All Signs Point to ...

Me. Apparently I'm the one behind my son talking about sniffing glue at school. Well, maybe.

A few weekends back the kids gathered around the sticky kitchen table to dump frozen fruit into the blender for smoothies. I'm one of those people who can't do anything without background music. The only tunes on the countertop (I couldn't leave them alone with three ultra sharp blender blades, right?) were the Ramones. I slapped the CD into the player and let it rip. Who knew my six-year-old would listen so hard, especially with the blender churning away.

Here are the lyrics to the Ramones song he told his teacher "my Mommy always plays for me at home:" (Always? What the? To my knowledge he's only heard it that one time!)

"Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue"

Now I wanna sniff some glue
Now I wanna have somethin' to do
All the kids wanna sniff some glue
All the kids want somethin' to do

Bang head. Slam fist. Blend smoothies. Pay no attention to repetitive lyrics in the background. Pay hefty price by looking like an ass in front of son's homeroom teacher and other kindergarten teachers who teacher alerted, as well as the lone parent friend I told. Make bad huffing joke to teacher while trying to recover from total goof-up, then look like I know more than fair share about sniffing glue. Oops again.

Repeat: I am a fool. Duh.

At least I don't let the kids listen to some of my old N.W.A.

Yet.

Whose Got Mad Skillz (and Whose Just Mad)?

I hereby present an evidential sliver (aw, shoot, I could've just said "list") of my stellar mothering abilities, as eeked out of my blaring Pixies filled head on the drive home to "Rapewood" from my Reject Parenting class at the local Exchange Club. That would be the Exchange Club Child Abuse Prevention Center, a place I've voluntarily sped late to for six Tuesdays so far, unlike my motley crue, court-ordered classmates.

Stuck on "Rapewood," are you? I would be too. Actually, I still am. Quickie explanation: In Why the F Am I Here? class tonight I overheard a bearded chick with a gang tattoo caligraphied across the nape of her neck squeal, "We keeps it real in Rape-woooood, boy-ee!"

I wish I could have said, "Fo-shee-zee. Rapewood's off the hook. Got 'dat ry-eet, bee-atch!" in response but I cleared my throat and asked this instead: "You aren't by chance referring to Fakewood, are you?"

"Shit, yeah, girl. (Gum smack.) You haven't heard people call Fakewood 'Rapewood' before? (Gaping mouth cow gum chew. Smack.) Where you 'bin?"

Unfortunately right here in Rapewood, the spot gum-smacka-lacka lady just gave a hearty shout-out to.

Confirmation of fear complete. Bearded gang mom was indeed refering to the city in which me, the Hubster and the warbly clones three have mostly happily resided in for going on three years now.

Upon further investigation (nothing back-breaking ... just the Web, an original owner neighbor and my very own internal paranoia news channel) I discovered that my home city, originally modeled after Levittown, New York, post WWII, earned this dubious moniker after a rash of bathroom rapes at the local high school and city college. Rapewood's come a long way since giving hard labor to the infamous Spur Posse. Remember those winners circa 1993?

We sure know how to pick a quality family HQ. I guess when me and the Hubster plunk roots down, we aren't afraid to get good and dirty. But what about our kids?

Back to the original point of this post. I'm dishing out five reasons I don't suck harder than a defective Dyson hocked on eBay as a mom, or why I'm decent at maternal gigging, at least when compared to the poor souls populating the conference room where Parenting for Rejects, Drunks and Criminals 101 knowledge is dropped ... and likely instantly forgotten by 75 percent of the people who somehow manage to show up straight.

California roll, please. (Wasabi chaser optional.)

Here are Five Reasons Why I'm a Great Mom (as inspired by those who brain-farted bringing his/her homework to class because pounding K dust by the pound is just too important to cut short):

1. I have all my teeth. Well, at least enough to buzz cut a corn cob. (Doh! That was just mean. I'm a low down dirty rotten snark and I, and maybe even you, like it.) Check back with me when I'm 90 and own stock in Polident adhesive creme.

2. I have a squeaky clean "attitude of gratitude." Says who? My svelte J-Lo look-alike Breakthrough Parenting instructor, that's who! She's a veteran social worker and twice a mom herself, so she should know. (At least in front the prof. I possess, never repress and freely express a grip of AOG. She doesn't hear me when I sexist shit-talk worse than Blow Me Up Tom Lykis in reverse.)

3. I don't (yet) have a probation officer. No prior convictions exist in my file. I swear. The record may show that I was hauled uncuffed down to the station for questioning (parental pick-up and ensuing grounding) after sneaking out a window with cute boys to try beer for the first time. Big deal. I wonder what mischief Britney and Linsday were brewing (other than that schwag tasting Milwaukee's Beast my tongue can't shake the memory of) when they were 15? In a line-up I'd look like a fan of underwear, oh, and skinny landing strips, next to those two.

4. I don't sell coke (like one of my classmates bragadociously told me she does. Oh, by the way, her rehab nurses release her strictly to go to class and back).

5. My husband's never filed a restraining order against me, at least that I'm aware of, even if he's secretly wished to from time to time. I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to binge inhale your flat Orangina and Trader Joe's Pound Plus chocolate almond bar, clearly two offenses that are 911 worthy, no?

Why am I taking Breakthrough Parenting again? Oh yeah. I just remembered -- to brush up on my lacking mirroring, reflective listening and parental conflict resolution skills. To be a better, more patient mom to my children. To learn how to work better with my husband toward our shared parenting/family goals. To develop coping techniques to diffuse being driven by the kids to the soft center of a sumptuous wheel of velveteen triple cream Brie at midnight.

Why am I really taking Breakthrough Parenting? So I can see the worst and feel the best because of it. Maybe not. At least that wasn't my original intention. That would be too shallow. I know. Sad but true.

After what I've seen and heard in class tonight, I know in the very marrow of my mama bones that my children already have all they'll ever need ... between worry-wart me, their doting papa, closeby aunts, uncles, close-in-age cousins and caring teachers from two progressive, open-minded schools.

I'm also positive they'll never, ever attend Rapewood High School.

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.

So This Noise-Phobe Gives Birth to a Screamer ...

I hate loud noises. I mean freakishly OCD hate loud noises. I also happen to be the maternal recipient of a screamer. My middle son, who is almost four, is a screamer supreme, and he's screaming loud enough for the neighbors to wonder if I'm hurting him.

Zilch patience is my M.O. when it comes to his screamfests, which is probably why I've received this loud life-lesson gift that I'm now forced to unwrap and learn to accept with grace.

As I type my scream machine is currently spastically flipping like a fish out of water, thrashing naked in his bed, howling like a wild banshee in an overdrive tantrum fit.

"So why the Hell are you blogging instead of soothing him right now?" you might ask.

Before you're tempted to assume that I'm a big, mean, neglectful mama for ignoring my audio nightmare babe at this moment, let me explain how he boiled over in the first place and how I ended up steaming and throwing my hands up in deafening defeat.

For far too many precious nighttime minutes (his high-pitched wails are keeping my other two children awake well past bedtime going on 20 minutes now), I've attempted to comfort my son, tried in vain to unearth the source of his flaming upset.

As it turns out, he wants me to dress him for bed.

Damn. You'd think a bigger beef than that would have set him off, something more dramatic to justify such dramatic behavior. Well, I'm not maternally wet behind the ears enough to buy that not wanting to slap Spiderman pajamas on, a skill my son has long mastered, is the sole culprit behind his holy felonious freak-out. Throw in a major case of the over-tireds that I'll explain later ... and here we are on scaling a slippery scream-slope ...

So, he demands full blast that I dress him. He pulls the same "negative attention" games when asked day in and day out to strap himself into his car seat. He took a swipe at me when I refused to dress him and missed. Before refusing, I offered to help a bit instead (holding his shirt open for him, etc.) but he wouldn't be baited.

"Fine. Sleep naked. Birthday suit yourself," I said, giving up.

I resolved to not pander to his fit. I even threatened him with a spanking, which is so NOT how I want to parent. EVER. Sometimes parent-child situations escalate with such intensity. I'm sure you moms of challenging, fitful three-year-old kids know exactly what I'm talking about, even though no one ever really talks about it. Desperate for a solution. Desperate for his fit to stop, as if he were a colicky newborn ... These are the only ways I can think of to describe the feelings that persist when he's in the throws of an extended limbs-akimbo tantrum.

Thursday nights never flow smooth and easy for our family, as if any really do. Thursdays are one of the two days a week my moody little mister goes to preschool for a short four-hour stretch. By the time bedtime rolls around, he's overcooked from an active day at school and agitated by a severe lack of nap. He ends up burned out on being able to cope with just about anything, even simple tasks like eating dinner, bathing and dressing himself for bed. Clearly, we need a better schedule (arrive at school earlier and pick him up early enough to squeeze in a nap that won't further sabotage bedtime ... hmmm ... I wonder if that would suit us better ... ).

Tonight was particularly challenging for him because we zipped from his school to pick his brother up from kindergarten. From there, we whisked north to my sister-in-law's well put-together Easter egg hunt/egg decorating party. Poor little guy. Our day's fast-paced adventures proved too much for him and he melted into million little smeary pieces, just like the random chunk of Lindt chocolate favor-bag bunny that landed up in my bra and left a smudge-trail all over my chest.

Believe me, I tried "dialogue-ing" to allay his upset. I did the best I could for as long as I could. But I exhausted the mirroring. I blew the reflective listening. I screwed up all my "I" statements. I'm through. He'll just have to cry it out this time, experts who disagree with my last-ditch approach be damned.

I think it would be good for my screaming one and myself if I commit to examine, grasp and improve my red-hot reactions to his recurrent screaming fits. I'm not sure if I truly want to take on such a task now that I think of it. Delving deeply into such inevitably uncomfortable ground isn't exactly how I want to spend my free time ... but here goes, at least a tiny bit.

Descriptive words (for his fits, my reactions to his fits and his counter-reaction to my reactions):
Inferno
Irrational
Pushed
Sensory overload
Overwhelming

Feelings:
Angry in reaction to his anger
Sad that I can't better handle my own child's intensity at times
Disappointed that I can't better apply non-punitive interventions/limit-setting
Rejected when my many attempts to calm him fail

Okay, that's enough. Too much.

I think I've reached the point where I am no longer able to have compassion for him when he throws tantrums. My once-reassuring reactions have lapsed into callous, abrupt and threatening snips. Why does bedtime have to be such an ongoing struggle? Why must my youngest two literally tag-team-scream beg for me nightly? Don't they know that I'm not worth all that fuss anyway?

Why can't we go back to when their daddy put them to bed one night, then me the next? We used to be interchangeable when it came to our long-established bath, books and bed routine. Why must they cling so hard to me at night, even after they haven't seen their daddy all day?

Because I'm their mother, that's why. As much as I unconditionally love them, they love me unconditionally back, even when I mother them like a fed-up jerk.

Blogging/writing/journaling calms me down better than yoga and meditation. Now if I only knew how to calm my fickle screamer.

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.

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

Make video montages at onetruemedia.com

Slackstress Vlog: Confessions from the Brat Race

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9jPpJ695wk Follow the link to see my latest vlog:

You'll see Slackstress me, harried mom of three (3, 2 and newly 6 as of yesterday), sounding off on the manic nature of my experience of modern motherhood - crammed schedules, hours upon inactive hours logged in confining car seats, scarfing down artery hardening food scraps from random drive-thrus, always in a hyper-rush and "inconvenient truthfully" blowing minivan fumes into the warming atmosphere. Can you relate?

*As you can see by my blog postings, I'm having technical difficulties with the new version of Blogger. Can new version users delete posts? Where the heck is the "delete" button?! I'm super irritated by this. My blog is wacked now.

Over-booked and Over-Tired (5 is the New 30)

As if you could stomach another depressing case of KGOY (Kids Getting Older Younger) ...

Suck it up, brave mamas, as I bring you yet more proof that today's children are no longer allowed to simply be children, wild and free with UNSTRUCTURED time to burn exploring the world around them.

My startling KGOY update arrived today during a real, true conversation I had a couple of hours ago at my son's Jr. NBA basketball practice:

Smolderingly Gorgeous Lebanese Dad: "Yeah, it's nice to meet you, Kim. Your son might be the next Kobe."

Me: "Likewise."

Smolderingly Gorgeous Lebanese Dad: "See you at practice next week."

Me: "Great."

Smolderingly Gorgeous Lebanese Dad: "Wait. I think we have a scheduling conflict next week. We'll have to figure it out. I think Rayne's double-booked."

Me: "What?! Double-booked?"

Smolderingly Gorgeous Lebanese Dad: "Let's see. Rayne's schedule is so busy, so confusing these days."

Smolderinly Gorgeous Lebanese Dad whips out his Palm Pilot for instant access to his uber five-year-old's double-triple-quadruple crammed extracurricular schedule.

I cannot believe what I'm seeing. Is that his kid's Palm Pilot or his?

I pull myself together and pick my eyes up off the high gloss planks of the basketball court, where our sons are spastically wrestling each other on their backs for control of the ball. Cheaters. Well, they are only five after all.

Gorgeous Lebanese Dad: "That's right. I remember now. Hmmm... Yes, Rayne has Jr. NBA on Mondays and Wednesdays, piano lessons on Tuesdays, gymnastics at this great place in Huntington Beach on Thursdays and ice hockey on Fridays. Oh, and preschool five days a week. But I think I booked a golf lesson for him during practice this coming Wednesday. What was I thinking?"

Is he serious? Does he really need a Palm Pilot to keep track of his son's over-booked, over-scheduled five-year-old world?

I won't get a chance to find out any time soon, a chance to corner Gorgeous Lebanese Dad for the answers to my burning RGOY (Rayne Getting Older Younger) questions.

Gorgeous Lebanese Dad said if his son does squeeze basketball practice in Wednesday, he won't be the one bringing him. I'll just have to ask Rayne's nanny/chauffeur.

Here's a solid article on the topic of today's over-booked children. Check it out, that is, if you have time.

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.