Damn

Damn.  I fantasize that this word holds magical powers.

I imagine that when I release the first “damn” that the clouds will part, angels will sing and a beam of light will shine down on my children as the realization washes over them.

Me:  I said clean your DAMN room!

Children:  Oh, wise Mother!  We have been so wrong.  We will clean our room.  But first, please forgive us for the slovenly life we have led!

Me:  Of course, dear children.  Now run along and clean your damn room.  Mommy loves you!

Or it could go like this . . . .

Me:  Stay in your DAMN bed!

Children:  You are so right, intelligent Mother!  We are not well rested.  We will sleep now and replenish our energy for we are much more pleasant to be around when we have had our sleep.  We will go now to our damn beds.

Me:  No, no, sweet children!  Damn is Mommy’s word!

Children:  Yes, Mother.  As always, you are right.

Exactly how old does one’s child have to be before you can release the first “damn?” (Please say eight, please say eight!)  Or perhaps there is a height requirement?  My children are all very tall for there age.

I feel confident in saying that I will have to wait.  Maybe I can think of a better word by then.  Certainly not “please;” that word rarely works!

The Girl Scout Experiment

It started innocently enough.

“Mama, can I be in Girl Scouts?”

And from there it grew.

I’m now the Brownie Leader, the Troop Co-Leader, the Cookie Mom, the Delegate, the Camping Mom and OH MY GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE????

I’ve learned some things about Girl Scouts.  Apparently, girls cannot earn badges for washing the Leader’s van.  Actually, I think it is frowned upon.

And you can FOR-GET about the girls giving you a pedicure, no matter how badly you need it.  Apparently, Spa Badges are discouraged.

Our Brownie meetings coincide with $0.99 margarita night at our local Mexican restaurant.  I’m thinking of moving our meeting location to the restaurant in hopes of getting more parent participation.

So yes, I have been very, very busy.  Not only busy with Girl Scouts but busy with life in general.  But I’ve missed my blog all my friends out here.

Will I be blogging everyday?  Probably not.

But am I back?  Yes, you can bet my last box of Thin Mints that I am.

No Hablo Español

Mr. GreatMamaExperiment is solely responsible for ONE parenting duty.  ONE.  He must teach our children to speak Spanish.

You should know that Mr. GreatMama is Hispanic and speaks English and Spanish fluently, so it’s not like I’m asking him to split an atom.

Unfortunately, what Spanish our kids know they have learned from Dora the Explorer.  So what did I do?  I decided to take matters into my own hands and teach our children to speak Spanish.  I had Spanish in school; I even made A’s.  My high school Spanish teacher, Senora Dickens, would be so proud!

Día Número Uno (that’s Day #1 for all you gringos out there)

I’m in the kitchen (as usual) at the crack of dawn (as usual) preparing breakfast (as usual).  I hear my three-year-old awake (who I affectionately call #2).  She sounds like a little Sumo wrestler as she heads towards the kitchen.

Mama Mamá:  Hola!  Buenos días, mi amor!  (Woo-hoo!  Spanish is easy!)

#2:  (Looks at me puzzled.) Mama, I dirsty.

Mamá:  (Crap, what’s the Spanish word for juice?  She’ll just have to drink water.)  Agua?

#2:  Huh?

Mamá:  Agua?????

#2:  Huh?

Mamá:  AH-GOO-WAH??????  (Am I not speaking plain English, er . . . I mean, plain Spanish to this child?)

#2:  Uh . . . no?

Mamá:  (Oh!  Listen to my smart girl!  She already knows the Spanish word for “no!”  I should reward her!  After all, rewards work when you’re training a dog.  Let’s see . . . what do I have for a reward . . . AH HA!  Cheese doodles!!!!!)

I cram a cheese doodle into my 3-year-old’s mouth at 6:00 a.m. in the morning and pat her on the head.

Mamá:  Muy bien Melissa. ¡Muy bien!

My 6-year-old daughter (#1) and 22-month-old son (The Boy) enter the kitchen.

The Boy:  Mama?

Mamá:  Sí, sí!  Yo soy mamá. Eso es muy bueno.

I cram a cheese doodle into The Boy’s mouth and pat him on the head.

Mamá:  Yo soy mamá.  Sí.

The Boy:  See?

The Boy is obviously a master of the Spanish language!  I cram another cheese doodle into his mouth.

Mamá:  Buenos días, Lauren.

#1:  Uh . . . . hola?  Are we going to Taco Bell or something today?

Mamá:  No.  No Taco Bell (I felt like this wasn’t an exact Spanish translation, so I said it will a REAL heavy Spanish accent).

#1:  What’s for breakfast?

Mamá:  Un momento por favor (Crap!  How do you say eggs in Spanish??).

#1:  Is it pancakes?  Because I don’t want pancakes.

Mamá:  (How do you say eggs?)  ¿Cómo se dice eggs?

#1:  I don’t want eggs, if that’s what you’re saying.

I can hear the baby crying in her room, waiting for me to come and get her.  My three older children all begin to talk at once.

#1:  (whining) Why don’t I ever get what I want to eat for breakfast?  I’m tired of you picking out what I eat!

#2:  Mama?  I want more cheese doodles.  (she chants) Cheese doodles!  Cheese doodles!  Cheese doodles!

The Boy:  Mama!  Mama!  Juice-juice!  Jooooooose!  Joooooose!  Uh-oh . . . stinky.

Mamá:  ¡Silencio!  Er .  . . . ¡Alto!  (This is not working.  Oh, crap.)  Caca.

#1:  Caca?  What is caca?

The Boy:  Caca?  CAAAAA-CAAAAA!  CAAAAA-CAAAAA!

#2:  (Still chanting) CA-CA! CA-CA! CA-CA!

Spanish.Lesson.OVER.

Halloween Greetings

HOLA and Happy Halloween Eve-Eve.

Wanted to share this; a little grown-up Halloween entertainment.   Not for kids or the easily offended.

This year we will have a vampire, a ladybug, a spider and a bumble bee for trick-or-treat. I plan to walk behind them with a string of garlic and a fly swatter.  It should be great fun.

Hope your Halloween is great.

When Mom Gets Sick

It’s my own fault.  I bragged.  I bragged that only one of my kids caught strep throat.  Hell, I wrote a post about it and awarded myself a fake trophy.  Stupid, stupid Mama.  I was asking for it.

The previous Wednesday The Boy was diagnosed with strep.  I had missed a lot of work the past two weeks with him and the baby having strep and really needed to go to work Friday.

Friday morning is when it hit me . . . . the stomach virus FROM HELL (please imagine scary voice with cool sound effects when reading “from hell”).

I manage to get my three girls off to school and daycare.  The Boy is home with me because he still has a fever.  It’ll be ok, he feels bad and will sleep most of the day.  I can do this.

Me:  (puking) I don’t have time for this.  I’ve got to find a Daisy Girl Scout uniform. (Wretch.)  I’ve got to post on my blog and properly thank the Chalupa for my award. (Barf.)  I have a bloggy-crush on the Chalupa in a non-creepy, non-stalker kind of way so I need to get it done before she thinks that I don’t appreciate it. (Blaaahhhh.)  I’ve got to make a cake for the frigging Harvest Festival.  At least The Boy is in a Motrin-induced sleep.

The Boy:  Mama.  Stinky. (points to his diaper)

I change The Boy and put him back down to sleep.  I now have the headache FROM HELL (please imagine sounds effects again.  I’m kind of low-tech.)

The Boy:  Mama.  Juice.

I give The Boy some juice.  I think I’m gonna puke again.  Here come the chills.

The Boy:  Mama.  Outside.

The Boy has miraculously been cured.  He is bouncing off of the walls, ready to go outside and play.  Traitor, can’t you see that your mother is dying?  I can’t do this.  I need help.

I grab my cell phone.  Oh, God . . I’m going to die.  I send an emergency text message to my brother.  He’ll know what to do.  The text simply read, “i sick”  This was no time to punctuate or form complete sentences.  It was an emergency, by God!  Within minutes my phone rings . . . it’ s my mother.  Thank God.

Mom:  What’s wrong.

Me:  VIRUS (Yea, it’s the sound effects again.  I was an inch from death so I’m allowed to use it).

Mom:  Oh, no.

Me:  My mother will save me.  She will swoop in and take The Boy to her house.  She will make the necessary arrangements for my girls.  Then I can lie here and die in peace and know that my children will be well taken care of once I’m gone.  I wonder what kind of tombstone they will choose . . . .

Mom:  I can’t leave work.

Me: Oh, shit.  I’m REALLY gonna die.

The Boy:  Outside!  Outside!  Uh-oh . . .  stink-stink.

Mom:  The children can come to my house and spend the night when I get off of work.  Your brother will pick up the children from daycare.

Me:  I made a noise that indicated that I understood and accepted her offer.

I hung up the phone and lay on my daughter’s Dora pillow and wrap up in a baby blanket.  The phone rings again.  It’s my father.

Dad:  What’s wrong.

Me:  I’m dying.

Dad:  Um-hmm.

He doesn’t sound impressed.  He’s so droll.

Dad:  I’ll be over in a minute.

My father arrives with a grocery bag filled with Coke and the largest bottle of Pepto Bismol that I’ve ever seen; his cure-all for every ailment.  He leaves and takes The Boy to his house.

Once The Boy is out of the house I proceed to make my way to the medicine cabinet .  In the very back, behind all of the cherry and bubblegum flavored crap I give the kids is a bottle of Phenergran; that’ll stop me from puking.  Let’s see . . . . expired in 2007 (I don’t care), may cause drowsiness (I don’t care), take with food (not gonna happen).

Four hours later I awake.  Head, still hurts but not bad.  Stomach, no longer churning.  I scrub the bathroom.  I shower.  I vacuum the living room floor (if I’m gonna be home alone, I’m gonna do it with a clean floor).  I sleep some more.

When I awake, I can drink something and keep it down.  It’s 6:oo p.m.  By now, my kids are at my mom’s house.  I feel okay; I’m at 90%.  I look around.  The house is clean and quiet.  Dad is working out of town.  I am home alone.  This hasn’t happened in years.

I feel guilty.

Ok, guilt-trip is over.  So what does a Mama do who is home alone and mostly over a stomach virus?

1. She reclaims her garden tub and evicts the six, naked Barbies that have taken up residence. Go on, Barbie tramps!  You’ve got a pool!  I should know, I bought it.
2. She takes a nice long bath.
3. She goes to the grocery store alone and buys only what she needs. No gum, no toys.
4. She watches the news.  I had no clue that there were Miners trapped for so long in Chile.
5. She makes herself a snack and eats it in the living room while watching a rated R movie and doesn’t have to share her food.

All in all . . . . best.stomach.virus.EVER.

And the Winner is . . . .

Carrie Underwood:  Welcome back to the annual Mom Awards.  I don’t know why I’m hosting this award show since I’m not a mother.  It just seems that I’m hosting everything these days.

Our next category is always a tough one to judge . . . . the “Rock the Germ” award.  This year there were many deserving mothers but there can only be one winner.  This year’s winner not only “rocked” strep throat just this past week, she rocked it in such a way that only one of her four children caught strep.  Great Mama Experiment, come on up and accept your award!

The Great Mama Experiment looks shocked to have won an award as she makes her way to the stage.  She looks great in her floral, holey pajama bottoms, 10-year-old t-shirt and flip-flops.  She approaches the podium and accepts her trophy from Carrie.

TGME:  Wow.  I don’t know what to say . . . this is so un-expected.  I guess first I’d like to thank my 8-month-old daughter and the mother who sent her kid to daycare with strep throat.  Without you two, this award would not have been possible.

Carrie:  Ok, now on to our next award . . .

TGME:  (Using her best “Mom voice”) I’m not done, Carrie.  I said “First I’d like to thank.”  Pay attention.

Carrie rolls her eyes.

TGME:  (Still facing the audience) Don’t think that I didn’t see that!  Anyway, next I’d like to thank my dishwasher and washing machine.  Your sanitize cycles were invaluable.  You are the only items in my home that work as hard as I do and your efforts do not go un-noticed.  You are my favorite appliances and I love you dearly.

Carrie starts to approach the podium.

TGME:  Carrie!  (TGME gives Carrie the “mom look”)  I have already told you once.  Now, stand in your place and I’ll let you know when you may come back to the podium.  Don’t make me have to tell you again young lady.

Carrie looks a little frightened but stays in her place.

TGME:  Next, I’d like to thank the makers of Folgers Coffee and Mountain Dew.  Without you two I would have been dead on my feet after the first 24 hours.  I’d also like to thank the makers of Pedialyte for keeping my sweet girl hydrated and Dominoes Pizza for nourishing my other kids.  Last but not least, I’d like to thank a very special someone.

TGME points out into the audience.  Everyone turns to see who TGME is pointing at in the VIP section.  It seems as if she is pointing at the empty seat in between Keifer Sutherland and Tim McGraw.  No, wait a minute . . .the seat is not empty.  It’s Elmo!  He’s just to short to be seen.  Keifer gives Elmo as boost up so that he may see better.

Elmo:  Thanks, Keifer.  Elmo loves you!

Keifer looks annoyed.

TGME:  There you are, Elmo!  Everyone!  I’d like to especially thank Elmo.  I don’t know what it is about you but you hypnotize all of my kids.  This allows me the time for frivolous things such as showering and brushing my teeth.  I couldn’t have done it without you, you furry red bastard.  I love you, man.

Elmo:  Ahhh.  Elmo loves you!

The Love List

My oldest daughter was hugging me the other day and said . . . .

Daughter:  Mama, do you know what I love the best?

Awww . . . she’s gonna say her mama.  Thirteen hours of labor with no pain medication was worth it.

Mama:  What do you love the best, baby?

Here it comes . . . . I’m about to reap a parenting reward!!!!!

Daughter:  God.

Well . . . I can’t compete with God.  Smart girl.

Mama:  I’m glad you love God the best.  You should; he loves you the best.

Daughter:  Mama?  Do you know what I love the best next?

I BETTER be #2 on this list.

Mama:  What’s that?

Daughter:  You.

That’s what I’m talking about.  Mama’s #2!  Mama’s #2!  Number 2?  Eww . .  . that doesn’t sound too appealing.

Daughter:  Mama, do you know what I love #3?

No brainer . . . she’s gonna say Daddy.

Daughter:  Doritos.

Snicker, snicker!  I didn’t see that one coming.

Mama:  Mama is awfully fond of Doritos too.  What’s next on your list?

Daughter:  Daddy is #4.  Then, even though she is the newest, I love the baby #5 because she doesn’t bother me and she’s cute.  Then Samuel is #6.  Melissa is last . . . . she hogs the blanket at night.

So on my daughter’s “love list,” I rank between God and Doritos.  I’m not complaining.

Guilty Pleasures

I have a confession to make.  Please don’t think less of me.  But I’ve got to tell someone.

I watch Glee.  I’m a fricking nine-year-old girl.

I can’t explain it.  The show encompasses everything I detest.  Well, a lot of things I detest.

• The characters break out into song and dance at any given moment.
• There is teenage drama.
• The male lead could almost pass for a girl.
• The plots are predictable.
• Did I mention that the characters break out into song and dance A LOT?

I watch the show in secret.  If my two oldest girls found out they would want to watch it too.  This week I held The Boy in my lap while I watched it (he was sick).  I knew he couldn’t rat me out, he only knows about 20 words.  Just in case, I bought The Boy’s silence with potato chips.

I do, however, really enjoy Coach Sue Sylvester.  She’s a hoot.  That’s right . .  I said hoot.

While I’m at it, I also like the Bee Gees.  I’m a Gleeking-Bee-Gee-Loving freak.

Feel free to hiss and boo.

Toddler Couture

It’s all the rage.  All the “in” toddlers at daycare are wearing it.  And you know what they say, accessories make the outfit.

I’m talking about boogers.

Let me tell you, my kids are in vogue.  My three in daycare are currently sporting snotty noses.  The Boy is even using his snot for hair gel.  They are very fashionable.  The parents of the “clean nosed” kids are jealous; I can tell by the way they look at me.

Excuse me while I make a haughty-French laugh.  Feel free to hold your nose and laugh with me.  That’s right, this is an interactive post.

Oh-hoh-hoh-hoh-hoh.

Trust me, it sounds better in my head.

All my kids are stylish and on Benadryl.  You’re probably jealous now, too.

The Word of the Day: No

Since I’ve had children, “no” is the most often used word in my vocabulary.  Take this morning:

Kid:  Are you awake?

Mom:  (it’s 4:50 a.m.) No.

Kid:  Can I use your toothbrush?

Mom: No.

Kid:  Can I make a chocolate chip cookie sandwich?

Mom:  No.

Kid:  Can I watch the Chipmunk movie?

Mom:  No (I really don’t care, but I’m in the zone.  The “No-Zone Layer.”  Hee, hee!  I crack me up!  I know.  I’ll stop now.).

Kid:  Can I get in the shower with you?

Mom:  God, no.

Kid:  Can I wear my boots?

Mom:  No (temps in the mid-90s here).

Kid:  Can I change the baby’s outfit?

Mom:  No.

Kid:  Can I have some Pepsi?

Mom:  Bah-humbug (I’m just trying to shake things up a bit).

Kid:  Can I wear my boots?

Mom:  NO!!! (plus she gets “the look.”  I’ve already told that child once and I don’t like having to repeat myself).

Kid:  Can we go back home and pack a different lunch?

Mom:  No.

Kid:  Can I change the music?

Mom:  No.

Kid:  Are you going to miss me today?

Mom:  No.  Oh, sorry baby.  I was on a roll.  Of course I’ll miss you today.

I guess I should just be happy that they still ask permission to do things.  At least I get a chance to say no.  Look at me, trying to be all “glass-half-full” and shit.