Adventures in Real Parenting: Would I lie to you?

The Spawn love Sunbeam bread. They claim it tastes superior to the White Wheat I prefer them to eat (please don't lecture me about whole wheat bread - been there, tried that. Ended up composting most of it. Time and time again.). While extolling the superior taste of Sunbeam, The Spawn claim that it has a far better consistency and texture.

For those of you who don't know, here's a mom thing. We lie. A lot. I'm not just talking about the Easter Bunny or Santa or why there isn't any more ice cream in the freezer - "Daddy must have eaten it....?"< MathMan loves when I sell him out. It's part of the parent code. Whoever gets to the lie first, wins. No. Parents lie about little things and big things. For example, I've learned a way to get The Spawn to eat White Wheat bread without knowing it. I wait for the first few slices of Sunbeam to be removed from the loaf's package then I take some slices of White Wheat and stick them between the smooshy Sunbeam. The crusts might have a variance in color, but that is hidden by the yellow on the packaging.

No one is the wiser.

This is a tradition passed on from mother to mother. Like my mother who sneaked liver into our hamburgers (that explains that) to prevent us from contracting the pernicious anemia that ran rampant through generations of her family, I force fiber onto The Spawn so that The Actor, Cupcake (aka Resident Evil) and The Dancer aren't completely bound up with biological poisons.

Without fibbing, obfuscation and outright lying, I wouldn't be able to complete a day of parenting.

From Webster's New Pocket Dictionary. To obfuscate - Confuse; obscure.
Spawn: "Where is my Juicy Fruit gum? I swear I left it on my dresser."

Me: "I don't know. Did you leave it in your pocket and take it to school? "(hee hee, I've developed a recent craving for Juicy Fruit gum...)

Fib.
Spawn: Can I go to Florida with my friends over Spring Break?"
Me: "We'll see." (We'll see in momspeak means I'm not going to say "no" now because I don't feel like fighting about it now, but this is my way of buying time until you either forget or give up badgering me about this and go pester your father.)

Outright lie.
Spawn: "Mom, did you ever smoke pot?"

Me: "Of course not!"

When we first think of having babies, we make plans to be perfect parents. We make mental lists of all the things we'll never do to our kids. Back in my pre-parenting days, I had a long  list of judgmental and naive I will nevers.

I had not a clue.

Now a seasoned parenting professional, I  see the error of my earlier ideals. In fact, with parenting, there are no ideals. Not if you want to stay sane, that is.

Stubborn

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
- Unknown

I frequently complain that The Spawn are stubborn. And lazy. And spoiled. And too smart for their own good. Geez, I just shouldn't have procreated. I'm a sucky mother.

Anyway, back to stubborn. Stubborn runs in the family. My mother would have you believe that the stubborn comes from my father's side, but that's just not so. The hot-headed - that comes from the paternal branch, but the stubborn? That's Mom.

Mom grew up poor as one of five children. Her mother held the family together and her father was often away working and drinking. The family lived in a rural area of the Southeastern Indiana hills. A big weekend was a trip to Granny and Grandad's. That was a real treat.

Granny and Grandad lived on a small farm. I remember going there as a child and playing with old Dairy Queen dishes and spoons on the front porch. We'd put hedgeapples on the country road in front of the house so that the cars going by would smash them. They looked like green brains dotting the tarred road. The thing I remember most is the outhouse. Even in the early 1970's Granny and Grandad didn't have an indoor toilet. Can you imagine? Not much had changed since my mom as a kid - my great-grandparents remained on that farm, frozen in time, until they died..

When my mom (let's call her L'il R) was about six years old, she and her brothers, sister and cousins were spending a weekend at Granny and Grandad's. They were just sitting down to supper at the big country kitchen table when they heard the crunch of tires as a car rolled into the dirt driveway. Now if you've ever lived in the country or watched The Waltons, you know what happened next.

Everyone, young and old, leaped up from the table and raced out the kitchen door to see who was there. L'il R grabbed her hot dog and carried it with her.

Granny ordered L'il R to take her hot dog back to the table because there was only one for each person and Granny didn't want the dog to steal the wiener from her. L'il R refused and before she could bat her long, black lashes, the pooch was running down the wooden porch steps, the hot dog hanging from his mouth. She began to wail.

The visitor was ushered inside and everyone returned to their supper. L'il R continued to cry and demand another hot  dog. Granny told her that there weren't any more hot dogs. L'il R cried harder. Granny told her to sit down and be quiet. Eat what's on your plate

Shedding more tears, L'il R ran to the screen door and announced that until she got another hot dog, she'd just hold the screen door open and "let the flies in."

That was enough for Grandad.

My mom. The only kid in that whole mess of brothers and sisters and cousins to ever get a spanking from Grandad.

Stubborn.

Lessons from My Drive

Okay, so you know that I've been wearing a groove in the road from here (NW Georgia) to NYC. Well, in all that driving I've burned a lot of cash and a lot of fuel. Neither of those ideas much please me, I can tell you. But aside from that, I want to tell you something that I noticed.

There are a lot of people living close to the edge. Let me explain.

Th apartment in Brooklyn turned out to be a three floor walk up in a working class neighborhood. The reason I'm telling you this is for purposes of numbers. Population. See, for every three floor walk up, it's probably safe to say that there are approximately three people or three families living in what may be, to the middle class eye, defined as rather sparse conditions. (I wouldn't even begin to describe how the upper class or uber-rich person might define such living conditions. Come to think of it, those conditions simply do not exist to the uber-rich. They simply can't see it.)

On my drive, I passed plenty of small old houses, manufactured housing, starter homes, apartment buildings, and rundown abodes. There were plenty of once beautiful, sprawling farms in Pennsylvania dotting Interstate 81. At one time, those farms were tidy, painted and proud. Now many of them have fallen into disrepair and neglect.

Everywhere I looked as I drove through the Shenandoah Valley, I could see farms and old homes. I was struck by the size of some of the farm houses that likely housed large families at one time. Now they are dwarfed by the size of a typical McMansion in a gated community. And these new palaces likely house families no larger than four people.

As I surveyed this slice of the American landscape, I was struck by the notion that there are more of us living close to the edge than there are those who are comfortably in the middle or sitting on top.

As gas prices rise and all the associated costs go with them, I can't help but wonder how this economy is going to sustain itself. The price of petroleum touches so much, how can we not reach the breaking point sooner rather than later? How will people who are already on the edge keep from going over?

I know that we're in that often-discussed category of being one paycheck away from disaster. Now that I'm unemployed, we're spurred on to cut costs, but we'll also be making some choices between what gets paid and what doesn't. The two essentials - fuel and food - can be cut back some, but not completely. Those ever-expanding bills shrink what we can pay toward our mortgage, healthcare, and other expenses.

In the meantime, every time The Dancer tells me that she needs gas in her car (calm down, it's a 95 Celica that was a gift from her aunt), I cringe. That edge moves ever closer. Even if I do find work, the edge is going to continue to inch toward us as daily living costs go higher and higher. We are not alone in this. I'm afraid we'll have plenty of company in that economic tumble down. The old adage "safety in numbers" will have a bitter ring to it when counting the number of people at the bottom.

Originally posted May 22, 2008

The High Way to Hell

How does hell want me? Let me count the ways.....

Drunkard - maybe, though cyclical
Liar - Uh, I've been known to tell a few whoppers, yeah
Thief - If office supplies count
Sports fan - Not so much, unless you count politics as sport
Blasphemer - Jesus Christ on a Whole Wheat Cracker yes
Money Lover - If I had it, I promise I would love it
Pagan - Only on my college applications. See Liar.
Homosexual - Part time
Prostitute - If only I'd had the foresight to get paid for it
Witch - Not exactly, but I'm often caled something that rhymes with it
Atheist - Check
Gambler - Hello, MegaMillions! Let me love you.
Porn Lover - Tasteful lesbian porn only
Whoremonger - Let's leave my friends out of this.
Child Molester - No. I hope there's a special corner in Hell for this category.
Evolutionist - Well, it's a theory that I think is pretty cool.....
Pot Smoker - Not anymore, not for a long time
Lesbian - I say half. MathMan thinks two thirds.
Fornicator - Oh, once or twice, I suppose
Masturbator - Only my vibrators know for sure
Hypocrite - Most definitely
Psychic - There was that time that I told Darling Sis if she went out something bad would happen and it did.

And you?

H/T Pharyngula

Originally posted June 2, 2008

Bloggers Talking about Bloggers Talking

Setting: (Now that the kicking and hair pulling has stopped) MathMan and I are once again sitting across from each other at the big oak desk behind our respective laptops. I'm reading blog RSS feeds. MathMan is probably doing something very important like checking out his fantasy baseball stats.

Me: Uh oh. (under my breath) That sounds familiar.
MathMan: Huh? What?
Me: Oh, nothing.
MathMan: No really, what?
Me: Well, dooce and her husband had a disagreement about how she pronounces Cray-on.
MathMan: It's cran.
Me: Says you.

Originally posted June 3, 2008

Adventures in Real Parenting: Why She Was Once Called Resident Evil

Yesterday, as I drove The Actor home from school, my cell phone rang. It was Resident Evil calling. I pushed my Blue Tooth earpiece button.

"Hello?" Nothing. "Hello? Hello? Resident Evil, hello?" I pushed the button again. Maybe she'd accidentally dialed my number.

Again came the defiant voice of Amy Winehouse singing Rehab. Yeah, I know, that's a delightful ringtone. I pushed the Blue Tooth button again.

"Hello?" Nothing. Shit. She was home alone for just a few minutes while I raced out to pick up The Actor. What was I thinking to leave her home alone? What if someone had gotten into the house and she was hiding in her closet trying to call me for help, but afraid to speak for fear of discovery. Shit! Shit! Shit! I am the worst mother ever! Panic button almost pressed.

"HELLO! HELLO! RESIDENT EVIL, ARE YOU THERE? ARE YOU OKAY?" My heart raced and The Actor looked at me like I was insane.

Finally, she answered me. "Mommy....."

Oh. Shit. "Are you okay?" I asked, the fear making my voice crack. Why was I whispering? Oh yeah, the possible home invader terrorizing my child....

This time she spoke clearly in a normal voice. "Mommy?"

I was about to lose my shit. "Resident Evil, are you okay?"

"Yes."

Panic shifted to annoyance. "Why didn't you answer me?"

She paused.

"I was giving you the silent treatment," she announced.

Originally posted on January 23, 2008

Will Cuddle for Gas Money

I just received an important memo from the Pussies for Peace. Facing grant cutbacks and skyrocketing expenses, they have elected to step up their fund raising activities. In addition to the biannual bake sales, four scheduled car washes (don't believe what you hear about cats and water) and one gigantic yard sale later this month, the PfP are looking for new ways to raise money to keep the PoofMobile running so they can take their message of peace from across the nation.

Their new scheme is more akin to the good old fashioned kissing booth. I don't know, though, it just appears a little........unseemly.

moar funny pictures

Times are tough all over, but you wouldn't know that from listening to our idiot president or his Siamese co-joined twin Johnny Mac. They're doing okay. We're just out here livin' it. What could we possibly know?