Archive for ‘Parenting Bites’

September 22nd, 2011

Tales From The Minivan

by Venomous Kate

This morning, as I drove the Big-Eyed Boy to school while praying that my coffee didn’t kick in until I’d made it home, I heard the noise that no mom wants to hear at that hour of the day: the beep announcing that my gas tank was empty. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a big deal but, like I said, it was a school morning, and I am not a morning person. Why does that matter? Because I was still wearing my leopard print pajama bottoms, a t-shirt that said “If you can read this, get me a drink” and fuzzy bunny slippers. Yes, really.

Remember the good old days of full-service gas stations? I’d have gladly paid the extra 20-cents per gallon surcharge to avoid having to get out of my van to pump gas dressed like that. (And, no, this morning’s embarrassment probably won’t teach me to dress properly before taking the BEB to school. See previous comment about how I am NOT a morning person.)

Anyway, the whole experience reminded me that I’ll never be one of those moms who gets to stand at the front door waving as her kid climbs onto the school bus, or meets up with friends to walk or bike to school. Since our local school district is abysmal (but not so bad that they lost their accreditation, like the Kansas City, Missouri schools), our son goes to the next district over thanks to the Kansas Open Enrollment laws. Since we live outside of the district, the bus won’t pick him up, and no matter how much he begs to ride his bike the 2.2 miles to school, it’s all on very busy, very narrow streets that don’t have sidewalks.

Besides, I couldn’t handle the worry. Oh, I’d be fine with him riding the bus. I’d even be willing to shell out big bucks since it would give me an additional 30 minutes of sleep five days a week. But riding his bike? In a town with seven correctional facilities, at least one of which has an inmate escape every month? Please. I’d wind up being one of those moms who put on a brave face as her kid head out in the morning, then sat glued to one of those bearcat scanners until half-way through homeroom, by which time I figure the school would call to let me know if he was missing.

Plus, I’d miss out on some of my happy times with the Big-Eyed Boy. Now that he’s approaching puberty, those happy times are few and far between. Most days, I’m glad if I can get a grunted acknowledgement of my presence or even an exasperated “whatever” when I ask if he wants to go get a snack after I pick him up. But some days he forgets he’s in middle school and, therefore, is supposed to treat me with disdain. Some days, he’s still the funny, sweet little boy that used to tell me I’m the most beautiful woman in the world and how he’d never get married because no woman would ever, ever be as wonderful as his mom.

Then there are days like last week when, as he climbed into the van, he threw his backpack to the floor and slammed the door. “How old do I have to be before I’m allowed to swear?” he asked. “Because I had a really f$#king BAD day today!” (Yes, I duly chastised him for his language.)

On the other hand, I’m not sure I’d miss mornings like this one, when I’d just finished pumping gas and tried opening the van door. Nothing doing. He’d locked them all, then slunk down to the floor. For a full minute I stood there knocking on the window, rattling the handle, instructing him — in a rather loud and definitely miffed voice — to open up and let me in at once. When he finally reached over to unlock the driver’s side door, I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, locking me out like that when I was in my pajamas.

“But Mooooom,” he said, his voice muffled by the shirt he’d pulled over his head, “that was Darcey Delaney* in the car ahead of us. She’s the most beautiful girl in sixth grade. I just COULDN’T let her see me with someone looking as fugly as YOU!”

Nice, right? Fortunately, I’ve been through this whole “I’m in Middle School and too cool for my parents” bit with my daughter, and know how to handle these kind of insults. I said nothing for the rest of the ride to school, merely sipped my coffee and waved at a few of the other moms in the drop-off line. Just as we pulled up to the school’s entrance and my son threw open the door and climbed, I called out loudly, “BYE BYE NOW, HONEY, I LOOOOOOVVVVVEEEE YOU” right as he’d started to wave to Darcey Delaney.*

Call me fugly, will he?!

*Name changed to protect the Barbie lookalike who’s stolen my son’s devotion.

CategoryParenting Bites | Comment4 Comments »

August 17th, 2011

So Long, Summer!

by Venomous Kate

So Long, Summer I know summer isn’t officially over for another month, but with my son back in school, I feel like it is. This has been the longest, cruelest summer I can remember, thanks to that horrible heatwave we had. Being cooped up indoors with a cranky pre-pubescent because it’s just too hot, and the air quality is too bad, to go outside? Man, that’s not my idea of a vacation. So, having just dropped the Big-Eyed Boy off for his first day of junior high (!), that “vacation” is officially over.

All around me, there are signs that I’m not the only one who views the first day of school as the true end of summer, despite those who claim that Labor Day really is. All of the mommies were grinning ear-to-ear as we took turns pulling up at the school doors so our kids could hurriedly get out before we peeled away (well, as fast as one can “peel” at 5 mph.) Throughout my neighborhood, homeowners have put their pool covers on, and the Stepford Wife-types have switched their front door wreaths from bright-colored florals to rings of plastic autumn leaves. I even saw one of the early morning joggers wearing a hoodie today, something that was unthinkable a few days ago.

But here’s the thing about motherhood: I’ve spent the majority of the past three months counting the days until today, mentally planning all of the projects I’d finally have time for once school started again, and reminding myself that, come August 17, I’d have time for things like long showers, nail and doctor appointments, and a chance drink my coffee before it got cold.

So what’s happened? After the school run, I pulled into the garage and came into a house that seemed somehow too quiet. That list of things I wanted to do has totally fled my head, and I forgot about my cup of coffee until it was cold, anyway. Instead, I’ve puttered around, putting things away and half-listening for my son’s steps thundering on the stairs, for his voice calling out to ask me what’s for breakfast. Here’s this day I’ve so looked forward to throughout this horrible summer. Now that it’s here, I miss the little guy poignantly. But that’s okay, there are only 122 days until Christmas Break when, no doubt, I’ll counting down days until school starts again.

CategoryMoney Bites, Parenting Bites | Comment5 Comments »

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March 28th, 2011

Careful, Kids, Big Mama Is Watching

by Venomous Kate

Big Mama May Be Watching, Too Once upon a time, I used to be rather rabid in my defense of civil liberties. I got my rage on when computer cookies started tracking users’ web activity, as if the mere act of going online (almost unavoidable in this day and age) constituted a waiver of one’s right to privacy. When I’d read about schools suspending little kids over what they deemed “distracting” haircuts or “inappropriate expressions” on t-shirts, I railed about free speech and the importance of training youth to value their rights so they protect those of the next generation. Time was when I could go on for hours ranting about the unfairness and repugnance of “no knock search warrants”.

And then I had kids.

If it weren’t for computer cookies, I wouldn’t have known that my then-13 year-old daughter had stumbled into a couple of shady corners of the internet (purely by accident, she swore). When my then-8 year-old son wanted a blue mohawk I skirted the argument by pointing out that his school’s dress code bans such “edgy” looks. And I’ve told both kids that if I suspect they’re up to no good in their bedrooms I’ll barge in when I damn well feel like it. That, I tell them, is the difference between owning property (which I do) and living in it rent-free (which they do). No, they’re not always happy about my views, but them’s the breaks. I’m the Mom, and around here my word is law.

So imagine my surprise when my now 19-year-old daughter came home from college over the weekend and said she wants one of those GPS tracking systems on her car. Well, okay. What she really said was that she wants a GPS, because she’s apparently inherited my inability to get anywhere of import without getting lost. On her last trip home, getting ‘lost’ meant driving around downtown Kansas City around midnight on a Friday. I know first-hand how frightening that can be. (Like I said, she inherited my poor navigational skills.)

I’m more than happy to install a GPS on her car. I’m just going to go her one step better and make sure it has a vehicle tracking option. See, “her” car is one that my husband and I pay for. The title is under our name, and we foot the bill for the insurance. Ergo, like many parents, we feel entitled to set some limits on her driving, such as: no road trips from central Missouri to Chicago and back with five of her closest friends, and certainly no Spring Break trek to and from Florida.

But she swears to me (in the same tone of voice she once used to explain she had never, EVER been to certain websites) that those trips were all taken in someone else’s car, just as she swears she has NO idea why her car has had more engine and tire problems than mine has, even though I’ve owned my three times as long.

What would really seal the deal, though, is if I could find one of those GPS tracking devices that also disables cell phone text messaging while the car is moving… something else she swore to me she’d never do. In a text message. Friday night. About 20 minutes before she pulled into the driveway.

CategoryMoney Bites, Parenting Bites | Comment6 Comments »

January 30th, 2011

I Bet This Comes Up In Therapy

by Venomous Kate

Make it stop! Not long ago, I pointed out to the Venomous Hubby that most children, when asked what they want to be when they grow up, have answers tending toward the overly ambitious: an astronaut, President of United States, an NFL player, a prima ballerina. Hell, one of our friends has a son who literally misspells his own name on a regular basis and that kid wants to grow up to be a brain surgeon. (Our friend has wisely begun making large annual donations to a nearby University with a medical program, because it never hurts to grease the wheels.)

When we asked the Big-Eyed Boy what he wants to be when he grows up he said, “Oh, I don’t plan to be anything because I’m not going to college, and I’m never moving out.” Needless to say, VH and I didn’t share his enthusiasm.

Don’t get me wrong: we love our little boy like crazy. Most days he’s a joy to be around, he’s an incredibly affectionate and usually sweet-natured kid, and he has such a funny, quirky sense of humor that our house is filled with laughter.

BUT.

Every piece of furniture in my house is either ripped, stained or scarred. Our walls are begrimed with little hand prints despite my near-obsessive scrubbing. The floors — where the tiles haven’t been cracked by someone dropping a baseball bat, heavy book bag or other item not ‘fessed up to — are so far from their original white (chosen by the previous homeowners, I assure you) that I now claim they’re actually beige, not white, so people don’t look at me in horror.

The BEB is my youngest, and LAST child. I’ve been raising children for 19 years now and I have the gray hairs to prove it. I’m tired. VH is tired. We can’t remember the last time we ate at a restaurant that didn’t pass out crayons along with paper menus, and we sure as hell haven’t been on any type of trip one could consider “romantic” (unless you count the 2 hours or so on the drive to my mother-in-laws when the BEB falls asleep in the back of the minivan).

There is NO WAY that child is skipping college, must less spending his adult life in our home. Just as I did when his older sister, the Princess, graduated from high school, I’ll be boxing his stuff up the day after graduation and asking what address he wants his stuff shipped to.

This is why VH and I have lately taken great pains to encourage the Big-Eyed Boy to explore his various interests. For a while there he’d expressed foodie tendencies, so we bought him a kid’s cookbook, a chef hat, and a child-friendly set of knives. And, while we did diligently supervise his use of said knives, the first time one of us turned our backs (*cough* VH *cough*), the boy proceeded to hack into the trim on my kitchen counter-tops at precise 1-inch intervals. On every counter. And all the way around the kitchen island. So much for encouraging that

His precision didn’t escape our notice, though, so when he mentioned an interest in learning to build things we jumped all over THAT, too. VH got him a child’s tool box and loaded it with smaller-sized tools. They went to the lumber yard and bought wood. They went to the paint store and bought paint. They downloaded plans to build a birdhouse, and even though I despise birds (primitive, scary things!), I forced a smile of approval on my face. It was a beautiful bird house, too, and the boy was quite proud when he sat it on the deck railing where we figured it was close enough for us to watch our backyard birds take to it. Unfortunately, it proved close enough for our cat to watch them, too. Somehow, in the time it took for us to realize the cat had shot out the deck door the damn animal managed to catch, kill and behead a bird right there on our deck. The boy now cringes in horror whenever we suggest another building project.

Then came the day I took him to see The Karate Kid. When we returned home, he proceeded to jump all over the house yelling heeeeee-YAAAAAH as he pantomimed disabling bad guys. Great! Cool! We’ll enroll him in martial arts training, VH and I agreed. After all, it teaches self-discipline (something we’re in favor of) and confidence (often a good thing to have) AND would help him burn off steam (thus maybe sparing my furniture). What we didn’t count on? The confidence came long before the self-discipline did, and this kid apparently has an endless supply of steam. Walking through my house feels a lot like being Inspector Clouseau: you never know when Kato — or, in this case, the BEB — is going to jump out from behind something and scare the crap out of you. Folks, my nerves are SHOT already. I’ll be damned if we’ll renew this karate school contract once it’s up.

Then one day, I remembered just how very good my kid is at Rock Band and Guitar Hero. No, seriously: he blows our friends’ minds on a regular basis when they watch him nail guitar licks and drum lines on the expert setting with 100% accuracy. So, okay, encouraging him to become a musician won’t necessarily ensure he’ll go to college and one day move out of our house (and, arguably, it might be encouraging the exact opposite), but we thought perhaps it would be a good place to start on that confidence thing and all.

I was as excited as a kid myself the day his new pro-style electronic drum set arrived. This was the answer to ALL of our hopes, I figured. For one thing, unlike a true drum set, it’s quiet: you either have to hook it up to a speaker, which I wisely ‘forgot’ to buy, or wear head phones. For another, it’s versatile: plug in your iPod or other mp3 player and you can drum along with your favorite tracks… also audible only through a ‘forgotten’ speaker or the headset. And, in addition to karate, we figured it would help him burn off more steam — something important, since I have my eye on a new pair of wingback chairs.

That was two weeks ago, and let me just say again, when it comes to musical talent my kid is mind-boggling. He’s learning new songs daily, loves drumming so much that he practices it without prodding, and is rapidly building a concert-worthy song list. And that confidence? Well, apparently the drums are helping with that, too, because now he’s so comfortable with the drums that he’s starting to sing along with them.

Unfortunately, I didn’t realize at first that’s what was happening. No, instead, while I was down in the basement I heard what I thought was a pained animal, so I dropped the load of wash I’d been folding and raced two flights of stairs to find out what was wrong with our cat. The boy, seeing me, stopped his drumming and pointed out the cat was sleeping peacefully.

“You’re hearing things,” the boy said.

I shrugged and went back to the basement to fold more laundry, only to hear another horrible noise not five minutes later. This time, though, it sounded like my little boy had hurt himself so I shot up those two flights of stairs even faster, but the noise had stopped before I got there.

“Maybe you’re hearing something outside?” the boy suggested.

Being out-of-shape and out of breath, I decided not to go completely back down to the basement this time. Instead, I lurked in the kitchen until the noise started again, then crept upstairs to figure out what was the problem.

It was my son. Singing.

Except that it wasn’t singing, it was that horrible off-key screeching that people make when they’ve got earphones on and can’t hear themselves.

Except he didn’t have earphones on because his father had found a speaker for the electronic drum set, so he could hear himself just fine. And he sucked. Su-uh-uh-uh-ucked.

And as I stood there watching him drum and “sing”, he got a big grin on his face then reached down to pause the music. “I know what I want to be when I grow up!” he announced. “I’m going to be a world famous singer/drummer and go on world tour with my band!”

“Oh, no you’re not,” I told him. “Trust me.”

Yeah, that’s probably going to come up in therapy. The question is: his, or mine?

CategoryParenting Bites | Comment8 Comments »

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January 4th, 2011

2011: Off To A Slow Start

by Venomous Kate

My son’s Christmas vacation is finally over. Odd how I’d so looked forward to having him home only to find myself climbing the walls the day after Christmas. I blame the lack of snow in these parts: it never quite felt like the holidays. Without sledding or making snow angels, snowmen or snowballs there just wasn’t much to draw him out of the house and, hence, out of earshot. So I’ve spent the past two weeks and four days cooped up with a hyperactive kid bent on improving his drum skills.

Yeah, I’m a bit of a nervous wreck.

This morning while we sat at the breakfast table I fantasized about all of the quiet domestic activities I’d once again have time for. There are six bananas growing black on my kitchen counter which I planned to make into whole wheat banana bread this morning. We’re almost out of breakfast cereal, too, so I thought about whipping up some vanilla-scented granola. Of course, there’s also plenty of laundry to be done and, after my husband and son have been home so much lately, the whole house could use a good cleaning, too.

But I did none of that.

It’s not that I didn’t think about it. I most certainly did. But for the first time in sixteen days I was able to actually hear the morning news (now drum-free!), so I watched it. Then I noticed my magazine pile had grown considerably over the past couple of weeks, and I sat down to read them. By the time I’d finished the last one I decided to take a shower — not a “mommy shower” (which involves scrubbing, sudsing and rinsing in the two minutes it takes for a child to notice Mom’s not in the room) but a real shower. One which included deep conditioning, an opportunity to get reacquainted with my razor, and some serious sloughing. The rest of the day? Well, it mostly involved puttering around accomplishing very little while soaking up the peace and quiet.

This morning my son jumped out of the car almost before it had stopped outside his school. “In a hurry?” I asked him. “Yeah, I’m sick of being home with nothing to do,” he’d explained before he ran off.

Funny. That’s precisely what I’d been looking forward to these past sixteen days. So, okay, I have nothing major to show for my day. No mounds of freshly laundered clothes or yummy granola or moist and delicious banana bread. The house isn’t any cleaner than it was yesterday. My magazines, although read, are still sitting in a pile for whenever I get around to clipping out recipes.

About the only thing I can claim to have accomplished thus far in 2011? I shaved my legs. But if you knew how long it had been since I had a chance to do that, you’d realize that my year is actually off to a very good start.

CategoryMy Venomous Life, Parenting Bites | Comment7 Comments »

November 13th, 2010

The Internet Voted: Your Kid’s A Brat

by Venomous Kate

We’ve all seen them: parents who let their kids run wild in public places, driving the rest of us insane. Maybe you’ve found yourself, as I have, tempted to say or do something to shut Little Johnny up but refrained, if for no other reason than to avoid a lawsuit.

Over at Consumerist, the father of one such little brat wrote in to complain when a Kohl’s employee took action to keep Little Johnny from destroying one of the store’s touch screen computers.

If he was looking for sympathy, he looked to the wrong group of people: over three hundred folks have chimed in to give Dad the smack-down on his parenting skills. (Hilariously, this all happened because Dad took Little Johnny with him while applying for a job working at Kohl’s. I’m willing to bet Dad didn’t get hired.)

The moral of the story: teach your kid to STFU and behave in public, damn it!

CategoryParenting Bites | Comment10 Comments »

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November 9th, 2010

Parenthood Isn’t About Over Protecting

by Venomous Kate

Show me a parent who wants to spare their child from having to struggle, and I’ll show you a kid who’s going to be moving back home after college.

CategoryParenting Bites | Comment5 Comments »

September 28th, 2010

The One About Pajamas, PlayStation and Poop

by Venomous Kate

I almost got busted today.

No, wait, let me explain.

Ever since school resumed I’d somehow managed to find the perfect weekday routine, one which ensured I kept the house tidy, the laundry done, the home-cooked meals ready on time and gave me plenty of time to goof off be creative.

Until today I had my family convinced I spent weekdays slaving around the house, dusting this and vacuuming that and by God, after all of my effort don’t you DARE sit in the family room trying to catch popcorn out of the air with your mouth because I just do NOT have the energy to vacuum that room YET AGAIN, you hear me???

Then today the Big-Eyed Boy woke up with a stomachache. He didn’t ask to stay home, mostly, I suspect, because he was afraid I’d press him into service cleaning things. But the third time he ran toward the bathroom clutching his stomach I was already on the phone with the school explaining that he wouldn’t be there. (Perhaps now he’ll listen when I tell him to stop sneaking handfuls of shredded cheese out of the freezer!)

Anyway. I gave him some Milk of Magnesia and a book then pointed him to the bathroom. It worked so well that not fifteen minutes later he hollered through the door to ask if I could move the PlayStation in there. Answer: Um, no. And also, ewww!

Meanwhile, I went about my normal routine: emptied the dishwasher, scrubbed the sinks, wiped down the counters, microwaved the sponge, cleaned the kitchen table, swept the floor, dusted and vacuumed the living room and master bedroom, straightened up the family room, wiped fingerprints off the doorknobs and light switches, made beds, started a load of laundry, polished the master bathroom fixtures, cleaned the main floor powder room, emptied the cat’s litter box, vacuumed the laundry room floor and started dinner in the Crockpot.

Then it was 9 AM.

Now, in all fairness, it usually takes me quite a lot longer to do chores, but I’d been telling myself since last Friday that I would take today “off”. If you don’t have kids — or if you’re a dad — that might not make sense, but any Mom can tell you that weekends do NOT count as “time off” for Moms. If anything, they’re more like overtime…in a combat zone. We occasionally need a day off during the week to keep from fragging our loved ones.

For days I’d been looking forward to catching up on magazine reading, watching a chick flick, and playing Grand Theft Auto. Of course I knew when I made the call to let the boy stay home sick that my plans had changed. There’s no way I’m watching a chick flick with my kid home, and I’m not about to let him know we own GTA, much less that Mommy plays it every chance she gets.

I’d just settled down in front of the TV when the Big-Eyed Boy emerged from the bathroom and announced he was feeling much, MUCH better, so would I mind making him a second breakfast since he’d thrown the first one away earlier when he wasn’t feeling well and, hey, it’s nice outside so why don’t we go to the park for a bit then maybe stop at McDonald’s for lunch?

When I informed him that, no, we wouldn’t be doing ANY of those things he got a sly look on his face and asked, “Does Dad know that you spend your days watching TV in your pajamas?”

Turns out, the school doesn’t count it as a full day’s absence if your kid is there by 9:30. Try to blackmail me, will he? Hah!

CategoryParenting Bites | Comment3 Comments »

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