When it rains

I damned near drown.
My oldest boy, whom has been the subject of many a blog, is still a rotten, poorly behaved heathen who got sent home from school today because HE REFUSED TO WASH HIS HANDS>.
I don't know who I am more angry at--him or his first year teacher who decided this was an appropriate battle.
Okay, Bug was being a jerk about not washing his hands and shouldn't have run away from the teacher. Got it. Working on it, along with the 8,000 other issues we have with him right now. If he hasn't just shat and forgot to wash his hands, I truly don't care right now. There's my line.
But, when the situation began to deteriorate, he did as he was told. When he felt the urge to run, he asked to go to the safe place (in this case, the principals office) and was told no. BY THE DAMNED TEACHER WHO KNEW THE RULES FOR HANDLING BUG!
Then the teacher didn't implement the three tiers of people we have to deal with him when he gets like this--in classroom, out of classroom, and principal--she called us.
So I took off work, trooped down there, and got him. When he had less than an hour of his day left.
And talked with the principal, who had heard nothing and wasn't happy at all.
All because she was being a hand washing Nazi.
My child is far from innocent and far from perfect, but a little dirt in his food to save the ensuing meltdown? Am I the only one who says who cares if he washes his hands that one time?
And child two--oh, my beloved Boo--has entered a lovely defiant, screaming stage, complete with crumpling onto the floor and fake tears.
And he's practicing his excuses.
Ask him to clean up his room? He's too tired or it's too hard.
Ask him to make his bed? He's too little.
Ask him to do anything? He has an excuse.
And if he doesn't, he throws himself on the floor and screams.
People who don't understand why a parents sometimes needs to spank their child should just stay the hell away from me. Today, and probably in the days to come.
Especially after my mom tells me I did that. Exactly once.
There are times when a bare hand on a child's backside is the wake up call both parent and child need in order to reorganize their world.
Do I believe in beating my children? Some days.
Have I ever done it? No.
Do they routinely beat me, emotionally and physically?
Every damned day.
With a damned big switch.
My arse is raw and bleeding, I can't sit down, and the only thing I've learned?
It's time to take back control of my life as a parent.
I will have their respect.
Will I have their fear? No. Fear is not respect.
But I am determined to stop being their whipping post.
Children need firm boundaries. For children who can live within those without an occasional reminder, kudos to their parents for birthing a perfect damned child and get the hell out of my face before I whip your arse.
For those children, like mine, who have pushed boundaries since conception, I will speak for those parents when I say enough is enough.
I'm taking back my arse, my house, my life, and my children.
And I'm doing it cowboy style.
So giddeeyap partners.
It's rodeo time.
And I'm breaking my broncos.
Ene.
Two.
And three.
And then I'll deal with the hand washing Nazi.

Mommy and the monster

My home has succumbed to the demands of a new kind of monster.
The two year old girl kind.
Punk wants nothing to do with Daddy.
She will run from him, evade him, and yell at him when he tries to pick her up or take her hand.
She only wants, you guessed it, Mommy.
Which is nice. And which sucks ho ho's.
I work all day.
By the time I get home, I have a couple of hours with the heathens before its bed time.
Some nights, I'm exhausted and all I want to do is rest.
Not be mauled by an over zealous toddler with plans on Mommy domination.
I am coherent enough to realize these days are fleeting and few, and in the blink of any eye, I will look back and regret hiding in the bathroom just to get five minutes of peace.
I know that childhood passes in the blink of an eye.
I know all of that.
And I still find myself seeking closets to hide in, ways to get just a few minutes of quiet without a child digging her mutant monkey toes into my body.
I throw The Man into the pit and let them have him on more nightS than not.
He enjoys it.
Or that's what I tell myself when I hear his screams for mercy.
But our daughter will have none of him, and so she's a tricky girl.
Her I have a tough time running from.
Because she stalks me.
In dress up high heels, footie pajamas, thumb in mouth and wild Medusa hair, she stalks me, a lion cub watching her prey.
And when she pounces, I have no recourse.
I'm that dumb damned wildebeast. Stupid. Caught. Devoured.
By a two year old bent on Mommy domination.

The Temper Monster

We have a Temper Monster living in our house.
it's not a cute, fluffy monster like on Sesame Street.
It's not even iconic like Godzilla.
It's just a pain in my ass.
The TM throws tantrums, runs away, yells and screams until I want to pull his hair out.
The TM convinces my normally sweet children to act in a manner that reminds me of Jack Nicholson in his younger, crazier days.
Or Hannibal Lecter. So far, we have had no cannibalism. So far.
I don't have three children and a child like husband.
I have four children and a child like husband.
And The TM takes up a good amount of my time.
So I'm putting him on warning.
"TM, henceforth you will stop telling my children all sorts of rotten ways to behave, speak, and think. They are normally good kids, and you are making them horrible. I won't have it anymore. I am hereby declaring war. I am done pandering to your bad manners, your naughty ways, and your efforts to destroy our family. From this day on, I'm going to be going Rambo on your arse. This is the only warning you will be given. Get out or face the consequences."
Game on, buddy.
And the TM just flipped oatmeal at me.
Lovely.

Sliding in a winter wonderland!

Sleigh bells ring! Are you listening?
I'm a'fallen, the ice is glistening!
a pitiful sight. I'm broken tonight.
Slipping in a winter wonderland!

We have had a crap load of snow dropped on our state in the past week.
It has closed roads, school, and canceled Christmas with family who lived in town.
I have been sliding everywhere I've ventured in the past week.
In my car. On my feet. on my well cushioned arse as it hit the ice and slid down a hill.
I am my own toboggan, thank you very much.
My children love it.
Or they did for the fifteen minutes they were allowed out in it.
After thirty plus minutes of preparation to protect them from the cold and to make bathroom trips an endeavor.
Think of that stupid movie A Christmas Story."
(And, no, honey, mentioning it in this blog does not make it a classic movie, just a pop culture reference utilized to make a point. It is still a stupid movie and a waste of my time.)
Our Giant Schnauzer loves it, but then again, he's an idiot, so it's understandable.
I hate it. I hate the fact that i am now adult enough not to have visions of snowballs fights and snow forts dancing through my head. I hate it that all I can picture is getting stranded with three small children.
I hate it that my first thought was to stock up on food just in case.
I hate it, that when the first snow flake fell, I morphed into an adult with responsibilities who couldn't enjoy the beauty of the snow because I was concentrating on not driving off the road when my windshield wipers froze and wouldn't work.
In short, I really hate the snow.
And getting old.
And "The Christmas Story," just to round out the trilogy.

Happy birthday Punk!

My daughter, my wee little evil midget, Punk, turns two today.
Seems like only a heartbeat ago that she was in my tummy and I was trying to end our time share arrangement.
She was the surprise baby, the unplanned but wanted child.
She was the last surprise I've really enjoyed in life.
Punk is her daddy's joy, my laughter, and our families only girl grandchild.
She is rotten, spoiled, temperamental, loud, rough, sweet, girly, and in other words, a perfect Punk.
It is amazing, after two boys, how different having a little girl is.
She is definitely feminine, until it's time to get down and dirty. Then she's worse than the boys.
Punk has been practicing her feminine wiles since she figured out if she cooed and giggled, the men in her life would give her what she wanted.
She has perfected it to an art now.
And when someone doesn't capitulate quickly enough, she channels her inner banshee and glass shatters.
Punk is my last baby, the culmination of a family and a dream my husband and I didn't know we had. She is the marichino cherry on our sundae, the Cool whip on our pie. She makes the five of us a whole unit.
She, like her brothers, makes The Man and I laugh so hard we occasionally wet ourselves. And then she curls up and snuggles (once we've changed out pee dampened pants, that is!)
She is Punk. She is Perfect. She is Princess Piss pot.
And we love her.
Whole bunches. (Imagine baby arms thrown as wide as they can reach.)
Happy birthday, Punkin girl.

His and mine

The Man and I have neatly divided our children as though we were King Soloman.
Not by our choice.
By theirs.
Bug has announced with vim and vigor that he is my boy.
Boo has declared his allegiance to The Man.
Punk has been cut down the middle depending on if The Man has food or if she wants to snuggle me.
Boo has declared he doesn't love me--only Daddy--and that he only wants him.
Bug throws a fit when dad picks him up and he's looking for me.
Punk is mercurial. If you have food, she loves you best. If she's tired, she love me best. If she's playing, Daddy's the main choice. If she's sick, Mama. If she's feeling fiesty, Daddy.
Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong.
Truthfully, its bittersweet to watch my now green eyed boy (his eyes change color and have been a very pretty metallic green for a month now) want the Man instead of me.
I birthed him. I nursed him. I have a displaced rib thanks to him.
And I can't even get a hug hello most days.
I know its a stage. I know in time, he'll turn on Scott with the swiftness of a striking snake.
And I'll watch the Man's eye become sad as his boy doesn't want him.
At which time, Bug will throw me over for his dad.
They are consistantly incosistant.
They are passionate in their affections.
And they change their mood more often than their underwear.
And it's fascinating to watch.

P A N T Y!

That one simple word makes The Man whimper and plead for mercy.
And not in relation to my unmentionable undergarments.
But in relation to the fact our daughter will be potty trained very soon and will enter the world of PANTIES.
(I think I just heard him die a little right there. PANTIES! Oh! Dare I say it again?)
He can't stand the fact that his baby girl is taking her fledgling steps towards becoming a woman like her mother.
Who will marry a man like her father.
Who will have the same thoughts about The Man's baby girl as The Man used to have about me.
Used to.
I discourage those thoughts most vehemently now for two very distinct reasons.
1. I know what happens when you let a man have those thoughts. I have three kids and finally figured out how babies are made.
2. The Man is getting older and those thoughts make him excited and that is very hard on an old man's heart.
So I make it a point to respect his heebeegeebee's regarding panties.
I bring it up at every opportunity.
I show him the panties in stores.
And I'm even making up a song to the tune of BINGO to sing.
P! A! N! T! Y!
P! A! N! T! Y!
P! A! N! T! Y!
Panties are what she wears!