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.

A Post That Bounces Around Like Wild Wingbats

A drunk woman came to my door early this morning begging for money. "No, seriously," she stammered, swaying and obviously under the influence of something. "I live down the way and my husband's boss just called me. Three of his fingers were cut off and I just need some cash to get gas and bring him to the emergency room, you know? Can you help me out cuz I don't have nuttin'."

Are you kidding me? I shooed the kids away from the door, told her we were on our way to school and that I'm sorry, no help, no money. WTF? This is the second time I've heard that story in two years.

Last week someone hacked into my checking account and tried to pilfer upwards of $3,000 in wire transfers from me. 'Jokes on them.

I think my hacker robber gleaned my information when I stupidly entered beaucoup identifying facts into a "security investigation" email I received from what I truly believed was PayPal. I handed to them on a silver screen platter.

Yeah, hard lesson. DO NOT enter your precious banking information into even the most official looking PayPal emails if you didn't contact them first. Geez.

In somewhat related matters, I spoke with one of my college roommates, a very close friend, last night. She was forced to sell her Silicon Valley area home and begin renting again. Except their was a strange, fortunate twist to her story. A realtor is buying her house and renting it to her, so she and her husband and four-year-old son won't have to move after all. She said in a defeated moment, hunched over the toilet with rough bout with the flu, she threw her hands up and "gave it up to God."

This is terrible, I know. But in moments of defeat, I weakly give it up to Ben and Jerry. Preferably the deepest, darkest chocolate Ben and Jerry's flavor I can find at the 'hood 7-Eleven.

Now in completely unrelated, happier news, I took my two youngest to a park we'd never tried before and they bounced around like wild wingbats. We had a great time. We laughed, we cried. Well, we didn't cry. We just laughed, and, dang, it feels good to laugh with your children. Those gutteral laughs that bubble up to the surface for no good reason. Just because. Just because you are pretending you're pirates and they've just made you walk the plank (slide). Just because they shot their hot pink flip flops into the sky like fireworks as you pushed them higher, higher, higher on the swing. Just because a strange elderly lady (accidentally) made up like a clown shocking red lipstick and baby blue lined eyeliner is pushing her poodle like a baby in the swing next to your kid. You laugh, just because.

Because you are alive. The sun is shining. Your kids are healthy. You feel fine.

You laugh because you are over crying. Because your children think you are the richest, funniest, coolest person on the planet. You laugh because they are innocent and young and they make you feel young.

You laugh.

Sleepless City Night

"What's that noise, Mommy?" Cheeks asks half-asleep from his top bunk.

He's woken up and caught me peering between the dusty slats of his white faux wood blinds at 1 in the morning.

"Whatcha' lookin' for, mama? You didn't tell me what 'dat noise is."

"Oh, little man, it's just a big helicopter that's trying to land at the airport. A really special helicopter, so it's taking a long time. There's nothing to worry about. Just go back to sleep."

"Is that police guys outside?" he asks, raising his frizzy bed-head from his pillow again.

The flashing lights of four or five police cars refact off the walls of my sons' bedroom, on and off their bunk beds again and again.

"Nope. I think someone left their lights on their car. You know the flashing ones they use when they double-park."

Cue mega-amplified booming voice from the searchlight ghetto bird circling above our street, and what seems specifically to be our home, which is now completely illuminated with overhead light.

"Drop your weapons and surrender. We know where you are. Come out before our search dogs find you. They will bite. Surrender. You are surrounded."

Repeat scary message from the sky five or ten more times until all the children in the house are awake and you send your husband to double-check that all the windows and doors are securely locked and that no one is hiding out in the garage.

Try to explain that one to your scared kid in the middle of the night.