quest to keep them away from Barbie dolls. I think he has seen the value of roll playing in learning social norms. Or maybe he grew tired of trying to hide the Barbies, only to hear my daughter whine about being bored. She did not get a sister until six years after her birth, making her brothers the obvious choice to play the part of Ken.
There are some things that are off limits to our sons, in Dad’s book. He does not allow them to take dance class, unless it is Hip Hop or Break Dancing. He will never be okay with the boys experimenting with make up. Nail polish, ear piercings and long hair are permanently on his list of “Hell No’ items. God forbid one of our sons decides that he is gay. My husband could give a damn if somebody else has a homosexual son, but it would kill him to see his son “float around the room like a fairy.” Some things will never change. You can imagine his reaction when I showed him this picture of Reed, our youngest son, donning the thong undies that he stole from my drawer and made into a leotard:
It Can’t Be That Bad
Posted
June 30, 2008 at
1:56 pm by
Kadi
“Something’s gotta give,” my exasperated husband sighs as we both gaze desparingly upon our monthly bank statement. “What? What can we give?” We look over every detailed transaction. Gasoline…300 dollars per month. Groceries…1800 dollars per month. Doctor visits and prescriptions…125 dollars per month. The list of costs associated with raising our large family, in this modern day, is seemingly endless and far too overpriced. My new struggle with trying to balance frugality, while shopping for our health, has proven to be an enormously frustrating task. The conundrum of trying to fill my children’s tummies with organic goodness and simultaneuosly avoiding a negative checking account balance is a foe that I am acquainted with, against my will. I keep hoping that my foe will grow tired of the resistance to his efforts to ruin my shaky but stubborn balance and leave me alone, but he is more persistant than I had estimated him to be.
My maternal mission to live on one income has required me to completely forget about designer jeans and MAC counter make up. I’m forced into concerning myself with only the basics, now. I don’t even dare pick up a copy of Vogue, for fear that the reminiscent yearning for the latest fashions might birth feelings of inadequacy. Who the hell needs the stress of feeling fashionably inadequate when trying to put adequate food on the table? Not me. I’m learning to be content with my Target brand jeans and generic make up. There is no room for fashion snobbery in my life anymore. I french kissed it goodbye (hey…we had a torrid love affair for a long time) and will never look back. I simply cannot allow myself the luxury of that kind of fornication with seven kids to put through college, and apparently, even struggle to feed for the next umpteen years.
We have also recently come face to face with the financial demands of raising imperfect children. As imperfect as I know we are, as parents, there are more than just two imperfect humans who live under our crimson tiled roof. One son has an ADHD disorder that we strive to try and naturally cure. This translates into forking out a lot of money on extra vitamins, health supplements, organic foods, holistic health practictioners and literature on behavioral modification approaches. Trust me, medication is the cheaper “solution,” eventhough (for us) it is not the best route to take. We have kids who need medical procedures to put tubes in ears, remove adenoids and correct a serious tongue tie problem. We have hyperactive kids who need weekly athletic involvement in order to stave off wall climbing, which costs money. We have kids who grow at incredible rates. Rates that necessitate a larger sized shoe, only six weeks after purchasing the last new pair. I’m sorry to say, that God actively ignored my prayers for perfect children. This is not what I signed up for. Somehow, I ended up in the group of people that got assigned to be a parent of imperfect humans. Did anyone else, reading this, get put into the same group? Just curious!
So there we were, sitting at the organic apple sauce encrusted kitchen table, pondering ways to increase our cash flow or decrease our expenditures. We sat, two exhausted lumps of flesh and a piece of paper that seemed to scream from the top of its lungs, “What the hell were you two thinking, having all these kids?!” We did the only thing we knew to do… shake our heads and laugh. “Hey,” my husband tried to make light of our stressful moment,” if my parents did it, we can do it.” And he’s absolutely right. If his parents raised thirteen kids up to be happy, healthy adults, then surely we can raise half that amount. We will just cinch up our Target brand belts, make a few adjustments to our habits and keep on truckin’. I got up from the table and poured each of us a glass of wine, as part of our nightly pre bedtime ritual, when my husband had an idea. ”Maybe we should stop having our nightly glass of wine. It will save a few bucks each week.” I looked over at the man who had just suggested cutting out the one thing that we get to share every night, besides a bed and cooties, as if to say, “Are you effing serious?” He chuckled at my expression of pure disgust and retracted the ridiculous statement by picking up his glass and toasting, “Here’s to our financial struggles, our child induced stress and the wine we get to share together for the rest of our lives. May the first two never interfere with the last!” As long as we can afford our weekly bottle of wine, I consider our lack of wealth a very minor side effect of being blessed with so many imperfect, yet wonderful, children. I’ll let you know if my sentiments change should we ever have to suppress our affinity for wine, due to lack of finances.
Kate The Great -vs- Lady Kadi
Posted
June 24, 2008 at
7:08 pm by
Kadi
One recent commenter asked how I would compare myself to Kate Gosslin, the co-star of “Jon And Kate Plus 8″. Not being a personal friend of Kate’s, I wouldn’t know how to make a fully accurate comparison. Having been on television (for a whole 43 minutes,) I can attest to the fact that it is impossible to “know” somebody just by what you see on a television show, even if it is “reality.” I have watched Jon and Kate Plus 8, a few times. I must say that I enjoyed what I saw, purely because I could relate to having a large family of youngsters. I have gotten to know Kate’s television persona a bit and I think that we are alike in many ways, but I see some clear differences, as well. Here is my unprofessional list of Kate/Kadi comparisons, based solely on what I think I know about her (which may be close to nothing at all):
- Kate has 8 kids.
- Kate was pregnant for almost 9 trimesters, approximately 16 months, or less.
- Kate is organized.
- Kate has multiples (which I always prayed against!)
- Kate had to use fertility treatments to conceive.
- Kate has short hair.
- Kate has a husband who adores her and agrees to do crazy things like TV shows, to make her happy.
- Kate has her own TV show, based on her life.
- Kate has someone come over and do her laundry.
- Kate gets paid to do what she does, on a consistent basis.
- Kate seems to love being a television star.
- Kate loves being a mommy.
- Kate is a tad controlling and bossy.
- Kate has a formal education and is a registered nurse.
- Kate gets to take cool vacations with her family.
- Kate’s husband works at home.
- Kate only has two kids in school and six at home still.
- Kate is in her early thirties.
Okay, now here is a list of contrasts or similarities, as they correspond to each of the above: (more…)
What He Doesn’t Know, Won’t Hurt My Sloth!
Posted
June 20, 2008 at
10:13 pm by
Kadi
“Quick! Dad is on the way home,” my siren like voice echoes across the kitchen, until it reaches the little people who are comfortably resting on the couch and taking in all the Sponge Bob that their little minds can handle without spontaneously combusting. This is the cue that all of my children have been trained to recognize as the signal to get off their lazy keysters and help me get the house in order before Dad walks in the front door.
You see, in our humble abode, the kids and I have a little agreement. I allow the cleaning to be carelessly tossed to the wayside while we engage in cooking lessons, educational bridging exercises, kiddie pool wading and various summer fun activities. The way I figure it, trying to keep the house clean while the kids are present and involved in the messy business of being children, is pretty much a losing battle. Choosing to fight such battles just makes for afternoons filled with nothing but bouts of hair pulling frustration and frantic attempts to erase muddy footprints with the mop before the next stampede of puddle jumpers descends upon the family room.
Why bother?
That is where my husband and I disagree. He is the advocate for preventative cleaning measures and holds the same ideals of keeping a perpetually tidy house, as every other clean freak in the nation. If he only knew how truly disgusting the house becomes every weekday, from the hours of 7:00 am until he returns home, he would probably have a conniption fit. In fact, I have to keep myself from laughing, on the weekends, when I see him anxiously twiddling his thumbs in the corner of the kitchen as he watches us leisurely go from the first meal of the day to the first activity, without so much as a sweep or table scrubbing. He can only go so long, without asking if “I’d like some help tidying up the area before it gets too bad.” Usually I will oblige his need for immediate sanitation satisfaction, but sometimes I will tell him that I’ll get to it in a minute, just for the fun of watching him pick up a towel and peevishly start scrubbing dishes. It is mean, I know. Hey…after ten years of marriage, I have to find some way of paying him back for refusing to use the laundry hamper for the disposal of his soiled garments, over and over again!
Lucky for me, the husband has a knack for finding a bigger, better more efficient way of doing event he tiniest of household chores. Then, when I finally do get around to picking up a mop, there will be a more efficient way of getting the job done, in less time! Thanks to his freakish enjoyment of inventing these methods, I have my five o’clock cleaning routine whittled down to a silky smooth forty minutes. His method even leaves me with five extra minutes to check my email and start dinner. When the mess-a-phobe…er, husband comes through our front door, he sees a clean house, a sane mother, dinner on the stove and is none the wiser. Bwahahaha! But please, keep this between us. It may ruin my ability to sneak in some occasional day time blogging and then life, as I know it, would be much less enjoyable. Shhh, it will be our little secret!
Are All Overactive Baby Chutes This Cheery?
Posted
June 18, 2008 at
1:19 pm by
Kadi
Why does it seem like every mother of a large brood, with the exception of me, is in denial? I’ve yet to hear one of these mothers come right out and say, “Fuck you, uterus, or damn you, Ortho Novum! You both royally screwed me too many times!” Why do these large quivered mamas feel compelled to only say sickeningly sweet things about the fact that they are a walking fetus factory? Just once, I’d like to hear one echo my sentiment that it sucks to be helpless against repeated, ill timed pregnancy. What are they so afraid of? Do they fear being called a bad mom? It is a reality that not every child of a large family was a planned baby. Trust me. Seven of mine were “Oh shitballs” moments. Yes, all seven. You can choose to argue with me on that, if you want, but it is the honest to goodness truth. I tried, like a son of a gun, to stop. When I realized that stopping was not an option, I decided to settle for spacing them out. Nope, it obviously wasn’t going to happen.
Our first baby was the result of a total drunken moment of passion. So, I’ll take responsibility and admit that we were just idiots. Marlie is proof that even stupid moments can yield wonderful results. After our first, I converted to Catholicism and agreed to use NFP. Unfortunately, Natural Family Planning is a two person effort and only one of us was really doing it. Voila, baby number two, Daniel Jr.! Then came the “pull out” method. Uh…that does not work for a man who pre ejaculates. Sorry for the over abundance of information, but it is true. We call that lesson, Trenton. He is a cute little accident! Next came the nursing pill. I was pregnant the month after starting that, with Phillip. Condoms? They break and I have a two legged, sass mouthed, four year old Aiden to prove it. Those female condoms and that foamy spermicidal stuff are both jokes. Maybe God knew that I needed the fireball that is Ella. Even an IUD was no match for my body’s mission to pop out a record breaking amount of babies. My uterus spat out that little plastic and copper device, like a child rejects brussel sprouts. Unfortunately it spat that sucker straight through my uterine wall and into my rectum….but that is another story. Luckily, the end result was a healthy little Reed. My point is, birth control doesn’t work unless your body allows it to. My body would not allow anything we tried to interfere with its procreative recreation. Finally, my husband went in for the big V, much to his resistance.
Do I regret my kids being born? No. At least, not 98% of the time. There are those days, however, when I’d like to jump ship. Who doesn’t have those? Am I thrilled that I was unable to stop my baby factory of a body? Hell no! I did not enjoy the shitty side effects of seven back to back pregnancies. I was relieved to return to an ungestating state and cried when it ended in yet another pregnancy. Call me selfish. Call me a bad mother. At least I have balls to say it. (I’m seriously looking into that possibility, since sometimes I ended up pregnant when we didn’t even have sex during ovulation!) I wish that more fertile Myrtles would stand up and admit to being pissed when the little pregnancy stick turned up with two pink lines. I want to know that someone else threw that test at their husband and threatened to cut off his balls if he did not go get a vasectomy. It is okay to love your children and simultaneously curse the fact that your uterus failed to respect your wishes or that birth control was useless in giving you a rest. I say it and I’m still a good mom…or at least a mediocre one! Call my kids frustrating accidents or call them joyous blessings, I say they are both and I sure wish more moms in my boat, would verbally agree.
This Just In: Pillow Pummeling Heals Hatred
Posted
June 16, 2008 at
12:24 pm by
Kadi
My children hate me. They say so, everday. When they are made to clean up their own messes, stop pummeling their fellow sibling, obey rules of the house, or any other activity that requires self restraint and effort, they react by letting me know just how much they rue the fact that they were not ”born” a manufactured robot and have a human mother, especially me. We butt heads, we bicker and they pack their bags, frequently, threatening to drop off the face of the earth (or at least the face of the “Planet Prescott.”)
Why do I put up with daily verbal abuse, horrendous messes, unfathomable stress and wrinkle inducing situations? I’ll tell you why. Every once in awhile, I get the opportunity to be the mommy they love. I get to lower myself to their level (physically and mentally speaking,) shed my mommy persona and have some unbridled fun time with the little people I created. Suddenly, the shift in character creates a rare, lighthearted mood. They forget to hate me. I transform into a big kid. I am their playmate. I am the instigator of tickle fights and the victim of flying pillows. I get to shun the rules, let my hair down and be the person that my kids wish I could be, all the time. Gone is the person known as “Mom.” My kids love this time of silliness. It creates a renewed bond. The only thing that I regret about this ritual, is that I did not get to do it with my own mom. My mom was so tightly wound, that I never saw her relax, much less smile and have fun. I do not want my kids to remember me that way. I want them to remember that I was a disciplinarian, an imperfect human and (deep down) a silly little girl who loves a good pillow fight.
So, I ask you, “When was the last time you shed your mommy persona?” If you cannot remember, then it has been way too long. Trust me when I tell you that you won’t regret doing it. It will probably shock your kids and tickle them pink. Go ahead…shut down the computer and get out the dress ups. Challenge your teens to a Wii game of tennis. Cook up some silly ideas with your little ones. I guarantee that they will hold these kind of memories close to their hearts, as they get older. Plus, it is really helps prove them wrong when they say that they hate you and you can pull out photographic evidence of them laughing in your arms!
Jubilation Of Summer Vacation
Posted
June 12, 2008 at
12:24 pm by
Kadi
Waking, baking,
breakfast in the making.
Dressing, no stressing,
schedule is not pressing.
Preening, sun-screening
saftey has new meaning.
Bikes, Hikes
outings and the likes.
“Water, daughter!”
sun is getting hotter.
Lunching, munching
sounds of kiddies crunching.
Rest, nap fest
mommy knows what’s best.
Energize, bright eyes
Return to grass and sunny skies.
Explore, outdoor
Who could ask for more?
Befriending, play pretending
popsicles unending.
Mess up, dress up
“They look so cute!” I fess up.
Sunning, funning
Until the day is done-ing.
The Danger Of Relaxing When You Have An Overworked, Underpaid Uterus
Posted
June 9, 2008 at
12:48 pm by
Kadi
Remember the post about the conversation I recently had with my mother in law? It ended with the promise of another story from the Prescott family archives. I am a woman of my word (unless I forget which happens quite often.) The following story is not for the weak of constitutions. It is a real life account of what can happen when one has an overactive uterus and a long overdue second honeymoon in progress. Brace yourself…
After twenty three years of marriage, ten children and several thousand trips to the doctor, church and the school pick up line, Dean and Julie desperately needed some alone time. Being a one income family of twelve, did not allow for the luxury of a vacation, much less one without kids. So, when the opportunity for a business trip presented itself, it was a dream come true for the frazzled couple. Even though their destination was only a few hours away, by plane, Julie was a tad reluctant to leave her children. Sure, the older ones were more than capable of tending to the brood. Sure, they had wonderful neighbors who promised to help keep an eye on the house. However, leaving a house full of kids unattended was a little unsettling. Despite her worries, Dean and Julie took the trip to Utah.
Julie had given birth to eight feisty boys and two girls, at this point in life. The boys were notorious for performing dangerous stunts and getting into all kids of mischief. Julie had visited the emergency room so many times, that they practically knew the Prescott family by name. It was no surprise when one of the boys, fell out of a tall palm tree in the front yard, and suffered a broken arm and concussion. In fact, this particular child was such a jokester, that Julie playfully kicked him and laughed as he lay on the sidewalk. She was so used to falling prey to his tricks, that she never imagined that he was actually hurt. It was this type of thing that lay in the back of Julie’s mind as she unpacked her suitcase at the hotel. Thoughts of worst case scenarios flooded the unsettled mother’s mind. Finally, after much persuading from Dean, she breathed a sigh of relief and allowed herself to relax. As all of you parents know, those words written in a parenting story, always mean trouble…
(more…)
Someday My Memory Will Fail Me…Thank God
Posted
June 3, 2008 at
11:53 pm by
Kadi
Our family just returned from a 53.5 hour long family vacation. We stayed at my in laws’ house at the river. Why was it only 53.5 hours long? Well, it’s a long story so I’ll paraphrase. Day one was great. We swam, barbequed and played games with the kids. Life was good. Day two was less than great. In fact, it was down right miserable. The kids grew tired of the heat, the water, their raw little piggies and being in a strange house. They reacted to this discomfort by fighting and whining. After threatening them with severe consequences trying to resolve their obvious displeasure with the situation, we decided to cut the trip short and head home.
Family vacations are not for the faint of heart, nor the blessed of quivers. My mother in law called, this morning, to inquire about our early departure from their house. I explained the difficulties of our vacation, as she laughed in understanding. She then recounted the three times in forty five years, that her own large family took vacations. She was always pregnant. She always had a baby. They never had money. Taking thirteen kids on a road trip sounds down right hellish to me. I cannot imagine living that nightmare. I listened intently, as she described their trip to Oregon. The boys decided to play, “never leave your ribs open.” When that got boring, they switched to “never leave your jaw open.” She recalled how terribly long the journey in the van was. I’m sure she wished for ear plugs and a valium at times. My mother in law is a very patient and self sacrificing woman. Those trips must have been purely labors of love. One time, she even put off telling her husband that she was pregnant again, just so that he would enjoy the trip. Did I say she was patient and self sacrificing? I take that back, she’s a freakin’ saint.
I feel almost silly to complain to her, about my own stress and lack of patience to endure seven kids’ whining. Yet, she never makes me feel silly. She echoes my sentiments of wanting to give our kids great memories of family vacations, then ending up wanting to pull every last hair out of my head by the time we get back home. I know that she loves her children and enjoys motherhood, for the most part. It makes me fully appreciate her honesty about the fact that motherhood is not always roses and family vacations are far from perfect. She assures me that, someday, I will look back and laugh at our misadventures in the 15 passenger van. I asked her why and she she said that I’d start to forget some of the not so great stuff. “For now,” she advised, “plan a trip with just you and your husband and I’ll help watch the kids.” I asked her if she ever left the kids for a romantic weekend. “Yes,” she chuckled, “but that’s another story…”
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