Shake-Up Over Shopping

Okay, so I dropped the kids with Hubs yesterday and went shopping for something to wear to this blasted reunion. I spent 1½ hours in the dressing room of a store filled with beautiful clothes. A store that is filled with ridiculously overpriced clothes that I would never spend that much money on... did I mention how beautiful the clothes are? I just HAD to go in. I don’t get out much and here I was all alone with no children tugging on me and no husband whining about how much he hates shopping. I just had to go into the store with the beautiful clothes. Well, they are beautiful on the pencils in the catalogs, not so much on this bod, I quickly discovered. Although, I did find a top that I fell in love with and asked the barely-post-pubescent salesgirl to help me find something to wear with it. She took off and came back with several items. After I’d tried them all on, she asked me if I liked any of them. I replied, “Yes, they’re wonderful. I like them very much; however, they do not like me.” I think my sarcasm frightened her, so she ran out for reinforcements and I ended up having THREE salesgirls in and out of the dressing room with all kinds of things for me to try. Here are a few of the items, just to give you an idea of what a nightmare shopping has become for me. In case you care. In case, please God, some of you can relate.

1. Pair of pants with snaps down the front that were reminiscent of a baby’s onesie or a sailor’s uniform - only different. As if those two items have anything in common. Anyhoo, here they are. Take a quick peek, but then come back. Don't get lost in the beautiful clothes. Okay, I'll wait. http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/catalog/productdetail.jsp?id=923290&parentid=QUICKSHOP&navAction=jump&isProduct=true The pants came up to my armpits and hung at least a foot past my toes. But, hey, they did fit through the hips, which is a miracle in and of itself. The salesgirl commented that they would need tailoring. Ya think? No thanks, I looked like a






She didn't bring any more pants to the dressing room.

2. Super-Cute Silvery Sparkle Skirt with ruffled pockets. Go ahead, check it out. http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/catalog/productdetail.jsp?id=920098&catId=CLOTHES-SKIRTS&pushId=CLOTHES-SKIRTS&popId=CLOTHES&sortProperties=&navCount=400&navAction=top&fromCategoryPage=true&selectedProductSize=&selectedProductSize1=&color=009&colorName=BLACK%20MOTIF&isSubcategory=true&isProduct=true It was so cute…until it encountered my body. I had to stand with one foot in front of the other to get the damn thing over my hips. The adorable ruffle pockets actually stood up and waved from my hips - like fins. The horror! The cherry on top was when the salesgirl told me that I just didn’t have it on right. (I guess I've reached idiot status now.) “Pull it up,” she orders. I pull it up and now the waist is swimming around my boobs while the ruffle pockets are now waving from somewhere above my waist and the skirt is still groaning over my hips. More horror! I think it’s too large and that you're not wearing it right she says. WTF?! Where are the 38 year old salespeople? Why must they all be 22 years old and perfect-looking? She brings me a size smaller and a size larger (at my request). I determined that only a pencil can wear the Super-Cute Silvery Sparkle Skirt. I am no pencil. I am the slightly scuffed eraser that has been stuck on the top of the pencil and worn into the shape of a pear.

3. Super Fun Purple Skirt! Oh, I LOVED this one! Never in a million years would I have pulled this off the rack, but when the salesgirl showed up with it, my eyes glazed over. So, so, so cute! You've got to see this one! http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/catalog/productdetail.jsp?id=923347&catId=CLOTHES-SKIRTS&pushId=CLOTHES-SKIRTS&popId=CLOTHES&sortProperties=&navCount=400&navAction=top&fromCategoryPage=true&selectedProductSize=&selectedProductSize1=&color=050&colorName=PURPLE&isSubcategory=true&isProduct=true How fun is this skirt?! My first thought when I put it on was, oh shit, you can see my knees. No one should be subjected to my knees. They’re gnarly and wrinkly and generally scary-looking. But the salesgirls, all three, squealed, "Oh, I love it!” In unison, no less, so I almost bought the skirt because I was high on their squealing and the dressing room lighting. (I’ve decided that I want all of my surroundings lit with this particular dressing room lighting.) I was close to triumphantly yelling, “Done!” and ripping out my credit card. Until. Oh, until. Until I sat down in the Super Fun Purple Skirt. Hmmm…now the knees ain’t lookin’ so bad because the varicose veins and cottage cheesy thighs have been exposed. Oh the freakin’ horror!


I left with the top and, sadly, no bottom, so now I must gear up to tackle the stores again this weekend for the rest of the outfit. To all 22-year-old-perfect-looking-salesgirls, consider yourself on notice. You've got your work cut out for you this weekend.

A Barrel Of Chicken

Overheard around my dinner table last night:


Jacob: Wow! This is the best chicken I’ve ever had in my life!


Me: (stunned…then exhilarated) Thank you, honey! That is so nice of you to say! I’m thrilled that you are enjoying your dinner.


Jacob: Well, at this house. It’s the best chicken I’ve had at this house. I’ve had better chicken at Steak and Shake.



Me: (rapidly deflating)


Morgan: And that Chinese place that Daddy takes us to has better chicken than this.



Me: (Daddy, Daddy, Daddy...grrrr!)


Jacob: Well, for this house this is good. I could eat a whole barrel of this chicken.


Morgan: Yeah, me too. A whole barrel. Or I could eat a whole barrel of Steak and Shake chicken.


Jacob: Yeah, Steak and Shake….



I simply cannot wait to cook dinner tonight. Can you feel the sarcasm oozing through the keyboard? Maybe we'll just go to Steak and Shake and order a barrel of the best chicken ever.

Ms. No Depth Perception Strikes Again

How am I supposed to educate my children on a day like this? It started around 4:00 this morning when some random alarm went off. Apparently, it was an alarm clock alarm on a clock that we don’t use for alarms. Go figure. I thought it was the smoke alarm and FREAKED OUT in a big way. I never did fully go back to sleep. I did spend some time in that murky, semi-sleep state dreaming of fire, smoke, death and dying. Later this morning, as I’m dragging myself out of the shower I get a phone call that the dog was late for her grooming appointment. Now that seems insignificant, I’m sure. Around here it takes about a week to get an appointment with the dog groomer and my dog can no longer see because her sweet little eyes are covered by fur. I feel immensely guilty about this since the dog cannot arrange her own grooming appointments; so I throw on clothes and race off, with wet hair and unbrushed teeth, with the dog under my arm for the groomer. As I back the van out of the driveway, while rolling down the window to adjust the side mirror, I hear a nasty crunch. I look out the window to see what toy I crunched and smacked my lip on the window which had not rolled down all the way. I hit the damn window so hard that I thought I knocked my tooth out. I’m still worried that my front tooth is going to turn black and fall out. I’m also slightly concerned that I have a concussion from the impact. Can those radiate from lip to brain? Either way, my head, lip and tooth are killing me.

Teacher Mom is sleep-deprived, nightmare-ridden, scatter-brained and may be suffering a mild concussion. The kids say I’m acting the same as usual, other than the puffy lip, so I guess we’re off and running.

Birthday Girl

Today is MO's birthday. I cannot believe she is seven years old. SEVEN! When did that happen? It seems like just yesterday she was clinging to my pants leg and begging to be held. Okay, that was yesterday. She is still a clinger - even at the newly minted age of 7. I cannot wait to see what Seven brings out in MO. Six was the year of Hot Wheels cars, Indiana Jones and baby dolls. MO is slowly turning from a complete tomboy into a bit of a girl. Certainly there are no frilly princesses in our future, but there has been a bit of nail polish and fashion consciousness here and there. This girl knows how to put an outfit together!

MO has formulated a Birthday Plan for the day which includes creating a cake in the shape of Mickey Mouse riding a skateboard. As expected, MO (aka Little Planner) has mapped out the entire day, including my allotted shower time. She gave me a full hour, which is more than generous, in my opinion. Guess I'd better get moving before I waste all of my shower time.

Friendly Letters

There is nothing “friendly” about teaching a fourth grader to write a friendly letter. Nothing. Friendly. About. It. He was to write a personal narrative then put it into the form of a friendly letter. He’s been re-writing his letter, after revisions and proofreading, since about 9:30 this morning (it’s now almost 1:00). I could strangle him. We’re out of one of his ADHD meds, so he’s only taking the one med right now. (Normally he takes an extremely low-dose cocktail of two meds.) I’m beginning to really question the lack of the one med. Especially since he has his karate test tonight. Sabotaged by his own mother’s inadequacy as a drug pusher. He just asked if he could type the letter on the computer instead. “Yes!” I almost screeched. Yes! Yes! Yes! Just get it done! I no longer care about your penmanship!!! Not true. He’s got great penmanship which is evidenced with his first draft – and that will suffice JUST FINE. I kid you not, he just came in here and asked me what our address is. We’ve covered this about 10 trillion times in the past two years, including a refresher last week. Is it wrong that I told him to go outside and look at the mailbox and a street sign? Yes, I suppose it is. In his current state, he may get lost and not be able to find his way home because he doesn’t know his address!!!! Maybe we should take a lunch break so that the carb surge will cause his pencil to move across the page at a normal rate of speed, rather than one stroke every 14 minutes. Lunch was the dangling carrot that was to motivate speedy letter writing. Who am I kidding? Have I forgotten who my child is? “He loves a Happy Meal: Just hold the meal and he’ll be happy.” Oh, right. He doesn’t care about food. Gggrrrrr!

Heartsore Homeschooling

Most days I love homeschooling, but (y’all knew there was a BUT coming, right?), you know, some days I wish I were one of the moms who ships her kids off to school and has time to herself during the day. I wonder what that must feel like. I had snippets of freedom when the kids were both in preschool for 3 hours a day, twice per week. I’d love to know what it feels like to have 7ish hours a day, 5 days per week. Just for a little while.

I get so tired of good-intentioned gushes of, “I just don’t know how you do it. I’d go crazy if I homeschooled and was home all day with my kids all the time. You’re a better person than I am.” I suppose that those are supposed to be compliments (?), but all I hear are recriminations of my own idiocy, misguided priorities and loss of touch with reality – my perception of their perceptions, I’ll admit. Sometimes I think of how it would be so much easier if I didn't mention homeschooling to Some People. I should just answer their questions with "I teach" rather than "I homeschool." But I'm kind of twisted and like the uncomfortable looks on Some People's faces. It's almost like I've said that I have 24 cats or communicate with space aliens. The looks people give are about the same for all three statements. Some People are so wrapped up in WHAT they do that they've lost WHO they are. It's sad to be so wrapped up in the what and not the who, but I digress.

Most days I really do enjoy homeschooling. I LOVE being home with my kids. I LOVE the schooling part. Watching them learn. Seeing their excitement. Building memories. Introducing them to new things. The freedom, ah yes, the freedom. I could go on for hours about the positives. But, let’s focus on the negatives for a bit, people. Sometimes I feel like I’m more about quantity than quality. I don’t like the hours after school is done and before bedtime on days when I cannot summon the mood to do all the Good Mommy things, such as crafts (*shudder*), visiting the park, baking cookies, etc. Y’all know the drill. Those afternoons are filled with pesky, witching hours around here. I wish I had a neighborhood full of kids so I could kick the kids out of the house to play until I called them at dinnertime, but I do not. Some days I feel the need to “get some things done around here.” The kids know this means Mom needs to be left alone to salvage what is left of her sanity.

Anyone else?

Homeschool Hiccups

I’ve had the “You’re in 4th Grade Now and Must __________” lecture YET AGAIN this morning. It’s a fill-in-the-blank lecture to fit any given circumstance relating to school, the fourth grade, adhd, and anything else that pops into my head while I'm babbling, I mean, lecturing. Truthfully, it’s all about the same. Bottom line is that it is about damn time for JT to SUCK IT UP, BUTTERCUP, AND GET HIS SH*T TOGETHER. Fortunately, I have not filled in the blank with that particular response. I’m couching it with phrases like pay attention, organize yourself, take responsibility, have pride in your performance, etc. It all means the other, though, in reality. I also used the phrase “timely manner” with JT. As in, “You must complete your schoolwork in a timely manner if you want to….” Timely manner! Did I really just use those words? Don’t old, uptight, buttoned-down, dinosaur-era teachers use phrases like ‘timely manner’? What is happening to me? When did this happen? Have I become an uptight dinosaur? (Don’t answer that.)

MO, on the other hand, has finished her entire day’s work with smiles and enthusiasm. Armageddon is near. It must be. There is no other explanation for that child doing anything willingly. I’d like to be the kind of mom who appreciates the doll that her daughter has been, but I’m not that mom. I’m the kind of mom who feverishly wonders what crime has been committed. Did MO cut her own hair again? Cut the dog’s hair? Paint her bedroom walls with finger paint? Hide last night’s dinner under her bed? I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. That child is never agreeable unless something is up. More than a little nervous over here, folks. I should focus on the positives, though, right? MO is now eating lunch and moving on with her day while JT is still twitching and tweeting and snapping and working on his first lesson of the morning. Do I hear shrieking? What could that be? The construction next door? Ooops, it’s me. Breathe, Cindy, breathe.

June who?

Recently, I took one of those silly Facebook quizzes entitled, "What Kind of Mom Are You?" I know, do I really need that question answered by Facebook? But I was bored and goofing off, so I took the quiz. The response was June Cleaver. Huh? Wha? What kind of mythical Pollyanna World was I mentally residing in when I took that quiz?


I thought of good, ole June while cooking breakfast recently. I was making homemade Belgian waffles with homemade whipped cream and strawberries to the background music of, "But I'm huuunnnnggrryyy now!" "But I don't even LIKE waffles!" "How much loooonnnger?" "Why can't I just have cereal?" "These taste weird." (They were whole grain.) "What's this yucky white stuff on top?" Lovely tunes for cooking, right? I'll let y'all guess which comment was made by Hubs and which were made by JT and MO. I was standing there thinking that Ward, Wally and Beaver never said anything like that to June. Maybe it was the pearls. If I cook breakfast in pearls, a dress and kitten heels will my life turn into Pollyanna World? Sheesh. I'm thinking it wouldn't be worth it.


No, I'm thinking that Facebook got it wrong. Rather than June Cleaver, I am more like June-With-A-Cleaver. That's more my style.

Another trophy for me!

Hubs has been working late, blah, blah, blah. Same old story. Last night he called and said that he’d not work too late and that he’d be home “at a decent time.” I’ll let y’all know when I figure out just what time that is. Anyhoo, I made dinner. Well, I made breakfast for dinner. I dirtied skillets and pans and spatulas and all kinds of kitchen utensils to create a sausage casserole and homemade (from scratch because we’re out of mix and just had to have them) chocolate chip pancakes. He doesn’t show. And doesn’t show. And doesn’t show. A couple of hours later, he comes strolling in, looking completely exhausted – whatever – I don’t much care.

He eats dinner, standing up in the kitchen, and proceeds to clean the entire kitchen while I remain curled up on the sofa watching some comedy on tv that I care nothing about. I can hardly be bothered to acknowledge him because I’m so irritated that I cooked a meal that is being eaten cold. Don’t know why that gives me a rash, but it does. He told me that he brought something home for me. I still don't get off the sofa. Great, I’m thinking, ‘bout time he remembered those two paper clips I asked him to swipe from the office for the kids’ folders. Am I supposed to jump up and be all excited because he managed to come home with paper clips?

It turns out that Hubs felt so bad about being so late so often that he went by Peterbrooke Chocolatier AND Sephora to grab me some goodies. The man willingly, and without duress, went into Sephora (a store he despises due to its malodorous smells) and purchased eye cream for me because he’d noticed that the dog chewed holes in my current tube of eye cream. (Which I’m still using, btw, because the tiny tube cost $35 and I will not waste a drop. I am nothing if not frugal. Well, except for the fact that I bought $35 eye cream in the first place. Vanity, who?)

I felt like such a heel. Such. A. Heel. I need to see about installing shelving for all of my trophies. I’ve got at least three or four Mom of the Year and am now branching out into Wife of the Year.

Heel. Wretched, despicable, wormy heel. That’d be me. Go me!

Two birds?

Can cleaning up breakfast dishes count as science class? Curdled milk, anyone?

Mom of the Year

Last night I took a glass of wine upstairs to sip while watching TV with the kids. I finished about half of it and left it upstairs when I went to bed. This morning while tidying up, I grabbed the wine glass and headed downstairs. I opened the front door to say something to the kids (who are playing outside on this GORGEOUS day rather than doing school) and there's my neighbor. I'm standing there in my comfy, stay-at-home clothes holding half a glass of wine at 11:30 in the morning, bellowing at my kids not to ride their bikes in the street. The smile literally slid off the face of my neighbor.

HOMESCHOOL MOM OF THE YEAR, right here! Where's my trophy?