Me First

Recently, a dear friend asked me, "Who comes first, you or your kids?" To justify my hasty answer of "Me first, of course," I cited the old airplane safety example...

Everyone knows that in the event of an in-flight emergency you secure your own oxygen mask before assisting your child. It's common sense. Why then, do so many parents (mothers mostly) have the tendency to take care of their children before themselves, even if it sucks the life right out of them? I for one, consider my happiness an emergent situation. Which isn't to say that I don't see to it that my children's daily needs are met along with a reasonable amount of petty wants. It just means that I don't always make myself low man on the totem pole. Sometimes I take the biggest slice of pizza, the longest shower, the last chug of milk from the carton. It wouldn't be like a mediocre mother to be magnanimous ALL the time.

However, I did relinquish the better part of my adolescence to take a crack at teenage motherhood. (I'll tell you the whole story in due time.) Suffice it to say, that while "Juno" and "Teen Moms" have made unwed pregnancy as trendy and nauseatingly contagious as whatever Ke$ha song is currently climbing the charts, when I was in high school getting knocked up was still considered an unsavory thing to do. In fact, upon learning of my unfortunate condition I was summoned to the principal's office at Viewmont High and invited to attend school somewhere I might feel more "comfortable". Somewhere turned out to be The Young Parent's School in Farmington, Utah--a nondescript brick box of a building that housed between 30-40 pregnant girls. And I thought I was the only teen trollop in Utah!

A far cry from wise-cracking Juno, I was the sort of pregnant girl who--while waddling to the school bus--waved back at the teenagers from nearby Davis High who heckled me from their passing cars. "Slut!" They'd sneer from their open windows, sometimes tossing Big Gulps at me while on their way to Seminary class. "I know," I'd shout back apologetically, "Sorry about that." It was a different time, and a different me.

These days, you'll get no apologies from me for stealing a nap before sorting Legos with the boys or for shopping the clearance rack at my favorite thrift store before sitting through another flag football game. Why? Because this former harlot has learned the fundamental in-flight safety rules for life--when Mom's happy, and she has enough air to breath, even if she isn't riding first class, there's no such thing as a crash and burn. When I'm with my kids, whether it's waiting poolside or potty-side, I'm exactly where I want to be--there's nothing unsavory or obligatory about it. Nowadays nobody tells me where I'll feel more comfortable but me. So what if that means bath-time for me before bedtime for the boys? So long as I'm the one tucking them in, nobody seems to mind.

Sew what?

Hello, my name is Jennifer and I'm domestically deficient in the sewing department. How bad is it? Suffice it to say, I can't even sew a button on a blouse or manage a simple hem. For these things, I rely on my trusty costumer for the Voodoo Darlings troupe, Curtis Kidd - aka: Arthur Couture, Saviour of Sewing. For anything that needs my immediate attention, safety pins or a hot glue gun has always done the trick.

Now, when it comes to certain household duties, I can hang. I've got laundry down to a fine art. I can organize a closet like nobodies business, but when I got word from Tru's kindergarten teacher at school that his Friendship Quilt needs to be tied and returned by Wednesday, I had to wave the white flag of sewing surrender. In defense of the Open Classroom where my son attends, they did provide all the necessary materials, complete with adorable drawings on the fabric by each of the kids in the class. All I have to do is tie the thing. "Easy as pie", one of the other mothers said--a phrase that has always confused me, considering pie baking is hardly something I view as simplistic. To be fair, it's not like Tru's teacher burdened me with this impossible task last minute, but somehow I missed her previous 5-10 email reminders about the Quilt Completion Deadline.

So, now the domestically-challenged part of me wants to shout, SEW WHAT? Who needs a well-tied quilt anyway? Surely, Tru will survive and manage to secure friends without a masterfully done Friendship Quilt. If I put his materials together with safety pins and hot glue, not only will he love it, but the other mothers in his class may even congratulate me for my ingenuity, right?

Wrong.

I suppose a superior mother would Google "Quilting for Dummies" and stay up for the next 48 hours slaving over a sewing machine or whatever exotic contraption is used to assemble a quilt. But for me, it's time to man up and pay the piper. I don't call it the "Memoirs of a Mediocre Mother Blog" for nothin'. So here goes...fast cash to the first person who can tie Tru's quilt for me by Wednesday morning and potentially allow me to take all the credit when the time comes.

In return, I'll compensate you monetarily, appreciate you eternally, and transform one of your closets into a space organized enough to set up shop inside. You'll be able to call it a second bedroom and rent it out to a tenant and I'll have a Friendship Blanket to turn in, guaranteeing that my son will, in fact, make friends in the future--which was probably not the point of the project. At the end of the day, Wednesday to be exact, I just want to rest easy knowing that if Tru turns out to be a lifelong recluse it won't have anything to do with my inability to sew on a button.

The Not-So-Promiscuous Prom Queen

Had there been a Prom Maternity section or willing teenage suitor during my own Senior Prom, I may have attended, swollen belly and all. How ironic that the daughter I was seven months pregnant with during my own Senior Prom was just crowned the Prom Queen at hers. Isn't life funny?

Happy Hands-Off Mother's Day

When I said all I wanted for Mother's Day was a nice, relaxing picnic at the park with the family, that wasn't entirely true. Oh, I meant it when I said I didn't want any gifts (wrapped that is), but there is a short list of things that I'd like to include as Must-Have's for Mother's Day.

People who live with me: Please pay attention.

I don't want to do dishes, laundry, cooking of any kind (social or survival), wipe noses, butts, tables, or chocolate pudding off the walls. I don't want to de-poop the yard, refill the snake's water dish, find missing mates to shoes, socks, wayward Lego parts, or the ever-elusive remote control. I don't want to remind anyone not to fart at the table, but if they do to say "excuse me", or not to fiddle with their boy parts or that--for the last time--diarrhea is not called dynamite, but perhaps, should be. I don't want to cringe today when my son calls a fat woman fat to her face in public when he genuinely meant it as a kind of compliment for being so big, a mere observation of a physical fact and not an insult in any way. I don't want to be the mother who loses her kids in the store when they run away from her and hide under the clothing racks, only to race to the front to have her paged over the loud speaker just so they can hear their last name announced for all the world to hear. I don't want to sweat or swear--unless it's for sheer enjoyment and not out of frustration. I don't want to make peace, paper airplanes, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut in half diagonal NOT horizontal. I don't want to kill spiders or anyone's formative hopes and dreams. I don't want to clean a toilet, dog, or toys from the floor of the boys bedroom for the gazillionth time in a day. I don't want a teenager--mine or any other on the planet--to give me attitude, grief of any kind, or a last minute list of expensive things that need to be purchased, like, yesterday. And most of all, I don't want anyone to be unhappy, especially myself, meaning no tantrums, tears, lost toys, pets, or tempers, on this: My very special day of celebrating the many joys of motherhood.

Basically, all of the things I do twice on a regular day, I don't even want to do once today. I just want a healthy, happy, hands-off Mother's Day where I can sit in a patio chair and watch--from a safe distance--my children engaged in relatively unsupervised, but safe and mess-free play.

Is that too much to ask?

Lies My Mother Told Me

Sure, I teach honesty and integrity same as the next mother. But do I practice what I preach?

Evidence to the contrary:

1) Last week, during a trip to Disneyland, I told my boys they were allergic to cotton candy so they would stop begging for it.

2) At bedtime, in an effort to get my boys to go to sleep by themselves, I tell them that I will be right back. Then I leave the room and stay away until they pass out.

3) I tell my boys that their vitamins/vegetables are magic pills that make them stronger and smarter overnight. In reality, the only thing that makes you instantly stronger and smarter is excessive flattery.

4) Again with the "magic" lies...I tell my boys that there is an invisible force field around their bedroom that makes it impossible for monsters to enter.

5) When Jet asks me if he is going to be big and strong like Daddy when he grows up I tell him yes, even though with a mother who is 4"11, the odds are strongly against him.

6) I allow my children to assume that Darth Vader is real, but have explained to them that the tooth fairy is purely make believe.

7) I told my boys that if they pee off of the top of the backyard shed again the police will come and take them away to jail.

8) I tell my boys that if they pick their noses and fart at school no one will want to be friends with them.

9) I tell Felicia that I'd rather her be a drug addict than an unwed teenage mother, like I was. --- Oh wait, that's actually true.

10) I turn Nick Jr. on for the boys and tell them that Daddy and I need to lock our bedroom door for "wrestling time". This worked until Tru wanted to join us for one of our impromptu wrestling matches. Now I tell him we are making the bed---thank heavens he doesn't find that sort of thing interesting.

11) Perhaps the biggest lie of all: I tell my boys that I know absolutely everything and can tell when they are lying to me.

I mean really, how else am I going to teach my children to be honest, ethical, healthy, well-balanced human beings without bending the truth from time-to-time?

Days of Plenty...late nights and turtle brownies, that is.

Yesterday afternoon could have ended in catastrophe with the dog (Max) running away (again) while I was in the midst of emailing a rate quote for a potential gig, and the boys (Tru and Jet) running away (again) to find him. For any of those who have visited our home and noticed that the deadbolt on our front door serves the double-purpose of keeping people outside from getting in AND people inside from getting out, Tru's frequent escapes to the nearby train tracks with little brother in tow are the reason why. Even a mediocre mother knows curious boys and high-speed trains don't mix.

Fortunately, this time Tru and Jet were discovered hiding out at The Carter/Woody house down the block; who can blame them? They have a trampoline. After being apprehended and returned home, we all sat down at the dinner table (a novel idea) for some freshly baked Dominoes pizza before Danny and I had to jet out for date night.

Date night for us consisted of attending the Days of Plenty Concert at The Historic Murray Theater. Yet another one of my side-jobs is booking events there, although it took Molly Jackson and her incredible organization, A Good Grief, (www.agoodgrief.com) to get me to actually attend something I'd booked. In a nutshell, A Good Grief Organization evolved after Molly begin blogging about losing her little girl Lucy. She gained a following of bloggers who related to her loss and pain, and before long, hope grew from grief, along with Molly's overwhelming desire to help others navigate the emotional and financial hardships that accompany the loss of a child.

There was a whole slew of talented vocalists on the line-up, including Lea Cabrera, a dear friend of mine. At the end of the concert, while Molly belted out "Days of Plenty" from the musical, Little Women, a moving slideshow was shown in memoriam of the "Angel Families" from her organization who have either received headstones or are waiting to receive headstones for their little ones. I'm not much of a public-crier, but looking at those precious little faces--all gone too soon--I couldn't help but think of my own healthy boys and girl back home, and just how lucky I am to have them to hold, even if it's just for a short time. It goes so quickly! (And some days not quickly enough.) I can still remember a four-year-old Felicia singing on a pizza parlor table in exchange for free ice cream, and now we're getting ready to relinquish her to college. I made up my mind on the drive home from the benefit concert to be a magnificent mother most days, as opposed to a mediocre mother more often than not. I would get my maternal shit together and make cookies from scratch, put photos in an album somewhere other than Facebook, iron things with actual starch instead of throwing them in the dryer with a wet towel.

Who am I kidding?

When we got home and Jet (you've been hearing a good deal about his antics lately) came out of his room refusing to sleep, you know what I did? Instead of sending him packing to bed, I brought him into the kitchen and asked him if he wanted to make turtle brownies with me--from the box, of course. Silly question to ask a four-year-old. In the battle of brownies vs. bedtime, guess who won?

We washed down the brownies with milk and the pre-recorded elimination episode of American Idol--between the two, I'm not sure which could be worse for a toddler in terms of overall health and well-being. At any rate, it was after midnight when we finished our sugar and song foray. Tru had migrated from his room out to the couch with Jet, and Felicia fell asleep on the floor next to the space heater.

Now it's the morning after. I know I should feel guilty--although I'm not sure exactly why, just accustomed to it, I suppose--but there was no school today and we ate what was left of the late-night brownies for breakfast. Now if that isn't killing two happy birds with one stone, I don't know what is.





If you are dealing with the loss of a child, or loss of any kind, I strongly recommended following Molly Jackson's moving blog: A Good Grief Blog

Even better, donate to her incredible organization: DONATE NOW

PS. Max came home, too.

Rub-A-Dub Toaster Waffles in the Tub

Call it brilliant multi-tasking or sheer laziness, but this is what happens when we oversleep and the school bus is on it's way, leaving no time for both breakfast AND a bath. Toaster waffles meets tub-time. Bon Appetit!

A personal pat on the back, however, for following Dr's orders by not allowing Jet to get his cast wet.

Spidey Takes a Tumble

Several weeks ago, while I was attempting to bake blueberry muffins from the box, my youngest son, Jet, jumped from our computer chair while wearing his Spiderman outfit. The result: Two broken bones and Jet's teary-eyed indictment, (directed at my husband and myself) that, "You were supposed to catch me!" Of course, we were in the other room blissfully unaware of the dangers of rolling computer chairs combined with toddler Superhero role-play.

Daddy rushed Jet to the hospital while I stayed behind to get myself and my five year old, Tru, dressed for the day--despite the fact that it was almost noon. I hurriedly packed a bag of burnt blueberry muffins to take to Jet in the emergency room, only to be informed that he couldn't have anything to eat until after anesthesia--after I'd already allowed him to take a whiff of the bag, of course! Oops.

In the end, Jet ended up with a barrage of attention from doting nurses along with a souvenir set of X-rays, while I went online and ordered him the Darth Vader costume that I'd previously told him he couldn't have until Halloween because I'd been waiting for a sale.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I don't cook.