Planet Mom Blog

Opportunists Never Sleep

My children are opportunists. I know this much is true. Said seizing-of-the-proverbial-moment unfolded thusly.

My husband, the brood and I sat down to dinner one evening not long ago. The delectable fare was chili, I believe, sprinkled with voluminous quantities of idle conversation. Par for the course in this household.

More specifically, there was talk of tadpoles and those dastardly Bakugan toys, discussions involving loose teeth and dog breath, and naturally (NATURALLY!) there was a remarkably gruesome retelling of an Animal Planet feature on polar bears--one in which a woman was horrifically mauled at a zoo. Lovely. Just lovely. My appetite thanks you, dear offspring from hell.

What's more, my co-ed daughter starting texting her boyfriend obsessively DURING THE MEAL. Did I mention that it was during the meal and that it was obsessive in nature? Not surprisingly, she was entirely unaware that the rest of us even existed. Translation: it was as if we had slipped in pig shit and fallen off the fucking planet. All that truly mattered was that beloved Blackberry of hers and the stupid little messages that kept popping up on her screen, making her giggle uncontrollably.

And laugh out loud.

And roll her eyes.

And fervently punch those teensy tiny keys in an effort to top the boy's witticism in 160 characters or less.

Gag me with a spork!

At any rate, Thing One and Thing Two (my wily eight-year-old twins) took note of said heinous crime, scolding their big sister for interrupting the meal with something so completely frivolous.

"That's reeeally annoying, Sara. You ought to stop it," Thing One chided as she took a bite of cornbread.

"Yeah, Sara--put the cell phone away or Mommy's gonna get mad. REALLY mad," Thing Two echoed.

Of course, the Texting Queen was totally oblivious to their impassioned demands--so absorbed was she in crafting the next 17,000 messages to the Boy Wonder.

"Hon," I felt compelled to join the fray, "you need to stop texting. You really do. We're trying to eat dinner here together, remember?"

"But Mom, HE keeps texting ME," she lamely defended.

"So. Stop answering him."

"I can't do thaaaat. It would be rude."

"And this isn't rude?! Helloooo!"

"Well that's different."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"Okay then...why don't you tell him something catchy like, 'STOP TEXTING ME. We're having dinner right now and MY MOM ACTUALLY COOKED, so technically speaking that qualifies as a SPECIAL OCCASION!'?" Of course, I suggested the use of capital letters as needed.

For a time, a cloud of silence hung in the air. No one so much as chewed a morsel of food or touched a key. Everyone knew I was right. It WAS a special occasion.

Enter the opportunist...

"Mom," Thing One tentatively offered out of the blue, "can I have some of your wine?"

"Whaaa?" I asked, completely taken aback by her request.

"You said it's a special occasion, right?"

"Right. So???"

"So I should be able to have wine."

Indeed, opportunists never sleep.

Planet Mom: It's where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Smother May I?

Someone hand me a machete. Some scissors, perhaps? Anything! Puuuuleeeeez! I am in desperate need of said sharp-ish devices so that I might finally, and for all eternity, sever the apron strings that bind me inextricably to my eldest daughter, now 21.

To be clear, she is not to blame. It is I. I am the foolish one--the insanely overprotective, nurture-obsessed fusspot-of-a-mother who simply won't let go of her woman-ish child to save herself.

Indeed, it is quite likely that I need therapy. Admittedly, I have issues. Serious issues with mothering. Or more correctly, smothering.

Just today, in fact, I gave the poor kid some money and asked her to run some errands for me, ones that would involve d-r-i-v-i-n-g somewhere, p-a-y-i-n-g for things and actually i-n-t-e-r-a-c-t-i-n-g with people. Imagine that. At any rate, from the moment she left until she returned a short time later, I was filled completely with a host of irrational fears, some of which involved the very real possibility of being abducted by aliens, being whisked away by a man in a monkey suit and, of course, being suddenly stricken with dementia--in which case she'd wander the earth interminably searching for that which she couldn't remember anyway.

Naturally (and as expected), I also obsessed over dreadful car crashes she might have, navigational nightmares she could experience and the legions of unsavory characters with bad teeth and mismatched socks she was sure to encounter during said perilous jaunt into town. Never mind all the road trips to urban destinations she's made without the benefit of mapish entities (i.e. the countless times she's made me deranged with panic for not having enough sense to take along a fricking MAP of metro D.C.).

Further, I became gravely concerned that she might not remember to pick up the book I so desperately needed for comic relief this day (Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay), she would forget to count the change to make sure it was right and by some strange twist of fate, her ability to string coherent sentences together like, "My Mom ordered this book. I'm here to pick it up," would be lost forever, leaving her at the mercy of bookstore employees who would then send her packing with an obscenely pitiful piece of literature just to clear the aisles of derelicts and whatnot.

Needless to say, none of the above mentioned horrors came to be. But that doesn't mean they couldn't have. Because they could have.

I'm just saying....

To be sure, I sent my dear child out into the big, bad world armed with that which I deemed necessary for survival: a Ziploc baggie with enough cash, a detailed list of the stops I had planned for her (complete with street addresses and suggestions for where to park), coins for the meter and a reminder that she should call with ANY questions or concerns--like forgetting how to breathe, for instance. It's a wonder I didn't tell her to look both ways before crossing the street--something my husband swears I whispered in her ear on the day she left for college.

I did no such thing--at least not that I can readily recall.

It's true. I have issues with letting go and must fight the urge each and every day to position a safety net beneath her wherever she might venture. She's not two anymore, despite how vividly I remember that period in time. The way she twisted and twirled her hair (or mine) when she grew tired and longed to be rocked. Her well worn thumb planted securely between those pouty lips. Those blue-gray eyes, framed by thickets of lashes--lashes that lay like petals on her sweet face only yesterday.

Indeed, only yesterday.

Planet Mom: It's where I live (feeling wistful these days). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Dances with Carts

Shopping carts are the bane of my existence. It seems I have an uncanny knack for choosing ones that are both polluted with germs (Gak!) and hideously deficient in some unforeseen manner (i.e. equipped with a smarmy, foul-smelling handle or some gunked-up, pathetic semblance of wheels that lurch and rattle and are positively driven to move me in any direction but straight).

For whatever reason, I tend to poo-poo the many and varied imperfections at first, foolishly thinking that I won’t have to tolerate them all that long and they certainly won’t be all that bothersome in the end.

Moreover, the truly vexing nature of most of the rogues I choose doesn’t become readily apparent until I’ve already journeyed halfway through the produce aisle, mindlessly fingering the fruit and considering whether we need more carrots or romaine. By then I’m committed to the match made in hell. For better or for worse. Till death do us part. Or at least until I manage to shove the misfit-of-a-cart through the checkout line or muscle it to my car where I can finally ditch it for a better life.

To add insult to injury, I often have to endure such hardships with my heathens in tow—the lovely creatures who yearn to make each and every shopping excursion I embark upon more memorable. And they do. Whining incessantly about this or that item—the one that the mean-and-horrible-troll-lady won’t let them have. Wrestling over the matter of who gets to man the cart first. Wooing me with pleas for sinfully sugary cereals and those sickly sweet gummy snack-a-ma-call-its that ought to be removed from the planet altogether.

Apparently it is not enough to be blessed with a wayward cart.

And once I make that regrettable and irrevocable decision to allow one of my miscreants to navigate the treacherous trail ahead, my fate is sealed. Someone’s ankles will indeed pay the price. Likely, mine. Despite the innumerable lectures I’ve delivered, the live demonstrations I’ve provided and the vat of instructional guidance I’ve offered on the subject, my two dandies, though well-intended, are physically incapable of maneuvering from Point A to Point B without smashing into someone or something. Granted, the aforementioned errant and evil wheel-a-ma-jigs do little to further their cause.

Not surprisingly, at some point during each supermarket tour my patience usually wanes with the pushing-of-the-cart-ludicrousness, climaxing shamefully somewhere between the toothpaste/shampoo aisle and the frozen foods section (i.e. the beast that is mommy rears her ugly head). As I return to the helm, attempting to pilot that which refuses to be piloted, I am met with yet another challenge: that of effectively communicating to my brood the notion of walking single file. My futile commands typically go something like this: “Okay girls, someone is coming toward us now and we need to walk single file.” “Girls?” “Hellooooooo. This stinking aisle isn’t WIDE enough for all three of us AND another cart to pass—is any of that remotely registering with you two?!”

Of course, neither child of mine responds, so engrossed are they with hanging onto the sides of my cart, eyeing the shelves for more of that which is forbidden. I must then stop the cart and clumsily move them—as if they were a couple of giant chess pieces—either in front or in back of me, smiling apologetically to the person now upon us. Again and again I repeat this cart dance—this utter lunacy, aisle after aisle, both stunned and amazed that creatures capable of telling me anything and everything I might want to know about a Euoplocephalus dinosaur cannot grasp the concept of hiking somewhere single file.

And let us not forget the times when one or both “helpers” insist upon riding inside the cart, “…so you can pile all the stuff on top of us, Mom, like we’re inside a little house! That’s so cool!” Naturally, there are people who find this disturbing—especially when they detect a hint of movement somewhere beneath the econo-sized Goldfish and the Lucky Charms.

“Do you know there are children in your cart?” they’ll ask, alarmed by the possibility that I could, in fact, be so fricking clueless as to not notice a couple of stowaways on board.

“Yes. They’re with me, otherwise known as Dances with Carts.”

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (forever dodging those ankle-biting menaces in the grocery store). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

She Talks to Pencils

I have never been genuinely shocked by the degree of bizarreness that apparently exists in elementary schools today--much of which I learn in the form of highly animated blurbages launched across the dinner table. Of course (and firstly), I consider the source: my extraordinarily-dramatic-and-prone-to-exaggeration eight-year-old twin daughters, Thing One and Thing Two. Secondly, having been an educator once myself, I recognize that bizarreness happens in such an environment (yes, I vividly recall one of my ninth graders stapling his finger "just because" and then nonchalantly informing me that he had done so--as if I hadn't noticed!). Thirdly, I take whatever school-related utterances that happen to fall from my kids' lips with a grain of salt--and hope like hell their teachers do the same.

"No, Mr. So-and-So, as a parent I would NEVER EVER allow my second graders to tune into Jeff Dunham's comedy routine and I have absolutely no idea why they keep saying 'Jose Jalapeno, on a steek!!' (much to the amusement of peers)." All the while, I pray to God the man never feels compelled to quiz them on what Juuunior has been quoted as saying or Heaven forbid, that cranky-assed character, Walter. Naturally, I'd deny all involvement and promptly hide my cache of Comedy Central DVDs.

That said, I generally buy into about half of what my brood tells me happens in the Land of Books and Pencils. As a courtesy, I hope those soon-to-be-sainted teachers return the favor.

So when one of my dear children announced that she had missed part of recess because she hadn't finished her work (due to a decidedly "weird-ish distraction" in the classroom), I wasn't fazed in the least. I figured she's as distractible as they come and that more than likely, she deserved such punishment. Further, I thought that perhaps she might benefit from actually being held accountable for something in a sit-your-little-fanny-on-this-curb-until-you're-finished sort of way.

As it turns out, she had benefitted. But not in the manner I had assumed.

Our conversation unfolded thusly:

"Mom, guess what happened to me at school today...I missed part of recess," Thing Two announced over dinner.

"Oh. Why is that exactly?" I asked without looking up from my potato salad or so much as glancing at She-Who-Was-Busy-Confessing-to-Some-Yet-to-be-Disclosed-Atrocity. "Did you stuff a live worm inside your backpack again?" I had to wonder aloud.

"Nope. I didn't finish my work during Centers so I had to do it outside. On. The. Curb," she relayed with a touch of indignation.

"Is that a fact?" I stated, aiming for concern sprinkled with a smidgeon of pity. "That's too bad. Why didn't you finish your work anyway?"

"Because (insert the name of any number of nose miners--I mean dear classmates) distracted me and I couldn't concentrate," she explained.

"Distracted you?"

"Yep. She sat right next to me and I couldn't stop watching her. Really, Mom, I just couldn't."

"Well, (for crissakes) what in God's name did she do? Turn into a toad or something?"

"Nooooo," she whined impatiently. "She made her pencils talk."

"She made her what talk?!" I shouted, nearly choking on my fork.

"She made her pencils talk," she stated matter-of-factly once more.

"The girl can make pencils talk?!" I remarked, thoroughly stunned by the notion and eager as ever to hear more.

"Yep."

"Tell me more, my darling little fabricator."

"What's a fab-ri-cator, Mom?"

"Never mind. Just give me the scoop on the pencil thing?" I demanded.

"Well, she made the Mommy pencil talk to the Daddy pencil."

"What did they say to each other?" I had to ask.

"I dunno. They argued a lot."

"They argued?" (Pencils can argue?!) "About WHAT?" I pressed.

"The babies."

"Whose babies for crying out loud?!"

"Their babies."

"The Mommy pencil and the Daddy pencil had baby pencils together?!" (Pencils can reproduce?!! Good God!)

"Yes. Lots and lots of them. They're tiny erasers actually." She then continued, "The Mommy and Daddy pencils got mad at each other over whose job it was to take care of the babies. She'd make them say stuff like, 'Why don't you help out more around here?! And why do I always have to change their diapers?! I'm tired!'"

"Oh," I said, seriously considering the possibility that this latest and greatest nugget of bizarreness just might top the list of strange utterances involving happenings at school. And of course it was SO bizarre, I believed each and every syllable. My kids can't make up stuff this outlandish. It positively had to be true.

"Yeah, Mom, and she even made them punch each other 'cause they were really mad," she added, punctuating her spiel with smallish grunts to demonstrate how pencils might hit one another if they felt so inclined.

"I see," I responded, now understanding COMPLETELY how she had been mesmerized by such a weird and wonderful display.

In the end, I, too, probably would have chosen to take my lumps (i.e. to sit on the dreaded curb during recess) just to witness something so entirely enthralling. It's not everyday that people get sucked into the life and times of an ordinary pencil--especially when there's high drama involved.

Planet Mom: It's where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Weird and Wonderful Wednesday: Love is Always and Forever

"Mom, if I were a mean and terrible tiger, would you still love me?"

"Yes, I suppose I would."

"But what if I had really sharp teeth and wanted to eat you--just like a real tiger? Would you still let me inside the house?"

"Yes, I'd still let you inside. I'd just have to be careful about it."

"What if I were a stinky skunk, Mom? Would you let me in then?"

"Yes, I suppose so. I'd have to plug my nose, though. Skunks can be smelly you know."

"A mountain goat? What about a mountain goat, Mom? Could you love me even then?"

"Yes, I could love you even then, but there would be no climbing on the kitchen counters or the dining room table."

"But what if I were a shark? What then, Mom?"

"Ooh, a shark?! I guess I could still love you and let you live here. But no bathtubs for you! Or swimming pools either!"

"How 'bout a lion? If I were a lion would you still love me--even with my horrible roar and humongous teeth?"

"Yep. I'd still love you."

"What about an alligator or a crocodile?"

"Yessss, I'd still love you as an alligator. Or as a crocodile. And I wouldn't turn you into a bag or shoes either."

"Really?"

"Really."

"What if I were a porcupine with jillions and jillions of prickly things that would poke you? Would you still love me even then?"

"Yep. Even then. But I'd have to hug you veeeeeery carefully."

"What about a snail? If I were a slippery, slimy snail that leaves disgusting trails, would you still love me, Mom?"

"Yes, but I'd expect you to clean up your sliminess every day."

"Every day?"

"Every day."

"How 'bout a three-headed, eighteen-legged, five-tailed dog with ginormous teeth? Could you still love me and let me inside?"

"Yes, I'd still love you and let you inside."

"And you wouldn't be afraid?"

"I wouldn't be afraid."

"What if I were a vulture with a purple tongue that shot out poisonous scissors?! Would you still love me then?"

"Poisonous scissors?! Yikes! But even still, I'd love you."

"What if I were a giant nose that sneezed and sneezed on everything I was mad at--with HUGE boogers, and if the nose had arms and legs that could throw rotten tomatoes at you? Would you still love me?"

"Yes, I'd still love you, but I'd make you blow that nose and throw the tomatoes in the trash."

"But what if I were an elephant? I might stomple you with just one foot! Would you still love me then?"

"Yes, but you'd have to watch your step. And there'd be no jumping on the beds or couch. Ever."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"Okay, Mom. I was just wondering those things."

Planet Mom: It's where I live (currently being what-iffed to death). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Weird and Wonderful Wednesday: Sweet Redemption!

Once again I am thoroughly and unequivocally convinced that God has a sense of humor. I know this to be true because in less than 24 hours I went from being a wicked stepmother in my children's eyes to being a veritable saint. Yes, God finds the whiplash effects of the wrath I suffer and the corresponding redemption I receive extraordinarily amusing. Naturally, I was mortified while fulfilling the role of the former, harboring a vat of guilt and remorse for having committed the unthinkable: failing to remind my twins to wear crazy socks for Dr. Seuss' Fox in Socks Day at school. An atrocity, I know.

"Mom! You were supposed to MAKE US REMEMBER to wear our crazy socks today AND YOU FORGOT!!" Thing One shrieked as she barreled off the school bus on Tuesday afternoon, her tiny fists clenched almost as tightly as her jaw--unspeakably furious with me over my latest and greatest transgression as a parent.

"Yeah, Mom! You really blew it!" Thing Two echoed in kind, marching down the steps in a fit of rage.

"What-da-ya mean I forgot to make you remember? YOU helped choose the socks. YOU helped put them on your dressers so forgetting couldn't POSSIBLY happen. And the last I checked, YOU were responsible for putting on your silly socks in the morning anyway. So how's this my fault exactly?" I countered.

"You're the Mom. That's how. Moms are supposed to remember stuff like that. Everybody else's mom remembered," she groused, slathering on the guilt with uncanny precision and finesse. Ugh.

"Hey," I backpedaled a bit, trying to sound contagiously upbeat, "why can't you guys just wear them tomorrow? It'll be fun! And everyone will get to see your weird-looking socks after all!"

"Mom. This is completely horrible! Don't you understand?! I can't wear my crazy socks tomorrow! It'll be Wacky Wednesday tomorrow! Not FOX IN SOCKS DAY! That was TODAY!" Thing One wailed as I shrank in shame, mentally tallying all the Mommy points lost (thus far) in this interminable tirade-from-hell.

"Yeah, Mom, we're not allowed to wear them tomorrow," Thing Two spat. "It says so on the paper we got. Tomorrow is Wacky Wednesday and we're supposed to wear backwards shirts and stuff. Today was Fox in Socks Day," she clarified, spanking the word "Socks" with more than just a little sarcasm--which I found both remarkable and disturbing coming from one who is barely adept at tying shoes.

"Oh, come on. Rules schmules. Let's wear 'em anyway. Okay?" I suggested, praying they'd take the bait and forgive me already.

"Okay," they reluctantly conceded, "But we'll probably get in BIG trouble and that will be your fault, too."

___________________________________________________________

Oddly enough, Wednesday morning arrived and all was right with the world. The long faces and angry glares had all but disappeared, strange-looking socks had been donned and smiles were all around.

"We get to wear our shirts BAAAAACKWARDS! We get to wear our shirts BAAAAACKWARDS!" they chanted and cheered over heaping bowls of Lucky Charms, thrilled impossibly with the notion of being granted permission to do something slightly sinful, something deliciously unlawful, something completely forbidden. It had to have felt like "smoking" those sickly sweet candy cigarettes as a kid, slowly releasing each gossamer breath into the crisp winter's air (to impress the degenerates who really did smoke, of course).

"Yep! Today's Wacky Wednesday and that's certainly wacky-looking!" I chimed in adding, "Hey, wanna wear your fleecy jackets backwards, too? I'll zip you up and then when you get too warm someone at school can just unzip it for you. How's that sound?"

"Really?! CanweCanweCanwe, Mom?!" they squealed so that I thought they might spontaneously combust.

"You're the best mommy in the whole world!" they shouted and hugged me as if I had promised them each a pony (or a gargantuan sized box of Nerds).

That said, I couldn't have been more stunned or amazed by their reactions. But I was grateful, too, for having regained at least some of the Mommy points I had lost in Tuesday's ugliness.

Indeed, redemption is surely sweet.

Planet Mom: It's where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel