Planet Mom Blog

Opportunists Never Sleep

My children are opportunists. I know this much is true. Said seizing-of-the-proverbial-moment unfolded thusly.

My husband, the brood and I sat down to dinner one evening not long ago. The delectable fare was chili, I believe, sprinkled with voluminous quantities of idle conversation. Par for the course in this household.

More specifically, there was talk of tadpoles and those dastardly Bakugan toys, discussions involving loose teeth and dog breath, and naturally (NATURALLY!) there was a remarkably gruesome retelling of an Animal Planet feature on polar bears--one in which a woman was horrifically mauled at a zoo. Lovely. Just lovely. My appetite thanks you, dear offspring from hell.

What's more, my co-ed daughter started texting her boyfriend obsessively DURING THE MEAL. Did I mention that it was during the meal and that it was obsessive in nature? Not surprisingly, she was entirely unaware that the rest of us even existed. Translation: it was as if we had slipped in pig shit and fallen off the fucking planet. All that truly mattered was that beloved Blackberry of hers and the stupid little messages that kept popping up on her screen, making her giggle uncontrollably.

And laugh out loud.

And roll her eyes.

And fervently punch those teensy tiny keys in an effort to top the boy's witticism in 160 characters or less.

Gag me with a spork!

At any rate, Thing One and Thing Two (my wily eight-year-old twins) took note of said heinous crime, scolding their big sister for interrupting the meal with something so completely frivolous.

"That's reeeally annoying, Sara. You ought to stop it," Thing One chided as she took a bite of cornbread.

"Yeah, Sara--put the cell phone away or Mommy's gonna get mad. REALLY mad," Thing Two echoed.

Of course, the Texting Queen was totally oblivious to their impassioned demands--so absorbed was she in crafting the next 17,000 messages to the Boy Wonder.

"Hon," I felt compelled to join the fray, "you need to stop texting. You really do. We're trying to eat dinner here together, remember?"

"But Mom, HE keeps texting ME," she lamely defended.

"So. Stop answering him."

"I can't do thaaaat. It would be rude."

"And this isn't rude?! Helloooo!"

"Well that's different."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"Okay then...why don't you tell him something catchy like, 'STOP TEXTING ME. We're having dinner right now and MY MOM ACTUALLY COOKED, so technically speaking that qualifies as a SPECIAL OCCASION!'?" Of course, I suggested the use of capital letters as needed.

For a time, a cloud of silence hung in the air. No one so much as chewed a morsel of food or touched a key. Everyone knew I was right. It WAS a special occasion.

Enter the opportunist...

"Mom," Thing One tentatively offered out of the blue, "can I have some of your wine?"

"Whaaa?" I asked, completely taken aback by her request.

"You said it's a special occasion, right?"

"Right. So???"

"So I should be able to have wine."

Indeed, opportunists never sleep.

Planet Mom: It's where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Dances with Carts

Shopping carts are the bane of my existence. It seems I have an uncanny knack for choosing ones that are both polluted with germs (Gak!) and hideously deficient in some unforeseen manner (i.e. equipped with a smarmy, foul-smelling handle or some gunked-up, pathetic semblance of wheels that lurch and rattle and are positively driven to move me in any direction but straight).

For whatever reason, I tend to poo-poo the many and varied imperfections at first, foolishly thinking that I won’t have to tolerate them all that long and they certainly won’t be all that bothersome in the end.

Moreover, the truly vexing nature of most of the rogues I choose doesn’t become readily apparent until I’ve already journeyed halfway through the produce aisle, mindlessly fingering the fruit and considering whether we need more carrots or romaine. By then I’m committed to the match made in hell. For better or for worse. Till death do us part. Or at least until I manage to shove the misfit-of-a-cart through the checkout line or muscle it to my car where I can finally ditch it for a better life.

To add insult to injury, I often have to endure such hardships with my heathens in tow—the lovely creatures who yearn to make each and every shopping excursion I embark upon more memorable. And they do. Whining incessantly about this or that item—the one that the mean-and-horrible-troll-lady won’t let them have. Wrestling over the matter of who gets to man the cart first. Wooing me with pleas for sinfully sugary cereals and those sickly sweet gummy snack-a-ma-call-its that ought to be removed from the planet altogether.

Apparently it is not enough to be blessed with a wayward cart.

And once I make that regrettable and irrevocable decision to allow one of my miscreants to navigate the treacherous trail ahead, my fate is sealed. Someone’s ankles will indeed pay the price. Likely, mine. Despite the innumerable lectures I’ve delivered, the live demonstrations I’ve provided and the vat of instructional guidance I’ve offered on the subject, my two dandies, though well-intended, are physically incapable of maneuvering from Point A to Point B without smashing into someone or something. Granted, the aforementioned errant and evil wheel-a-ma-jigs do little to further their cause.

Not surprisingly, at some point during each supermarket tour my patience usually wanes with the pushing-of-the-cart-ludicrousness, climaxing shamefully somewhere between the toothpaste/shampoo aisle and the frozen foods section (i.e. the beast that is mommy rears her ugly head). As I return to the helm, attempting to pilot that which refuses to be piloted, I am met with yet another challenge: that of effectively communicating to my brood the notion of walking single file. My futile commands typically go something like this: “Okay girls, someone is coming toward us now and we need to walk single file.” “Girls?” “Hellooooooo. This stinking aisle isn’t WIDE enough for all three of us AND another cart to pass—is any of that remotely registering with you two?!”

Of course, neither child of mine responds, so engrossed are they with hanging onto the sides of my cart, eyeing the shelves for more of that which is forbidden. I must then stop the cart and clumsily move them—as if they were a couple of giant chess pieces—either in front or in back of me, smiling apologetically to the person now upon us. Again and again I repeat this cart dance—this utter lunacy, aisle after aisle, both stunned and amazed that creatures capable of telling me anything and everything I might want to know about a Euoplocephalus dinosaur cannot grasp the concept of hiking somewhere single file.

And let us not forget the times when one or both “helpers” insist upon riding inside the cart, “…so you can pile all the stuff on top of us, Mom, like we’re inside a little house! That’s so cool!” Naturally, there are people who find this disturbing—especially when they detect a hint of movement somewhere beneath the econo-sized Goldfish and the Lucky Charms.

“Do you know there are children in your cart?” they’ll ask, alarmed by the possibility that I could, in fact, be so fricking clueless as to not notice a couple of stowaways on board.

“Yes. They’re with me, otherwise known as Dances with Carts.”

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (forever dodging those ankle-biting menaces in the grocery store). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

 The 234th Parental Role: Official Cookie Hander-Outer

 

It’s got to be a sin—shamelessly wedging cookies into the awaiting hands of my progenies whenever and wherever the need arises (i.e. when I want to instantly quell that which is nothing short of maddening). Like those completely mortifying performances in the middle of the cereal aisle…or the wailing, whining and stomping-of-feet thing I witness when I’m charged with the woeful responsibility of dispensing just about any sort of medicinal gook…or the ridiculous and incessant bickering matches that take place in my car and tub. Yes, I’ve doled out veritable buckets of Oreos and Chips Ahoy to warring tub dwellers and to those who do battle from the confines of crumb-filled car seats. All in the name of restoring the vestiges of peace and tranquility that existed heretofore—before the torrents decidedly struck.

 

The Nanny would be horrified.

 

Admittedly, my conduct has been reprehensible and I do feel slightly guilty about the whole affair—my role as Official Cookie Hander-Outer/Dispenser of Bribes/Bad Mommy, that is. Just slightly. My deplorable deeds collectively may in fact be the sorriest example of behavior management involving children and undeserved offerings on record, but in my humble and purely unfounded opinion the cookie thing is an effective method of curbing the ugliness that spells MELTDOWN: DEAD AHEAD. Very effective. Never mind that it’s a temporary fix. A Band-aid on a mortal wound. A flawed parenting technique. An unforgivable sin.

 

It calms the beast within and that’s what matters most to me.

 

In all honesty, I could have used a cookie (or twenty) at the pediatrician’s office just before my kids entered kindergarten. It was there we learned that one needed a Strep test (always a favorite among my crew) and that both needed shots (“But you promised that we wouldn’t get any shots today!!”).

Worse yet, I became a big, fat liar in my kids’ eyes. And I’d daresay there is nothing more horrible as a parent than being guilty of betrayal—except maybe when one trashes a little pile of rocks, feathers and wilted dandelions lurking in a corner of the garage, because of course it was thought to be rubbish, but in actuality, “It was my special collection, Mom!”

 

Ugh.

 

For months preceding that wretched appointment still emblazoned in my memory, I assured my charges, “THERE WILL BE NO SHOTS DURING THIS VISIT”—practically staking my life on the claim. And after being informed that there would, in fact, be shots today—Chicken Pox vaccinations to be more specific, I wanted to crawl under the examining table and have my own just-make-it-all-go-away meltdown.

 

“Tell you what, Hon, if you let this nice lady with the pretty Band-Aids give you a Strep test and a teensy-weensy little shot, she’ll give you some nifty stickers and then we’ll go straight to the Dollar Store or Wally World or wherever you want to go to pick out a toy, a game, a coloring book, a freaking polka-dotted pony if you must! Just cooperate this once, pleeeeease!”

 

Not surprisingly, it took some time, some creativity and some sinfully exorbitant promises to make the sale. Even more time, creativity and sinfully exorbitant promises were required for making the second sale. (Thank God for Sponge Bob and Dora Band-aids). Naturally, I had to up the ante several times in the process as well as explain to all concerned that no one could actually get Chicken Pox by touching chickens—but that we still needed the shots just the same.

 

Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined uttering something like, “Yes, Honey, if you get the shot I’ll buy you a Bratz doll with a gigantic head for slathering on make-up with a trowel.” But I did say it. And I meant it. And I fully intended to purchase said sleazy-looking monstrosity if it meant my child—the one wrought with fear over having witnessed her sister’s plight—would allow the nice lady with the pretty Band-aids and the cache of stickers to give her the stupid shot already.

 

No one mentioned I’d have to refinance the house in order to pay for the silly thing. “I’m sorry, Hon. It’s just too expensive.” So I became a big, fat liar yet again. Clearly, it wasn’t my day, but thankfully we settled upon something that made my brave little soldier drunk with joy: a vat of make-up and nail polish that she and her cohort could slather upon themselves, instead of that hunk of sleaziness she so desired. Joy.

 

Cookies would have just been simpler.

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

 

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

The Allure of Roadkill

I’ve suffered the wrath of my children for a plethora of reasons—probably for more asinine things than I can possibly count. And most of the time, it has been because I missed something simple along the way—some crucial bit of insight or communiqué that might have taken much of the frustration and complexity out of childrearing. Something that would have made me less of an ogre and more of a compatriot.

                                         

That being said, I once made the dreadful mistake of trashing someone’s beloved “collection” that was lurking about in a despicable corner of our despicably organized garage. Said Shrine-to-Mother-Nature consisted of a hideous clump of wilted dandelions, a handful of slime-ridden leafy matter, a smattering of pebbles and a bunch of twigs I assumed had been left for dead—or at least for kindling. Silly me.

 

When my crime was subsequently discovered, it was as if I had slaughtered Sponge Bob and his moronic sidekick, Patrick (not that I haven’t deliciously entertained the idea). At any rate, I was practically deported for having violated one of the tenets of Motherhood: “Thou shalt not dispose of foolish tripe without first obtaining the express written consent of all interested parties (i.e. the resident heathens who may or may not be able to read or write yet).” Since then, our mother-daughter relationship has improved, but I doubt I’ll ever be forgiven for such an atrocity.

 

Then there was the cardinal sin I committed just last month when I insisted the toad must go. The toad who lived on my coffee table for three days running, who drove me completely berserk with his relentless pawing and clawing of the wretched cage-like home to which he had been so unwillingly assigned. The toad who had been worshiped and glorified for his many talents (being warty, for one). The fist-sized blob of repugnance whom my little girls felt compelled to kiss and cuddle (till I became visibly ill—Gak!) during a teary-eyed and interminable farewell which will live in my guilt-ridden soul forever and ever. Amen.

 

Of course, I’m certain it was not unlike the dramatic performance of a lifetime I myself delivered in Disney World back in 1973—when I became thoroughly and hopelessly obsessed with the notion of obtaining a certain toy rifle I had seen; one that stole my heart from the moment I ogled its silken stock and genuine metal barrel. The fact that it came with a real ramrod and shot corks merely made me want it that much more. My mission: to convince my grandparents that I couldn’t possibly continue living without it. That I would surely shrivel up and die right then and there with Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck as witnesses unless and until they journeyed to the ends of the earth (read: the entire length of the park) and bought it for me. I still have that beloved prize, but sadly, not one cork.

 

As a parent, my popularity also waned the day I refused to let my charges wear their Crocs to Knoebel’s. Naturally, they grumbled and groused each time we happened upon a kid wearing those stupid shoes—the ones that ought to come with a box of Band-aids and a waiver. Waiting in line for the bumper cars, spinning around in those monstrous tea cups, crammed and jammed impossibly inside a bevy of bathroom stalls—where our worm’s-eye view spoke volumes. “See, that kid’s Mommy let her wear Crocs.” Everywhere, it seemed, I was reminded of what a horrible mother I was.

 

Likewise, there was the time I rearranged the refrigerator magnets (oh, the horror!). The time I forgot to tell the landscaping people not to disturb the “eagle’s nest” in our front yard (i.e. the massive heap of sticks that begged to be flung into oblivion). The time I insisted the bug cage must either be chucked out entirely or purged of the unsightly display of caterpillar carnage contained within. Or more recently, when I had the audacity to wash their bedding without first consulting she-who-would-freak (read: she who would be instantly launched into a stomping, shrieking fit of rage upon learning her stuffed animals had been moved). Next time (she demanded of me) I would photograph said animals properly, so the blasted things could more easily be returned to their rightful place in the Universe. It’s poetic justice, I suppose, for having lied about bedbugs in order to convince her that laundering was necessary at all.

 

Like I said—I’ve suffered plenty of wrath at the hands of my children. But the rage-inspired idiocy I am about to describe is beyond all imagining. While ferrying my brood over hill and dale, we passed what appeared to be a dead skunk along the roadside. The pungent aroma that filled our Jeep shortly thereafter, confirmed my astute suspicions. Ridiculously keen on witnessing dead things (as always), both kids craned their necks to see the furry beast who had met an untimely demise. But alas, they had no such luck—even after three tries and lots of helpful reminders like, “We’re about to pass the skunk…we’re passing the skunk…we just passed the skunk….” For a fleeting moment, I entertained the notion of pulling over to let them eyeball the ludicrous thing once and for all; but thankfully, that little gem of an idea went away.

 

Well, upon learning that we wouldn’t be returning home over the same well-traveled path (where the unfortunate skunk lay), one of my dandies decided to stage a protest. First, she whined and flopped her sorry self about in the seat, eventually feigning death or at least a healthy bout of unconsciousness. Naturally, I ignored such nonsense and kept driving to our 437^th destination of the day. By the time we finished our errands and pulled into the garage, the silent treatment had begun in earnest—in fact, she wouldn’t even get out of the car. She just sat there, forever, arms crossed in defiance across her chest, jaw and brow cast in stone. She then proceeded to sear holes in the back of my front seat, positively stewing over my latest transgression. “Lovely,” I thought. “Just lovely!” It’s 9,000 degrees and my kid (who hates me) won’t get out of a sweltering car that’s sitting inside a sweltering garage—thanks to a stupid skunk who couldn’t cross a stupid road to save himself!” How pitifully ironic.

 

Then again it was ironic to think that carrion could possess the least bit of charm.

 

Ultimately, my rebel child conceded defeat and dragged herself inside; but her sullen mood continued for quite some time—punctuated with commentary like, “I just wanted to see the skunk, Mom. I never saw a dead one before,” as if it were some sort of exotic thrill.

 

Apparently I failed to grasp the simplicity of the situation yet again, as well as the allure of roadkill.

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

 

Copyright 2008

Melinda L. Wentzel

 

Bug Flinging and Other Sources of Amusement…

 

Let me begin by saying that Linda, of It’s Good to Be the Queen fame, inspired this post. In its entirety—almost. Simply put, the woman oozes hilarity—in a twisted, irreverent,

OMG

-that’s-sick-but-really-funny sort of way. IS there any other approach to dealing with the insanity that is parenthood?

 

I think not.

 

Anywho, Queen Linda (who is a mother to THREE boys) recently shared some of her readers’ horror stories involving their sons and the infinite array of curiosity/stupidity they collectively possess and shamelessly display. Just click on the link in the paragraph above and prepare to snort geysers of coffee (or whatever else you’re drinking) all over your keyboard. Truly, you’ll be howling—even if you don’t have kids. Okay, ESPECIALLY if you don’t have kids. You will then be entitled to laugh uproariously at the very people you pledged you’d never become and at the madness they endure in the trenches of Parentville. So chortle away. But clean your own silly keyboard.

 

 

At any rate, after devouring every delicious syllable of the Queen’s spiel (i.e. “Summer, Oh Where Will the Time Go?”), I had to think of my own heathens and the brainless things they’ve done since school let out (even if those heathens aren’t boys—and even if they’re only seven).

 

For starters, Seek and Destroy spent some quality time together teetering atop the couch—taking turns shoving each other “…to see if we’d actually fall off, Mom.” The series of dull thuds I kept hearing—and puzzling over—led me to the scene of idiocy in the living room. Like Linda, I’m quite sure a patented, “What were you THINKING?!” escaped my lips—but in my head I had to have shrieked, “WTF? Are you morons on crack or something?!”

 

Then there was the afternoon during which my charges were bored out of their minds so together they came up with the brilliant idea of slathering on enough makeup (read: Bratz-inspired Spackle) to make a circus clown proud. Glittery glammory junk was liberally applied to almost every square inch of their faces, to include foreheads, noses, eyelids, lips, cheeks and chins—much to my chagrin. However, they soon tired of admiring themselves in the mirror (and marking territory with the shimmery, shiny lipstick they so adore), so they decided to liven things up a bit by kissing the dog. On the lips. “…to see if my purple lipstick would be on his lips, Mom.”

 

Dear God.

 

And although they fell short of that particular goal, they were somewhat satisfied with having made his nose purplish anyway. Mind you, this hideous event should not be confused with the sinful number of instances during which my children smooched the dog “…just because, Mommy. It’s fun and Jack likes to be kissed. His tongue is slimery.”

 

Bleck! I want to hurl. In a big bucket. Until the horrendous dog-lips-visual burned upon my brain disappears.

 

What’s more, there have been a slew of burping contests and dim-witted stunts (like surfing on teeter-totters, somersaulting off chairs and bare fisted boxing matches) along with some completely asinine dares (i.e. “I dare you to run through the poison ivy!” “Oh yeah, well I dare you to stick your whole head inside the Chimnea!”), sans blazing heat and fiery flames, thankfully. Good thing I interrupted their foolishness and precluded the logical progression of this particular train wreck: rifling through the pantry in search of the fire-starter thingie that Tom Hanks yearned for in Cast Away—to light the stinking stuff in the Chimnea, of course, (hence, making the dare infinitely more interesting).

 

I always knew I had a purpose in life aside from flushing toilets and finding errant flip-flops. It’s to keep my kids from torching the fricking place.

 

Likewise, one day I stumbled upon an abandoned gadget for our Jumping Monkeys game. It was lying in the hallway next to a big, pink sand bucket (deemed outstanding as a collection device for those fuzzy-headed, goo-filled caterpillar-ish creatures I so despise). Mysteriously, it was empty—which makes my skin crawl even now as I type these very words. Naturally, I theorized that a miniature catapult (intended for flinging a bunch of plastic primates into a plastic tree) had been used to launch caterpillars to the ceiling—repeatedly. Sadly, my theory was correct. Admissions of guilt were gathered sometime later as was the collective inspiration behind said atrocity: “We wanted to see how high our catties could fly, Mommy. Don’t you get it? Cat-a-pult…Cat-a-pillar…”

 

Arrrrrrg!

 

Strangely enough, my cherubs were amused not only with the disgusting creatures’ Herculean feats, but with their ornamental qualities as well. “Look, Mommy! I’m giving the pretty caterpillars a ride!” one of my dandies shouted as she hobbled stiff-legged across the living room, balancing the wicked things atop her bare feet. At that, I was rendered speechless and could think of nothing but “Holy $#!&, she’s wearing the most repulsive pair of fuzzy slippers I. Have. Ever. Imagined. Period.”

 

Furthermore, the creepy-crawly circus has been staged not only inside my house, but inside my car as well. As we left the soccer field for the umpteenth time in recent weeks (along with every other destination it seemed), those cagey characters of mine were spotted in my rearview mirror wearing sheepish grins and acting queerly—sitting perfectly quiet and still, peering into their cupped hands, whispering Lord-knows-what into that darkened hollow.

 

At one point I glanced back to see King Harold (as they affectionately named one of them) dangling perilously from someone’s fingertips, his smallish body zooming in and out through the air, superhero-style—saving the day, no doubt. I couldn’t help but think of my grandfather (who was coincidentally also named Harold) stunned and completely mortified by the notion. Or maybe he’d be mildly entertained and perhaps thrilled to have been included in their foolishness. Who knows?

 

I certainly don’t pretend to know, but I DO know that I’ve discovered an inordinate number of those worm-ish entities where they ought not to be—carefully tucked inside backpack pouches and handlebar totes, cowering on the floors of my cupboards and held captive inside empty water bottles and travel mugs (i.e. makeshift shelters for “…our new friends, Mommy”).

 

Egads! September can’t arrive soon enough!

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

 

Copyright 2008

Melinda L. Wentzel

What a Croc

 

There were lots of unreasonable requests in the closing days of the school year. Most of which involved smuggling something there that ought not to be (like “…my dog,” “…my three thousand-pound rock collection,” “…my caterpillars and wormies,” “…my pirate sword,” and “…my gigantic squirt gun!” Another entirely different set of pleas were made for wearing some sort of inane getup that would in all likelihood ban my children from the establishment for life (like “…my bathing suit,” “…just my underwear, Mom,” “…my flip-flops,” “my cheetah pants,” “…my favorite (read: hideous-looking) hat from the cool-beans NAPA guy,” “…my big sister’s dreadlock wig.”)

 

Egads!

 

All but their demands for caterpillars and flip-flops were shot down handily because, of course, Mommie Dearest reared her ugly head. (You knew she would). I did, however, eventually soften on at least one other petition—that of a burning desire to wear those wretched Crocs. Color me a damned fool.

 

Our conversation unfolded thusly:

 

“Mommy, can I wear my new Crocs to school tomorrow?! Pleasepleasepleaseplease!? CanIcanIcanIcanI?!”

 

I paused briefly to contemplate the hell I’d surely pay if and when I denied her request. Like an idiot, I decided it was worth the wrath I’d suffer at the hands of a seven-year-old obsessed with Croc-O-Mania.

 

“No, Hon. I’m sorry. Your aunt and uncle were kind enough to give them to you and they’re adorable. Really, they are. But they just don’t fit you well enough. Not for school. You’re swimming in the stupid things.” Read: they’re big and sloppy and your feet look as if they’ve been shoved inside Kleenex boxes—Pepto-Bismol-hued Kleenex boxes festooned with functionless air holes, more specifically. “And besides, you’ll fall down on the playground and knock your teeth right through your lip (banking on the graphic visual to drive home my point).”

 

“No I won’t! I can run in my Crocs just FINE, Mommy—and I won’t even fall down all day!” she defended, shuffling across the kitchen in the silly things just to prove it. “Kasey (along with 37 other names she rattled off) wears ‘em to school because her mommy lets her.” (Translation: Kasey’s mom is the best mom in the Universe. I, by contrast, suck.)

 

“The answer is still ‘no’ and besides, Kasey doesn’t live in this house—you do,” I countered, fighting the insanely overwhelming urge to cave. Still, I just wasn’t convinced that she’d do anything but scuff and skid and skate through her entire school day, exhausting her little gripper toes in the process. Privately, I hemmed and hawed, seeing myself as a merciless tyrant—denying that which I know would make my child infinitely happy. At the same time I envisioned giving in, feeling horrible as a result. Neglectful. Like a pitiful excuse for a mother—one that couldn’t even send her poor waif to school with the proper foot attire. Oh, the horror!

 

I then snapped to my senses, “They fall off even when you’re on the toilet! It’s craziness to wear them to school. I think you should just wear them here. At home. Where it’s safe—at least until your feet grow.”

 

“I’m DYING then!” she wailed with the sort of woe-is-me drama that would have won an Oscar. “Or else I’M MOVING TO CALIFORNIA where you’ll NEVER find me and I’m taking JACK with me!” Mr. Fuzzypants then perked his ears and tilted his head quizzically, thrilled to have been included in the discussion. Although, I suspect he was mostly interested in learning whether our fruitless and incessant blathering meant he’d be getting a treat anytime soon—or at the very least, going for a walk. He then glanced at the leash and studied our faces, his blackish eyes dancing with the notion of “MOVING TO CALIFORNIA…TAKE JACK WITH ME!”

 

“Will you be taking your Crocs to California?” I asked as if I were inquiring whether she wanted bologna or peanut butter in her lunch.

 

“YeeeeEEEEEsssssSSSSS!” she fumed, her face as flushed as those pink canoes. “And I’m wearing them TO SCHOOL and EVERYWHERE ELSE I want to. And you can’t stop me. Hrmph!”

 

“But what will you do in the mean time?” I probed, stifling the snicker stuck in my throat.

 

“I’ll just hide them in my backpack—inside a secret pouch that’s invisible even to YOU. Then you’ll neeeeever know I’m wearing them at school all day,” delivered with that “So THERE!” tone with which I am becoming all too familiar.

 

The idiocy described above continued seemingly forever. Weary from the battle and shamed into giving in, I conceded defeat.

 

“Wear ‘em already. Croc yourself out!”

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (in a house with kids and Crocs galore). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

 

Copyright 2008

Melinda L. Wentzel

Venture Caterpillarists

My kids won’t be peddling lemonade at our curbside anytime soon. Apparently there is no need. Those budding opportunists will be making money hand over fist (or so I’m told) pushing a commodity for which I had never envisioned a demand—tent caterpillars: those indescribably horrid creatures that will one day conquer the earth. One tree at a time. Beginning with my backyard.

Blasted gluttons.

When I gaze into their furry faces (and I have, at my children’s interminable requests!) I see nothing but miniature monsters, each equipped with legions of legs, a fearsome set of mandibles and an insatiable appetite for the green leafiness I so adore. A terrestrial piranha, so to speak—a loathsome entity, artfully wrapped in a warm and fuzzy little package that no child could resist. Especially not those who possess an entrepreneurial flair coupled with a weakness for all that creeps and crawls, wriggles and writhes, slithers and snakes.

Gak.

“But Mommy, caterpillars are so fuzzy and friendly—and they make perfect pets ‘cause they’re cute and cuddly and soft and ticklish. They’re quiet, too. And they don’t bite one bit. Also they’re pretty easy to take care of, they don’t make big messes with their poop and you don’t even have to walk them or anything. They’re just ADORABLE, Mom. And KISSABLE. Doncha think?”

Like I said before—GAK! Okay, so maybe the stupid things do qualify as low maintenance. But the gak factor—good God, it’s off the scale!

“We’re gonna’ collect a MILLION of those guys and keep ‘em in the garage where they’ll grow and grow until they’re big and fat. Then we’ll charge two whole dollars for each catty (as they are affectionately referred) and we’ll be rich, Mom! Really RICH!!”

By all accounts, we should be gazillionaires by now.

Our garage currently houses more of the despicable vermin in question than I care to admit—or even think about, quite frankly. The notion disgusts me—in a makes-me-wanna-hurl-profusely-into-a-big-bucket sort of way. Those smarmy, goo-filled creatures make my skin crawl—especially when I dwell on the masses of silken tents currently choking the life out of all-that-is-green-and-good on this earth, each defined as a bursting-at-the-seams vat of vileness primed for its grand and gruesome entry into the world. Blaaaaaarg!

Not to worry, however. Said pests have been expertly corralled (“…we promise, Mommy!”) and are neatly contained within bug boxes and the like, awaiting that oh-so-lucrative marketplace of which my visionary dandies have conceived.

Stinking venture caterpillarists, anyway.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Animal Crackers in My Soup…

Me: “How ‘bout some animal crackers with your breakfast, Hon. Doesn’t that sound perfectly scrumptious?”

Seek: “Okay. I guess so.”

Me: “You know, I looooove animal crackers, but not in my soup. That’s just plain weird. They’d get mushy. And I don’t like mushy, unless we’re talking oatmeal. Oatmeal is supposed to be mushy. Not animal crackers.”

Seek: “I don’t like oatmeal, Mom.”

Me: “Oh yeah. I forgot, my dear child. You’re fond of next-to-nothing when it comes to food. Heaven forbid you slurp something oatmealish. Good Lord, what would happen if you actually liked it?!” (Insert dramatic gasp and clutching of breast) “People would talk.”

Seek: (Rolls eyes and reminds me to get the animal crackers already).

Me: (Happily munching on goats, buffalo and great hordes of elephants together…) “My favorite part is biting off their silly little heads, you know.”

Seek: “I like that, too.”

Me: “It makes me feel all-powerful, like a mean and horrible beast-of-a-thing, obsessed with just one mission in life: devouring herds upon herds of terrified creatures. Mercilessly ripping off one head at a time and then gobbling the remains in a ravenous fit of rage. Leaving not one crumbish morsel upon the earth. Like that Cyclops guy. Pretty sick, huh?”

Seek: (Silence).

Me: “I guess that IS pretty sick. Oh well, does it bug you that I like animal crackers in the first place?”

Seek: “Nope. Big people can eat kids’ food, too.”

Me: “Well that’s a relief.”

At that, I plunked a hapless goat in my mouth, smacking my lips with pleasure. (But not before I mumbled the poor fool’s last words—to the utter delight of all, “Goodbye, cruel world!”)

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Dining with Heathens…Continued…

(Please recall, if you will, that my motley crew and I happened to be dining in a rather swank establishment, where I was appalled YET AGAIN by the uncouth nature of mealtime discussions).

“Mommy, Taylor needs you in the bathroom.”

“Whatdaya mean she needs me?”

“You know, Mom. She neeeeeeeeds you. Plus she said the toilet might overflow.”

Of course my mind played worst case scenario (as it does so capably), racing forward to the hideous spectacle we’d become should such a foul catastrophe actually occur. I pictured the crowd, agape and aghast, their satiny napkins clutched in horror, silverware and China clinking and clanking as patrons pushed and shoved to escape the river of repulsiveness snaking its way across the floor where we dined.

Fortunately, it wasn’t our day to be a spectacle. I mumbled a small prayer of thanks into the folds of my napkin upon my return from the restroom. Yet another crisis averted. But the boorish banter at the dinner table continued.

“Daddy, Mommy took us to see the coolest thing this morning before we got on the bus! It was a DEAD BIRD! A DEAD BABY BIRD! I wanted to touch it, but Mommy wouldn’t let me so I just poked it with a piece of grass. I even blew it a kiss! I could see its little beak and grayish feathers and everything! It was SO cool! Jack tried to eat it, you know. Mommy said he rolled around in it later. That’s so gross. Why do dogs do that anyway?”

Of course, this handily surpassed another mealtime discussion we had had about dog poo in recent months. “Daddy, Jack made a little sculpture with his poopie today! I call it the Leaning Tower of Poop! I told my art teacher what he did and she laughed and laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. It was SO funny, Daddy! Mommy should take you to see it before it falls over. It’s like a real tower you know.”

Prior to that, the worm discourse had comfortably held the top spot. “Daddy, I’m saving every little wormy I find outside,” Thing One proudly announced, delving into a bowl of spaghetti with her fork. (How fitting!)

“They’re part of my collection, Dad. Just like my rocks. So I put the wormies in a big bucket in the garage. It’s their worm bed.”

“Yeah, and one of those guys pooped on my hand!” Thing Two squealed with utter delight. “It was DIARRHEA, Mommy! Ewwwww!”

Like I said, I am literally appalled by what is deemed newsworthy at our dinner table. Indeed, kids acknowledge fully the power of shock value—now and forever.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Dining with Heathens…

As a general rule, I am appalled by the uncouth nature of the discussions that waft over our dinner table each evening, filling our house with the familiar stench of gaucheness. Thursday was no exception. Mind you, my husband and I were dining at a rather swank establishment, living in abject fear that one or both of our heathens would say or do something that would mortify us beyond comprehension. Not that we’d be surprised.

“Mommy, these carrots taste like the inside of a shoe.” Oy! Thank God the waitress had already flitted back to her lair by the time that snippet of speech tumbled forth for the whole freaking world to hear. The woman was out of earshot—ostensibly, anyway. I surmised that Grandma and Grandpa, who were also attending said grand and glorious soiree, would then call into question what we had been teaching our dear charges for the past seven years, specifically with regard to table manners (or the lack thereof). But apparently, they remembered well what it was like to be embarrassed by a brood of tactless children—one of whom happened to be me.

“Honey, is that a nice thing to say?! How on earth would you know what the inside of a shoe tastes like anyway?” I scolded, swallowing a melon-sized chortle and glancing around to see if anyone had heard the carrot comment or, worse yet, had detected my sinfully delicious amusement with the whole affair.

“I licked Daddy’s shoe once and that’s exactly what these carrots taste like,” she stated in a definitive manner.

Needless to say, at this point in the discussion I fell silent, both stunned and disturbed by the information I had been given and indescribably mortified by its implications. I mean, what do you say to a child who has admitted to having tasted a shoe?! Much less, the INSIDE of a shoe?! I’ve got nothing for that. Zilch. No pat little responses exist in my repertoire of snappy parental comebacks for such an inane remark.

So we moved on—to the next set of things for which I was unprepared.

To be continued…

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel