From Super Aunt JoJo to Momzilla

So many of you get dreamy looks on your face and ask me how parenting is going. I feel slightly inclined to lie to you because I know you expect, since we went through the whole infertility experience and have since adopted, that I should shout with glee that it completes me and it's the best job in the world.


But truth wins out in the end...because I could never be one of those 12 page Christmas letter of nauseating bragging kind of mom.


So in the spirit of truth, let me just say...I really thought I would be a better mom. No, really. I had motherhood all pictured in my head. And since I am the Consummate Aunt Jo Jo (i.e. every nieces' and nephews' favorite slumber partying, snack bribing, back scratching, non-sloppy kissing aunt), I really thought I had a leg up.


Instead, despite my fervent prayers in the morning before I go down to greet the Squirrels, my day unravels and the ugly monster MOMZILLA emerges. Momzilla tends to yell. She'd like to say it's because that is the only volume at which two ADHD spazzoids will even blink and show a shred of hearing but in the spirit of truth, it's probably because she has lost ALL CONTROL.


I was not going to ask them if their brains fell out when my kids did stupid stuff.

I was not going to tell them to do something just because I said so.

I was not going to spank out of anger.

I was not going to issue a silence order because all the toe tapping, finger drumming, humming, whining chaos had reached epic decibels.

I was not going to issue "mandatory recess" outside and feel a strong urge to lock all the doors and drink a quart of tequila (before you chastise me, notice I said "urge"...not actually doing it...at least that is the story I am sticking to).

Nobody warned me about the "mom guilt" of knowing you said and did the wrong things and your kids will carry on your bad habits...and how you just know someday they will be reclining on a couch at their therapist's office blaming YOU for how their life has unraveled. I will be labeled the "baggage" they are carrying (sigh).


But, in the spirit of truth, I now realize why God referred to the His chosen people as "the children of Israel". Because that is how they behaved when they disobeyed and God said He'd rather have obedience than sacrifice. And how God loved them even when they broke His stuff. And why He continues to love them even when they have all the world in their hands but yet want more.


And this Momzilla hopes God can create spotty amnesia in the Squirrels when they reach adulthood so that the only thing they remember are the movie nights with popcorn, tramping in the woods, and snuggling around a good book. Because otherwise, I'll never earn Mother of the Year (still waiting on my crown and sash).

Rejected by Locks of Love

My hair is going to drive me insane, if my kids don't beat me to it.

I am chronically lazy about regularly scheduled haircuts so I end up with a shaggy, mousy blah hairstyle every year. It gets to a length where I start to consider doing something noble like donating it to locks of love. Only you need 10 inches of hair...and my hair grows at a snails pace.

Undeterred, when my sister Renee decided she was going to donate her hair in honor of her daughter Grace, who suffers from alopecia areata (hair falling out in places from time to time), I decided I would be charitable and donate as well. It seemed to take forever to barely get to 10 inches but one September morning, I was there...at least the longest few hairs were. I printed off the donation instructions, grabbed my ziploc bag, and headed to a nearby beauty salon. When my stylist found out I was donating, she had this haughty, sniffy look like "THIS hair?" but she took a look at the picture of the cute Meg Ryan post-donation cut I was going for and adamantly vowed she could pull it off.

One ponytail shorn off, and many clippings later, she started in to the layering, then mega amounts of product, then blow drying. All the while, she is murmuring how cute this is going to be and how she loves this cut, yada yada. She finally pronounced that she was finished and spun my chair around and asked those dreaded words, "How do you like it?"

There, staring back at me, was the largest Bump-It space helmet hair bouffant seen since the beehive met its demise. I mean to tell you she had backcombed the crown of my hair to within an inch of its useful life and I could have had a career on Trinity Broadcasting Network (if I added in copious amounts of costume jewelry and eye makeup...and an unnatural shade of pink lipstick).

I lied...like I always do to hair stylist when the cut doesn't match the photo and I figure I can go home, re-wash, and bring my hair down from the heavens...and said, "It's quite something!" Then I remembered I had driver's license photos later that day and scurried home so that this horrible haircut would not be recorded for the next 10 years (picture below was after getting home and "fixing" the damage).

I already had that "lingering bad hair" experience in first grade when my oldest sister Beth gave me a home perm. Well, actually, it was two home perms. She thought the first one didn't take but really it was like priming the pump because the second perm took enough for both home applications. And since I thought the curl would come out if I combed it, I ended up with hair that looked like the clown wig sans the rainbow coloring.

But I digress....

I did send my paltry ponytail in to Locks of Love with a delivery confirmation attached. I was chatting with my sister Renee several weeks later and she mentioned that she had gotten a thank you note from Locks of Love for her hair donation.

Yeeeaaahhh...they never sent me a thank you. And the delivery confirmation came back complete so I know they received it. I realized my mousy thin, pathetic hair was REJECTED by kids that don't even HAVE hair.

How do you like them apples?

The Evolution of the "Mom Purse"

In my last post, I mentioned the purchase of a mini-van being the irrefutable sign that I was no longer cool. In today's hearing, we review evidence that I have also sunk to a new low...

The "Mom Purse"

Let me 'splain...

For years, I refused to carry a purse at all. I thought it was so nerdy. But alas, sometime in my early '20s, I finally relented and adopted a small little dainty girl purse. The dainty girl purse was only big enough for my car keys, a tube of lip gloss, and a check book (barely). I could carry it three out of the four weeks in the month (girls, you get my reference) and it looked so feminine and young. Ah, but alas, sometime in my mid-twenties, I became married...and moved on to...The married woman's purse. This one had to hold a bigger checkbook (now, I had a mortgage to pay) as well as multiple cell phones (no longer had the briefcased-size "mobile phone" in my car, though...so guess that was a plus), business cards, and a bigger lot of make-up...couldn't count on my fresh youthful skin holding out past, oh, say, 9 AM, without multiple touch-ups. I still felt fairly chic in my Liz Claibourne model of red until I had kids...and then...Alas, the Mom Purse has arrived (or, as Husband calls it, my SUITCASE!). I call it the "black hole" because it carries everything but I can never find anything in it. My cell phone rings and goes to "missed call" status as I frantically dive headfirst into the Mom Purse to try to uncover it. I can carry 14 library books, a spare pair of socks, Band-Aids, sunscreen, lotion (black skin always needs more), a wallet roughly the size of Kentucky (hey, I have to afford to keep black hair looking nice...which is about the same as a second mortgage), and an even bigger make-up bag (forget dewy youthfulness...I mean, I still have the acne of a teenager but now it is mixed with the beginnings of laugh lines and crows' feet..."Why, God, why?").

This purse is large enough to carry a newborn. I could tack it on top of the van to become a luggage carrier. If I held onto the straps and turned it upside down, I am fairly certain it would be a trusty parachute. So there you have it...big, bigger, biggest...good, better, best. Laugh all you want, but if you get pushed out of an airplane, you are going to wish I was in the air beside you!

The One-Armed Blue Bus Bandit

A rather familiar sight was beheld barreling down the interstate en route between the Cabin of the Squirrels and Iowa Hometown of Mama last week. Mama was seen navigating the blue minivan otherwise affectionately (and most likely, embarrassingly) known as "The Blue Bus".

What is this wonder, you ask? The Blue Bus is the irrefutable sign that the last shred of coolness has fled from Mama. She never thought she'd sink to this level but found herself exclaiming, "Oh, wireless headsets to the DVD player...and 12 cupholders...so we can have 12 times the number of bathroom stops. Sign me up!" While Husband got a welcome break to stay home (and indulge in some Final Four action) over Easter weekend, Mama bravely packed up the two squirrels - complete with pink polka dot suitcases, and headed to Iowa.

The squirrels seem to believe that Mama can both navigate the car and attend to all things they ask. I mean, why shouldn't I be able to change out the batteries in their Leapsters, put straws in their drinking cups, find the flip flop that fell on the floor, and figure out why the el crappo plastic watch that came in their kid's meal is still blinking "4 10" instead of the correct time. They seem to think the Blue Bus has an autopilot I can switch on, and then turn around and be at their beck and call.

I think my right arm has come loose from it's socket. I finally had to bellow that "Mama is off limits until we arrive at our destination!" to which they then asked every 30 minutes how many more hours it was. That's 16 hours of pure torture I don't plan to repeat without Husband's help again.

But alas, I am not the first One-Armed Blue Bandit Bus Driver. That title belongs to my papa...and an ode to the 1978 Blue Ford Econoline full-sized van that turned over more times than your distant relatives in their graves. This was from the era before seatbelts took all the excitement out of sudden stops. We fit 8 kids in that van and were mesmerized that it had a back "couch" that could turn into a "bed".

This was also before Leapsters, DVD players, and satellite radio. We thought we were IT when we got a tape player and could play Louis L'Amour tapes for all to hear. Mom also would pick up new Archie comics for vacation (which we had read before the van left the driveway). Dad would dutifully mount our luggage carrier (and all our "hardside" luggage) into the van. We always joked he could fit a queen bed in a music box. He would have made a killing working for UPS!

The treasured seats were the two middle buckets seats...which had close proximity to the air conditioning. The rest of us piled in back unless you wanted to try to sleep on the floor - which ultimately led to third degree burns on your stomach due to the heat from the engine (or whatever was underneath the car).

For fun, we'd play the "House" game where we'd pick out houses along the highway and assign them to different people in the car. Or, one time Mary and I made "Honk" sign and would hang it out the back window. If the car behind us would honk, we'd stick our hands out the back window and wave. I think we ingested too many exhaust fumes to think that was fun, but Dad never caught on to why everyone was honking at him.

We'd invariably stop and eat at Perkins (although we desperately wanted McDonald's) and would stay at a Holiday Inn. Not sure if the Priority Club was in operation then but my parent's would have reached Multi-Platinum level if it was. We'd all race into the hotel and turn on the one thing we always wanted at home - THE TELEVISION - while Dad would sigh and bring in load after load of suitcases.

I have many fond memories of family vacations...and most of the pictures Mom took have Dad's hairy arm resting on the steering wheel in the foreground. His hairy arm made it to the East Coast, Michigan, the West Coast at least three or four times, and various and sundry points in between.

The original Blue Bus died sometime while I was in high school. By then, the horn had the sound of a cow in labor, the buckets seats had been removed to accommodate Doug and Lisa's return to the Midwest from California, and the bed in back could no longer fold up into a couch. The cooler and cabinet had been removed, and the carpet was worn through in most places...even one spot where I could see the road whirring by underneath the van.

Give me a few years, and we'll be at that point again with Blue Bus #2.

Meatloaf and the Puking Flies

Sorry for my absence from posting. My previous computer has an dead hard drive that passed away on 3-11-2010 from the Blue Screen of Death syndrome. Not to get technical but evidently I had massive data corruption and my whole hard drive was thrown into a read only mode. I was semi-vigilant about backing up my picture/video/music/work files but there are still large quantities of data that were not backed up. Suffice to say, I will be the Backup Queen of the Universe (sounds septic, eh?) when I get my computer back. A shout out to my pal Tom H. for performing CPR on my computer.

Anyhoo, just a couple of random happenings to share...both which provide evidence that my kids are weird.

The first is a paper that Eli brought home. The school has been going overboard on Black History month and they must have reviewed the story of Rosa Parks refusing to give up her seat on the bus. Eli had to write what she would have done. You'd think she's be all "Hey, I'm black, too and power to the people...we gotta stick together" but no, this is what she writes:

"If I was Rosa Parks I would give up my sit. I don't want to be eressted. I would ask someone eles if I could sit with them. I would want to cook the meatloaf for my husband. I would want to make them happy."

So much for the revolution for equal rights. She wants to cook meatloaf. Where did that random thought surface? Ah, there I go again...assuming my squirrels process thoughts in a logical manner.

When instead, we get random utterings like this one...Kate very matter-of-factly announced at dinner the other night that "Flies can puke". Husband looks over at me with a very weary look and says, "Man, it starts early."

"To what do you refer," I respond.

"The random thoughts that women have that have nothing to do with anything we were just talking about."

And as usual, Husband is right.

Feet First and Back Pedaling

This week, the local area swim clinic commenced and giddy with excitement, so did Eli. I marvel at the long distance we have come in her swimming ability, considering when she first came to our house, she was TERRIFIED of the water. She told me she had not been swimming before and would not even put her face in the water in the bathtub. Pictures of our first attempt at swimming lessons below:

I knew not only did we have a family vacation coming up to the beach which would mean daily access to a private pool, but I also consider swimming an absolutely necessary life skill. In fact, if I had not gone through swimming lessons, including what was called "Junior Lifesaving" at the time, (and then on to Water Safety Instructor training), I may not be here today.

In 1993, I was on a band trip to Colorado Springs with my high school. One of the activities was white water rafting (man, those chaperones must have either been gluttons for punishment or incredibly brave to try to wrangle 100+ wiggly, hormonal, brainless teenagers at one time). If you remember, 1993 was the year of the floods and the Arkansas River in Colorado was no exception.

I was in a raft with my good friends Shauna, Jennifer, Amy, Gina, and Becky. Our river guide was from Iowa (should have been our first clue he wasn't used to white water) and had been on the river only two or three months (should have been our second warning). Plus, as we navigated our raft down the river, two of us had to bail water constantly as it was taking on more water than we could have and still make it around several rocky bends in the river.

Well, long story short, we became too water logged, our guide couldn't wrestle back control of the boat, and we smashed into a rock, capsizing the boat. A couple of girls were caught underneath, one swam for shore for all she was worth, and lucky me got swept down the river at warped speed. I was sucked under from time to time but luckily had the presence of mind to remember my training (which was all theory and no practical application until now) which was to keep my feet forward to hit the rocks first, knees bent to absorb the shock, and recline back in the water and backpedal with my arms to slow myself down.

The rafting company had an assistant posted along the bank of the river and he tried to toss me the tow rope. I missed and got sucked under the water. The river guide that had been in our boat came swirling up behind me and latched onto my life vest. He caught the next toss of the tow rope and I was pulled into the river bank. I scrambled up on a rock, dripping wet, and heart pounding with adrenaline.

It was one of those moments when I realized I was not ten feet tall and bullet proof...but could very well have spun out of control in the water, dashed my head against a rock, and would have been nearly impossible to retrieve.

And so now, several years later, I am passing on the knowledge to my squirrels. And, after several months of giving Eli lessons in Grandma Ellie's fitness center pool, I am pleased to report little ole Eli can swim like fish. A blue swim capped large mouth snaggle-toothed bass, that is;-)

Spit Bombs and the Fear of Peas

I don't know what kind of chuckleheads I am raising but the latest head scratcher was Eli's "Bio Poem" that she completed at school. In case it is hard to read, let me decipher:

She describes herself as cute, nice, smart, and creative (and if by creative, she means creative ways to try to make up stories to get out of trouble or to tell half truths, she is right on the money)

Says she is a lover of cats, dogs, candy and her parents (all together now... "Awwwww....!")

Who feels happy when she eats pizza, good when she gets what she wants, and cool when she has her sunglasses (which the dogs chewed to bits when she left the van door open).

Now here comes the weirdness...she says, she fears (and I quote): "peas, tests and twisters".

PEAS? Seriously? Is there even a clinical definition of the fear of peas? Peasophobia?

And then, I have had several incidents of the squirrels spitting at each other, spitting into each other's food, spitting on each other's floors. I had HAD it! Who spits? What do they think they are...Major League baseball players? I mean, if it were boys, it wouldn't make me shake my head. Boys also make farting noises with their arm pits and walk around scratching themselves...and neither of those two behaviors stop in adulthood. But girls spitting? I had seen enough of that at the first college I attended in the Dakotas (where the women also have to shave...and not just their legs, ifyaknowwhatimean).

I had them wailing and accusing each other of spitting yesterday and up to this point, no punishment seemed to fit the crime until a LIGHTBULB went on in my head. I marched them downstairs, had them get into coats and boots, and stood them on the bottom step of the porch steps. Then, I set the timer and told them if they got caught spitting at ANYTHING, they would have to repeat today's punishment...which was to spit continuously until the timer rang.

I'll admit, it was hard to keep a straight face to see two little brown squirrels, out front, hocking loogies for all they were worth. They ran out of saliva about halfway through and were pretty much just barely spraying at that point. Five minutes later, they had to face each other and vow never to spit at each other or into each other's food or on the floor again.

You all thought I lived in the country for the breathing room, fresh air, and wildlife...but really it is so no one can see what kind of weird parent I am and wonder who makes their kids spit until a timer rings. I can only imagine the stories they tell at school.