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.

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:

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 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:

• Kadi has 7 kids.
• Kadi was pregnant for 21 trimesters and almost 66 months.
• Kadi is only semi organized.
• Kadi does not have multiples.
• Kadi did not use any fertility treatments to conceive.
• Kadi has short hair.
• Kadi has a husband who adores her and agrees to do crazy things like a TV episode, to make her happy.
• Kadi had one television episode, based on her life.
• Kadi has someone to do her laundry…herself.
• Kadi got paid to do the show, but other than that, she doesn’t get a dime.
• Kadi did not love being a television “star”
• Kadi loves being a mommy.
• Kadi is a tad controlling and bossy (okay…a lot bossy.)
• Kadi has one year of college to her credit.
• Kadi gets to take cool vacations in a tent in her backyard, with her family.
• Kadi’s husband does not work at home.
• Kadi has four kids in school and three at home.
• Kadi is a few months away from turning thirty.

As far as who has it harder, there could be arguments for both. I definitely would not have wanted to be her on the delivery table! I do think that she is very brave for putting her life out there for the public to scrutinize. Is it what I would do? No. It is hard to see a woman devoting her life to such a difficult task and keep an optimistic attitude, and not have respect for her, though. The only thing I know for sure about Kate Gosslin and I, is that we would have one heck of a play date! 

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!

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.  

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!

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.

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…

Back at home, the kids were getting along well. By “well,” I mean not killing each other. Everyone was being fed, bathed and kept alive. Then it happened. One of the boys decided to climb the very same palm tree that had been the culprit in the injury that occurred just a few months earlier. This boy, a different one than had suffered the broken arm and concussion, decided to swing from the branches of the tree. It was a ton of fun to do, until the branch broke. As a rule, palm tree branches are not designed to hold the weight of a child who thinks he is Tarzan. Apparently, nobody had informed this boy of that fact. The boy fell to the sidewalk with a *snap*. A snap? Yes, a snap. His arm literally snapped in half when it hit the edge of the curb, causing the bone to tear right through the flesh. He dazedly walked into the house with a broken bone exposed for the world and his teenaged sister, to see.

Did the kids call 911? No. Did they call Dan and Julie? No way. They did the first thing that any logically thinking teen would do in an emergency situation. They put the injured boy on the back of his sister’s boyfriend’s motorcycle and took him to the emergency room. Meanwhile, way out in Utah somewhere, Julie was semi-enjoying the chance to have an adult conversation with her husband. When the phone rang in their hotel room, Julie automatically knew that something was very wrong. Kids do not just call their vacationing parents to tell them that all is well at home. It had to be something big, to necessitate a phone call. When Julie answered with a panicked, “Hello?” she was surprised to hear the voice of the family physician. He relayed the bad news and assured Julie that her son was going to be just fine. The doctor ordered her to stay where she was and that he would perform the necessary surgery, without her presence. After all, he had been physician to the Prescott family for years and knew how badly Dan and Julie needed a break.

In the end, all was well. The boy who played Tarzan, healed nicely. Nothing else happened to warrant an emergency phone call to Dan and Julie. The couple got some much needed rest and were able to finish the trip out. They returned home to nine healthy, in tact children and one recovering one. They did not, however, take another lover’s weekend until all of their thirteen children were grown adults. Yes, you heard me right. They did go on to have three more children, making the grand total a whopping thirteen! Surprisingly, the children are all alive and well, with families of their own. Of course, none of them has even close to the number that their parents had. It may, in part, be due to the fact that they know just how much work it is to have a large family and enjoy the luxury of taking vacations that are free from the fear of broken arms and calls from the ER. You see, even if you do not vacation in Las Vegas, taking any kind of trip away from a large brood of feisty kids, is a gamble. The odds are never in your favor, as Dan and Julie learned the hard way!

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…”

I have all of the teacher’s gifts, wrapped and ready to give. It is my last ditch effort to plead with them to take my kids home for the summer. My second grader’s teacher asked if we would keep the class pet, a frog, for the summer. I offered her an even trade…the frog for the second grader. She laughed. I didn’t. Maybe nobody will notice if I forget to pick up the kids after school today. Maybe I can bribe the custodian to lock them in the utility closet for ten weeks. Maybe I can pay her to slide some food and water under the door, so they survive. Maybe I can find a mission trip to send the kids on. What better way to spend the summer than learning about how good life really is in the United States? So they risk Malaria and other unpleasant side effects of third world visitation, it is all part of the experience, right? With great rewards, come great risks!

Okay, so I sound a little desperate. I am. The little beasts were off of school for one extra day, last week. Our house and my temper suffered greatly, that day. They “accidentally” spilled a smoothie in the cable box and broke it. They “accidentally” rode their scooters in the house and made several gouges in the wall, before I caught them. They “accidentally” poured a bottle of baby shampoo all over the bathroom floor, to clean up the ink pen that “accidentally” broke and splatter painted the floor a lovely shade of midnight. They “accidentally” killed my last shred of sanity. I’m not sure how I’m going to avoid being the next “Parent Gone Mad, Drowns Her Children” news headline, but something has to be figured out. I decided to seek out divine intervention, yesterday. I emailed my husband’s uncle, who is a priest, to seek some advice. I kid you not, this was our correspondence:

“Hi Uncle John. How are you? We are fine. The kids will be out of school on Friday. I’m a little scared. It makes me wonder how your sister (my mother in law) survived summer break with 13 kids! Any guidance that you can offer me? Love, Kadi”

“Dear Kadi, I am doing well. Find a summer program for the kids…quickly. Love, Fr. (uncle) John”

I was expecting some words of wisdom, a prayer, a novena, or even a suggestion of exorcism. Nope. He told me to find a place to shove my kids for the summer. Even the priest knows I’m doomed. I’m heading to the store now, to buy a lot of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, Clorox Wipes, duct tape, rope, Lexapro and other survival essentials. Then, I’m going to schedule some weekly phone “confessions” with Uncle John, because I’m going to need some major absolution of sin, for the next ten weeks! Now, how am I going to leave the house, without opening the door for the grim reaper who is still lurking on my stoop?

Their bathroom is like a shrine to Davey Jones’s locker, for crying out loud! My kids feel like they are riding the Pirate’s Of The Carribbean, every time they flush. Even I have considered grabbing a bottle of rum and soaking in the ambiance, while downloading. It’s like a mini vacation every time nature calls!

My sister in law found the painting below, in a remote corner of her dad’s house. It fits perfectly and was free! It was what inspired her to do a nautical theme. Her college aged son, suggested a dark twist of adding the pirate decor.

My kids love the fact that the toilet has a treasure chest and cup-o-jewels on the tank.

The ominous portrait of Black Beard hangs beside the free standing wash basin. Beside it (not shown) are the infamous keys that unlock the imprisoned pirates from the Disney classic movies.

I have to admit, this bathroom is one of the coolest I’ve ever peed in. I don’t blame the kids for wanting to spend so much time in it. It made me consider my own bathroom decor. The kids never seem to want to use our bathrooms. I have found puddles of urine and little stink pickles in every nook and cranny of our house (including the air conditioning unit,) except for the restroom. Maybe the pink floral and jungle themes were not suiting my kids’ fancies. My sister in law suggested using a Disney theme, like the inspiration she drew from “Pirates Of The Carribbean.” I took her advice, but it’s just not getting the same popular response from the kids. In fact, they won’t go anywhere near the bathrooms now. Maybe I shouldn’t have used the “Haunted Mansion” theme as my inspiration. What do you think?

Oh say can you see

that this country’s lost sight

of the values and God

on which it was founded.

Through long wars and false tongue

we are robbing our young

of a world rich in peace

and a leader who’s grounded.

And the battle for oil

lines their pockets with spoil.

Our leaders live well

from the fruits of our toil.

Oh say does our poor mangled

country cry loud

for return to our first creed

and a truth that stands proud!

While I agree that there are some changes needed and that this is not a perfect land, I still love this place. I feel privileged to live here and think that those who hate it so much, should leave.

Saving money is even harder than finding fun in the coupon game. Some say that it is a thrill to look at their savings account and see the figures grow. When I look at our savings account balance, all I see is my new bed room set, waiting to be purchased. When my husband lectures me on retirement and investing, it is like he is speaking Spanish. Sure, I can understand what he is saying, but my native language is much more effortless to comprehend. I speak fluent Spendanese. If there was a game for who can spend the most, I’d be the champ. If you hand me a Nordstrom catalog, I can easily pick out the most expensive pair of Manolo Blahniks on the page, without seeing the prices. How? Easy, they are the pair that my eye is attracted to. Some would say that it is a gift, but it has become my curse.

I have a role to fulfill as a responsible parent of seven kids. It is my duty to save money, do without luxuries and buy generic brands. Do I enjoy it? No. It is my cross to bear. There are so many great things about having a large family and one income. I get to stay home and be the one to raise my kids. I get to witness all of their first milestones. I get to blog in my bikini, while getting a tan. I will never be bored. I get seven bed time kisses. I will have lots of grandkids, someday! I will (hopefully) have one kid that likes me enough to change my diaper when I get old. The money issue, however, is one of the less desirable parts of my life as a mother of seven. I will wear my Target brand jeans, but I will not swing my hips the way I would in True Religions. I will drink my five dollar bottle of wine, but it won’t taste as good. I will drive my 15 passenger van, but will not rev the engine as if I were driving a Jaguar. I accept it, I live it, but nobody can persuade me to be thrilled about it!

Get lost, Sun, and take your rays that sear my bloodshot eyes.

Come back in two hours, when I’m ready for your rise.

Shut up, birds. Be quiet! Stop that perky song.

Don’t you know that I have babies who woke me all night long?

Alarm clock, if you have the will to live, do not bother me.

For if your beeping dares pierce my ear drums, broken you will be.

Husband dear, I love you, but keep your distance, friend.

Your persistence in nudging me awake, may surely mean your end.

Sounds of energetic feet echo loudly in the hallway.

But I’m not prepared to leave these sheets and start another day.

My night shift was a double and seemed to have no end.

Crying, bad dreams, teething, all endless needs to tend.

Sleep, you have eluded me, for the fifth night in a row.

Rest, you have betrayed me. Your face I no longer know.

The only one who accompanies me through long and taxing nights,

Is my dreaded foe, Exhaustion, who afflicts, taunts and smites.

Isn’t there some other mom, who has the luxury of sleep?

Can’t you pick on her for now, so I can count some sheep?

Two hours is not a lot to ask to mend my mental state.

If you do me this small favor, I’ll let you stay up late.

The loss of my tub’s virginity, was enough to make me want to cry. Not because it happened once, but because it will be considered open territiory from here on out. Like, “Hey Dad, the bearded dragons need a good scrubbing. I’m gonna use mom’s tub ‘cuz they like the jets.” Mark my word, it won’t be long until I’m sharing bubble bath with the resident reptiles. The tub isn’t the only thing in this house that has been erroneously encroached upon and ultimately soiled. I am always finding greasy little lip marks on my beloved Dr. Pepper. The kids know how badly their practice of sipping on my soda pisses me off, yet they do it every time I turn my back for a second. I despise those tiny floating remnants of back wash and the way they taunt me to take a big gulp without ingesting one of them. Most of the time, I chug the whole damn can before even setting it down, because I know it is my only chance to drink the contents, without encountering spittle. My spawn have gotten wise to my game, though. I recently discovered many cans, sitting in our fridge, empty and placed back in their original positions. I am in the midst of devising a repellant solution, made of vinegar and hot sauce. I will fill half full cans of soda, then sit back and watch as the little miscreants suffer the wrath of the meanest mommy on the planet.

The way I see it, there are two choices. I can either allow the “Me” to fight back and rage war against the ones who threaten my right to retain a smidge of individuality. Traveling this route could be time consuming and potentially deadly (for me.) My other option is to let the “Mom’ win and wave the white flag. I’m only twenty nine and I still have a long stint as a stay at home mother. It will be at least 16 more years until I can boot the last one out. If I give up now, I might very well live out the next 16 years in a comatose state and stink like a bucket full of buttholes from the lack of a decent bath. I think I’ll take my chances and fight for my right to cootie free Dr. Pepper and a non-scummy tub. After all, the “Mom’ may make up a larger part of who I am, but the “Me’ still has seniority!

Sure, everything we mothers do is for our kids. We live for our kids. We sacrifice without with little complaint, so that they will have a better childhood than we had. I have always tried to make choices that reflected the best interest of my children, since the day my first daughter was born. This experience, however, was testing the limits of my will to be the best parent I could. I was knowingly throwing myself and my spouse into the lion’s den. We were about to allow the nation to see every flaw, every mistake and every moment of our lives, edited at the discretion of a television production company. I had survived some extreme situations, all in the name of motherhood. Deciding to film an episode for Supernanny, trumped every other parenting trial I had encountered. If I survived the whole two weeks, I would feel an indescribable sense of accomplishment and pride. That “If” was heavily loaded.

I foolishly believed that those two weeks of assessment, parenting lessons and Jo’s insistence on repairing my relationship with my father, would be the most difficult task to complete. Daniel and I went to bed, completely exhausted and anxious for what the next day of filming would bring with it. Our days were full of washing an outfit every time a kid would soil it, for the sake of television continuity. We were not allowed to have the TV on, or the play radio and only a few Disney books could be present on our bookshelves. Our lives had radically been altered, yet we had to live as normal as possible. After a few days of screwed up schedules, hiding the labels on food containers and peeing while wearing a microphone, I began to lose sight of the reason for embarking on this endeavor (remember…’it’s for the kids’?) Then Jo arrived and everything came into focus. All of the annoyances and outright demands on our family, became suddenly doable. Jo’s insight and guidance was a cold drink of water on an August day…in the Sahara. A light appeared at the end of my sanity tunnel. Our kids’ demeanor changed, our household became more peaceful and I actually looked forward to the next day of filming. It was hard work worth performing!

If I only knew what was to come after filming, I would have relished the hives and mind boggling amount of work those two weeks offered. I thought that the stressful part was behind us. There were a few months of calm and other distracting events that occurred after filming ended. My family and friends anticipated the airing of our episode. The kids enjoyed a certain amount of celebrity at school. I enjoyed the few months of anonymity that preceded the airing. I figured that it would be short lived after our faces graced the 9pm time slot on ABC. Then, March 5th arrived. My stomach churned all that day. Every mother knows the feeling of anxiety towards her first labor and delivery experience. The unknown is a horrifying thing. Not knowing what 43 minutes of footage would give birth to, was driving me nutty. We could easily look angelic or demonic. The choice was theirs alone. As I drove Marlie home from Girl Scouts that night, I couldn’t even hold a conversation. I was too nervous. My cell phone rang and my mother announced that our family on the east coast had just finished watching the show. I had to pull the truck over because every muscle in my body turned to gelatin.

“Well? How bad was it?” I asked. Silence. I felt my dinner rapidly making its way to my throat. She finally broke the news, “They loved it. They all cried for you guys.” Those words were the sweetest I’d heard in awhile. The prior month of February had been extremely rough and her news a great relief. My grandfather passed away on February 9th and I had been going through terrible emotional turmoil. He was my father figure after my dad left. He walked me down the aisle on my wedding day, spoiled me rotten and was my favorite person in the world. After his passing, I was not sure if I could endure the mental and emotional toll that public scrutiny would present. If my family was behind us, everything else seemed more manageable. I felt more confident in my ability to handle the harsh feedback that America was about to serve up.

The aftermath was, as I expected, a test of my nerves and strength. My intentions of being a better parent were not received as such by much of the public. A lot of people saw a weak, vain, too skinny, middle class, attention whore who couldn’t keep her legs closed. Some called names that made me crumble into a sobbing heap. Then, my husband taught me to give people the metaphoric bird. He sat me down and told me that “You have to, politely, tell people to fuck off. Do not answer their rude questions. Do not get down when you read a mean spirited comment. Who cares? You know who you are and that is all that matters.” As right as he was, I was not born with the incredibly thick skin that he managed to inherit. It took some time to grow a callus and adjust my mantra. Luckily, my grief over the loss of my grandpa and the stress of dealing with verbally ugly people, hit me all at once. It dealt with it, cried a lot and, with Jo’s continued assistance, started the healing process.

As for my new mantra, it is now a little more fowl (get it?): “My life is for my kids and the bird is for all who have something rude to say about it.” Yeah, I know its crude, but you are not reading the Perfect Parent blog! As I exited the dizzying roller coaster of being a 43 minute celebrity, I realized a few things. One, being on Supernanny does not make for a better parent, in itself. What makes for a better parent, is the ability to learn from our experiences, apply the lessons learned and stick to them. Two, hives really aren’t that big of a deal, when compared to all of the other side effects of being on television. Three, earning a sense of parental accomplishment and pride, entail a lot more than I ever imagined.

Allow me to introduce myself, I am the woman you glare at in the grocery aisle, because her children are running amok. I am the woman with the two cart fulls of groceries, who you always get stuck behind in the check out line. I am the one you do not want at your Mom’s Club gatherings, because we are always late and usually forget snack when it is our turn. I am the owner of that dirty, fifteen passenger van in the school pick up line, who takes forever to load up her spawn. I am the maternity ward patient who all the nurses know by name. I’m the mom with a baby permanently attached to her hip and boogers crusted on her shoulder. I am the lady who makes women glad that they have only one child. I am the parent who does it all, but masters nothing. I am an imperfect parent of seven children. Around these parts, I go by the name of “Mooooooom, make him stop!” But you can call me “Kadi.”

I decided to join the ranks of the Imperfect Parent crew for a few reasons:

1. Writing is my therapy. With seven kids, who has time to visit a shrink? Hell, who has time with only one kid? Being a parent allows for very little selfishness, but an over abundance of stress. My passion, aside from wiping snotty noses, is sharing my trials and joys of parenting a large family. What started as a simple form of catharsis through blogging, has evolved into a sort of symbiotic relationship. Readers feed off of my insight, wisdom (or lack thereof) and humor. I get my sense of fulfillment from reading their responses and knowing that the post helps others, or makes them laugh. So feel free to leave your comments whenever you read my posts, regardless of whether your opinions are congruent with my own. This is group therapy and everyone is welcome!
2. I’ve learned that being perfect is highly overrated. It took me almost 30 years and nearly killing my sanity to learn that little lesson. Striving for perfection was something that I grew up doing. It was the norm in my family. After my parents divorced in 1990 and my steadfast pillars of perfection had crumbled, I worked even harder to be perfect. Perhaps I was in denial, or maybe it was how I rebelled against the idea that life isn’t perfect. I was out to prove that perfection could be acheived. Boy was I wrong. Life is so much more enjoyable when it is absent of the struggle to acheive perfection. There is nothing wrong with bettering one’s self. Likewise, there is nothing right about fooling yourself into thinking that perfection is something that must be attained to be happy.
3. I love to develop relationships with like minded parents. Even if a parent cannot relate to me on the whole, they can usually relate to me in one sense or another. Whether you have one or twenty children, the problems are pretty much the same. Maybe I have more reasons for claiming parental insanity, but not different ones. I am not the average fertile Myrtle, however. Most people would never guess I had so many kids, because I do not fit the stereotype of an overative uterus. I like to wear fashionable clothing, I curse on occasion and I like my nightly glass of Merlot. While, I admit that these things are nothing to brag about, I’m also not ashamed to admit them. Just because I have a lot of kids, does not make me exempt from being human. I do stupid stuff, I embarrass myself and I stick my foot in my mouth on many occasions. I am just as imperfect as the next mom…or maybe more so!

I am so excited to join the ranks here and I hope that you will get something out of my small contribution to this community. Now that you know a little about me, I’d love to know about you and why you visit The Imperfect Blog. I look forward to hearing back from all of you and will answer any questions or comments you may have. I just hope you don’t mind if my replies are slightly stained, as I am making spaghetti for dinner and I’m a sloppy cook!