Have you ever let your child do something you knew was wrong? Well, not “wrong” per se, but not “right,” necessarily, either? Perhaps you’ve allowed him to pull out all of the tissues from a box of Kleenex because it was just so darn cute? Or maybe you’ve encouraged him to turn the lamp in the spare bedroom on and off and on and off and on and off even though he’d probably, eventually pull the entire lamp over? Or maybe you let him chew on the drink menu at East Side Mario’s just because it kept him quiet for a few blessed minutes while you made a feeble attempt to enjoy your $14.99 dish of pasta? I know I’m not alone on this one.

The other day while shopping I picked out a treat for Graham. He loves chorizo sausage so when I found some cured chorizo in among the pepperettes and other cured meats I knew he’d love it. I had no idea, however, just how much Nate would appreciate the package. He reached into the basket in the shopping cart and began to chew the package of sausage.

The angel on one shoulder told me that dirty hands touched that package, and that I shouldn’t let Nate touch it, let alone chew on it. The devil on the other shoulder told the angel to pipe down, a few germs wouldn’t kill him, and besides, the package of sausage made a perfect teether.

Who do you suppose won out in the end?

When I came home I asked my friends if I was a horrible mother for letting Nate chew on a sealed plastic package of cured meat. Their response was a resounding, “Hell no,” accompanied by some classic moments in their own mothering.

Candy.

Booze.

There isn’t a vice these Aiming Low kids haven’t gotten into. What inappropriate parenting moments have you captured on film? (Bonus points if you provide us with a link to your own photos!)

I love my children. I tolerate yours. Sometimes.

When I take my girls to the neighborhood pool, I go to make sure they’re not drowning, they’re having fun, and they’re not bothering other people. It’s kind of that oath of parental responsibility we imaginarily signed when we pushed out the babies from our nethers.

Apparently, I was the only one thinking this yesterday when I took my girls swimming.

We’d been at the pool for at least 20 minutes or so, and I was helping my girls remember how to swim since it was basically their first time back in the pool since last fall. We picked the side of the pool away from the sunbathers so as not to disturb them.

After we “established” our side of the pool as our base, another mom with her two kids arrived. They stepped into another side of the pool, thus establishing that side as their base. It’s pretty much the basic rule of public places: I got here, I put down my stuff, this is my space until more people show up and I may have to scootch down or share my space. Otherwise, stick to your space.

The second the little girl, who seemed to be about six years old, stepped into the pool, she made a beeline for our side. Like, getting all up in our bidness. Swimming through us, splashing us, and taking my girls’ toys. OH, yes she did.

The mom was in the pool, too, playing with the toddler, but said nothing to her girl who was now interfering with our swimming. But really, that didn’t matter, because the mom lasted all of about nine and a half minutes in the pool with her kids.

Mom gets out of the pool and dries herself off. Normally, NO problem if she’s going to stay by the pool to watch the kids, right? EXCEPT, she leaves to be under the bathroom hut, sitting behind bushes so as to obstruct her view of the pool.

Essentially, SHE LEFT HER KIDS IN THE POOL ALONE WITH A STRANGER.

Yes, apparently, I was her new babysitter, so mama could get her smoke on.

No amount of my “Excuse me’s” or mom-perfected glaring or expressions of, “Where’s your mama?” got her attention to get her kids out of our space and playing with our toys and splashing me in the face.

I’m not errrr… try not to be a judgmental person, but when you leave your six-year-old and two-year-old in swimmies in the pool while you go behind the bushes to sit at a table to read your book and have your smokes, YOU ARE NOT A GOOD MOTHER.

No child was permanently injured in this post. I wouldn’t do that to y’all.

I was terrified watching other people’s kids when my kids started having play dates. Even though I had raised the twin sentinels of destruction to a decent age without any serious mishaps and could handle most anything, I was always worried, always on high alert. So many things…choking on a grape, hand slammed in a door, dog bite, front teeth busted out, and the ever dangerous triple gainer off a bed landing in a spine-defying crumpled heap of wailing with bleeding, broken bones or concussion. Or all three.

Over time I have been able to relax a bit and let the kids and their friends play without me hovering the entire time. I am still a freak when it comes to the front yard even though we live on a cul-de-sac street and nothing much ever happens in our neighborhood. We have a cool tree with low branches and all kinds of fun swings and climbing ropes in it and the kids just want to live in that tree. I can look out of the garage door every few minutes to impart nuggets of wisdom like Don’t wrap the swing chain around your neck for any reason, and Don’t fall out of the tree on your head. I have this belief that saying things out loud that are pretty fucking obvious takes away the likelihood of it happening. It’s my thing.

Luckily no kids have ever been injured under my care, other than a superficial scrape or bruise. Until last weekend. Jake had a school friend over for the first time and we were pretty excited. Jake had been to his friend’s house a couple of times and it was time for the reciprocal visit.

This particular friend of Jake’s had suffered a serious injury to his face about a year ago, but I wasn’t worried about having him over. I never thought twice about it. I guess I really had relaxed. The playdate went great and Jack, my husband, left to take the boys to lunch and then take Jake’s friend home.

Imagine my surprise when I came home from running an errand a little while later to the sound of some serious crying. Jake and my husband came running out of Jake’s room and it was clear neither of them was crying. Jack shouted, He busted his nose jumping on the bed! as he ran to get some ice. Who, exactly? OMG WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

Jack gave in to the boys who wanted to come play some more after lunch and they had been bouncing on the bed. Jake’s friend did a nose plant into the foot of Jake’s sleigh bed and yes, there was blood. The nose didn’t look swollen or bruised or smushed, but I was almost gone.

When we calmed down and I got him home his mom was totally cool and was like, These things happen all the time. Then she hugged me, being the cool and classy mom that she is. All I could think was I broke your kid who has already been through so much. Please don’t kill me. She did get me, though. When I called to check on  later she said, He broke his nose. Just kidding! all in one breath. I about died.

On a positive note, when I tell my kids to stop jumping on the bed, now I have a damned good reason why.

Life with kids is theater. Sometimes it’s Broadway and sometimes it’s a puppet show in a cardboard box, but there is rarely a dull moment. I can get through most things with humor, and my life often seems like a stand-up comedy routine, complete with two tiny hecklers and a lot of jokes about farts.

Ricky Gervais is my favorite comic. I loved him in Ghost Town, a movie that also starred Tea Leoni and Greg Kinnear. It is really funny, but no one I know has seen it.

When things with the kids have really gone off in the ditch for the day, I start acting like a silly goof and can usually turn things around. If I can get my kids laughing, we can salvage just about anything.

Here’s a little routine from my life that has occurred many times with my son, who often gets up at the ass crack of dawn. But only on weekends. And never when I am out of town. Never.

These are actual events, just with Ricky in charge instead of me.

6:00 am Ricky sitting on the toilet. Jake rushes in. He rushes everywhere.

Ricky: What’s this? Honestly! How did you even hear me? Your room is on the other side of the house and it took me 5 bloody minutes to get here from the bedroom. My feet are cramped from all that tip-toeing.

Expectant pause.

I don’t suppose you’re going back to bed now, are you? Right. How about a little privacy (prih-vah-see with an English accent)? What’s that? No, I don’t suppose it does smell nice in here, but in all fairness, I didn’t invite you in. Can we talk about this in a bit? No? All right, at least turn around.

6:12 am. Kitchen.

Jake: Ricky! Ricky! Ricky! Ricky! Ricky!

Ricky: I’ve been trying to answer you. Honestly. Did you see my mouth opening and closing like a fish? You’ve got to give someone time to respond. You’re just shouting my name over and over. It’s upsetting.

Jake: Can I have some Dr. Pepper?

Ricky: What? Now does that sound like a proper breakfast beverage to you? Silly.

Jake: Daddy lets us!

Ricky: Well, Daddy isn’t up, is he? Then, mumbling…What a dick move, Daddy.

Jake: What’s a dick move?

Ricky: Oh, you heard that? Of course you did. Let’s see. Well, it’s another word for sabotage. Daddy likes to sabotage Ricky.

Jake: What does sabotage mean?

Ricky: God. Nothing. Forget I said it. Doesn’t matter. How about some juice and toast with butter?

Jake: Ok

Ricky: Brilliant.

Ricky serves Jake orange juice and toast.

Jake: I don’t want butter. I want cream cheese.

Ricky, talking to Jake whilst looking in the fridge: We are out of cream cheese.  Turns. Just have a go at the butter like a good boy. Oh, well. I hope the dog enjoyed his toast. Let’s just start over then, shall we?

And, scene.

Sometimes I talk like Ricky just to confuse the kids and slow their roll. It totally works sometimes.

[Images Courtesy of PicApp.  Not to be copied or used by others.]
[Slider Image Courtesy of: BBC http://www.bbc.co.uk]

I’m a pretty good mother.   At least, I think I am a good one.   Ze kids are smart, they thrive, they have good manners, their sense of humor is really awesome, and–even if some days I want to run screaming for the hills–they are all around good kids.

Just for those that don’t know:   I have four children.

The first three are close-in-age, and then there is a fourth (the baby) who turns three today, the 28th of December.   He’s sweet and made of sugar and love and I nom-nom-nom on him daily.  When I found out I was pregnant with him, I worried about how the dynamic of our family would change.

I worried about a bunch of things, to be quite honest.  What’s motherhood without worry?  And failure?

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Fail #1: POTTY TRAINING

Mikey, our firstborn, was so stubborn and hard to train that I eventually just gave up, resigning myself to having a five year old in diapers (he was only three at this resignation, but whatever.)   That’s all it took to break me.   From that point forward I would loathe potty chairs, training tactics, Underoos, and all things involved with the bathroom.   It was during this time that I even had issues with going to that bathroom, but that’s another post and probably another blog.

I hadn’t so much as told Michael that there was a bun in the oven, when I found out I was pregnant with David, before I started stressing over the act of potty training.  Given my past experiences I was setting myself up for more failure.

And, if there’s one thing that I do well it’s fail at potty training.

David is 3 today.  David is still in diapers.  David’s mother is a potty training failure.

Fail #2: SLEEP TRAINING

The other department I fail in, parenting-wise, is getting a baby/toddler to sleep on his own.   Actually, the only one who did go to sleep on their own was Olivia.   But she’s totally Miss Independent.  Actually…now that I think of it, she potty trained on her own, too.  I guess my boys are just hard to put to sleep because I recall having to lie down and slither out of the room–quietly–each and every night.  Not the girl, though; I could just lay her down and leave the room.  Minutes later she would be sawing logs.

Lately, around 3:00 a.m. Davey gets out of bed, with a bounce, stands at the gate, and calls out, “I wanna go downstairs.”

I stumble out of my bed, and moan, “Go back to bed, Mama’s coming.”

Then I fall asleep only to wake up to a little boy poking my face.

“Lips.  Eyes.  Eye browns.  Eye lashes.  Mama’s got ears, too!”

Prior to him having his big-boy bed, he would wake up multiple times, and exhausted I’d give up and just put him in my bed.

But, you know what?  Who cares.  The boy poops in the diaper, I change him and it’s all good.   The boy wakes in the middle of the night, I sleep with him and it’s all good.   The older kids are proof that these things pass.  Eventually there aren’t any more diapers to purchase.  Eventually a kiss on the forehead suffices before the door is closed for the night.

I’m lucky I have kids.

Otherwise, this Christmas,  I would be sulking about my bills.  I would never leave my house.  I would be wearing my fleece toile pajama pants and men’s hoodie for days on end- using only my dog’s sniffing and humping of my crotch as an indication that it may be time to shower.  I would be watching Tivo’d episodes of The Sing Off over and over and over while eating raw cookie dough and dreaming that Nick Lachey is humping me when it’s really just my dog.

Instead, I’m ignoring my bills.

I’m baking my cookie dough (most of it, anyway.)

I’m NOT having virtual sex with Nick Lachey.

I’ve been getting dressed in pants that have zippers, wearing bras and putting on shoes that aren’t Crocs.  I’ve been wiping the eye boogers from the corners of my eyes and blotting the bags around my eyes with concealer- you know- getting all fancy. 

All of this… to watch 120 kids- one I’m told was mine and I suspected only because of a large forehead that she inherited from me,  peeking out from the 4th row, racing through Silent Night, Joy to the World, and Jingle Bells.  And to watch 4 year olds on bleachers screaming singing  Jolly Old Saint Nick while picking their noses, waving to parents, and a paranoid little boy on the end who kept lifting his Reindeer sweater exposing his belly and convinced that his ”barn door was open”.  And to listen to a 5th grade band play the beautiful sounds of the season that strikingly resemble the screeches that the geese that fly over my house and shit all over my sidewalk make.

Sacrificing my stretchy band waisted pants for a couple of hours is the least I can do, literally, to help create Christmas memories…  since this is the only photographic proof of our  Christmas Pageant 2009 circuit…

Merry Christmas kids- your mom sucks!

I love my girls more than anything in the world. More than TV, more than the intertubes, more than brownies. That totally says that I love them UH LOT.

My girls are 5 and almost 4 – 18 months apart and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love that we planned had them so close together. They are their own best friends. They bring joy to our lives. We love seeing the world through their eyes. Nearly everything we do, we do it for them. (I hear the Bryan Adam song in my head, don’t you? sucka)

This past weekend, my mom asked to have the girls stay with her overnight at my aunt’s house after Thanksgiving dinner. We said yes right away thought about it and asked the girls if they’d like to stay. Their answers were an immediate, “YES!” much to my husband’s shagrin. (“But I took the day off for them!” shut it, sir…)

I try to find the good side in everything, even leaving the children for a whole 24 hours with their Gramma. Sure we’d miss them, but we’d have a few hours to ourselves. I made a list of the Top 5 Things You Appreciate About Having Kids When They Spend the Night Away:

1. Sleeping in2. see: #1
3. see: #2
4. see: #3
5. see #4

One morning without a kid climbing into your bed with pee-soaked pajamas.

One morning without a kid asking, “When are you gonna geeeeeet uuuuuuuupppp????”

One morning without having to get up to serve pancakes, then to have the kids come tell you they’re not going to eat the pancakes you slaved over microwaved because they “have a little brown on them.”

One morning to get lay in bed and turn on the TV to music videos on VH1 or CNN HLN instead of having to watch Special Agent Oso and debate stabbing your ears with hot, rusted wire hangars.

When you get the big things in life like kids, it’s the little things you appreciate.

Location: The Dinner Table

Participants: My family (me, husband, and the four year old)

Subject: Frankly, I’m not quite sure

For the record, no one wanted to cook or do dishes so pizza it is! It was delivery and definitely delissimo.

4yo: Mommy, can you take me to a mommy blog someday?

husband: *snort*

me: Uh…sure… you mean you want to go to BlogHer?

4yo: No mommy, I want to go to a mommy blog.

me: Yeah, okay… I’ll take you to a mommy blog right after dinner.

I figured I would sort out the logistics of that one after eating. Best to “reserve that thinking stuff for times when you’ve got a full tummy” is my credo.

4yo: Thanks Mommy.

Silence ruled while pizza is inhaled. Between slices the conversation picked up again.

husband to 4yo: So do you want to write a mommy blog?

4yo: Yes

me: Really?

One would think with the example that has been set for her that the last thing on this planet this child would want to do is blog.

4yo: YES

husband: You need a topic or focus otherwise no one will read you.

me: Is that my problem?

husband ignores me and continues to 4yo: So what will you write about?

4yo pauses. After some deep thought, a huge smile spreads across her face.

4yo: POOP! I’ll write about poop!

me: You are going to be a very successful blogger my dear.

“Are you serious?” is sooo much nicer to say to your 3 year old than, “Are you freaking kidding me?” “Are you trying to drive me absolutely batballs crazy?’

Those phrases are on the tip of my tongue on a daily basis because my 3 year old climbs walls (literally)… he unscrews hinges of doors so that they fall off their frames when I try to open my 5 year old’s door in the morning and he can scramble up a tree faster than you can say “lickety split”.

So, I choose to say “Are you serious?” and I thought all was well until I realized today, just how much I must utter that phrase because today… today, he wanted a candy bar in the grocery store checkout line and I told him “No”

He looked up at me with disdain, flashing those ridiculously long lashed hazel eyes and said: “Really Mom, are you Sewious? Are you Sewious, Mom”

Damn. Anyone have any suggestions?

Yes, that is a totally sensational post title, reminiscent of one of my favourite guilty pleasures: British Tabloid Headlines but OH MAH GAWD, I think it might be true.

She is trying to kill me and make it look like natural causes.

Here is my proof:

Hallowe’en has to be one of my most favourite times of year. Besides the obvious (CANDY CANDY CANDY and did I mention candy?), my husband and I bonded over horror movies and our shared love of all things scary made us totally devoted to ghouls.

Mind you, once I gave birth to our child that predilection changed ever so slightly. Specifically, I cannot tolerate movies with creepy kids anymore. The Ring? GAH! Ju-On? GAH! GAH! Låt den rätte komma in? GAH! GAH! GAH! Children of the Corn? Still a stupid movie but GAH! GAH! GAH! GAH!

Add creepy kids to the clown pile and stick a fork in me because DONE DONE DONE with clowns and creepy kids.

Anyhow, during this time of year we watch as many fright flicks without children in the cast or attendance in order to psyche ourselves up (or is that out?) and I think our four-year old daughter is taking advantage of this fact.

That brings me back to the suspected matricide. For weeks my daughter has been getting up in the middle of the night (something she blessedly didn’t really do once she graduated to her big girl bed) and coming into our room at 1am, 3 am, or 4am and trying to kill me.

Wait, that didn’t come out right. REWIND.

She has been coming into our room in the following manner:

• Quietly opens the door to our room
• Allows aforementioned door swing open slowly for full effect (did she actually add that squeak to the door because damn, I never noticed it before)
• Stands in doorway silently and makes sure she is backlit by hall light so that all I see is a creepy small silhouette that could be coming to kill me in my sleep therefore inducing a heart attack while simultaneously making me poop my pants because my bedroom door just suddenly opened in the middle of the night
• Loudly announce that she cannot sleep or that she is thirsty or that she saw Dick Cheney in her closet

It doesn’t matter how often this happens. I will poop my pants (not really — but damn close) and require something like a shot of tequila to restore a normal heart rhythm in my chest. And while I lie there trying not to soil myself, my husband will slowly groan and say “not again” because like a bad horror movie sequel, she keeps coming back.

This is one horror franchise I could live without. Perhaps I should hook my daughter with the guys who keep cranking out Saw movies because DAMN, she’s good and they could really use some help.