When Meddling Moms Attack ... Dads

Sometimes I can't help but interfere when my husband plays D.O.D., the "dad on duty," as he puts it. I'm forcing myself not to right now.

He's in charge of the three B's tonight, Bath, Books and Bed, our usual bed time routine. So far, it's going disastrously. I'm supposed to be diligently working on a paid writing project but I can't go on because there's so much shouting and stomping in the boys' bedroom. If I'm alarmed, what do my neighbors think?

Did I mention how freaking hard it is not to go in there right now and put my pushy size 10 mama foot (ski) down?! My heart rate soars with every defiant "NO!" shouted in my husband's direction. Why are the boys refusing to get dressed?

Walk away. Block it out. Don't go in there and be a bitchy bitch. Don't be a control freak mama. Let Daddy do the job. Block the "wild rumpus" out. Be the master of ignoring, like The Lawyer. Must get into the zone-out Zen zone.

"STOP IT RIGHT NOW! YOU ARE BROTHERS! STOP BEATING ON EACH OTHER!" my husband just boomed in the back end of the house. That's like asking brothers not to trip each other. I feel for the Hubster in the heat of the on-edge parenting moment, enough to rescue him when he doesn't need rescuing.

"I want Mommy to do bedtime," my daughter tearfully protests, whining every so irritatingly through her little nose.

Again, bedtime is for shit tonight. Would it be better if I were in charge? I don't know. Probably not, since I allow all three kids to manipulate the Hell out of me whenever and wherever.

I want to go kiss each and every one of my crying babes goodnight but don't want to spark an hour-long begging-for-mommy fest.

"Don't undermine me in front of the kids," my husband continually tells me. Do I listen? Hell no. Should I? Of course. So, tonight, right now, I'm going to stuff my overgrown talon tipped fingers in my ears, bite my freshly lipsticked for nothing lip and butt the heck out. Burying myself in the work just might work. Or not.

Wait. He's asked me to kiss them goodnight. The white flag has been raised. I'm no longer on deck ...

Maybe I should have stayed at the Internet cafe after all.

*Update -- Per norm, my goodnight kisses threw Daddy bedtime way off kilter for more than an hour. There. I proved myself guilty.

Crystal Blue Panic Attack

I nearly forgot my password. That's how long it's been since I posted.

In a suburban Southern California tract home where paid work precludes the free kind, my blog has taken a major back seat.

My parents flew into LAX yesterday from New Hampshire, my home state. Soon they'll pick up the kids and take them for a dip in their beachside hotel pool. While my reunited family wiles away the afternoon in crystal blue liquid pleasure, I'll have my nose pressed to my dull laptop screen scratching out more work.

For once I'm not whining. A shocker, I know. I'm actually okay with not joining the pool party. It's no loss for me. Not for my kids and parents either. What they gain without my presence is more fun, more relaxation, more freedom. More, all around.

I'd be a buzz kill. Whenever I'm within toe-dipping distance of a body of water with the kids three, no matter how big or small, manmade or natural, I'm a paranoid freak. Make that an ANNOYING paranoid freak. For me, "Liquid" and "relaxation" are on completely different plains. How dry I am, literally and figuratively.

My kids will likely never learn to confidently swim in their own skin with Nervous Nellie Nagging Mommy on the rim of the pool, aiming narrowed, hyperprotective eyes in their wave-bobbing direction(s). Shooting palpable rays dripping with my gripping fear of drowning death unfairly and directly at them as they try their kid-best to master what amounts to one of the most important life and survivor skills humans can possess.

Right now both boys are exitedly rifling through their drawers in search of last year's swim attire. Next, I suppose, they'll turn the garage upside down foraging desperately for their "Subskates," strange Cheetos-colored skateboard-surfboard hybrids made from a mystery substance that feels like bubblegum blended with styrofoam.

Now they have towels. Whoa - Now their towels are doubling as rat tails. They're whipping each other. I'm ignoring their fraternal whip-fest, which is probably why it's coming to a quick halt. What good is it to annoy Mommy if she doesn't react (explode)? With rat tail time officially over, they've taken to the garden with bats in fist. Who knows how this could end? I prefer not to imagine.

Just as I won't imagine them sinking to the bottom of the pool, as I often did as a childhood doggy-paddling failure. I won't imagine them later this afternoon struggling against the water, out of my parents' careful and capable field of vision. Deep enough beneath the chlorinated water to not be heard. I won't imagine the worst as I almost always do. I won't cling to the worst case scenario.

I won't be there poolside. I won't hovercraft parent in the pool. I won't be there at all, and it's for the better.

It's All Fun and Games Until Mama Develops and Eye Twitch

I was hoping it was a fluke. Just a passing phase. Like the flutter of an eye.

Nope. I'm not so lucky. It's official, people -- I have developed a permanent eye twitch.

It's as if my right eye lid is possessed, obsessed with shaking like Shakira's jellyfied ba donk a donk butt. Now I have yet more in common with Dr. Evil other than constantly asking myself "Why must I be surrounded by frickin' idiots?"

And apparently it's not going away (like my moles that recently met their fates on my dermatologist's chopping block).

This is what mothering three children born nearly back-to-back will do to you. Ex-zip-it-A: the telltale bitch twitch. Someone signed me up for this without even asking. How rude!

Great. Now I have what's called a tell. Let's call my new eye twitch a mommy tell, shall we? An obvious, dead give-away that I'm constantly trailed by three mini-me's like a ketchup stained wedding gown train with springs attached to it.

What will "they" say about my new perma-blink? (Ever wonder who the nebulous "they" are anyway? If you figure it out, send me "their" address so I can send "them" a nasty-gram via snail mail.)

I imagine what "they" say might go something like this: "Whoa. Look at that crazy chick's eye go! She must be a whacked out, stay-home mom stress case. It's like her lid's got a life of its own. That's just sad."

But wait. My new consta-flicker eye affliction isn't all bad. With my newfound on-and-off eye-cessory I can more accurately aim an even more menacing "mom face," yes, you know what I'm referring to ladies. Yup, it's "the look" I speak of. All moms naturally develop it over time and readily display with uncanny skill when they've "had enough" from the unruly kid ranks. Yes, the "evil eye" we shoot at the kids when on the verge of snapping but cannot raise our voices because we're in public. The look I fire off when I wimp out and opt out of a major freak-out, when I give in and merely dole out yet another threat of a non-effective time-out. But I digress...

... and, yes, it's true that now I can better ward off staring, brimming with bad mommy judgement strangers (you know the kind, the ones who think they can do a better job and who were never, ever antsy kids at the grocery themselves) in the check-out line when I stare back at them with my creepy twitch-o-meter. The faster the twitch, the more offended by their stares I am. So, it's even more creepy now when I ask them to "put their eyes back in their head."

If you're with me on this, twitch on mamas. Get your twitch on.

Hey, I can't be the only one out in the mommy trenches with a mommy "tell." What's yours?

When No Nap Nellies Attack - I Nanny 911 Myself to No Avail

Make video montages at onetruemedia.com

Pretzel Sticks Are Too Salty to Be Cigarettes

It's nearly 11 and I'm still in my jammies, which I only put on when I woke up. I was too lazy to deal with a change of clothes last night. Living up to my slackstress title is so trying.

The kids are fighting. Pigtails wants to vacuum. She thinks it's a toy. The Lawyer is playing basketball in the house with a ball that isn't Nerf but not exactly regulation. Cheeks is talking gibberish to himself while taking shots at the small mesh pockets in the tent with a mushy mini-basketball that his sister bit a chunk out of.

Oh well. I'm ignoring everyone and writing. Nothing new there. Adam is outside smoking his weekend wake-up cigarette. Nothing new there either.

... which brings me to the topic of my children knowing their father smokes. For a long time I tried to shield them from it. (Hey, didn't I chain smoke three cloves at the hookah bar last night? I was alone. It was an indulgence. An assertion that I'm still me before being a mom. Still independent enough to make stupid, unhealthful choices. Still cool enough to throw caution to the wind, along with a few fragrant plumes of smoke. Sound the hypocrite alert?)

Without going into to much explanation, eventually I relaxed my rigid rules and stop relegating my husband to the garage when he puffs on his beloved Camels. Now he leaves the garage door open when he smokes and asks the children to go inside until he's done his "break."

The kids aren't stupid, though. They may be young but they know what's going on. When they ask me where dad is and I say, "He's having a break," they know exactly what mommy's referring to.

"Oh, you mean he's outside smoking," The Lawyer clarifies.

"No, he's just having a break," I un-clarify.

"No. He's smoking. Why don't you just tell the truth? That's what you tell me to do."

Point taken.

So, if my children know their daddy is a regular, one pack a day addicted smoker, where do we draw the line with their inclusion in the circle trust (or TMIL - too much information loop)? Should they light his cigarettes for him? (I just threw that in there to incite reaction, to goad you on. Obviously I would never allow that. I'm being dramatic, something I've never, ever done before for attention. Me? Neva'.)

Should I allow them to pretend they're smoking while salty pretzel sticks jut from their pouty mouths like extra long Virginia Slims? Well, when it actually happened, when all three were on the front lawn on a picnic blanket pretending to light each other's pretzel sticks, I promptly, sternly asked them to stop. I was disgusted. My daughter often tells me she's going outside to "have a smoke." It's really gone too far. Way too far.

"Why would you want to pretend to smoke? Smoking hurts people," I said, hoping the neighbors hadn't noticed my pediatric trio of would-be smokers.

"Because Daddy does," Cheeks replied.

"Yeah, because Daddy smokes. Daddy smokes cig-wets," Pigtails confirmed.

How sad. But really, how sad? As the teachers at Cheeks progressive preschool say time and time again, "Life is not a fairy tale." In some cases, children should know the truth, even if it isn't laced with powdered sugar sprinkles and rainbow jimmies. Is this a truth they should know? All signs point to no. But I'm afraid it's too late. At least their father doesn't smoke near them or in the house. We don't want to endanger their health. I even force him to change his shirt when he holds them.

Yes, children, your parents are human. They are real people. They make mistakes. They made choices that aren't always right. They aren't the poster people for perfection.

Just last week I hid outside cloaked in darkness in the front yard with my mom friend. We sneaked cloves in front of the bushes, like a couple of kids hiding from the camp counselors, doing something bad. Something that could get us sent home from camp if we were found out. And you know what? It felt good. Really good. Really freeing. Really adventurous. Again, how sad? Maybe not so sad after all.

It felt good until my daughter peeped through the mail slot and saw me.

-- To my older and only sister: I hope your quitting experiment is a success.

Ps. What ever happened to those fake, pink-tipped candy cigarettes I used to gobble up as a kid? Did the candy industry get a conscience or did Big Tobacco cut off their funding? I wouldn't let my kids "smoke" them anyway. They have enough poor role modeling in their orbit as it is.