Category Archives: parenting fail

Grandma

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My mother is amazing. She’s very smart, funny, and usually wise….but sometimes I question her judgement just a smidgen.

Yesterday we were at my parents’ house to visit. This kids completely lose their minds when they go there because she always has special snacks, beds to jumps on, different toys to play with, and satellite TV. Going to Grandma’s is pretty sweet.

I was taking advantage of the satellite TV when I heard my mother in the kitchen. “You’ve got to see this! Come here!”

So, I walk over to the kitchen and see this:

What the...?

Uh, that would be my three children, in various states of undress, playing with a footbath that is on “high” and pouring out soap bubbles.

My mother thought this would be a good idea. Seriously. The kids didn’t suggest it or start it. She did this.

The bubbles spread far and wide in the kitchen. The kids eventually all got completely naked and started having a nude Slip-n-slide-type party on the linoleum. Soaped up, naked children were sailing through the room, running in to cupboards and squealing with ecstasy.

It was no easy feat to clean up that kitchen after the party ended. But, like all good Grandmas, she hyped them up, gave them some sugar, and sent them home. Her floors were scrubbed clean by soapy toddler butt, so, I guess she really won this round.

I, however, will be the loser here. The kids keep asking when we are going to play with soap in OUR kitchen. And I have this feeling that someday soon I am going to walk in there and see they have started the party without me. Using ketchup.

 

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Medicine Bird

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You know what I hate about sick kids? They get better.

When Aili was feeling like garbage, she was easy to medicate. Stuff the syringe in her little maw, squirt the medication in, watch as she swallows it meekly.

Oh, but she is feeling better now and, unfortunately for us, the recovery period and the medication dosage period do not match up. There is far more of that bubblegum pink medicine in the bottle than Aili has patience for being pumped full of antibiotics.

At first she would just shout at us and cry when we’d put it in her mouth. Then she started kicking. Then came the spitting out of the medication. Now, she has somehow managed to morph in to a rabid badger at the sight of a full syringe.

She bit through my fingernail two nights ago. I kid you not.

So, we decided to get creative. I have tried hiding medicine in her food and drink before with absolutely no success. This girl has some kind of super power to detect Tylenol in apple sauce. She won’t even touch it if she thinks there is something that could possibly make her feel better hidden inside. But, I had a tub of Neopolitan ice cream and a heaping pile of desperation so, I had to try it just one more time.

The strawberry band of ice cream was the exact same color as her antibiotic so, I squirted a dose on top of the ice cream and put it on the table.

“Aili! Quick! I got you some ice cream, but it’s melting! You’ll have to eat it fast!”

She dashed over and was so excited that I was giving her a bowl of ice cream at 9 in the morning, she gobbled it all up and licked the bowl clean.

It was truly miraculous. Up until that moment, I was certain I was going to have to lose most of my finger tips to get her to finish off that bottle. But, of course, there was a problem. Two problems.

The brothers.

They weren’t there when I did the medicine-in-the-ice cream trick the first time, but I knew they would be for her next dose. I was only giving her a little snip of ice cream, but I knew it would be enough to send the boys in to a jealous rage. (I may be crazy enough to give one kid ice cream at breakfast and bed time, but three kids? No way, Jose!)

Brandon was preparing Aili’s ice cream and I pulled the boys over and told them what was going on before they could start begging for their own bowls. I let them know it was just so Aili would take her medication and that it was a BIG SECRET.

Suddenly it was okay that she got ice cream and they didn’t. Secrets are fun! They scampered to the kitchen to see the ice cream preperation and then skittered back, giggling. They were bursting at the seems because they knew a BIG SECRET.

Dread filled my stomach as I watched the boys watch Aili take her first bite of the ice cream. They were just DYING to tell her there was medicine hidden in her treat. They were vibrating because they knew she was being duped. It was almost painful to  watch them.

“MEDI-cinder block!” shouted Robert in what I can only presume is a secret-induced form of Tourette’s.

“MEDICINE BIRD!” screamed Peter, not to be outdone by his brother. They just had to find a way to let it out without getting in trouble for telling Aili what was in her ice cream.

Aili kept eating as I shushed the boys and reminded them there were certain things they shouldn’t tell certain people or they will be certainly going to bed NOW.

“MEDICINE BIRD! MEDICINE BIRD!” the boys chanted, running around Aili like a couple of hyper-active Labrador retrievers.

Aili dropped her spoon. “DADDY!!!”

Oh no. Here it comes. She’s figured it out. The jig is up. Those boys are SO going to bed NOW.

“Peter called me a med-sin biwd!” Aili howled, deeply offended by an insult she could neither say or understand.

“It’s okay. Eat your ice cream,” Brandon said while dragging the boys out of the kitchen.

She finished up her medicine and the boys were herded off to bed before they could spill the beans. But, all bets are off for tomorrow. Ug.

 

Organizationally Challenged

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I have always heard that there are two types of people. Organized, meticulous, fastidious type A people and free-spirited, unorganized, artsy people are the type B people. I picture type A ladies in business suits and type B’s in tie dye. The popular culture has really rammed that one in to my brain, hey? Apparently it started as a way to determine how likely it was that you were going to have a coronary. Weird.

I draw a lot and my house looks like a hurricane went through it. And no one has ever accused me of being anal retentive, that’s for sure. And I am reasonably sure I haven’t had an infarction yet.

So, yeah. I am pretty sure that if this “type” thing is legit, I am definitely a type B.

Well, I really want to be more of the stereotype of a type A person. I want my house to be full of clever, organized things in little toile baskets like on Pinterest. (I have a secret belief that every single picture of organized interior design is a fraud. That person spent 45 days making on corner off the house adorable, but the rest of the home looks like it was eaten by a pack of dogs. Seriously. I believe this. It helps me sleep at night.) I want to take an interest in de-cluttering. You won’t see us on Hoarders any time soon, but there sure are a lot of toy trains in my living room…

I decided I want to be somewhere in the middle of the A and B personalities. Take the good characteristics of both and apply them to my housekeeping, my parenting, my…whatever else it is I would be doing if I had freetime… More cleaning, less heart attacking.

I’ve coined this (in my head) and a B Flat Personality.

If you are a non-musician, this might not make immediate sense. Allow me to explain. Poorly. Notes on a musical scale are named with letters of the alphabet. A, B, C, etc. But, there isn’t just an A and a B. There is a note between them in western music. (Some other cultures have even more notes stuck in there but, that really complicates this so… let’s pretend I didn’t say anything about them.) The note between A and B is B Flat.  (Or A Sharp….enharmonic spellings will REALLY complicate this. I didn’t say that, either.)

So, I want to be a B Flat. It’s between A and B and is, arguably, one of the most important notes. Your first scale started with it, you’ve probably even tuned to it, all the easy music is in that key…. It’s a pretty awesome note to be.

In an effort to B Flat (Ha. Puns.) I went over to simplemom.net and downloaded the Master Weekly Checklist to help us with our cleaning. Sometimes certain husbands forget that certain chores don’t complete themselves by magic and I can also break down chores in to smaller portions so I don’t feel overwhelmed. The kids like checking things off checklists so, they will even get involved (until the novelty wears off, then they might need some encouraging…)

Here’s to spring cleaning, turning over a new leaf and retaining enough of my music minor to craft an almost coherent metaphor!

Are you a type A, B Flat, or B personality?

Sleep Tight: The Sleep Study

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On our second night in Ann Arbor, Robert was subjected to a sleep study. Oh, what a joy that was.

They lie.

We got to the sleep disorder wing of the hospital and proceeded to sit and wait for about 45 minutes. Eventually were greeted by an angry doctor.

“Why did you bring HIM?” he demanded, motioning to Peter. “Can’t he stay home with someone?”

Home is 9 and a half hours away at this point. I explained this to the doctor who replied with, “Oh. Well, you should have known we can’t accommodate families.”

Where would I have gleaned this knowledge, I wonder. From the non-existent confirmation letter of Robert’s appointment or the non-existent call? I have never had a sleep study. I had no idea what to expect. Do we drop him off? Do we sleep nearby? That would have been nice to know.

Apparently, it’s expected that parents stay in the room with the child for the study and the doctors were certain Peter being in there as well would corrupt any results they would get from the study. Not sure how my snoring wouldn’t be a problem, but Peter’s would…

So, we got settled in to the room which was about the size of a Smart Car. Across the hall was a gloriously huge suite-style room that was empty. I asked if we could be moved there, but the doctor was so miffed at the presence of my other son, we were told we had to stay put.

A technician with the bedside manner of a rock came in to get Robert all wired up. She didn’t explain to us what she was doing and didn’t attempt any small talk so, Robert started getting pretty scared. By the time he was all hooked up, he was in tears and looked like an onion.

A very sad onion.

I was pretty worked up by all this. I didn’t want him scared and I didn’t want to have driven across the whole darned state to have a sleep study that was ruined by Peter and me. So, we tucked Robert in and then went and slept in the hallway.

On the floor. With ALL the hospital hall lights on. I stole a crib mattress for Peter to sleep on and I just plopped on the floor next to him. No one gave us much notice so they are either a bunch of jerks, or this is more common than I realize.

At around one in the morning, I realized I missed my calling. I would make a killer diagnostician. For example, I know why the dude in the room one door down from Robert is having sleep problems. That fella was up watching Law and Order until the wee hours of the morning. My expert opinion: Watching dramatic TV shows at deafening levels until the middle of the night may hinder your ability to get a good night’s sleep.

I’ll be waiting patiently for my check. Thank you.

At 7:00am, we were unceremoniously told we could leave. No one told us when to expect the results or how they would come to us. We were just shown the bathtub (to wash off the sticky stuff that kept the electrodes on Robert’s head) and shown the door.

I am not expecting special treatment because I am from far away or because I have 2 five-year-olds with me, but boy, I would have left there in a much better disposition if someone would have just treated me like a person. Or, heck, if someone could have held open the door as I struggled to get the boys, all their things, and  a cart out and on to the next appointment.

Considering how the rest of the day went for us, I really REALLY wish the day would have started with some kind words. They would have been the last from THAT hospital.

(Ooh, a cliffhanger…)

Dad Guest Blog

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Well, dear readers, I have a treat (or some kind of strange punishment) for you today. The other half of the Mompocalypse (The Daddagheddon?) will be presenting a guest column today. Please enjoy my husband’s contribution to questionable parenting on the Internet!

——

I think I should have my own show on the Food Network.  It will be called “Dad Can Cook?”  Every week, you will get to see me prepare…something from a box.

Imagine the excitement!

Will dad read ALL of the instructions before proceeding?

Will there be milk this time, or will there be a “creative substitute” involving mayonnaise and water?  

Oh shoot…that was supposed to be covered?!

How many rounds of golf will be needed with the County Medical Examiner afterwards to “calm things down”?

Then the show takes a dramatic turn as dad presents the meal to the fickle (and noticeably-underdressed) children.  Will they turn their noses up?  Will they demand it be doused in ketchup?  Or will they gobble it up despite (or maybe because of) the surprise mystery ingredients?

And then, at the very end of the show, there will be a segment called “Lessons Learned” where my darling and ever-patient wife will explain all the “wrong turns” I made while I pretend to take notes.

Now…who wants some cheese(?) lasagne casserole?  Yum!

 

“Daddagheddon” has his own blog!  He discusses much more cerebral topics like college, and music, and…stuff. You should read it!

The Plunger Story

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The kids love taking baths together. I know it’s only a matter of time before an all-sibling bath becomes “uncool” and the tub just becomes too small to hold them. It already is at capacity when all three kids decide to jump in together. It’s like the clown car of tubs.

Last night was one of those nights when the kids all hopped in the bath together. They enjoy playing with boats and drinking the tub water. (Nothing like a slurry of water and dead skin cells to really quench a toddler’s thirst.) Aili wanted out of the tub first. (I think she is coming down with a cold. Or she drank too much tub water. Whatever.) So, I was getting her dried and dressed while the twins continued to splash around in the tub.

They were making a puddle in the bathroom that made me consider building an ark. But, they were having a blast so, I told them to close the shower curtain and go to town. I forgot that they like to take things three steps further. Always.

As I was getting Aili snuggled in to her bed, I heard something dangerous and decidedly worse than a wet floor.

“Robert! Look! It sticks to your butt!!”

Then I heard something that sounded like a Christmas ham being dropped on a tile floor. (If you have to ask why I know what THAT sounds like, you don’t know me very well.)

Then came peels of laughter.

Then…I was really worried.

I steeled myself and timidly peeked around the corner.

There were my two sopping wet boys, naked as jaybirds, standing in the bathtub. They froze and looked at me with that “Oh no! She caught us!” look on their faces. I looked back and forth between the two of them to figure out who did what. It was then that I noticed Robert had a toilet plunger stuck squarely on his left butt cheek.

A very USED toilet plunger.

In that moment, I stopped to decide what I was going to do. The Salvation Army store doesn’t accept live donations so, that was out. Bleaching them might be considered abuse. Pretending I saw nothing, closing the door, and making a strong drink was a front runner for a long while, I’ve gotta say.

Eventually we all re-animated and I took action by calmly shrieking while grabbing the plunger handle frantically. I momentarily forgot the power of suction so, Robert briefly came with it. I am not sure if it was a fart or an act of God, but he came unstuck before too long.

THAT would have been a fun 9-1-1 call…

I turned the shower on, handed them the soap and told them to wash. A lot. They should still be in there, if you ask me.

The night ended with them being passably clean. (I have serious doubts that ANYONE can be completely clean after bathing with a toilet plunger…) But, now I have a new problem.

Where do I hide the plunger so this never, EVER happens again? Ever.

 

Snack Time

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I keep trying to be that awesome mom who makes ridiculously cute and healthy snacks. You know, like some kind of organic, vegan muffin that’s shaped like the Seattle Space Needle or some crap. Or those bento box lunches that have eggs shaped like bunnies and heart-shaped sandwiches. It’s food that’s so cute, you don’t want to eat it.

I want to do that!

So, I gathered some snack-like materials for the kids today.  We used snap pea puffs, clementines, and raisins. Somehow, I ended up with…

The undead?

 

It appears to be a zombie hand emerging from it’s fresh and citrusy grave.

That won’t give the kids nightmares, will it?

It was supposed to be a flower.

What’s Behind the Curtain

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Now, I 100% believe parents should be involved in their children’s education. I try to keep up on what is going on with them at school and help out when I can, but I have realized that…I really don’t want to know what they actually do at school. It’s far too embarrassing for me.

I sat in on the boys’ Little Church lesson on Sunday because they were literally the only children at church on New Year’s Day. (How hung over was the rest of our flock?!)

The instructors did a convincing job of looking like they were happy to see my kids but, I have my doubts. Sometimes even I cringe when I see them coming. I can’t sugar-coat it. They are a big, ol’ handful.

Robert lived up to the reputation I imagine he has by spending the whole 30 minutes running around the room. He didn’t stop once. He just did laps around the tables. I have a sneaking suspicion my husband gave him a bowl of sugar for breakfast because he was just like that Mike Myers character from Saturday Night Live in the 90′s.

"My mom gave me a Snickers bar and I pulled the car home!"

Peter, on the other hand, was a little angel. He sang the songs and was eager to color in pictures of the Holy Family.

I thought, “Well, at least they see that ONE of my children isn’t acting like he was raised by wolves.”

I had clearly forgotten the Nelson Law of Parenting.  As soon as you get proud or smug about your children’s actions, they will do something that will make you want to crawl in a hole and write nasty letters to Dr. Sears.

Peter was given a second Holy Family coloring sheet since he had finished the first one. (It looked a little more like Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and a little less like the Holy Family when he was done, but I am not going to split hairs here.)

He grabbed a red crayon and set to work, coloring every inch of the paper. He looked up at his instructor and in his Scary-ass-kid-from-The-Shining-voice said, “They’re on fire.”

I pretended I didn’t hear that one and loudly complimented Aili on using every shade of purple Crayola has conceived to color in her Holy Family.

One child is re-enacting Speed on foot, the other is thinking about setting the baby Jesus on fire. We left before their sister could go for the Bad Parenting Evidence Trifecta.

If they do this at church, what do they do at school? I really, really don’t want to know now.

Awesome Mom

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Last night I had just gotten done with a long day of work. It was late and I was tired and hungry. I drove home with a liberal interpretation of the speed limit.

I pulled in to the driveway and noticed the van was gone. Hmm. I wonder where everyone went. The lights were off and there was no sign anyone had been home for at least a couple hours. I was just opening the door when I remembered my husband had a rehearsal that night and the kids were with a babysitter. 30 minutes away. In the town I just drove away from as quickly as possible to get home to the kids. Oh, crap.

Did I mention I had arranged the babysitting just that morning?

I need a vacation.