Motherhood Uncensored

Mean People Suck, but Blog Readers Rock

What an amazing Friday surprise, Cecilia! You remind us of all that's good in this world. I'm speechless.

On call

Trying to explain my husband's work schedule is pretty complicated. Neighbors see him taking the kids to the pool and heading off to play golf and think we live the cushy life.

And yes, being on call all month long does have its benefits. When they don't call you.

Aside from around seven days where the company absolutely cannot call him, he's at their whim, which makes for one hell of a time trying to schedule anything, RSVP to any parties, or plan any major outings.

He can try to bid off for certain days, like BlogHer weekend, which by some miracle, he actually got off. He's low on the totem pole, like many of the flight attendants on his trips like to point out (hazing much?), and so getting what you ask for is like an act of God.

So we spend many of our days living by the seat of our pants. You'd think that by now we'd be used to it, and in many ways I've adjusted. I end up missing out a lot of things and I'm always the "maybe" RSVPer - if that's even an option.

But every time they call him from a "short call" - basically when he gets two hours to get his ass to the airport - it's like a tornado hits the house.

He's at least learned to put his passport back in his flight bag, and he stores his work ID in a special place so he doesn't forget that. It only took driving away a good four times over the last year without either of them for him to figure that out.

But he almost never leaves a bag packed. He often doesn't have either a pressed shirt or pants. And the trail of clothes, towels, and other crap he leaves so he can rush out the door drives me a little insane. It's like a tornado passes through our house, with the kids secured in the basement, and me left to deal with the aftermath.

Which this time meant I could not find my keys. Because he was the last one to use them to let us all in the house (so I know they're in here) and lord knows where he put them.

I looked in all the obvious man places, like his pants, the laundry room, and the bathroom.

I even looked in all the smart contraptions like the leather box by the phone or the fancy hook by the door that he always uses and then chides me for not. I looked in toy boxes and the kids' rooms, but I'm pretty sure they never even got a chance to get their grubby hands on them.

Maybe they're whooping it up with the rolling pin.

But alas, he's in Brazil. And I'm stuck with no keys and three rammy kids with nowhere to go.

Care to wager a guess as to where they are?

I'm not obsessed

This past week, my kids ingested frozen custard, boardwalk pizza, and about five hot dogs, or "lips and butts" as my husband likes to call them.

And as far as I can tell, they're perfectly fine.

Granted, those goodies aren't generally part of their regular diet. We buy our fair share of healthy foods, cereals that can't double as candy, and hormone-free meats and dairy, often times organic if we can find it and afford it.

But we're also not obsessed.

Believe me, I get the whole "sugar is the devil's spawn" thing, and I realize processed foods are laced with chemicals that could be used to fuel a car, but for the most part, we all ate them at one time or another.

If you're my husband, you ate them a lot.

But save my minor crying fests and bitch sessions, and his penchant for bad golf shirts, we're two fairly well functioning citizens who pay taxes, take shits, and contribute to society.

We even graduated from college!

My own mother made her own yogurt, bread, and granola, allowed only one hour of Sesame Street a day, and had me in at least five different activities by the time I was seven.

Sugar was completely and utterly off limits. I still remember having to eat my own treats at a birthday party because she wouldn't let me have a piece of cake.

My husband, on the other hand, spent much of his early months in a playpen, had parents that never read to him (surprised?), and ate God only knows what all day long.

And he scored a good 200 points higher on the SATs than me.

Bastard.

And so while he was off living a pretty typical existence, well as typical as can be had with his crazy parents, I was over at my neighbor's house chowing down on processed cheese and hot dogs, sneaking sugar in my closet, and watching game shows at my friends house.

So much for my pristine system, right?

My kids have ice cream and candy. They also eat fruit and veggies. They drink watered down juice, soda on a rare occasion, and sometimes even a sip of my husband's coffee. They also drink water and milk.

We do the best that we can to offer them balance, and believe in almost everything in moderation, based on their age, their behavior, and on certain days, the size of the moon.

I often wonder if it's really about the food. Or the television. Or if it has to do more with the parent's fear. And need to control.

I'm not saying that you should let your kids eat hot dogs for every meal, have a soda iv inserted, or spend all day watching television.

But what I am saying that sometimes we're so worried about doing what's best for them, that we actually end up doing the complete opposite. 

Trifecta

This week was like a tragedy of errors.

And I'm not even talking about Margot waking up every two hours or my dog dying while I was gone or the mean bike rental shop asshats.

I'm talking about my in-laws.

Apparently, they've been hiding in the grass, just waiting for the chance to pounce.

Or smack my ass, if you're my father-in-law.

Sadly, it's not even the first time.

I blame the 12-pack of Bud Light lime, and my overall hotness thanks to the 30 Day Shred and my new 5K training program.

Except he's my FIL. He's not supposed to acknowledge my overall hotness, especially not with an ass smack.

So aside from the ass smackery, I once again saw him in his underwear, which isn't necessarily a terribly awful traumatic event, except when he's wearing boxer briefs.

Pthdfdfdf&%&*%IDfkjdfkdfjdkfjd*!!!!!!!

I think I'd rather be smacked 400 times than see that sight again. The tightness, the blue, the elastic waistband, the...

Okay. That's just incredibly wrong.

But at least he had underwear on, unlike my mother-in-law, who decided to change with the bathroom door of her small studio beach condo wide open.

I returned back from a short walk, opened the door to the condo, and there she was in all her glory, well, at least the lower half of it anyway.

Awkward just doesn't adequately describe that situation, or the oddly normal conversation that followed because what the fuck does one discuss after just seeing your mother-in-law's lower pelvic region?

The weather, birthday balloons, and lunch meat - in case you were wondering.

Of course, they made sure to attend church yesterday morning - Bring me your bitter, your hungover, your half naked - and then proceeded to make us feel guilty for packing up our car instead of joining them with our three small children as they criticize the bad singing and boring homily between genuflects.

We prefer to engage in holy inner eyelid watching, followed by solemn prayer over a short stack and bacon. Extra crispy.

Amen.

Who said I wasn't religious?

Mean people suck

There's nothing like an innocent early morning jaunt on the boardwalk to teach my kids about the cruel harsh world.

Okay, so it was really a couple of idiots working at a bike rental shop with less teeth than Margot that renewed my lack of faith in humanity.

We'd spent the first part of the morning watching the not-so-romantic "oh my god why are you little rascals awake right now" sunrise and walking through the waves on the beach when I decided to pass a little more time by checking out the rental bikes.

And while we were examining the various contraptions that you can rent for a ridiculous amount of money to ride up and down a long stretch of what might be the largest saturation of hairspray, fake nails, and airbrushing, Drew decided to put his precious plastic Lightning McQueen car down in the middle of the bike thoroughfare. But considering it was still practically o' dark thirty, it wasn't that busy.

Well, until one of the aforementioned idiots needed to return a low-rider 3-wheeled bike.

The guy told Drew to grab his car, but he was too scared to jump out in front of the moving bike. And having Margot stuffed into a BabyHawk carrier, I couldn't reach down and grab it as quickly as I needed to.

So instead of hitting the brakes, or reaching down to pick it up as he drove by, the guy just ran right over the toy.

There was a loud crunch, followed by a duet of screams unlike anything I've ever heard.

However, I was too focused on the idiots laughing it up in the back of the shop, to even try to console my kids.

Yes, they were laughing.

I'm not even sure what I said to them, and the other guy working there who was standing and staring at my kids as they picked up the pieces of the car.

I yelled to the back of the shop as they sat there, obviously hiding, but too small balled to come out and apologize and offer them something in return.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves" I said, grasping for words that didn't start with "F." "You couldn't wait two more seconds so that he could pick it up?" I asked, completely shocked at the blatant disregard for their feelings.

I walked away with the kids to collect myself, and attempt to explain why someone would do what I've spent years trying to teach them.

But it was like talking to a couple of screaming monkeys. 

"Waaaaaah my car waaaaaah his car waaaaaah we'll never ever have a car ever again waaaaaah!"

And so I figured, why not use it to my advantage and so I dragged my kids back to the shop, continuing on like I hadn't left, demanding money for the car, and pointing my finger at the woman in charge of the rental agreements.

She asked them what had happened because she hadn't seen it. Whatever.I told her "They ran over his car on purpose."

After I stood there for a few more minutes, my kids still loudly mourning the loss of the car, she barely apologized and handed me money. 

"Why would he do that?" Quinlan kept saying through her tears. 

I really didn't know what to tell her. I was too choked up, part of my heart crushed like the toy car. It's the side of humanity you never really want your kids to see.

"Sometimes people are just mean," I told her. "But that doesn't mean we have to sit around and take it."

Now I just have to figure out how to teach her to let out the air on 50 some odd bike tires.