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.

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:

“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.

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…)

“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!