4th of July

Unfortunately for all, it wasn't until after I retrieved the hot dogs from the grill this afternoon that I remembered that I didn't have any buns. Faced with such bad fortune, I left my family to fight over a bag of potato chips and a liter of grape soda while I ran to the nearest grocery store to purchase the ingredient needed to complete our healthy meal.

I was in the process of weighing the merits of whole wheat sandwich rolls when a man in his mid-forties approached me from behind and tapped me on the shoulder. There wasn't anything overtly wrong with this man other than the fact that he was wearing mid-thigh running shorts and penny loafers without socks.

"Can I borrow a couple of dollars?" he asked.

The details of exactly when and how the man would repay the debt were a little fuzzy, so I declined. To his credit, the man didn't seem upset with my refusal. The last I saw of him, he was headed in the direction of the T.V. dinners.

A few minutes later, I was in the checkout line when I overheard the woman in line in front of me tell the cashier that a strange man had solicited her for loose change in the produce aisle. Eager to be included on the list of potential victims, I piped up that I had a similar encounter with a man matching the woman's description on the other side of the store.

To make a long story short, the cashier summoned the store manager, who in turn called security, who appeared in the form of a bald Goliath with biceps as big as my waist. The Goliath barged out the front office and made a beeline for the frozen food aisle. The lady in line in front of me had a dinner party starting in thirty minutes and I had a platter of charred frankfurters that were in the process of shriveling and shedding their skins, but we both decided that the action taking place on aisle three far outweighed in importance and excitement the obligations we had to our families and friends.

The woman and I began to head down one aisle when the ill-dressed man shot out of another, carrying a carton of Neapolitan ice cream under his arm. He made his way to the 10 items or less line, where he paid for his purchase in quarters and dimes.

"You have to admire his perseverance," the woman noted.
I had to agree.

I was even more impressed with the man's commitment to his cause when I noticed the wad of small bills protruding from his pant's pocket.

The Silver Whining

Today I'm thrilled to be swapping blogs with friend and fellow mom blogger Jackie of The Silver Whining. Jackie is a former television/digital media executive, lives in Los Angeles with her husband and three adorable munchkins, admits to being a loose cannon on certain issues related to child-rearing, gets into public fights with Ryan Seacrest, and occasionally sends me emails with subject lines that read: "What happened to my life?"

Do you see why I like her?

Here is Jackie talking about her journey to becoming THAT mother. You can find me dolling out considerably less wisdom on her blog over HERE or at www.thesilverwhining dot com

That Mom

It was expected to be a hot 90-something California summer day and I wanted to show the kids a good time. Anyone could toss frisbees at the beach, build the perfect lemonade stand or spend hours playing Marco Polo in the pool. But how many kids get to be in the ventilation-challenged indoors, jammed into a giant room with 100 screaming strangers and their parents at the local play area? Scooter's Jungle - now that's what lifelong summer memories are made of.

We grabbed our socks and headed to the 90 minute free-for-all. After I signed the rock-solid insurance waiver upon entering, the staff -- barely older than the kids they are hired to supervise -- recited the rules. I didn't want to break it to them but I'm thinking if it takes me 45 minutes to get my three kids to put their shoes on, no one's listening to gum-snappin' Chelsea's words of wisdom. As we shoved our way into the play area, I felt something change... it was like the calm before the storm. Next thing I knew, the normal, rational person I like to think I am was taken over -- by THAT MOM.

For the next hour and a half, I walked behind my kids like a crazy woman, righting every wrong, reprimanding ever misstep. But not just my kids... no one's child was safe. When the cute little 3-year-old boy came barreling down the slide with his tiny Tinkerbell doll in hand, I let him know the rules said no toys. And when the angel-faced kindergartner cut my kids in line, I made sure he knew that it wasn't cool with me. My kids couldn't wipe the grins off their faces, they were having so much fun amid the chaos. But not me. I was missing it, too busy playing Jungle Cop.

I took comfort in knowing I wasn't alone. Here I was, sandwiched between the cheerio-totin', mom jean wearin' mom on my left, who was making sure her little Suzie wasn't accidentally brushed up against by the evil forces of preschoolers, and the I-haven't-missed-a-day-at-the-gym-since-1987 dad, pushing his mohawk-sportin' son to the front of the line every where he could. As I looked around I noticed we were all on the same mission, to do anything and everything we could to make sure our kids were having the time of their lives... even if it kills us.

But the jungle wasn't the first time I became THAT MOM. Recently, as I sat on the steps of a hotel swimming pool while the kids floated around me, three pubescent boys started playing an overly active game of peg-each other-in-the-head-with-a-ball. Each time the ball whizzed by, I could feel my body change, my back arch like a cat ready to take the leap. Low and behold, a few minutes later... the ball and my daughter's leg made contact. I sprang up snapping at them, "What's wrong with you, boys? Where are your parents?" It's like I turn into a cross between an elementary school principal and Serial Mom within seconds.

And I can't forget the grocery store incident. When the teen bagging my items got sassy with the middle-aged cashier, my alter ego reared her ugly head. I tried to convince myself, "Don't say anything, Jackie. It's none of your business." But could I let it go? Heck no. I had to let that boy know that his disrespect was absolutely not acceptable and he should be ashamed of himself. ASHAMED, I SAY!

Because, oh yes, I am THAT MOM.

How have you changed over the years that leaves you wondering who you've become?

The Bike Raffle

Last Saturday was child safety day at our city's police station. Community volunteers took Polaroids of my kids and fingerprinted them at the same time as representatives from the local credit union handed me four raffle tickets.

"Write your kids' names and phone numbers on the back of these," a woman told me, "and they could win one of three new bikes." She pointed to three plastic buckets, each of which was labeled with a different age group: 0-3 years, 4-6 years, and 7-12 years.

Since the only things I have ever won from raffles are objects that are also handed out for free at college job fairs (ie mechanical pencils, foam cupholders, and embossed frisbees), I didn't hold my breath. At my kids' insistence, however, I filled out the four raffle tickets and dropped them into the age-appropriate baskets.


Much to my surprise, yesterday morning I received a call from the credit union's branch manager informing me that Cortlen had won one of the bikes. My son overheard the conversation and by the time I got off the phone, he had already rubbed his good fortune into his siblings' faces.

"I'm getting a new bike! I'm getting a new bike!" he yelled jubilantly, dancing around the house.

I had to remind him that what the credit union giveth, the credit union could easily take away if the antics didn't stop.

Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the credit union for the big ceremony. It was lunch hour, and all seven of the credit union employees had congregated in the lobby with their bagged sandwiches and microwavable Jenny Craig entrees to witness the big event.

"Which one of you is Cortlen?" asked the branch manager, scanning my crew.

Cortlen stepped forward, beaming with excitement and anticipation.

The bank employee registered a momentary expression of surprise before signaling to a man who was standing in the back of the room.

"Bring it out Frank!" she called to her coworker. Cortlen began bouncing up and down in place. Kellen and Camber folded their arms and puckered their lips into thin scowls. Suddenly, with great dramatic flare, the credit union's break room doors swung open to reveal my son's prize.


The minute that I saw the bike, I realized the error was mine. In the chaos of the moment, I had put Cameron's (my 9 month-old) raffle ticket into Cortlen's basket and vice versa.

"The bike might to be a little young for you," the bank manager told Cortlen as the object was rolled in front of him. I didn't hear much of what the lady said after that. I was too busy trying to anticipate what my son was going to say and do when his words finally came to him. I had my hand cupped and ready to cover his mouth, should he choose unwisely.

The deafening silence was broken at last by a jubilant hoot.

"Woo Hoo!" Cortlen shouted in the direction of his siblings as he stuffed himself into the plastic driver's seat. "I have a new bike and you don't!"

Envy is a cruel and sometimes illogical master. At the sight of their brother's new toddler push trike, Camber and Kellen collapsed on the floor.

"I want that bike soooo bad!" they wailed, clinging to one another for support.

"Really?" I asked the poor sports, gesturing to the plastic car. "That's the bicycle of your dreams?"
"Yes!" they sniffled in unison and dried their eyes.

I waited until we were out of the credit union parking lot before telling the sore losers that they would have to wait until next year's raffle for a second chance at happiness.

Until then, they must endure.

Smell My Arm

On Friday morning, I took my kids to the lotion store in the mall where earlier in the week I had purchased five steeply discounted items but mysteriously only made it home with four. While I explained the situation to the cashier, my three older children got high on the noxious fumes of fruit-scented body spray. While the cashier searched the store's lost and found for my missing lotion, Cortlen tugged on my shirtsleeve. A quick glance confirmed that 100% of my son's exposed skin was covered with various shades of scented slime.

"Smell my arm," he commanded, sticking his greasy and extremely fragrant appendage in my face. He explained that while I had been talking to the cashier, he had been systematically testing every lotion on display. His left arm represented the entirety of the store's inventory.

While Cortlen was busy with his task, Kellen had taken up one of his own. I found him at the store's display sink, trying out a dozen foaming hand soaps one at a time.

"Hey!" he whined when I turned off the faucet. "I have seven more to go!"

"Let's go," I said.
"But my hands are all soapy!" he cried.

I made all of my children roll around on the small patch of grass growing outside the front doors of Macy's before getting into the car. No one asked the reason for my request because they already knew.


Like dogs and large woodland mammals, we are often overcome by necessity to leave our scent on the places we visit.

****
Any pint-sized lotion lovers out there?

It's A Hard Knock Life

The first time that Cameron's physical therapist came to my house after school let out for the summer was the last time that my three older kids were allowed to make their own decisions about how they were going to spend that hour of the day.

Cortlen, who normally has to be forcibly extracted from his clothing three times a week to take a shower, decided to spend the time walking around the house totally nude.

The therapist had Cameron clinging to the side of an exercise ball when Cortlen leisurely strolled through the family room and into the kitchen sans clothing. Without acknowledging our presence, he opened the refrigerator door, retrieved and apple, and walked out.

"Excuse me for a minute," I told the physical therapist and jumped to my feet.

"What are you doing?" I asked my son, after cornering him in the hallway.
"Eating an apple," he said matter-of-factly.
I pointed to his exposed family jewels.
"I forgot to put clothes on," he explained.

Immediately after the physical therapist left for the day, I hauled my children to the nearest discount super center and purchased every G and PG-rated movie priced under $10.




The upside to my children watching classic kids' favorites like Gremlins and Annie so often: The flashings have ceased.

The downside: Recently, my children have taken to calling me Miss Hannigan.