Lettin' It All Hang Out

Nope - not talking about my belly fat.  Well, maybe down the list a little.  Today, I am taking Mama Kat's writing prompt #2, what are your confessions?, and putting it into a list.  I know you all love it when I overshare, so here goes...  Oh!  And thanks to Liz for inspiring the list format.  I wasn't going to do this until she reminded me of the joy of lists. 

1.  I'm still not registered to vote.  And if you're really smart, you'll deduce that I must not have voted in this last election.  Yeah.  That's kinda bad.  However - I live in Utah - the one state where your vote really doesn't count.  Majority will take you down or make you one of their numbers - either way...it just goes the way it goes.  When we move to Oregon in a few weeks, I really will register.  For real.

2.  I agree with Jill on this issue. 

3.  I have, on two occasions now, used a diaper to do the doo.  Yes, in my adult years.  Sometimes, you have to get creative.

4.  I finally watched Avatar the other night, and while I thought it was a good movie, it wasn't SO FREAKING GOOD I HAVE TO SEE IT THREE TIMES IN THE THEATER!!  Nope.  It was good, but I don't get all the hype.  I suppose it's because I didn't bother to see it on the big screen.

5.  If you're wondering what kind of movies really get me excited, I'll give you an example.  Little Miss Sunshine.  Anyone seen it?  It's hard to make me laugh out loud.  This movie scored. 

6.  This morning I had a Vanilla Coke for breakfast.  I may follow that up with Cocoa Krispies.

7.  I have a drawer in my bedroom dresser where I hide all the candy I buy.  Sometimes I share with the kids, sometimes I wait until they're in bed to indulge.  OK, most of the time I wait until they're in bed.

8.  I don't floss very often.  I really should though.  I'll get on that.

9.  About half the blogs I read are written by people who I find to be incredibly dull writers and who's company I know I would never enjoy in real life.  Why I read them is probably the same reason that everyone else does - peer pressure. Because all these blogs I'm referring to have at least a few hundred followers.

I better stop there.  It's starting to get ugly.  Happy Thursday, Everyone!
And don't forget - only two more days to enter the SUPER AWESOME GIVEAWAY! I'm kind of ticked at how good the odds are right now.  Fix that, please. 

**Edit - I should probably tell you that if you're worried that I think you're one of those boring blogs, you should probably not worry because A) who cares what I think?  B) I'm behind on my blog reading - like REALLY behind, so if you haven't gotten a comment from me, it's because of that.  Not because I think you're crap.  and C) again, who cares what I think?***

Me And Poison Control - We're Tight

Tonight marked the fourth time in a little over a year that I have called poison control.

I'm not sure if I'm really paranoid or just a huge nit-wit. So I present it to you all - and you can decide.

The first time was when I called my mom at work and told her that I'd had a day from hell and by the way, guess what weird things my kid had eaten that day? A paintball and a shell casing from a .22 pistol. (Or something like that - I don't keep up on my gun lingo.) I thought she would laugh and tell me how crazy my life was, but she didn't. She got all freaky and started to wonder what kind of metal those casings are made of, and could it be lead?

And then I was sure that if I didn't do something my kid would die of lead poisoning.

In comes poison control.

And they told me that I had to take my kid to the emergency room to have an x-ray to be sure he had not swallowed it, or that if he had swallowed it, it had passed through his bowels.

Long story short, the x-ray was clear. And that trip to the ER will be paid off in approximately five more months. But you know what happens if you call poison control and they tell you to take your kid to the hospital and you don't do it? Neither do I. But I bet they sick the CPA on your ass and make sure all your neighbors know you are an unfit parent.

Episode number two happened a couple of months later when I had been babysitting my nephew full time for about a week. He got hold of the diaper rash cream and thought he'd see if it tasted better than that crap, Enfamil.

It was kinda humiliating to tell my sister that it only took me five days to almost kill her child.

My third call happened when my husband asked me to help him work on his 1963 Volkswagen Beetle. (Tip for the men-folk: Don't hook your gas line up to a compressed air tank and tell your wife to look into the gas tank and tell you if there are bubbles coming up in it.) So two eyes full of supreme unleaded gasoline later, plus a little in the mouth, we had call number three in the books.

Tonight I just laughed. Trent brought me a tube of rub-on insect repellent, which he had unscrewed the cap from and taken a bite out of. I honestly couldn't believe I was about to do this again.

After that third incident, my mother brought me a fridge magnet with Poison Control's number on it and a pamphlet that is meant for thirteen year old babysitters who are idiots and let their charges drink Windex and snack on Vicoden. Mom knew it would come in handy for me, too. And boy, did it! It was nice to not have to Google the hotline number. This way is much more efficient.

So I called and told the operator, (I always get a man), that I had a pretty thick file there somewhere with my information. He still asked for my name, the culprit's name, and our phone number. I gave him all the info he asked for and assured him that even though I was a repeat offender and a bad mother, I had not used a fake name.

Apparently, deet, the active ingredient in this particular type of insect repellent that Trent decided to sample, can cause seizures in small children, but given the amount that Trent ate, (and likely spat out), and his astronomical weight, he'll be fine.

But the nice man from poison control called back an hour later to check on Trent. And probably also to make sure I hadn't negligently damaged any of my other children.

If there is a black list at Poison Control - I'm sitting right at the top.

Confessions Session: This One's A Doozy

I'm not even sure what could possibly be wrong with me that would make me tell you what I am about to tell you.

You'll be shocked to learn that it has to do with poop.

So if you're visiting from Our Mommyhood or Blog Brew Review, I don't want to scare you off. Feel free instead to read this episode of Confession Session about motorcycles. Or skip the Confession Session altogether and go for a list of why I'm glad school is out, or read this one about how to use your creativity while disciplining your children.

For those of you who are brave enough - let us venture on...

Okay, so this was over a year ago in December when I was still pregnant with my last child, and my sweet mother-in-law had come all the way from Washington to stay with us and help when the baby finally decided to come. I don't' know how I would have done it without her. She kept the kids here at home while Andrew and I were in the hospital, she took the older boys to school every morning, once the baby came she held him and spoiled him rotten whenever I had to run errands, etc. She even arrived two weeks before the baby came to ensure she wouldn't miss his grand entrance.

There was one occasion though, before the baby arrived, when my mother-in-law's presence was a bit uncomfortable. She had just gone into the bathroom for her daily grooming ritual, and suddenly I had to go bad. I mean, I had to go! Problem is, I have one bathroom and my MIL needed a minimum of an hour and a half to complete her hygiene routine.

Why?

I have no idea. I am clueless as to what that woman does in the bathroom for so long. And about the time that my eyes were watering and I knew it couldn't wait anymore, she had only been in the bathroom for about fifteen minutes.

I stood outside the bathroom door trying to imagine what phase she might be in. The water was not yet running in the shower, so was she undressed and on the verge of getting in the shower? Was she pulling faces at herself in the mirror? Medicating? Trimming her nails? Was she in the middle of silent prayer that she could make it through another day without killing me?

I felt like I couldn't knock on the door and ask her to take a time-out and let me in to do my business because she could be in the middle of something important, or, more realistically, it could take her all of two minutes to re-dress and emerge, by which time it would be too late. I didn't have two minutes.

I was rapidly running out of time and had no options. Baby was weighing down on my colon and I had to take care of business like, yesterday.

My eyes flashed to the diaper changing supplies in the living room...

And I ask you - What would you have done?

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Be sure to visit Our Mommyhood today, where I have written a guest post that you won't want to miss if you have kids home from school this summer!

Confession Session - Safety Smarts

I have taught my kids some bad things - unintentionally of course.

For instance, I am trying to watch my language around them, so now, when I say, "Oh, (long pause), my, (long pause)...", my two-year-old finishes up for me.

"Hell," he concludes in an appropriately somber tone.

I am Yoda. The Master.

Believe it or not, I have taught my kids some good things, too.

Examples: They can clean a toilet.

They know how to pretend that nothing happened when Grandpa farts.

Most of them know how to wipe. Okay, one out of four knows how. Okay, he's not that good at it either. Let's change that one - They know how to keep their hands clean. (Don't wipe.)

And then there are some things that I've taught my kids that are both good and bad.

Case in point - I taught them that people who ride bikes and motorcycles without a helmet are stupid.

Not careless, not risky, not forgetful.

Stupid.

As in, dumb. They are morons. They are so idiotic that they don't care if their brains get splattered all over the pavement for a city worker to hose down like the aftermath of a squished raccoon. And I feel no guilt for teaching them to call certain people "Stupid".

So now, when we're driving down the road and see a slick guy dressed in black leather astride a hot looking chrome chopper with the sun glinting on the top of his shaved head, my kids chime in excitedly - "Look, Mom! That guy is STUPID!"

Yes, boys, yes he is.

Confessions Session - Bits and Pieces

It's been a while since I've poured out the overshare for all of you, and this time I'm going with the grab bag approach because the other confession session that is sitting in my "drafts" pile is possibly just a little too horrifying to share with anyone. I haven't even told my husband about that one, and he's the guy who's lap I farted on just three weeks into dating.

So without further adieu...my random confessions, sure to shock and dismay you:

I have not yet seen Avatar.

I would love nothing more than to have a British accent because it makes a person sound so much more credible and intelligent. I could use some of that.

Shaving is not something I enjoy, so I do it...not as often as most people probably do. Judge if you want, ask me if I care.

I botched my crash diet today. Big time. Being hungry all the time is no fun.

Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned

It has been thirty years since my last confession.

I have broken all the commandments, save #'s 2, 6 and 7.  That's not so bad, right?

Thou shalt have no other gods before me.  When I was in junior high school I used to cut out pictures of hot guys in magazines and plaster them on any surface that I possessed as my own.  Notebooks, lockers, bedroom walls, etc.  I blame The New Kids On The Block.  They were the ones that first tested my will back in 1990 with giant posters of yummy boys.  Also, I sometimes pray to the Gods at Hostess begging for Ding Dongs to rain from the heavens.  

Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.  I have no excuse for number three except to say that sometimes it just slips and then I suffer unimaginable guilt for days afterward.  Unlike all those times when I was ten and mad at my parents and would hide in my closet chanting "Shit, Damn, Hell" over and over again until I wasn't mad.  I felt no guilt then.  Not even when those words were no longer effective on their own and I had to throw in a "Sunnufabitch". 

Thou shalt keep the Sabbath Day holy.  Living in Utah makes #4 really tough.  We certainly try to make the Sabbath a day of rest and worship, but sometimes we need to get out of the house and I don't know what an appropriate Sunday activity is outdoors.  We went hiking once.  And another time we came home from church and found that all the meat was frozen and there was nothing for dinner, so I ran out to get Chinese food.  It was really scary to try to get that all back in the house without any of the neighbors seeing the take-out bags.  And you know that everyone is sitting in their darkened living room watching for sinners to emerge from their cars with Sabbath Day contraband so they can report someone to the bishop or at least gossip in Relief Society.  

Thou shalt honor thy mother and thy father.  Honoring my father and mother has always been easier to do in spirit than in reality.  I love my parents more than any other child could ever love theirs, but I don't always show it.  Like in high school, I never would have done a can-can flash dance in front of all the Freshmen if I'd been respecting what my parents taught me.  Nor would I have watched Knocked Up.  At least not without a paper bag over my head.

Thou shalt not steal.  When I was five, I broke the eighth commandment for the first time.  It was a really tasty package of bubble gum which I kindly shared with my sister in the privacy of the top bunk in our bedroom.  It had juice in the middle.  In later years I stole a heck of a lot of money from my father's quarter box over the span of a year.  At one point my dad had to tape a note to the tin box asking the unknown thief to please stop stealing from their father.  I went ahead and took $22 in quarters that time.  I didn't realize the foolishness of that act until I was at Olive Garden with my boyfriend and the humiliation of having to pay our tab entirely in quarters hit me like a brick and I faked a headache, went out to the car and stuck my guy with the bill.  I could have said something like, "Gee, I seem to have forgotten my wallet.  Could you pick this up?", but that didn't occur to me at the time.  Just the idiocy of what I had done stuck.  I don't think I've stolen anything since then.  Why was I paying the bill for our date on that night, you wonder?  Well, good question.  He was young.  That's all I got.

Thou shalt not bear false witness.  Ah, number nine.  Pulling up all those marigolds and trying to blame it on the mean girl who was at the sitter's with us, but getting caught red-handed.  Dirt and marigolds clenched in my fists and staring, completely frozen, at the lady who owned the flowers, who happened to be my dad's cousin.  But that didn't teach me a lesson.  Well, not one that lasted until I turned sixteen anyway.  I was always a terrible liar, but I did it anyway.  Clear up to the time I got tired of being a newlywed who's husband stayed up until 2 a.m. on the weekends and then slept until one in the afternoon.  When I had had enough of that I crushed a Unisom between two spoons and mixed it into a Sprite for my husband, who thanked me for the drink and consumed my drugged offering in about ten minutes and shortly thereafter proclaimed to be unusually tired and suggested we hit the hay.  Good, idea, Babe, I'll just go turn down the sheets.  

Thou shalt not covet.  Sheesh, the coveting.  Have you seen Tiger Wood's house?  Course, that's probably not his for long.  Have you checked out Vera Ellen's body?  I will never stop being envious of her legs.  Or her waist.  I have a long way to go with the coveting issue.

And then a few weeks ago I {almost} committed a felony which I can't tell you about because that one is going with me to my grave.  But I can tell you that I'm pretty sure it would fall into the #9 category and that I will never be tempted to do it again because I so completely botched it the first time.  

Now, if only I were Catholic.  Repentance would be so much easier if I could just say a few Hail Mary's or something.

Confession Session: Volume 3 - Making Susan B. Anthony roll over in her grave.

(Photo found here.)

I know at least two of you who will hit the comment button on this one before you've even finished reading, so I'll keep it short.

I am not a registered voter.

I fully realize how poor an example this is to my kids, how I have a responsibility as an American citizen, how I have no right to complain about any elected officials or their decisions, etc...

And I'll fix this issue pronto. I just thought I'd fess up first.

For those of you who don't know, you can lecture me by hitting the comments link below this post, typing in your disgust in the handy little box, choosing an identity, (anonymous if you wish), and then submitting the rebuke. Thank you for taking the time to put me in my place, and have a lovely day!

Confession Session, Volume 2; Homework

I think that kids these days have life pretty easy.

Except when it comes to the homework department.

They spend almost seven hours a day in school and then have to come home to do 3 pages of math homework, practice keyboarding, and read for a minimum of twenty minutes. When you add in a few measly chores, sports, scouts, etc., it gets to be a bit ridiculous.

I firmly believe that the public schools, at least here in Utah, are sub-standard enough that not doing homework is only going to make my kids worse off education-wise. They need to be doing all that work so that they don't end up graduating from high school without knowing what 1/3 plus 1/3 is.

But, there are days when I feel like too much is required of them. No kid should have to spend 7 hours in school and then come home to two hours of homework on the first sunny day in weeks.

But, I also feel it's unfair for me to send them outside to enjoy being young and free from responsibilities only to have them get poor grades because I made the decision to let them off the hook. You can't punish your child for a decision you made. So sometimes I lie. I fill in their reading log showing that, yes, they actually did sit down and read for twenty minutes and then practice typing 20 words per minute without any errors for another ten minutes, when really they were both outside hitting each other with light sabers and throwing rotten apples into the neighbor's yard.

It's a tiny lie in the grand scheme of things. I don't do it often, but when I do, I usually feel enough guilt that I read something philosophical to them at bedtime to make up for it. Like Proust. Or Seuss. But honestly - they're only going to be kids once. They shouldn't have to spend all of their time earning A's - neither should they be made to suffer failing grades because I occasionally let them live outside of schoolwork for a while.

Confession Session, Volume 1; Pregnancy Tests

I've taken a lot of pregnancy tests in my life. Some hopefully, and some with dread. Timing is everything. For some reason, I've always felt like they are more reliable if you pee into a cup and let the stick sit in it for the thirty seconds or whatever it is, because what if you just peed on the stick and the one drop of urine that had all the HCG hormone in it didn't hit the stick or didn't hit it hard enough to be absorbed?... I know it's a ridiculous way of thinking, but there you go. I needed to be sure.

So one time, I needed to pee into a cup, but I didn't have a disposable one, and for lack of inspiration as to what else to use, I pulled a ceramic mug out of my kitchen cupboard and used that.

I don't remember if I was pregnant or not on that occasion, but I do remember not knowing what to do with the cup afterward. I couldn't toss it because it was one of Andrew's and I didn't know where he'd gotten it or if someone had given it to him or if it had special meaning or if he would even notice it was missing! So what could I do? I washed it and put it back in the cupboard.

That mug is still sitting in my kitchen cabinet, but you can bet that I never drink out of it!