No, No, No, Weird, Fake, Duh, Gold

I’m not sending my kids to this school.

I won’t be seeing this movie.

I won’t be voting for the candidate relying on athletes.

The woman who had the affair with Edwards? Apparently much like your flaky, new age aunt.

I’d settle for VP.

Idiots.

and finally…she only eats like .01% of Phelps’ normal caloric intake per day, and is cuter.

I Want A ‘MOM’s Club’ (alternate title: God Help My New PTA)

I took my eldest to Kindergarten today. While the emotions are ravaging my mind and soul tonight, I can’t help but exhale a bit.

He did great. He seems great. Life moves on.

So while the Mom in me grapples with time passing and children growing, the woman in me is rather pissed off.

Expectations are killing me.

As most of you know, I work.

I work like millions of Americans and like millions of other mothers and fathers.

What is making me angry, and what I can’t wrap my head around tonight, is why my parenting expectations are so much higher than my husband’s.

He works, too.

But there are special ‘clubs’ at school for Dads, catering to ‘finding opportunities for father’s to participate’ in school functions. Me? It’s just expected.

So there I was, signing up for a few volunteer positions (because if I didn’t god only knows what doom it would spell for my child or our future at a brand new school) and my husband is afforded the luxury of ‘Dads Club.’

Which, mind you, he nearly skipped signing up for because…you know…he works.

I realize there are larger things at work here like society and culture and biological predispositions…but stay with me.

As a thinking person I realize that regardless of work, I need to be involved in my child’s school. It’s not convenient. I have a million other things to do, but ‘work’ is not an excuse to get out of it.

The only thing that makes this even slightly manageable – I work from home. What about the millions of mothers who leave the house to work daily? Who punch a clock? And is my work diminished because I DO work from home?

You just work from home…you can come sell cookies and help organize the fundraiser.

Why are all these working women expected to participate, while their male counterparts are given a pass? Or a special fucking club, like if they show up they are already 10 steps ahead of any other working father on the planet.

Reminds me of the Dads (of which my husband is one) that actually change diapers and give baths and suck out snot with the bulb thingy. You’d think they had walked on water from all the praise they received for participating in their child’s life.

Every time I think we’ve made progress, I am confronted with the reality of our society expecting everything of  women when it comes to raising children. Nevermind there is another capable adult in the mix.

Oh, that guy? Yes well, he works.

No one thinks anything of raising an eyebrow if I dare text on my blackberry while sitting at a school function, yet those same no ones don’t even glance when the guy in the suit gets a call during Kindergarten RoundUp and he spends 3 minutes whispering into his cell.

Obviously, he’s a guy. In a suit. It MUST be very important.

Me? Oh you know, not much at all. Just feeling like not paying attention to my child’s teacher momentarily to do something as UNimportant as reply to Barack Obama and John McCain’s staff.

It has nothing to do with gender roles or societal norms. It has everything to do with being a parent.

Which is why, at my very first PTA meeting, I just might have to ask for a MOM’s Club. You know, to find those ‘opportunities’ for involvement in my child’s education.

Or maybe I’ll just sign up for the Dad’s Club.

School’s in session.

Preschooler Thwarts TSA, Film at 11

I really did see this one coming.

I just didn’t expect the TSA to be involved.

That whole “we will not negotiate with terrorist” thing isn’t true.

The TSA totally negotiated with my 3-year old and make no mistake, she’s a terrorist.

Sleepy Girl in a Ford Taurus X

With sleepy eyes and stuffed puppy in her hand, I buckled my darling daughter into her car seat at 5am, hoping the time of day didn’t spell doom for our trip back to Los Angeles from Detroit. We had kissed our family good bye (yes, Nana cried…she always does) and woke before dawn for a 7am plane ride.

I was entirely prepared. I did everything the night before- I even packed the snacks and goodies and toys. There was a spot in the bag for the night’s pj’s and clothes were laid out. I missed nothing and I went to bed feeling organized and accomplished and entirely sure of myself.

Silly Mommy.

My first clue that our trip home was going to go all wrong came when my daughter winced at walking through the airport. She wanted to be carried. But as Mom is trying to get all the luggage to the counter and carry ons and hold hands…the “carry me” thing just wasn’t going to work. Both kids were already whining once we got up to the counter and they had to wait again in the security line.

As we entered the line a very nice TSA agent looked over our boarding passes and asked my son his age.

“I’m 5!”

“And what about you little girl?”

…and the little girl buried her face in my leg, refusing to even look at the man talking to her who smiled and handed me back our tickets.

We made our way several feet to the xray line, and I got the kids de-shoed and un-backpacked and got my laptop ready and felt, again, rather organized and accomplished.

Silly Mommy.

Despite the fact that we have done this dozens of times, my youngest decided things needed to change. The procedure was incomplete and something was amiss.

I noticed that look on her face as I set down a bag on the conveyor belt. You know the kind of look where you can see their lip turn under, but you’re not exactly sure if they will be crying, laughing. or asking to go potty.

“What’s wrong baby?”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Honey we have to go, it’s our turn, come on…”

“No! I don’t want to go. I want to DO IT AGAIN!”

“Do what again honey? We need to move, come on…people are waiting.”

and with that the floodgates opened and every parent’s worst attitude nightmare began.

People moved around us, some with looks of sympathy, others with looks of confusion, and still others with that “please dear god tell me that family is NOT on my plane” look.

There was crying. There was screaming. There was the classic on the floor kicking and arm throwing thing. At one point she even folded her arms and “hmmmph’d” me mid bellow.

I tried the stern Mom thing first.

Then I got threatening.

Then came sweet and nice reasoning.

Then came bribing.

The screaming and crying and flailing continued.

Of course I tried to just manhandle her and carry her through. But she was doing that wiggle thing kids do with the back arch- and pulling out her patented go-to move…yelling for Daddy.

So imagine, if you will, what you might think if you saw a woman trying to carry an unwilling preschooler through airport security while she SCREAMED at the very top of her lungs “I WANT MY DADDY WHERE IS MY DADDY GET ME MY DADDY!”

Yeah, exactly.

That’s about when TSA pulled us aside. Me trying to wrangle the screaming and kicking girl while her brother held both hands over his ears yelling “MOM MAKE HER STOP!”

Of course it’s hard for a TSA agent to question me over custody while a 3-year old screams. A GIRL 3-year old. Because, trust me, it’s a tone and pitch you just don’t get with the boys. I was quickly allowed to attempt, again, to get through the xray.

This time I just carried her. On the other side another very nice TSA agent tried to help me gather our belogings. I’m sure he’s still regretting that move, because just as he got a bag on my shoulder Little Miss Yells-A-Lot swung around and kicked him in the thigh.

Yes, my daughter kicked a TSA agent.

I apologized profusely and then gave my girl a look that finally seemed to scare her to death and she became slightly reasonable. She still huffed and puffed and demanded she put her shoes on herself and then walked slow as a snail, head down and pouting to our gate…where the doors were closed and the plane to Los Angeles was pulling away.

You would think it ends here. But no.

Upon learning we missed our plane my 5-year old broke down in tears. So I had two kids pouting and crying or crying and pouting while I tried to decide if flying standby all day was worth it, or if I should just head back to my aunt’s house.

I went with option b. And after a shuttle bus ride to get a car and car seats and traffic for 2 hours (and a dead bird, which we hit on our way) I collapsed on a couch and decided I was never flying with my children anywhere ever again for the rest of their lives.

Silly Mommy

MotherHood Isn’t Messing With My Beauty, But Shampoo Is

I love Laurie Berkner. The Kids love Laurie Berkner- but check out the Sauve ad on her WalMart Soundcheck show.

Sigh.

“Is Motherhood messing with your beauty?”

Sure is…

I am beautifully unaware of that crap.


Hat-tip Spare the Rock, Spoil the Child

Reign Supreme

I’m listening to my mother and my brother discuss my daughter, and I can’t decide if I am thrilled or offended.

“She’s going to give you a run for your money.”

“She’s going to be the wild child.”

“The life of the party, breaking all the rules.”

“Battle of the wills. My money is on Princess Peanut- Erin, you’re going down.”


I just kept on slicing eggplant at the counter while they went on and on and on.

Needless to say the past few days with my 3-year old have been…let’s call them trying.

I’ve written about this before.Oh yeah and here. Oh…here too. And about 20 other times.

But she’s THREE.

3 sucks.

3 is worse than 2.

3 has phases.

3 can bite me.

3 can #suckit.

And so on. And so forth.

As I type this. our darling daughter is being sassy to her grandfather who made the mistake of trying to help her go potty.

NO.

I DO IT MYSELF GRAMPS!

And my Mom and brother are snickering from the couch and mentally pointing and laughing in my direction.

Everyone seems to be finding my ANGEL’s temper HILARIOUS.

High comedy.

The subject of very genuine belly laughs.

Me?

She might be more vocal than her brother before her…but no more difficult.

She’s certainly got more flair than her sibling…drama, shall we say…but no more difficult.

She is three. And three is killing me.

However…and this is a big HOWEVER…

I wrote the book on difficult.

The student must learn to respect the master.

The student needs to acknowledge the master.

The student still has a lot to learn about sass and manipulation.

If nothing else, Little Miss 3 needs a wait a few years before thinking she can take over the throne.