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WTF Wednesday

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On Wednesday mornings I usually run with my friend around a 4 mile loop on post. She cancelled last night, something about not feeling well. She’s also 178 weeks pregnant so I’m ok with her wussing out. Later, my friend Kay invited me on a bike ride. I planned to go, but then got the wild idea to take John and the twinkies (on their bikes) for a run around the loop.

The twinkies ask to ride their bikes every 30 seconds.

He looks pretty happy doesn’t he? The answer is no, not at all. This kid refused to take part. He pedaled so slow that I had to walk, and still keep stopping for him to catch up.

There was an old man with a brace on his leg and a crutch that lapped us. Seriously.

I was so angry that I gave up and turned around 1.5 miles in. It took Jackson and John another half mile to realize they had lost us. I tried yelling for them, but I think John had headphones on. (He denies this charge)

On the way back Reese started pedaling faster so I started to run. No joke, as soon as I started to run he slowed back down. Jerk.

WTF?

Also, the stupid dog peed blood again.

Bonus WTF moment.

This is not staged.

I have not words for this one. He really loves soccer.

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I Don’t Like Kids

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Don’t tell anyone. It’s my little secret. But I don’t, not really anyway. I try to keep it to myself because I think most people assume that since I have a herd of children I must love them. I do love MY children, but in general I don’t like children. I’d say I like my children a solid 70% of the time. Most of that is while they’re sleeping.

Admitting this probably makes me look like a bad mom. (that and all the wine bottles in the recycle bin.) But, today at church I found another mom who doesn’t like kids either.

It was the most spiritual moment I think I have ever had at church.

Both of our husbands volunteered to help out with the children’s religious exploration program this summer. At one point or another they each thought they would not be there for their assigned days and we were going to have to fill in.

Seriously, I can’t think of anything worse than working down in the children’s area.

It’s so loud.

And germy.

And filled with children.

Ick.

Dallas wanted me to volunteer with him. I told him no, I don’t like kids. I think he loves me a little less because of it, but I don’t care. One of the other women at church told me my name came up as a potential RE teacher and they all just laughed. Maybe I’m not as good at hiding my true feelings as I think I am.

I like babies. Before they can walk or talk much. When all they want to do is sleep or look up at you like you’re the sun, moon, and stars. That’s awesome. Then they start asking for things and breaking stuff and I fall out of love pretty quickly.

Older kids don’t bother me. Right about 7th grade my kids started being fun. They can handle sarcasm and give it right back. They learned well, like good Jedi Knights.

For the most part I like my friends children. I’ll babysit, just not everyday. I don’t like them that much. The cooler the friend, the more likely it is I’m going to like their children. As soon as you start irritating me, your kids will too. Just a heads up.

I also hate, and I mean really hate, talking to children on the phone. I can’t understand anything kids say over the phone. Most of the time I can’t understand what adults are saying over the phone. I hate the phone. If you call me, odds are I’m not paying attention after the first 15 minutes. Just text me, so I can answer when I feel like it. Thanks.

But don’t give your kids my cell number. I only text my own children. Texting other children would be creepy.

I know that I am guilty of making people talk to my children on the phone. It sucks. I’m sorry. I won’t ever do it again. Except to my mother. I like to put Reese or Jackson on the phone with her and let them just walk away. Jackson could talk for hours. It’s hysterical. I’ll shoot a video next time and you’ll see. No wait, I hate watching videos of kids too.

Nevermind.

I’m glad I got that off my chest. Please tell me some of you feel the same way so I don’t feel like such a jerk.

Sick Teenagers

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My oldest son, John, is sick. Really sick. He sounds like he is hacking up a lung. His coughing wakes me up at night. That’s irritating. I mean really, I need my beauty sleep.

The only upside is that I know he is actually still in his room and hasn’t snuck out in the middle of the night. Not that I would ever expect a teenager to do something like that, I know I never would have when I was his age. (I was a couple of years older when I started sneaking out.)

He is so sick that he went fishing Monday night. The guys here (by guys I mean the guys my husband knows) did something called a suicide run. They left after work and drove a few hours to the Russian River. They fished until they caught their limit and then drove home. Twice as much time in the car as in the river.

I think I can speak for most women when I say that is absolutely crazy behavior.

(But, I don’t mind the stock of red salmon in my freezer.)

He is so sick that he then slept all day Tuesday. When he woke up he ate.

Then he ate some more.

Then he did some texting.

Ate some more.

More texting.

More eating.

Then he went to soccer and played the entire game.

He was so sick that Wednesday he spent several hours playing soccer in the afternoon. Then he went to practice. In the rain. It was 50 degrees and raining.

He said practice was excellent, but his legs were tired.

Today he actually stayed home all day. You know, because his legs were tired, not because he was coughing every 20 seconds and blowing his nose. (Also, conveniently putting the used tissues back in the tissue box. Thanks for that.)

That child is so sick that he ate four helpings of shepard’s pie. And a popsicle. And two glasses of milk. Then he did his chores.

In fact he is so sick that he waited until 8:30 PM to ask, “Can I go play soccer if I’m home by 10?”

Actually, it sounded more like, “COUGH Can I go COUGH go play soccer COUGH COUGH if I’m home COUGH COUGH COUGH by 10?”

Because I’m a good mom I said, “No, you’re sick. You need to rest.”

He looked at me like I was the biggest loser on the planet and said, “OK. FINE!”

Lovely.

Maybe tomorrow the doctor will admit him….

 

On The Road

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This is my 101st blog post. I feel like I am at least 101 years old because today Taryn got her learner’s permit. I can still remember giving birth to her. I remember buckling her into her little infant car seat. Just a short while ago we turned it around so she was forward facing. It was only a few months back that we moved her up to the booster seat and she started buckling herself. I swear only last week she was finally tall enough to ride in the front seat with the airbags on.

Now, she’s learning to drive? That’s not possible, even when you live in a place that allows kids to get permits at 14.

I think she’s only 4. If she’s 14 then I’m…well, I’m really old.

She seems to think so.

We talked about drivers’ ed classes over dinner. I told her that I took one in the summer school session after my sophomore year. She asked me if they had paved roads back then.

John asked if it was hard to stop a dinosaur.

Even Dallas asked if they had invented the wheel yet.

Stupid, sarcastic family.

I don’t think I am going to be able to teach Taryn to drive. She’s obviously too obsessed with my age. The other night we watched the original (and the only one that will ever count) Footloose. At the end the song “Almost Paradise” came on. I told Taryn that this was the theme of my junior prom. I figured she would want to know all the details about my dress (hunter green with lace), my date (Hector Melendez), and the decor (a tropical paradise, I helped build a waterfall out of cellophane).

Instead she said, “Was it in a cave?”

So no, this elderly lady will not be teaching her how to drive. Good luck, Dallas.

(I know you are wondering: No, John did not get his permit too. He won’t take the online pre-test because, “it seems kinda boring.” Stupid teenager.)

Hygiene Issues

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I have a teenage boy. He’s gross. I think all teenage boys are gross. His bedroom smells like something died in it. Until tonight I associated the rancid odor with his pet, Gary the Gecko. Over dinner this evening he took his grossness to a new level.

Because our family meals are very formal and mature Taryn, John, and I were discussing sneeze/farting at the table. Taryn thought that this was just a baby activity, I informed her that everyone does it. She was appalled in the typical teenage-girl fashion. To this I said, “really, you’ve never sneezed and farted at the same time?”

John: “I kind of did it once, only I puked and crapped at the same time.”

Taryn: “Gross!”

“Well, I didn’t know I was going to do it, it just happened.”

“Were you on the toilet at least?”

“No, I was puking in it.”

“Ewww, gross.”

“Well, I had my pants on.”

I know, that’s disgusting. It gets worse.

Me: “John, what did you do with your pants?”

“I put them in the laundry basket.”

“Ummm, really? Did you rinse them out?”

“No, Mom that’s gross. I just wrapped them up in a towel and put them in the hamper.”

“John, you have to rinse them out first!”

“Mom, whatever the washer does, it does.”

His room smells like s#*%.

Literally.

Also, this morning Reese ate a bite of a Pop Tart he found in the Target parking lot.

I can’t believe this is my life.

A Parent’s Guide To Soccer

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This afternoon I watched my 7,456th soccer game. While I enjoy watching my children play sports, after a while it gets old. Really old. Really, really old. The sport and the children are probably interchangeable. For this example I will refer to soccer, but baseball, softball, volleyball, football, and basketball could easily be swapped in. I will also be referring to the child as “he” even though I also have a “she.” It’s my blog I can do whatever I want.

PHASE ONE

You and/or your spouse see a sign about soccer for children ages 4 and up. The two of you decide that this is the right time to enroll your child in team sports. They will learn to work with others, strategize, and have fun. Or, at the very least burn off some energy. You balk a little at the $40 cost (including a uniform t-shirt) but decide it is worth the money. You could have the next David Beckham on your hands and not even know it. You also purchase the cutest little soccer shoes and shin guards at Target for a total cost of $20. You decide to buy a soccer bag for all of his gear shoes, shin guards, water bottle. It’s pricey, but he looks so cute lugging that big bag around that you spring for it despite the ridiculous cost.

During this phase the kids play “beehive soccer.” There is no playbook and no strategy. They just blindly follow the ball around the field and try to kick it in a VERY LARGE soccer net. There is no score kept. It’s coed. Everybody is a winner. After each game one parent is required to bring snacks for the team. You purchase those cute little bottles of Gatorade and cut up piles of oranges. For good measure you also get a few boxes of granola bars. Nothing but healthy snacks for your little athlete.

You invite all of your friends and family out to the field on Saturday mornings. You watch. You cheer. You giggle over your son picking dandelions out of the grass. You take piles and piles of photos. Many of them are “just the cutest” pictures of him squatting down with his hands under his shin guards scratching his legs. You ask around about what ‘off sides’ means, no one knows. It’s hot. It’s cold. You complain about both, but it’s worth it.

The first time a game is rained out you cheer the kids up by going to the humane society and adopting a stupid dog. (I highly recommend avoiding this part of phase one.)

You love the coach. At the end of the season you buy her a present after she gives every child a trophy.

PHASE TWO

At this point your child has played soccer for a few years. You think he is pretty good, maybe the best on the team. He moves up a level and so does your cost. Now it is anywhere from $75 to $120 for the season. That hurts a little, but at least he gets a uniform. They get real soccer shirts now and matching shorts. You notice the soccer bag has a hole in it. You patch it with duct tape because it was at least $40. The teams are no longer coed.

You’ve missed a few games and feel bad about it. Luckily, you have made some friends on the team that can help transport the kids to and from the game. The carpool family winds up being your best friends. The kids love each other and you all hang out outside of soccer and gossip about the other parents. Whenever someone from your side yells ‘OFF SIDES’ you do too, even though you don’t know what it means. You take a few pictures in the beginning of the season.

After the games you are still required to do the snack thing. You think the kids might be getting a little old for it. Instead of sliced oranges they just get granola bars or twinkies or whatever you can grab on the way to the game because you forgot it was your day. When your child requests the full size bottles of Gatorade you ask him if he thinks money grows on trees.

You complain like nobody’s business about the hot/cold. You buy every different type of bug spray to keep away the gnats and mosquitos. You burn incense, nothing works. You like the coach, mostly. At the end of the season you all pitch in to get him a gift. There is an awards ceremony, everyone gets a trophy.

PHASE THREE

Soccer is now a line item in your family budget. You’re on the payment plan because he is playing year-round, indoor and outdoor. Your household now spends more each month for the payment than you did for the entire season when they were little. The uniforms are an extra $100. ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. Within six months the shirt already has holes in it. You invest in more duct tape. His soccer shoes now cost $130 and the shin guards are another $35. He also has to have a ball, “a good one, not the cheap ones from Target Mom.”

He is required to keep his soccer bag in the trunk because it smells like moldy teenage boy. He can buy a new one with his own money.

You’ve missed lots of games, but have convinced yourself that your son does better when you are not watching. This makes you feel like a good and bad parent at the same time. Your soccer BFF’s moved away. You have a new carpool buddy, but it’s not the same. Most of the other parents are irritating and take the game entirely too seriously for your taste.

Camera? Am I supposed to bring a camera to this?

The girls’ stay after their game to watch the boys play. They cheer on the boys. They cheer on your boy. It makes you feel jealous and angry and then weird and old.

There are no more snacks. Instead you have to bring something for the potluck barbecue after the game. This irritates you until you realize that it is acceptable to also bring beer to the barbecue.

You couldn’t care less about the coach’s personality. You fork over the cash for the end-of-season gift, but do not volunteer to actually buy it because you got burned on that deal once already.

You have now spent more time watching soccer than you have doing anything else in your adult life. You would just once like to watch a game that was in perfect weather, not steaming hot, not raining, not windy, and not freezing cold.

You still have no idea what ‘off sides’ is, nor do you care.

Words With Kids

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The kids are my main source of entertainment. I know that sounds lame, but for real, you can’t make up some of the stuff they say.

Case in point:

Yesterday we took the stupid dog to the dog park. On the way out another dog tried to get in our car. Not a big deal. The owner and I chatted about dogs while the twinkies got in their car seats. (Big milestone: They can snap themselves into the seats all by themselves. This makes my life about 25% more bearable.) When I got in the car Jackson and I had the following conversation.

“Mommy where does she live?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know her, I just talked to her for a minute.”

“Well, we can follow her and then we will know where she lives.”

*I’ll let you know if he exhibits any other weird, stalker behaviors.

The twins have been on an Alaska train adventure with their grandparents. The twinkies miss them a lot. (I do too, but they hate it when I say that out loud) This afternoon I had this conversation with both Reese and Jackson.

“Mommy when will Sissy and John be home?”

“They come back tonight.”

“How many more sleeps?”

“None.”

“One?”

“No, none.”

“Nine?”

“No, none.”

“TEN? Jackson! Ten more sleeps until Sissy and John come home!”

“No, not ten, none. NONE. No more sleeps”

“Eleven?”

That’s when I decided to just have beer for dinner.

Later in the evening after the twins and the grandparents were home we chatted about their trip. To say that my Dad is frugal about certain things is a gross understatement. When I was a kid we got charged for waste if we left food on our plate or left a light on.

I’m not making that up.

Anyway, I asked Taryn if she had spent all of her babysitting money on the trip. This is the conversation that followed.

“No, Mom (rolling eyes) I still have plenty left. I can tell you exactly what I bought.”

“Oh, yeah Bridget she bought these really fancy candies with gold wrappers, I couldn’t believe it!”

“They were chocolate coins and they were fifty cents Grandpa.”

I love that kid.

 

 

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