Monthly Archives: February 2012

I went to my Varmint’s future Middle School tonight for their Parent’s Information Night.  She’ll be in 6th grade next year, and will be attending this pretty darn good school.

I’ll be honest, she’s worried about remembering the locker combination.

But she’s not concerned about having to get up at 6:00 every morning.

I am.

And she’s not concerned about finding her way to each classroom.

I am.

And she’s not concerned about being able to handle the workload.

I am.

In fact, during this entire presentation, I was tachycardic (my heart was racing). My palms were sweating.  My stomach was in knots.  I kept reliving old middle school traumas I suffered back in the late ’70s and early ’80s.

I’m not even sure what the presentation covered.  All I could see were the faces of kids who were staring aghast at me when I laughed so hard spaghetti came out of my nose during one lunch period back in 7th grade.

And then I was transported to eighth grade, where there was that one very strange boy who everyone picked on, but I felt sorry for, so I went up to him one day to talk to him, but he wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence.  I was crushed.  The school outcast wouldn’t even talk to me.  Where did that put me on the pecking order?

And then suddenly I was reliving the five year crush that started in 7th grade.   Ah…. the crush….THE crush….Kevin was his name.  Oh he was so yummy to look at.  He had no interest in me at all because I was such a dork.  All legs and belly and braces.  But I dreamed about him.  And I would fantasize about what it would be like if he held my hand.  I began my own little middle school version of stalking. It got to the point that if he saw me coming, he would look really busy and walk very fast past me.

And look scared.

I still have that effect on people.

Back at the Parent’s Information presentation, I found myself clicking my pen over and over again while the principal talked about something that had to do with advanced math classes.  All the other parents were listening intently.  Me, I had no idea what in the blazes she was talking about.  All I could do was sit there in my palpitating heartbeat, sweat-ridden angst, praying it would be over soon.

Varmint has no idea what she is getting into.

When I got home, she asked how it went and what they talked about.

“Oh it was fine, honey. Just parent stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.” I replied, confident in my innate parental ability to lie directly to my child.

“Why is your shirt soaking wet?”

“It’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, Mom, it is.”

“Go to bed.”

I’m not ready for her to go to Middle School.

My Captain has the coolest dreams.  At least the ones he remembers are pretty gosh darn enviable.  Most of the time they involve some kind of fire or emergency medical crises, and he is in a position to fix it.  Usually the odds are stacked against him, and he spends the duration of his dream problem solving. Sometimes, there is the odd Cold War Era Russian spy plane injected in the middle of it or something very manly-man-GI-Joe-Hero like that.  But for the most part, they are consistent, normal dreams.  Well, normal for someone in his line of work.

Me, I’m not nearly so mundane.  Apparently my psyche has no linear thought process to it.  My dreams range from half-naked clowns chasing me in the grocery store, to old gym teachers giving me wedgies in front of the class.  Often one dream will cross several places and transcend multiple times in life.  I’ll start off as just me and then suddenly I’m Pam the toddler, and then I’m me again.  Then I’m Pam the teen.  Then I’m dead and really am just a ghost. Sadly, I’m never the hero in my dreams….more often just the comic relief.

One time I dreamt I was in Hell, but I knew it was a mistake, so I was trying to explain my way out.  I’m good at stuff like that, so I thought I would have a decent shot at it.  But oddly enough, I wasn’t making any headway.   Very strange.

Oh come one, who doesn’t have that dream?

Whenever my Varmint and Critter call out in their dreams, it freaks me out.  I’m to their side in a heartbeat, soothing them.  I don’t wake them, but instead try to inject happy-happy-joy-joy-warm-fuzzy-mommy into their dreams to either derail whatever nasty plot is going on, or to at least move them out of REM.

Then it occurred to me….what if the person in their dream who is making them scream is ME?  What if I am the person in their nightmare causing them unhappiness?  I have been assuming that when they called out my name that it was for help….maybe I’m the role of the bad guy in the dream.

I mean, I’m the one who takes away the Wii or the Computer or grounds them if they are out of line.  I’m the one who yells at them to GET THEIR SOCKS ON RIGHT NOW, BUSTER! when the bus is coming.  Maybe I’m only making the dream worse by inserting my voice into it.

And THEN I had an idea SO CRAZY, it just might work!  What if I started putting subconscious suggestions into their dreams when they call out at night.  Things like, “Sweetie, you could win this battle if only you would clean your room.”  or “Love, the boogie man cannot get you if you make it to the bus on time, socks and all.”

Would that be wrong?

Or would it be Wile E Coyote Super-Genius?

For those of you who don’t live in Montgomery County, Maryland, you may not be aware that we have a new shopping bag tax.  If ever we are shopping, be it a grocery store, or a CVS or a Kmart,  and whatever we buy requires the store to bag it in a plastic bag, we get charged 5 cents.  5 cents per plastic shopping bag.  No ifs, ands, or buts.

I think its been enacted to force people to be more ‘green’, or maybe it’s just a source of easy revenue for the govm’t, like the automatic traffic speed cameras.  Whatever the reason, it’s here to stay, and people are slowly  beginning to use cloth or canvas bags instead of the gazillion plastic bags we used to.

Unfortunately, like any other old habit, it’s hard to change.  It’s hard to remember the bags, even if they are in your car.  Most of the time when I forget them, and it happens often, I feel like a complete moron and end up going back to my car with all my stuff piled up on the counter.  Either I do that, or if it’s few enough things to carry or juggle, I walk my purchases back to my car in my arms and dump it all unceremoniously in my back seat.   (Whether or not my kids are sitting there.)

At first, I started resenting the whole gosh darn bag tax.  Especially since it means now I will have to buy bags to put cat poop in when I’m scooping the cat box.  But I hate to admit it, I am starting to feel good about not using up all that plastic.   Oh, don’t get me wrong, change is still a pain in the butt, and I hate having these kinds of things rammed down my throat.  And I hate having the government find more ways to reach into my wallet.  But this whole reusable canvas bag thing isn’t so bad after a while.

And, I’m starting to feel less like a moron, and finding more humor in the situation.  One of my best moments was seeing a man walking out of a drugstore holding tampons and band-aids.  He refused a bag, and walked those tampons out proudly, yessiree!  LOVE IT!  You go, random I’m-too-cheap-to-pay-5 cents dude!

I laugh, but it happens to me still way more than I’d like.  I’m slow like that.  I’m sure most people have caught on a little faster than I have.

Except men.  You don’t see a lot of men hand-carrying their purchases out of Lowes or Home Depot.  I think for them, admitting that they forgot their bag is like asking directions.  It’s a blow to their pride.

What is the silliest thing you have seen someone carry out to their car without bags?

I have a daughter…… I have a daughter!

Sugar and Spice and everything nice!  Ruffles and lace and pretty bows!  Tea parties and Barbie dolls and stuffed bunnies!  Hair brushes and lip gloss and pretty dresses.  Ah the delight of having a daughter!

That’s all well and good.  But consider the following:

In a few years she will want to start dating.  Then she will want to start holding hands….which might lead to kissing and OH GOOD LORD Pandora’s box will be right in front of her.

How can I prevent this?

I can’t.

But I CAN delay it.  I can sabotage it.

Here’s my strategy.

I’ll prepare garlic-filled dinners before any date night.  If their date is dinner, then a strongly garlic-filled snack as soon as she gets home from school.  SERIOUS garlic.

I’ll serve her gas-causing meals the day of the date.  Especially if it is a Saturday….I’ll have the whole day to pre-load her up on beans, broccoli, eggs, and onions.  Oh, and the kiss of farting death: cauliflower

I’ll display a shotgun in each room the boy may enter when he comes to pick her up….and I’ll place open boxes of Ammo everywhere, too.  Maybe even a couple of empty cases in the bathroom.

I’ll have Troy sit down with the boy and subtly, casually tell stories from when he was a Fire Investigator in the Fire Marshall’s office and how he had to take all the Police Training Courses to do it.  Including marksmanship.  And then I’ll  have Troy tell the boy how well-trained he is in detective work. And tell him how many people are in jail because of his investigative skills.  Oh, and I’ll ask him to fake a nervous twitch.

I’ll make the boy give us a full fingerprinting before he leaves the house with Gwen.  Also, I’ll have him leave a sample of hair for DNA testing.

And the Piece De Resistance:  When she isn’t looking, I’ll smear fresh cat-poo on the bottom of her shoe…deep in the crevices so it won’t scrape easily.  Just enough to give off a slightly malodorous scent.

That should about cover it.

Oh yeah, and I’m going to take my daughter to the Vet to have a chip placed subcutaneously like they do in dogs.  Only I’ll have them add a GPS marker so I can locate her at any time.

Brilliant.  Genius, I know!  You don’t have to tell me!

Some people would suggest I simply sit down with her and warn her off.  Appeal to her logical side.  But look, people, we’re talking about fighting hormones.  We’ll also be in the “parents are idiots” stage of her development….you know, the time in her life where she will think I have no idea what it is to be crazy randy horny, so she might blow off my advice.   I can’t take that chance.

So I say, go in the back door.  Don’t take this monster on face to face.  Work smarter, not harder.  Remember, old age and treachery beat youth and skill every time.

For those of you friends with daughters, you’re welcome for the ideas.

For those of you friends who have sons, go ahead and convict me of being over the top.  Tell me I’m too extreme.  Accuse me of being insensitive.  Brand me as insane.

Whatever.

I sleep at night.  Do you?

A couple of years ago, one of my munchkins made me a flower craft.  I’m not sure who it was because it has initials on the back of it ….  and they share the same initials.  Not too swift of me in the naming department, was it?

This craft has been sitting in my kitchen window ever since it came home.  I had long since stopped actually ‘seeing’ it, it’s been there so long.

It reads: “I love you because….”  And then each petal has a different reason, given by my kid to their willing – and no doubt patient – teacher, who then typed them out.  The reasons whichever kid it was love me are as follows:

You let me do fun things.

You took good care of me when I was a baby.

You take me to the pool.

You take me for walks.

You make me macaroni and cheese.

You take good care of me.

I always thought this was such a sweet craft.  It was probably for Mother’s Day, or something.  But as I write this post, I find my thoughts go down another avenue.

What the heck are we teaching our children? Conditional love?

I mean, come on, you love me because I make you macaroni and cheese?  So, if I make you, say, Ravioli, will you still love me?  That’s dangerous ground.  I mean, I don’t always have it in me to make Macaroni and Cheese.   Does that mean I’m living on the edge?  Is this the slippery slope where at first my child loved me, and then I stopped making that one dish that melted his (or her)  heart, and now he (or she) can barely stand to be in the same room with me?

Scary stuff.

How about “I appreciate you because” instead of “I love you because”.    Because no one wants to be loved for doing something.  We want to be loved for being ourselves.

I’d bring it to the teacher’s attention, but I can’t remember which kid made the craft.   I don’t want to ask the kids because then I’d expose myself as an inattentive mother and risk losing my Mother-Of-The-Year award.

So back up on the window it goes, until one of the kids betrays a hint and I can deduce who made it.  Then I will be able to tell the teacher about the problem they created for me.

Until then, I’m making a lot of Macaroni and Cheese.  I can’t be too careful ~ I’m on shaky ground.