Mom, Remember That Time???

I'm probably so 2010, but I've just discovered Mama Kat and her fan-tabulous Writer's Workshop.  I like her writing prompts.  Since I'm not a writer, I don't do fiction.  Nor do I do self help stuff.  No informative nonfiction either.  I just like to ramble...um...I mean, write about me and all the craziness in my head.  Because I'm a bit of a narcissist.  And I have no life.  And my husband doesn't care to talk about all the crap spiraling around in my great, big brain.

Shit, there I go again.  Where was I???

Mama Kat.  So I'm tagging along with Mama Kat because I find her prompts intriguing.  They aren't fantasy but real questions.  More like playing Truth or Dare.  And I'm out of material.  It's been a slow week in LB Land.

My parents didn't whip my siblings and I very much.  Although corporal punishment was the preferred method in the South in 1971, I was lucky enough to have lazy parents who liked to holler instead.  However, I do remember getting a severe beating once.  My sister and I both.  We had to be about 4 and 5 years old.  Maybe even younger.

In those days, my mother was obsessed with order.  Everything had its place.  Away.  Out of sight.  There was nothing on the floor of the room shared by my sister and me.  Nothing under the bed or on the floor of the closet.  The dresser was clear of everything except for two small jewelry boxes.  Our bed was always made; our house was always clean.

For those of you who knew my mother, you can pick your jaws up from the floor now.  She was a neat freak at one time.  Real talk.

As I said, our room was immaculate.  The decor was typical of the 70s with the white dresser and matching white bed.  Our bedspread (no comforters back then) was bright yellow.  We had tile floors covered with a fuzzy little rug in the shape of feet.  Our closet doors were also decorated with decals of those fuzzy little feet.  The feet were arranged so that it looked as though they were climbing the closet doors.  Pairs in yellow, pink, green, orange.  Fuzzy.  Very 70s retro.

One morning, my mother came to inspect our room.  We were not allowed to come out until our bed was made and we were dressed.  When my mom entered, I could see her face drop.  Her smile quickly turned to a grimace with pouting lips, clenched teeth, and furrowing brows.

Who did this??  She snapped.

My little innocent eyes became as big as saucers as I looked over towards my sister.  What?  What did we do, Mama?  I had no idea to what she was referring but I was certain that my sister must have done something wrong.  I knew I hadn't done anything.  Besides, she was always getting into trouble.

She pointed to the closet doors where one of the fuzzy feet had been removed.  All that was left was the adhesive backing used to affix the decal.

Who did it???

Not me, Mama, I said. 

Well, I didn't do it either, came from my sister.

Well, I know one of you did it.  It didn't just fall off the closet door, she growled angrily.

My sister and I both stared at each other then stared back at her.  But we didn't do it, Mama!  We replied in unison.

Well, one of you is lying.  You are both going to get a spanking until I find out the truth.  She went to her bedroom and came back with my daddy's belt.  Bend over!

I can remember being so pissed at my sister.  After all, who else could it have been?  She had to have done it.  Now I was going to get a whipping because she wouldn't admit to it.  I remember saying to her, "just tell her the truth, Mi Mi."

After the first round of licks, my mom asked us again who took the decal off the door.  And again, we both denied any wrongdoing so she proceeded to give us a couple more licks.  This went on for what felt like an eternity.  We were screaming and crying and begging.

Finally, my dad came back to our bedroom after having heard all the commotion.  What's going on back here?  Why are you whipping them?  What did they do???

My mom told him the story about how the fuzzy decal was pulled off our closet door and how we refused to tell her the truth.  She was so angry.  My sister and I were inconsolable.


You mean that fuzzy decal?  He pointed to the spot where only the adhesive remained.

Yes, my mom replied.

My sister and I were unable to speak through the hysterics.  Our butts were on fire from that leather belt.

Well, I pulled it off, said my dad.  It was starting to come apart around the edges so I just pulled it off.  They didn't do it.  Besides, that foot is too high for them to even reach!

I was so mad.  And remorseful for blaming my little sister.  I could not understand why my dad would do something like that.  Or how my mom could be so pissed off about a damn wall decal.

Later on, I found my mom crying like a baby.  She had been in a blind rage, and was just then realizing what she'd done.  She hugged my sister and I both so tight I thought my guts were going to come out.  I almost felt bad for her.

That was the last time I got a spanking.  And I never let my mom live it down.  Of course, my reminders of that day were always in jest.  I picked on her a lot about it.  Remember that time when you whipped us for that??? ha ha ha... 

I suspect, though, she got an ill feeling in the pit of stomach every time I mentioned it.

Still I wonder if my dad did, in fact, remove that decal or if he just admitted to it so that my mom would stop.  I didn't consider it then, but my dad never really had a reason to go into our bedroom.  Nor was he the type to care about something as insignificant as decorative decals.

I suppose the truth will remain a mystery for all of eternity.  My sister is gone now so there will be no confession from her.  My mom is too.  And I doubt seriously my dad even remembers the incident.  It's etched in my memory forever, though.    

Let This Be a Lesson in Karma

So as you may have read, I've been venting away recently about my bad neighbor and her rude kid.  Glad you enjoyed the entertainment.  Anything for a laugh, right?

Dear God,
It's me LB.  Can I please take back all that I said about the neighbor's daughter?  I may have been just a bit hasty in my assessment.  I'm sure she's a good kid with impeccable manners who just experienced a momentary lapse in judgement.  In the future, I will refrain from running so quickly to the blogosphere to vent my frustrations to 50 gazillion people (I can dream, can't I??)  Thank you so much for your time and patience. 
Sincerely,
 the Mother of a REAL demon child

Let the bashing begin.  I deserve it.  I should know better than to say something bad about someone else's kid.  It's one of the cardinal rules of motherhood. 

Rule #1:  Don't EVER pass judgement on another mother's parenting based on her child's bad behavior.

Rule #2:  NEVER, EVER say anything along the lines of "My kid will never do that!" or "My kid knows better than to act like that."

Sunday afternoon, I took my daughter with me to the fabric store to buy the necessary materials for her Olivia costume.  This year for Halloween, she wants to be Olivia, the little pig from Nickelodeon.  Unfortunately, the Costume Making Company doesn't really make an Olivia costume.  Thus the reason for the trip to the fabric store.

AnyImustbefreakin'crazy, off we went to the fabric store.  One kid and mom.  Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy.  While we were there, my daughter found some purple sparkly material that she had to have.  "Ok," I said.  "If you are good, I'll buy you some sparkly purple material."

That's when she proceeded to interrogate an older lady behind us about the contents of her purse.  She even went so far as to grab at the zipper of the woman's purse.  As you might imagine, the old lady started freaking out.  She probably thought it was some purse-snatching scam where mom gets her kid to steal purses from unsuspecting elderly folks.

After much discussion about how wrong it is to grab someone's purse and demand to the see contents inside, my daughter then started grabbing at mine.  She kept insisting that I let her dig in it.  All the while I'm standing in line with 400 bolts of fabric, spools of thread, and miscellaneous notions.  Finally, I told her she would not get the purple sparkly stuff if she didn't stop.  She didn't stop.

"No purple sparkly for you, Missy!" 

That's when all hell broke loose.  My daughter started a full-blown, fit-for-the-movies temper tantrum complete with blood curdling screams.  She grabbed the material and tried to make a run for it.  I grabbed the fabric, but she continued to run through the store screaming.  Another older lady tried to stop her on the satin aisle, but G just pushed her out of the way. 

Since I'd already had the fabric cut, I was at the mercy of the 25 mile long line being serviced by Methuselah herself.  I did manage to catch G and get in said line, but the antics did not stop there.  While holding her in the line, she threw herself on the floor while screaming.  She couldn't break my hold, though, so she kicked her flip flops off and across the room nearly hitting the other patrons.

This went on for what seemed like 72 hours straight until finally, thank you, Jesus, some nice lady offered her place next in line.  When I finally got G in the car, she proceeded to kick and scream and remove her seatbelt all the way home.  I don't think I have ever been so mad in my entire life.  I was shaking and on the verge of tears. 

All for a freakin' piece of purple sparkly fabric!!!!

I'm No Britney Spears, But...Well...Thank God!

I'm like the Hare in The Tortoise and the Hare.  I always start out strong.  I love new adventures.  New ideas.  I'm an awesome planner.  I see something of interest, and I am instantly hooked!  I get everyone fired up (including myself) for something big...then...my enthusiasm...fizzles out!  Ku-putt!

Suddenly, I totally lose interest.  Or worse.  I get lazy, and don't have the energy to actually start.  This is why I hate to commit to anything.  Ya see, this overly enthusiastic trait that I have seriously contradicts my very dominant perfectionist trait.  If I start something, I want to do it right.  Perfect the first time.  With whipped cream and a cherry on top. 

Yep, little Ms. Firecracker always gets my ass in trouble.  Little Ms. Perfect hates Ms. Firecracker.  Ms. Firecracker's enthusiasm doesn't get the work done.  It's Ms. Perfect's job to follow through.  With a cherry on top.

Take this week's "Not" Mommy of the Year contest being hosted by the Mommyologist (Bad place for a plug, I know.  But you've got to go vote for her at Parentconnect.com.  She's in the running for the Best Parenting Blog of 2010. Check her out and vote!) and Life Without Pink (I wonder if she knows how truly blessed she is??  Think PMS at 4 years old).  A-hem, please pardon the interruption.  This post is sponsored by another ADD moment. K?

I found out about this particular contest last week, and was totally stoked.  I may not be able to tell you what a Super Hero Mom looks like, but I can definitely pick a slacker mom out of a line up.  Third one from the left.  Her in the ball cap with the beady eyes and no make up.  Yes, her.  Look at those nails; she hasn't cleaned a house or cooked a meal in years.  That's definitely her, officer! 





As is typical for moi, I contemplated for days about what I would do for this contest.  I wanted to have the perfect blog.  I wanted to finally embrace my lackadaisical persona and proudly present her to the world.  Flawlessly.  Ms. Perfect could not fathom anything other than the most impeccable of all the impeccable posts! 

Monday rolls around, and Firecracker is feverishly planning.  Tuesday rolls around, Firecracker continues to plan as she does a few loads of laundry.  Wednesday rolls around, Firecracker makes the beds, brings G to the doctor and E to swim lessons, and, oh yea!, ponders some more about the contest.  By Thursday, Firecracker is gone; no one is home but Ms. Perfect, and she ain't doing anything without a good plan, some spirit fingers, and a little glitter glue.

Today is Friday.  Ms. Firecracker is history; Ms. Perfect is pissed.  All that's left is LB, the one who is absolutely NOT Mommy of the Year but cannot, for the life of her, figure out how to express it! 

All I got is what I got, folks.  Thanks for stopping by.

• While I'm not cooking crystal meth, I'm not cooking chicken cordon bleu either.  
• G's shorts may not have BOOTY-LICIOUS written across the ass; however, she does like to dance like a, um, dancer.  
• Neither of my kids are doing science camp or dance camp or Save the Earth camp this summer because, frankly, I'm too lazy to drive them around and we'd never get there on time any way.
• Although I'm a teacher, I haven't even opened the folder of "fun lesson plans" sent home in May.  We may not be practicing our numbers, but I'm fairly certain E knows them.  At least the 9-1-1.  He proved that yesterday.  (Apparently, not buying him that Buzz Lightyear car is worthy of jail time.  Thank goodness that Sheriff's deputy was in a jovial mood.) 
• My son, who will watch TV for 47 hours straight if I let him, is a walking, talking billboard.  Why just yesterday when we walked into Subway, he shouted to the sandwich artist, "Subway!  Eat fresh!"  (The worker thought it was cute; I was a little embarrassed because I knew what the other mothers were thinking.)  
• I didn't breastfeed because it was just too hard.  *insert horrified gasp here*  I got frustrated and gave up in the first few days.  Don't hate me.  (If it's any consolation, my daughter did drink a bottle until her fourth birthday.  Now she has chocolate milk in a sippy cup.)
• My kids go to bed every night at 7-7:30 p.m.  Even in the summer.  What?!?!  Mama needs a little TV time before bed, too. 
• They both started sleeping through the night at 6 months because I let them cry.  I tried all the "good mommy" crap, but it took too much time and effort.  Crying took 2 days.  Harder, but far more efficient in my book.

Nope, I'm definitely not Mommy of the Year material.  I may not be "Not" Mommy of the Year material either now that I think about it.  I'm just trying to make sure no one gets hurt around here.

Ahhh...my girl, Brit.  It's really hard to top that one, now isn't it? 

Is "Clueless" an Actual Parenting Style??

We need the SuperNanny or Nanny Deb at my house!  I know I've written about this before; however, I'm coming from a different perspective.  The last time I talked about a Nanny 911, I was referring to how appalled I felt when my MIL from hell suggested it.  Now I'm thinking she was right  it would be fun to have my little lovelies show the rest of the world what angels act like.

After spending an entire day with the kids cooped up in the house, it's clear to me that my husband and I have no earthly idea what we are doing!  Seriously, how did we ever get this far?  We have zero control.  Our house looks like a Toys 'R Us dumpsite with toys scattered throughout.  I feel like my life has been taken over by the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse!  After a visit from Nanny Jo, we'll need the team from A&E's Hoarders to clean up. 

Most importantly, though, we need help with discipline.  We have no Discipline Plan at our house.  My husband and I just do what we had done to us.  I'm a Screamer and an Order Barker.  My husband is a Push Over and finally a Spanker (after being pushed over 50 gazillion times).  None of these are effective forms of discipline, but it's all we got...

Don't get me wrong.  I've read every discipline book written.  I have the Pocket Parent, Raising a Spirited Child, 1-2-3 Magic, What to Expect...you name it; I've read it.  The problem is that I start with the best of intentions.  I'm strong from the gate.  But I lose my focus after a lap or two, and the whole house goes apesh*t.  In the heat of the moment, I resort to my old habits.

As for my husband?!?  He's always a push over.  He looks to me for guidance.  I am the one that has to make all the decisions at our house.  Whatever you say, Mama...  I love the man, but he needs more backbone.  Every time my kids say jump, he does a cannonball!  My daughter is the worst.  He is her very own personal assistant.  If it weren't so frustrating, it would be kind of amusing.  Picture it.  A tiny little 3-year old walking her a fru-fru dog with an embellished Louis Vuitton collar while a 6' 4" man in a butler's uniform follows them around with a pooper scooper and a plastic baggie.  A funny mental image if it weren't my FREAKIN' life!

Yesterday, I went to the SuperNanny website for some light reading.  Lo and behold!  What do you think I found???  They are accepting applications for next season's families.  I know it's a long shot, but I am filling that sucker out!  I love my parents, but I definitely do not want to be like they were.  I don't remember my parents being affectionate towards me.  I only remember yelling and fighting.  And I know my husband doesn't want to be like his parents.  His daddy would whip him with a leather strap!  I think that is why he is so passive and non-confrontational; his daddy scared the Bee-Jee-zus out of him!

Of course, my MIL from Hell will think it was all her doings and want some sort of payment from the show.  If we get chosen, she will certainly want to be interviewed so she can say, "I been saying it all along -- those kids are bad!  They wouldn't act that way if I took 'em for a few weeks."  Probably not, but they'd be a couple of walkin', talkin' fashion violations with poop on the bottoms of their shoes. 

Now I ask you...which is worse?!?!     

Nanny 911

Okay, so you remember my previous blog about my MIL and her lack of babysitting skills?? She "sat" (I use the term loosely, yet literally) with my kids while my husband and I went to my reunion festivities. She did a horrible job, and I could not wait to ditch her vowing "NEVER, EVER again!"

It never fails. I always end up eating my words....

Back in July, my husband and I made plans for a quick overnighter to a St. Louis Cardinals baseball game for our 7th anniversary. We asked some friends to keep our kids, and let them spend the night. They said "sure," and my kids were excited. Mama and Daddy were excited, too, because we honestly thought it would be a much more difficult task. My kids don't really "spend the night" since they are only 4 and 3 years old. But these friends are the Godparents to my children so I was okay with it.

Mid-August rolls around, and the friends had to cancel. One of their children was in an out-of-town ball tournament. Their family would be in some po-dunk town in Middle Tennessee that weekend.

WHAT??? I was freaking out because I really wanted to get away, but I really had no babysitter. I thought about one of the teenagers I trust. After all, it would only be for one night. Something in the pit of my stomach stopped me, though, since the term, trusted teenager, is an oxymoron.

Yes, I trust our regular sitter for a few hours. No, I do not trust her for an overnight trip. There is no telling what kind of things could happen. I can just see me watching TV in St. Louis when the regularly scheduled programming is interrupted by this breaking news:

Teens Throw Kegger -- 3 Yr. Old Caught on Camera Playing Quarters and Doing Keg Stands!

I just could not take that chance.

Fastforward to three days before our anniversay. Still no babysitter... My husband called the MIL. Of course, she was free. Of course, she'd watch our kids. (Of course, she'd sit on her fat tookus and eat everything in our house.) Uuuggghhh!!!! At least I wasn't the one asking. I have my dignity!

As suspected, it was disasterous. I wish I'd have taken pictures of the aftermath. Not only did she call us every 20 minutes to report that our kids were little monsters who needed Nanny 911, our house looked like a tornado had been through it. She was there for 24 hours! What the heck happened???

Her dog (the one that she claims is COMPLETELY house broken) left feces in my son's room. There were crumbs all around the recliner where she'd plopped herself and probably stayed the entire time. My daughter was wearing plaid on plaid, and not even in the same color spectrum. There was an ungodly smell in the kitchen from a milk cup left sitting in the sink. My toilets looked like Port-a-Potties. My kids had not had their teeth brushed. And they were filthy!

I just pray that no one reports me to D.H.S.! I knew that she was incapable of caring for them properly; yet, I let her stay with them any way. I knowingly subjected my kids to such horrific living conditions and sub-standard hygiene! Even worse, they probably sustained long-term emotional scarring from all the mental abuse!

I felt so bad, I took my kids to Target. I can't take back that 24 hours, but maybe a little bribery will deaden the pain.

Nanny 911... If she does call, I'm reporting her to the Fashion Police!