Adios to My 20s!

In honor of achieving the grand milestone of my 30^th birthday, I decided to interview my precious Pookie & the Brain to snag their opinions of their mother’s youth slowly slipping from existence.  This was hands down the most comical interview I’ve ever conducted, God bless their hearts! 

Me:  What does turning 30 mean to you?

Pookie:  It means it’ll be your birthday and you’re going to get lots of presents.

Me:  What age is old?

Pookie:  100

The Brain:  73

Me:  Am I nicer now that I’m 30?

The Brain:  No, you still yell a lot. But you do make cookies for us sometimes, so…

Me:  Am I smaller now that I’m 30?

Pookie:  Yes. No. Wait – umm, yes. You for sure are.

Me:  Am I more attractive now that I’m 30?

The Brain:  I’m gonna have to think for a second.  Let Cara go first.

Pookie:  Yeah, cause you’re beautiful.

The Brain:  Yes, because of your face and your new haircut.

Me:   Was I ugly at 29?

Pookie:  No, you were pretty.

The Brain:  Rolls his eyes, and smacks his forehead.

Me:  Am I old?

Pookie:  No way!

The Brain:  No, you’re still too young for Dad.

Me:  Speaking of Dad, what do you think he should get me for my birthday?

The Brain:  Probably a crockpot.

Pookie:  Air conditioning for your car, and a new house.

Me:  If you had money, what would you buy for me?

Pookie:  A new car.

The Brain:  I’d get you a new house so big that everybody could live there.  And I’d give you a free trip to… what’s your favorite place?  Probably Spain.  Yeah and how much does it cost to go there, like $5,000? I could take you there and then maybe give you $250,000.

Me:  Do you have any advice for me now that I’m the big 3-0?

Pookie:  You’re awesome cause you’re fun and stuff. You take us fun places like grandma’s and skating on our birthdays, and I love you.

The Brain:  No.  I’m just a smart kid and I cannot think of any advice.  You’re gonna be older, but the same height.  And when you do homework, it might ask for your age.  Instead of 29, you’re gonna have to put 30.  That’s all I know.  Can we be done with this?!?

Pops

A good friend of mine credits the release of Michael Jackson's Billie Jean for the evolution of deadbeat dads as we know them today. Lucky for me, my dad became my dad prior to the song's December 1982 release. So therefore he rocks.

My relationship with my dad is unique in that it's nothing like what you'd see on tv. We don't hug, he doesn't call to ask how my day was, we rarely exchange I-love-you's and when he has something nice to say to me he usually looks genuinely uncomfortable saying it. Outwardly, he is grouchy and always screaming, cussing and irritated. When it comes to most issues in life, we are on opposite ends of the spectrum. For example, he doesn't vote because "they're just gonna put who the hell they want in office anyhow, so why bother"? I dare you to argue with him. You won't win.

The funny thing is that even without a hug, without him calling to ask about my day, and without the exchange of words, I know he loves me. Which works out pretty well because of how much I love him back. My dad likes to show his love through food. If he feeds you, that's love. He actually invited us over tonight for tuna casserole. Thanks, Dad. We love you too!

When I was around six and we lived on Seton Avenue, I remember sitting on the porch with him. A bee came close to me and he clapped his hands together and killed it. That's the first time I remember thinking how strong he is - my dad, my protector. As an adult, I lean on him more than I could have ever imagined. He and my mom watched my kids every Thursday night while I got through college. When I bought my house he almost killed himself tearing down the walls in my bathroom for the remodel, and literally fractured ribs while moving in a new refrigerator. Flat tire, I call Dad. Low on funds, I call Dad. Need bail money, just kidding. But you get the point...

The reason I make note of all this goodness is because this past Wednesday, my dad's dad (Pops, as he called him) passed away at age 86. Knowing the huge role my dad plays in my life, it's almost inconceivable to watch him lose his own dad. I can count on one hand how many times I have seen him cry, so it was rough to see it this week. But it was also refreshing because good parents show their kids emotion, even when they are "the strong one".

I'm praying lots this week for my dad, all of his brothers and his sisters. We will lay grandpa to rest on Monday, September 24. May he rest in peace.

If Kids Could Cuss

When you become a parent, you ultimately find that there are unwritten laws - boundaries, if you will - that all children must abide by. The tricky part is that by being unwritten, these laws are subject to vary based on each family's individual code of conduct. For example, this means that in my home, kids are forbidden to cuss. But that doesn't mean that the little trash-mouthed bastards down the street will think twice about calling their mother a ratchet scutterbucket bitch when they feel unfairly nagged to do their chores. Value systems tend to differ, and you'll have those types of variations. It's a fact of life, folks...

What I'm quickly learning, though, is that just because my kids aren't allowed to cuss, doesn't mean they aren't cutting me down internally. By way of a cycloptic stare, flared nostrils and crossed arms, I can sense the internal dialogue. They're using the f word in formations I've never even considered, they're pairing that f word with explosive adjectives and well, I imagine it's harmonious. An f word symphony, all in their minds, all directed at me. Never to be spoken because they aren't allowed to say it. Just think it. Because my filthy-mouthed children are respectful filthy-mouthed children. #proudmommymoment (And yes, I just hash tagged that. If you can Facebook it for no reason, I can blog it. If you have an issue with it, I'll have my kid cuss you out internally.)

So today we were invited by our close friends, the Bickels (and no that's not a funny - that's seriously their name), to visit Coney Island for their union's picnic. The chance for rain was 100+ percent, but I figured that just meant shorter lines for us. So the plan worked beautifully - we got to hang with our friends for a few, we walked on to just about every ride, we got rained on but nothing too major, and for the most part we had a pretty kick ass day. Then the last 15 minutes of our trip turned into an I Wanna Kick a Kid in the Ass Day. Three of the four kids in attendance lost their damn minds and had temporary mental breakdowns. But nothing, oh nothing, topped the grand finale put on by my precious Pookie.

She decided to be queen of the island and demand that we board the Scrambler just one more time. But the rain drizzle was starting to pick up, the Bickels were becoming tired, hungry, crabby. It was just time to go. Her father and I took turns asking her to follow us to the last ride of the day, which was unfortunately not going to be the Scrambler. She ignored us, continued walking toward the Scrambler, screaming to us what she was going to do. Her dad walked over to her, bent down and said something firm, and she somehow scratched his arm. From there it got ugly and he had to physically bring her to me in a Full Nelson headlock. (Dysfunction, as promised in blog post #1.) That's when I realized that I had to take action. I delivered a life-shattering blow. "Cara, you're NOT getting on the last ride with us."

I could see the exact moment when my words connected with her brain. I think I also saw the f word spark in her left eye. She started sobbing uncontrollably, hyperventilating and repeating, "I WANNA ride the last ride! I WANNA ride the last ride!" She was definitely that kid. The one where strangers walked by, shook their heads, and then followed me to see if I was going to stick to my guns. Or maybe they just wanted to see me beat her. Either way, no blood was shed, and she did not ride the last ride. She found a close seat with which to torture herself, and quietly convulsed and cried for the entire duration of the last ride. I would venture to say she internally used the b word and the f word a lot, but mostly directed at Daddy this time. #FUDADDY!

Thank you to Jesus for the days that my angels are seemingly innocent. I know they're cussing me up and down internally, but it's because they have a trash-mouthed mother as a role model. They know not what they do. Lord help us all when My Pookie & the Brain become teenagers...

I am, however, happy to report that Cara has since apologized to me and her dad. I think it's just because there were cookies involved that she wanted, but it was an apology nonetheless. And Bob's arm scratches are healing just fine. Lastly, the aforementioned 'bastard children' down the street are not the ones who live on MY street. I feel like I should clarify in case any of their mothers become faithful fans of the blog. I'm sure your children enrich my babies' lives regularly. And for that I thank you. #brownnosing

Oil & Water

Two years apart in age but the exact same size, my kids get mistaken for twins a lot. Which would be cool because I like to think that twins actually like each other. However, the only common interest my children share is fighting with their sibling.

Cara, my dear Pookie, is 7 years old in life, but intellectually she's about 24. She informed me that her favorite singer is Lil Wayne, but because he frequents the b word, the h word, the f word and the g word (I did not ask her to clarify), she settles for Nicki Minaj and Ne-yo. She is a total boy. It's only recently that I have been able to negotiate her into a skirt. Before that she would cry crocodile tears and beg to wear pants because she "didn't want to sit like a lady". My darling daughter is a social butterfly, whose best friend calls my phone more than MY best friend calls my phone. My Pookie Doo is overly interested in food. She is the only child I have ever met who will cry, real tears, over food. She loves to argue, she knows everything, and thanks to older influences, boys are no longer "cute" because they're now "hot". Ugh.

Evan, the Brain, is 9 years old, and socially he's approaching 7. He still thinks girls have cooties, his lifelong goal is to become a professional gamer, and his sister is his arch nemesis. He is laid back and generally agreeable. He is an extreme brainiac, hence the nickname. He is the kid who will stop you mid-sentence to let you know that you've used a compound word. He likes to analyze the things people say and categorize them by facts versus opinions. On long trips in the car, he asks questions that he knows damn well I can't answer.

Mom? What do hippos eat?
Mom? Does God ever sleep?
Mom? Why is my poop brown, but I never ate anything brown?

Uh, I'm not sure, buddy. We'll have to google it when we get home.

Having polar opposite personalities hasn't done much for their relationship. World War 3 happens in pretty much the same sequential order, over the same predictable things on a very regular basis. It goes pretty much like this: Cara performs some obnoxious little sister act, loud enough for Evan to hear, but generally not loud enough for me to notice. This act includes, but is not limited to, calling him some derogatory name, sticking her tongue out at him, initiating a wet willie, kissing his cheek (the ULTIMATE no-no for him), crossing her eyes at him, blatantly ignoring him, singing the same Bieber lyric on repeat, booger picking/flicking in his direction, or purposely stretching her foot, arm or head onto his side of the backseat in the car. He shoots me a quick pre-pubescent, high pitched, "Moooo-ooooooom! Tell her to STOP!" I politely threaten her life, she promises to stop and then she distracts me with big innocent green eyes. Seconds pass, I think the situation is rectified, and the next thing I know he screams, she laughs, he screams in an even more angry tone, she mocks him, he tackles her and then starts throwing closed-fist body shots. She continues to laugh. I like to think there's a hint of normalcy to it...

As it turns out, my Pookie has the upper hand in just about all of their disagreements because, well, she's just more street smart than he is. Each night they rock, paper, scissors to see who has to get in the shower first. Every night Cara finagles her way into a 15th round (she wasn't ready, she wasn't paying attention, her nose itched, she had a cut on her thumb which hindered her ability to fully execute her scissors formation) until she ultimately wins and showers second. The best part is that Evan never argues. He just gets pissed and storms off into the bathroom.

I signed up for a long and happy life with these two opposing teams. For now, I'm just going to appreciate them as comedic relief. And just in case you were wondering...

Hippos are herbivores. Their diet consists of mainly grass and some water plants.

There is evidence in the bible that suggests God sleeps, but also the contrary. Theoretically, though, he isn't human like you or I, which means he shouldn't need to eat or sleep. He is just chilling in heaven taking care of holy bidness.

Per smellypoop.com, the color of poop itself comes from iron. Iron in hemoglobin in red blood cells gives blood its red color, and iron in the waste product bilirubin gives rise to its brown color.

So now you know. Thanks, Google!

Frienemies for life!

Homemade Haircuts

What identifying characteristic do Michael Phelps, Tina Fey, Justin Bieber and myself all have in common? Among many others, natural talent.

It was about three short weeks ago that I decided I'd make an amazing hair stylist. All I needed was a mannequin. Short on mannequins, I grabbed the next best thing - the Brain. At first he was all about it. My noble experimentee hopped up on the stool with his chest confidently pressed outward and a big smile on his face. It was around the time that I snapped the #4 guard onto the clippers that I noticed his smile fade away. He had a worried look on his face and he began to ask in-depth fact finding questions that very much matched his facial expression.

Have you done this before?
How close are you gonna get to my ears?
Do ears bleed when they get cut?
If you cut my ear off on accident, does that mean I'm deaf?
If I get deaf, I won't hear you tell me to get off the XBox or to go to bed. Can you just practice on Cara?

After some careful negotiations (30 extra minutes of video games, less work, more pay, and better benefits), I managed to get him to sit still long enough to finish. All bullshitting aside, the boy's hair was pretty slick. Both ears remained fully in tact. Winning! I will never pay Great Clips again...

So let's fast forward to lastnight, first day of school eve. Like any phenomenal mother would, I performed daily wrist exercises to prepare for a good 1.374 hours of labor intensive manual pencil sharpening. I packed up all 872 of those pencils, 42 sticks of glue, and enough paper towels, Ziplock baggies and Expo markers to stock both of their teachers' homes until at least the end of 2012. I pre-packed lunches, labeled NOTH on every surface, backpack and forehead I could find, and lastly - I contemplated haircut number two.

Confident in my ability, I chose to forego a trip to Great Clips. Having discovered this raw talent of mine, I decided that this year, mom can take credit for his fresh new cut. So I positioned my fourth-grade subject just where I needed him, I snapped on the #4 guard and I went to work. Twenty minutes later, we were on the brink of perfection. The boy looked good, I felt good, and WHAM. He turned his head into my hand and we now have what he refers to as the "hole in his hair".

In my defense, Michael Phelps doesn't speed swim in a jacuzzi with jets. I'm at a serious disadvantage, folks. We'll be stopping by Great Clips later this evening. Oopsies!

To Blog or Not to Blog?

I'm the queen of making last minute decisions to do something new with my life. Typically this involves abstaining from Diet Coke for the rest of eternity, or opting for bangs at one of my tri-annual haircuts - just the standard heavy stuff. The latest last minute ruling of her majesty? To start a blog, of course. So here I sit, bangs securely fastened and a Diet Coke in a close proximity. "Long live this blog! Long live this blog!"

Getting on to the important part... I have funny kids. And I mean REALLY funny kids. If you have kids, yours are probably pretty funny too. But as the presiding mother over the aforementioned children I must attest that mine are the funniest in the land.

Having my first child was an utter adventure. Every occurrence in my life post-baby has just been a subset of that adventure. Not sharing would be a crime, in a way. First, though, I'm legally bound to give a few disclosures.*

1. I participated in an honors Spanish class in high school, which means I'm qualified to throw a random word of espanol into my posts now and then. I can't help it that sometimes other languages make me feel spicy. Ole!
2. I'm an imperfect mother, with imperfect views, visions and experiences. You'll come across dysfunctional-ness. Just don't say I didn't warn you.
3. What I value most are the people in my life, with a special emphasis on my dear children. Coming soon:  I'll introduce you to each of them.
4. If we've learned nothing else from our favorite President & CEO, Christian Grey, it's that sex sells. Though most of my posts are about kids, it doesn't mean they're kid-friendly. And my ladylike vocab could give Andrew Dice Clay a run for his money.

If you're easily offended, this may not be the blog for you. That being said, if you're still interested, let's roll. ;)

*I'm actually not legally bound to a damn thing, but doesn't that make the blog sound super importante? (That's Spanish for important).