My Children Are Bats

My children are bats.

Bats with extraordinarily advanced echolocation systems.

This is the only explanation I have for their unique locating system. Namely that when they yell “MOM!!!” over and over again they walk straight to me, whether I answer their call or not.

This will be helpful if I ever become lost in the wilderness and someone thinks to ask my children to help find me.

Which is a fact I will try to keep in mind next time I’m trying to carve out a solitary five minutes from my day.

“MOM!”

Note: Please ask my children to help find me if I become hopelessly lost in the wilderness.

Love and Sloppy Joes

Jul26

I made my kids sloppy joes.

This is a big deal.

This is an act that fully demonstrates my unending devotion to the little demons I have spawned.

Because sloppy joes are terrible.

I first discovered the terribleness of sloppy joes as a kid. Strangely enough it was shortly after I discovered that I liked sloppy joes. I, super picky eater of a kid, had just deemed them an edible food when I visited a friend and discovered the terrible truth.

All sloppy joes are not created equal.

Some of them are nothing more than a nasty mash of ground meat in tomato based substance (which I found palatable as a child because it was basically meat and white bread) but many rotten mothers hide vegetables in their sloppy joes. That’s right, vegetables hidden in what was thought to be delicious food. My faith in sloppy joes was shattered and never recovered.

But my hatred of making sloppy joes stems from more than just my childhood betrayal. The real problem with making sloppy joes is the ketchup. It may be Un-American of me but I really hate ketchup. It’s not just that I dislike eating it. I’d really prefer not to smell it or have it touch me, or anything else within a 20 foot radius of me.

I seriously hate ketchup.

But I have girls who love ketchup. If they had their way everything would come with ketchup. Fortunately, they don’t have their way, they have my way. Because, in the monarchy that is our household, the queen refuses to deal with ketchup unless absolutely necessary.

This has resulted in a “sure kid, you can have ketchup with your hot dog but you have to be the one to touch the bottle and then you have to rinse your plate off when you are done before it goes in the dishwasher because I’m not getting near that evil substance” sort of policy.

I hear ketchup is made from tomatoes, I don’t find this to be at all plausible because tomatoes in all forms are quite palatable. Ketchup is not.

But…Ivy found a recipe all on her own for sloppy joes and asked nicely. I shuddered as I read the amount of required ketchup and went to the grocery store for buns.

Because that’s how much I love my girls.

Then, because I do so love my children and regularly force them to eat things with asparagus and onions, I braved the ketchup and made them sloppy joes (without hidden veggies, because if I was going to make the stuff they were going to eat it!).

They looked nasty, they smelled worse, they brought back horrible memories of sneaky vegetable filled sloppy joes and the girls ate them all up and asked for seconds.

I cringed scooping up another sandwich but consoled myself with the knowledge that I had really showed my children how much I loved them, making them something special yet repulsive to me just because they are such good kids. Clearly this batch of slop should earn me extra special mom points and…

“Could you put extra ketchup on mine?”

What?!? Seriously? After all I’ve done!?!

I delivered the bottle to the table and backed away as Ivy applied more ketchup to her sandwich. Then Jane asked for ketchup, and a banana.

Kids, give them an inch and they try to take a mile. Clearly Jane was unsatisfied with the level of devotion I was showing and she’s going to stay that way.

The only food item that can compete with the horror of ketchup is the banana.

I love my children so much I made them sloppy joes, but there will be no bananas in the house while this queen is still ruling.

Good Vs. Great

Jun9

It’s not that hard to be a good mom. You love your kids. You try to do what’s best for your entire family. You make mistakes, your kids make mistakes. You love them anyway and you try again.

Good moms come in every make and model.

Good moms are everywhere.

But great moms. Great moms are amazing. Because great moms have one thing mastered that us good moms are still just grasping at.

Timing.

That’s right, the difference between good and great all comes down to timing.

For example, when do you feed the kids. Well, you don’t want to feed them too early, they won’t be hungry yet. Not hungry kids, don’t eat unless you are feeding them nothing but ice cream and popcorn. And us good moms only do that on occasions that really warrant it, like Tuesdays. So, on those non-ice cream/popcorn days, if the kids aren’t hungry the kids don’t eat. Which means that approximately 20 minutes after dinner is cleaned up, the kids will be in the kitchen wanting food.

All moms dislike this.

Of course if you feed the kids too late then you create small ravenous monsters. Monsters who will dissolve into tears and cries of “That’s not fair!” when the table is set and the food won’t be ready for another ten minutes (true story). Monsters that will argue with everyone, cry, fight and become so upset that they can’t eat dinner. Which means that approximately twenty minutes after dinner is cleaned up the kids will be in the kitchen wanting food.

All moms dislikes this.

I’m certain that great moms, can sense the exact moment to start dinner so that it will be ready just as the children become hungry enough to eat and yet not so hungry as to attempt to eat each other.

It all comes down to timing.

Bedtime is another prime timing example. Put the little darlings to bed too early and you’ve earned yourself an extra long session of, “One more drink, Please one more book, I just have to go potty, I’m not tired…” But too late and overtired mania will kick in. And, as everyone knows, overtired mania turns children into tornadoes that swirl around the house causing disruption and destruction everywhere they go.

Also tornadoes do not sleep.

Great moms no doubt sense that the precise moment of sleepiness coming at least a half hour before it happens so they can calculate back when to start brushing teeth. Great moms with their great timing earn themselves a calm and lovely evening tucking in their children, once, before moving on with their night.

It all comes down to timing.

Us good moms try our best. Sometimes we touch greatness for a moment and sometimes we miss it. Sometimes life is grand when everything falls into place and sometimes life’s a mess with a pack of overtired hungry monsters.

But we are good moms, so we love them anyway and try again.

Oh, but to be a great mom and have that timing figured out…

Anarchist 2.0 and the Goldfish

Mar30

Children are masters at wrecking stuff.

I’m not even talking about their mothers’ bodies, peace of mind or plans for Friday night. I’m just, shallowly, talking about stuff.

Stuff like potted plants, picture frames, yoga mats and painted walls. Stuff like chapstick tubes, favorite coffee mugs, screen doors and brown sugar bears. Stuff like glasses, bowls, plates and your favorite figurine you’ve had since you were a kid.

If you’ve got it, they can wreck it.

And three year olds? Three year olds are wreckin’ it masters.

When Clara was three, John named her The Anarchist.

The universe, finding us cute in our naivety, sent us Jane. Jane crazy eyes

Jane, Anarchist 2.0, puts Clara’s attempts to shame.

Or, *sigh* to be perfectly honest, it’s that with Jane, the third child, came a reduction of her mother’s brain cells. Leaving her poor mother with a memory and attention span that not even a goldfish would envy.

Sadly, that’d be me.

I routinely get distracted somewhere between “Why has Jane been so quiet for the last ten minutes?” and “I better go check on her.” This gives Anarchist 2.0 more than enough time to ply her skills around, say, the bathroom while she, could possibly, empty all the lotion, conditioner, shampoo and stick the band-aids to the toilet, hypothetically of course…

So, if you come to visit and you wonder why we use mason jars as glasses, have band-aids stuck to odd items and finger holes in the screen door. Just remember, an anarchist and a goldfish mom are not a pretty combination, you might want to save yourself while you still can. Heaven knows I won’t remember to warn you about the slippery bathroom floor!

Motherhood, A Frighteningly Forgetful State

Feb16

In my experience when you become a mother, especially after you have become a mother three times over, you forget things.

And by things, I mean everything.

I forget to eat breakfast.

Each time I leave the house I forget my wallet, my sunglasses or my car keys.

Sometimes I forget all three.

Last week I had to jump out of the truck and go back to the house for my forgotten jacket. It was 3° … Fahrenheit.

I have found that it is annoying to forget kids shoes when you go to the grocery store but a serious inconvenience to forget your own.

I discovered that not only is it both annoying and a serious inconvenience, it is also embarrassing and possibly unsafe, to forget your kids snow gear when you travel north for the holidays.

I forget meals and dishes, laundry in the washing machine and to take my contacts out. I forget to call people, cut the low hanging branch over the sidewalk, find a dustpan for the garage, clean out the truck and which kids is named what. I forget to paint my toes, where I left my shoes, what I did with my tea and to sign Ivy’s schoolwork.

To date I haven’t yet forgotten that I have children but at the rate I’m going I figure it’s only a matter of time. Preparing for the worst I have come up with a test in case I ever become confused on the subject.

It’s very simple, if you are a mother and can’t remember if you have kids or where they might be, take a nap.

That’s right, find a blanket, lay down on a couch in front of a fire and fall asleep.

Guaranteed reminder of your current motherhood status.

And yes, Clara was just about a sick and she looks, I was just as tired as I appear and Jane was being just as mischievous as her smile makes her out to be!