Stick With Balls

In true mediocre mother fashion, I haven't posted to this blog in two years. As all children have a tendency to do, those who are discussed, examined, and involuntarily exposed in said blog, have done their share of growing up over time, despite my best efforts to sabotage the process.

Why today's conversation with Tru prompted me to post again is beyond me, when there have been so many other equally as interesting and inappropriate shared-chit chats between us. But here you have it---my recent conversation with my nine-year old son, and undoubtedly another future reason for parental resentment on his part. Can you blame him?

While driving with Tru (9) and Jet (7), Tru in the backseat eating Funyuns (his favorite afterschool heath food), he poses an important question:

Tru: Mom, Is it bad to push your testicles back into your fingers?
Mediocre Mom: Yeah, that sounds bad. Don't do it, and especially not at school.
Tru: Once you told me it was healthy.
Mediocre Mom: Are you sure?
Tru: Yeah.
Mediocre Mom: Well, I must've been really tired then.
Tru: Yeah, you said when my testicles get really long to push them back with tweezers.
(I turn around at a red light, just in time to catch Tru woefully inspecting his fingernails.)
Mediocre Mom: Oh! You mean cuticles not testicles.Yes, you can push your cuticles back anytime you want.
Tru: Well, what are testicles then?
Mediocre Mom: That's the appropriate term for your balls.
Tru: I think it sounds too close to cuticles so I'll just stick with balls.
Mediocre Mom: Yeah, me too. Good plan.

Hairy Christmas and Holi Messes

We're not Sunday (or any other day of the week) churchgoers, so at first I thought attending the Holi Festival of Colors at the Krishna Temple in Spanish Fork would be a bit of a stretch for the Tarasevich Tribe. That is, until I discovered that every Mormon, Aetheist, Christian, and otherwise religiously affiliated schlep this side of Beaver would be in attendance---and have the photos up on Facebook by nights-end to prove it.

Having been warned that the Holi colors would make a holy mess of our clothing, we donned threads we didn't give a damn about, which made for a less than fashion forward family of five (minus Felicia who's away at college).

Unfortunately, the color-bombing (often by strangers) was the only part of the festival we were prepared for. Nobody told me that there'd be a long, sardine-like procession of people waiting to get into the Holi gates on the right while exhausted rainbow-colored attendees exited on the left. Nobody mentioned that I'd have the unique opportunity of being pressed between a squeaky clean BYU student and a shirtless middle-aged man for the better part of an hour while awaiting my rainbow baptism. Crashing the Holi Festival is not for the claustrophobic. Herd-like behavior ensued and I swear the boys actually began mooing as we neared the entrance. Alright, they didn't moo. But that's what it began to sound like after the umpteenth time they reminded me, "Mom, I'm thirsty" before we reached the front of the psedo-line.

Seriously, what kind of mother remembers her lip gloss and forgets to pack bottled water for the Holi Fest? This guy.

Once inside, colors cost $2.00 a bag but anyone you look twice at will gladly give you a fistful of magenta to the face for free. Everybody wants to hug you, whether you ask for it or not. But nobody wants to tell you where the nearest garbage can is because, apparently, there are none to be found. Empty color bags blanket the ground in a carpet of kaleidoscopic plastic. I told the boys to hang onto their spent bags for future disposal, but after a few songs by the Hard Rock Hare Krishna band we were tossing empties at our feet like the best of them.

We were hot and dirty and happy, having a helluva great time with people we never planned to see again. It was like buying a Day Pass to Burning Man. Playa for Pussies. We got to experience the thrill of communal worship and joy, get dirty up in every crack and crevice, and then get the hell out---home to a hot shower, a clean commode, and a wastebasket in every room.

All in all, it was a day full of colorful chaos and one slightly terrifying moment of panic when the colors were thrown and our oxygen supplies were momentarily replaced by rolling waves of chalk. Tru was a bit disappointed that I wouldn't let him body surf and Jet felt sorry for the "Burning Witch" until I explained to him that it was just a straw sacrifice and not a real person. My personal favorite part of the day is when Tru began singing along with the crowd: "Pray for those who hurt you!", and scolded me for not chiming in, "C'mon Mom, jump and sing! Everyone else is doing it." I suppose there could be worse kinds of peer pressure to give into.

For the record, I jumped.
I sang.
I hugged a Hairy Christmas (as Tru called them) or two.
We're totally going next year.








For More Information about Utah Krishnas CLICK HERE

KSL Article About the Festival of Colors CLICK HERE

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?