Summer is a favorite of so many for one obvious reason: it is the one season when total disintegration of social mores is completely acceptable.

In summer you don’t have to wear shoes, eat your vegetables, or balance your checkbook (or maybe that last one is just my rule?)

Bath. On a summer day we just can’t be bothered with a lot of things that seem important the rest of the year, such as bathing.

My children are absolutely certain that a quick trip through the backyard sprinkler is more than equal to a long, hot shower. Soap, of course, is entirely optional.

Our son is also prone to standing in slack-jawed shock if confronted with the outlandish notion that he may, in fact, need to wear shoes at some time during the summer.

In his world, if shoes are required, then he’s absolutely certain that he has no desire to go there.

Blooming anew. Summertime is also a time when so many wondrous things not seen during lesser seasons bloom anew such as crabgrass, charcoal grills and ice cream trucks.

It is a little known fact that ice cream trucks are quite possibly the one instance where city kids have an upper hand over the otherwise hands-down slam-dunk superiority that country life has over urban living.

Sure, country kids have fresh air, wide open spaces, trees to climb (and fall out of), creeks and rivers to explore (and fall into), but can that really compare to the late afternoon jingle of a pied piper of ice cream off in the distance? I think not!

Trucking. In my day as a “city kid,” the ice cream truck’s appearance was surely the high point of the day for me and my fellow free-range street urchins.

We’d hear the distant, slightly creepy, yet mesmerizing musical tinkle of their bells, grab our coins (in reality my mother’s coins, I had no pride when it came to sweets), and race off with great speed, tracking the truck down like blood-hounds.

I was, of course, the same child who couldn’t find the laundry room in my own house throughout most of the years I lived there.

But an ice cream truck three city blocks away I could locate with only the coins clutched in my sweaty little fists to guide me.

Sadly, here in the sticks we don’t have ice cream trucks, although once in a great while we might score a frozen Coke from the cooler down at the feed store.

Dog days. We are in the midst of summer vacation and the new has not (quite) worn off yet.

By this I mean the children haven’t really begun to bicker in earnest (yet).

Nonetheless, the dogs have firmly grasped the spirit of the season and are firmly entrenched in their summer identities.

They shall henceforth be known as “he who runs through screen doors” and “he who inhales all pool toys.”

These summer alter-egos are helpful for keeping track of them as I engage in my ongoing daily battle to convince them that wicker and related outdoor accessories are not, in fact, a food group.

Heat. When it comes to feeding the humans underfoot, I take the notion that “if you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen” literally.

I serve nothing but food that doesn’t require cooking at all, like “the carbohydrate based salad family a la potato, pasta, and/or macaroni salad; or meat that is best cooked outdoors by anyone else but me — mainly Mr. Right.

I am all for any season where my entire cooking involvement consists mainly of tossing bags of charcoal in my spouse’s direction every few days or so, and standing far enough back so as not to lose any facial hair in the conflagration.

From the freezer. Finally, the children, helpful as ever, are doing their part to help me keep my cool on these unseasonably hot early summer days.

They are deeply committed to proving that they can, in fact, live entirely on freezer pops.

As a result, they are also cooling two-thirds of the house with the constant opening and closing of the freezer doors.

Granted this has taken the temperature in the kitchen down a notch.

I, however, get a little hot under the collar when it comes to the electric bill. Although I find a nice backyard bonfire and a glass of wine can do wonders for that.

Bookmark to:
    

Tuesday marked the day that my beautiful wife and I got married 13 years ago. It also marked the fourth (fifth?) time we forgot about it and let the day pass without mention or fanfare. Hell, we even wrote it on the calendar and we still forgot about it until yesterday, and even then it was just, “Oops, we missed it again.”

I’m sure some of you are wondering how we could let such an important occasion just slide by. Well, because it’s not an important occasion to us. Sure, there have been years when we have surprised each other with a gift or night out, but just as many that were celebrated with a handmade card, or a note left on the laptop. Here’s the thing — getting married is the easy part. It’s staying married that requires the daily commitment, work, and compromise. Setting aside an extra day to celebrate our marriage just seems superfluous — we celebrate it 24/7. If my wife needs that one day a year set aside where she’s made to feel special and loved, then I’m not doing my job the other 364 days. But as it is, we couldn’t be more devoted to one another, and each envision growing old and frail together. (Jessica, feel free to step in and correct me if I’m wrong.)

So are we just freaks, or does anyone else out there feel the same way about their wedding anniversary (and its little brother Valentine’s Day and inbred cousin Sweetest Day)? Or if you’re the complete opposite, please lend a differing point of view.

Bookmark to:
    

That’s it. I’m done.
There is just only so much I can obsessively worry over and seriously? I’ve hit my limit.

Childhood obesity, white sugar, processed flour, artificial sweeteners, too much tv, not enough reading, lead in toys, toxic mold, toxic new homes, global warming, bullies, low self-esteem, high-self esteem, athletics v. academics, No Child Left Behind, whether seeing your parents naked will result in future therapy and how expensive might that be?

Whew. As someone who literally does “lie awake at night” worrying, this really cannot be good for any of us. Where is the study about what happens to kids with cranky, overwrought parents too tired to think straight? At what point do you have to start paring down your worries? There are only so many hours in the day and frankly, I may have to cast off lead and global warming.

Nutrition and obesity (although both my kids are slim) bears watching. Pedophiles and molestation I’m never going to quit worrying over. My kids will be 40 I’ll still wonder if they should ride their bikes alone. Seriously.

However, when do you just decide to put other worries on the back burner? To just start letting go of pretending we can protect our children from everything?

 Here’s the thing kids. I’ll recycle when I can but I think you are probably right to suspect I may be leaving the world a lesser place than I found it. We all are. Sorry about that but short of keeping my plastics out of the paper bins, I’m not sure what I can realistically do for you there.

The Lead Menace? Yawn. Overrated. Sorry but if lead is so scary why are all our parents and grandparents and the entire Baby Boom generation not brain damaged? Oh wait, scratch that …

 I’m not going to relax on “running with scissors” but I AM going to relax on the numerous things I cannot control RIGHT NOW. Or could lie awake nights fretting over to no avail.

So, um, eat your peas. Sit back from the TV. Read a book once in a while. Don’t chew the windowsills. Stay in my sight AT ALL TIMES and remember I love you even if I forget to worry about everything else under the sun.

And oh, that reminds me, I’ve got to worry about the sun …

So, what have you simply let go of worrying about?

More importantly, how guilty do you think we should feel about it?

Bookmark to:
    

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.

Bookmark to:
    

It turns out that I am a moron.

I had no idea but the proof is there. It comes out as soon as I relate how it happened that I dropped my beloved camera into a body of water (heck, who am I kidding? It was a homicide. That camera was pushed!)

I am a parent. A role model. Someone who is presumably modeling responsible, smart behavior for the youth of America. Particularly the two “youth” that live with me. It turns out I am not doing so well with that.

The story goes like this So my camera was stored where it always is, on the shelf above the kitchen sink … and, well, it just goes downhill (downsink?) from there. One wrong move and you are pulling your beloved digital camera from the depths of a sink full of hot, soapy water.

For the record: cameras do not like that. At all.

To add to the “how does she even manage to be walking around upright?” of it all, the camera was actually plugged into a charger at the time and when it went under, I instinctively reached into the water and pulled it out! It’s a wonder I wasn’t electrocuted. 

See? What’d I tell you? Moron! That’s me.

How can I lecture my children about responsibility, taking care of their possessions, and basic household safety if I myself am unable to achieve such lofty aspirations? Not to mention that I can’t have anything nice.

My camera is like an extension of myself. My third eye. My motto has long been If I don’t have a picture of it - it didn’t happen. I felt kind of light-headed and sick contemplating life without a camera. Head between the knees, breathe deeply, stay calm sort of sick. My husband, when told of our recent loss, said only (and with absolutely seriousness) Man am I glad YOU did that and not me or one of the kids. You know what? He’s right. If he or the offspring would have done something “so stupid” I would have gone apesh@#. I know, I’ve seen me do it.

Having worked through the five stages of grief over it in near-record time, I’m off to Best Buy to throw myself on the mercy of some seventeen year old “sales associate” who will put me back in photographic form. I know what I want but in the interest of “setting a good example” (which, by the way, sucks) I’m leaning toward severely restricting what I allow myself to purchase on the theory that one should not be rewarded for careless behavior.

Of course, if I’m truly on the path to being a pathetic excuse for a role model, those high-end SLR’s with the massive telephoto lenses are looking pretty good too.

Bookmark to:
    

Sometimes you choose just the most perfect name for your pets that it’s uncanny. I guess sometimes that could happen with your kids, too, but well, I don’t know if any of us have kids old enough to prove whether their name truly fits them or not. But, pets—yes.

Donner was our beloved brain damaged Staffordshire Bull Terrier. We had a cat named Blitzen and we decided to go full cornball and name the dog Donner. Yes, there is much controversy about it—is it Dunder, or Donder, or Donner? We decided to go with the Gene Autry version (in Rudolph) and call him Donner. Which is the German word for Thunder. Donner was thunderous. He was strong and booming, a scary looking beast, but harmless in every way.

continue reading…

Bookmark to:
    

Hanging upside down at 45 mph is definitely NOT the time to start fretting about your child’s hip-to-shoulder ratio.

I mean, if I were going to become obsessed with whether or not the overhead restraint system on a roller coaster could ACTUALLY prevent my child from plummeting headfirst to the earth, it would have made a LOT more sense to consider that with our feet planted firmly on the ground.

Instead, we were winging our way skyward at startling speeds. The people, and midway, below were receding like ants as the coaster climbed up and away. Honestly, I think I saw cloud cover.

This was the first time I had ridden a coaster with the mindset firmly set less on “thrill-seeking fun lover” and more “terrified overprotective mom.”

You see, when it’s YOU getting on the ride you have a rather savoir-faire attitude about the whole thing. It’s safe, it’s bolted down, and it’s inspected, right?

That trickle of fear as your lap bar locks you in place is part of the fun. That lighthearted moment when entertaining ride operators opine that they “hope” to see you back in 90 seconds is all part of the theater.

That momentous climb and stomach-dropping descent is all part and parcel of the adrenaline rush you came for.

Risk. Then they snapped the restraint bar over my “baby” and I just about lost my mind. This is the child I obsessively buckled into a car seat inside an airbag-laden minivan to drive 25 mph through the village.

Yet I was now allowing a teenager with a laminated badge to buckle him in preparation of being hurtled through the air at warp speeds with our feet dangling below. How does that make any sense?

Our son first expressed an interest in roller coasters last summer. Because he was 9 and of average height, I still had a little wiggle room (as did he). He did not, thank the Lord, meet the height requirements.

Fifty-two inches tall is the magic number for all the really good, high-velocity, rip-the-flesh-from-your-face roller coasters. This is crazy because any mother knows that 52 inches is not tall at all.

I would have preferred it be something a bit more substantial, say 7 feet or 8 feet.

Even before the “train” (as they coyly call roller coasters because “hurtling death cars of doom” didn’t test well) rolled out of the station, I knew we (OK, I) had made a terrible mistake.

As we hurtled through the space-time continuum, I could think only of tragic miscalculations. Did they mean 52 inches for anyone, or just those husky kids I’m always reading about? My kid is skinny. What if he slips out? He’s so small, after all. He still has a safety rail on his bunk bed for Pete’s sake!

I don’t think I breathed for the two-minute duration of the ride. Well, that’s not technically true; I did take a couple of deep breaths, primarily to provide ample oxygen for my screaming. I am not what you call a good role model.

Then, just as quickly as it began — it was over. As the car came to the much-ballyhooed “complete and final stop,” the teenage ride operator and resident sadist assured us we could now put our arms and legs outside the car if we so desired. As if I could unclench my white knuckles from around that restraint bar.

He’s funny, that kid. Finally free of the g-force, I could look left and see my child again. His eyes were closed and his face was pale. Climbing out of the car on shaky legs, he clutched my hand, pulling me forward as we nearly jogged down the ramp back to safety.

We were leaving that terrible steel beast in the dust! We were nearly free of the terrifying experience, my baby and I.

I said as much with the opinion that I was sure glad that was over. Turning to me, still shaky, his eyes opened wider and a huge grin split across his face: “That was awesome, Mom! Let’s do it AGAIN!”

Six “agains” later, our son was essentially fearless.

Grown. Leaving the park that night, the lights on that big steel monster twinkling behind us, I took note of a very prophetic sign: “Lost and Found is Located at Guest Relations” and I thought how wrong they really were.

Lost is the heart of a mother who arrived with a little boy and left with a “big kid” who is braver than she. Found is the courage of one small(ish) boy who arrived that morning having attained exactly 52 inches and left feeling 10 feet tall.

Bookmark to:
    

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:

Bookmark to:
    

A Cleveland, Ohio suburb has cancelled its annual Recreation League All-Star Game for 9 to 12 year olds. In a letter to coaches, the league announced that the decades old tradition would end because certain kids were being singled out as better players than others.

             - WTAM Newsradio 1100

Man, some blogs just write themselves don’t they? I mean, seriously?

Do the children that are stunned and crushed by some peers “being singled out as being better players than others” feel the same way when “some kids are singled out as having better grades than others?” Perhaps we should do away with the honor roll and report cards too?

Look, I am generally all about fairness and preventing hurt feelings at all costs. As a once shy, unathletic, two-left footed child myself, I understand all too well how the have-nots (or “catch-nots”) can be made to feel the chilly frost of separation from the herd. Of having it be known that you aren’t “all that” in the chosen arena. I am the girl chosen last. Yeah, that kid. Nice to meet you.

Even I, however, see the merit in competition. In team spirit. In lauding the chosen few for their extra-special accomplishments, hard work, or yes, God given talents.

Why? Because real life works like that too.

Like all aging hipsters certain that “kids these days” are “going to hell in a handbasket” I fear that we are raising a nation of wimps. Entitled wimps at that.

So used will they be to kudos and certificates and a ticker-tape parade just for showing up that they will, I fear, be unable to function in any real, competitive workplace. “Just do your best” can be both a balm for the less gifted or a catch-phrase for the uncommitted. “But it’s not fair!” the battle-cry of the entitlement mentality.

Turning sports into just another “you show up, you get a sticker!” (and hell, probably a snack) endeavor is not the way to save children from hurt.

When I sucked at sports (and oh I really, really did). I learned that sports were not for me. Not in the “I’m going to be a contender!” sense anyway. Those All-Star games of old certainly culled the likes of me from the stand-out-sports-star herd and I, for one, am better for it. Realizing I was never going to make a living, or much more than a fool out of myself, in the athletic arena allowed me to hone my skills in other, more appropriate, ways.

Today my sign reads “will write for food” and I don’t think the sports world has missed me much. Imagine if I’d spent my formative years being assured I was “just as good” as anyone else, despite all evidence to the contrary? 

In truth, all this “you are all stars!” mentality probably only postpones reality for a decade or two until the overly coddled generation discovers that in the “real world’ just showing up is not enough. You have to perform - nay OUTperform others - too.

In life, like in baseball, sometimes you’re the Louisville slugger, and sometimes you’re the ball.

Rarely, in either, however, do you win it all just for showing up.

Bookmark to:
    

“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.

Bookmark to: