Undomestic Diva

Fifty percent mom

"T, you can go sit with your mom," the teacher whispers to my four year old as I walk in the door, five minutes late to Mother's Day tea at Holy Rollin', having had to hurry back from dropping off my middle guy at his school.

"No. I don't want to sit with her."

There is a collective chuckle in the room. A crooked smile crosses my face as I internally process why he would rather sit alone on the busy blue carpet than sit with me like all the other kids have done with their mothers. I let it go. That's Big T. Always with a mind of his own, always doing what he wants, and besides, how uncool for a big boy to sit with his mom anyway?

It's craft time. T doesn't want to do the crafts with me. Ok, cranky. This is not my normally hyper, creative, clingy dude. He's supposed to make a bracelet for me. He rushes to complete the task dutifully and then doesn't want to let me wear it. "Please? I thought you made it for me?" He crosses his arms and shakes his head no, then starts to cry. Um... did he not get enough sleep last night?

The rest of the morning continues like this. Tears. Begging to go home before the brownies and strawberries and whipped cream and tea. He LOVES brownies and strawberries and whipped cream. When he's not crying he's working hard to keep from doing so and I'm counting the minutes until we're done with what was supposed to be a sweet little celebration for Mother's Day and I can finally take him home.

Not one single mother - of the twenty that are there - speak to me. I do not belong amonst them and on top of that my son is curled in my lap on cheap preschool carpet begging to get out of there. I sympathize. We limp through tea time. He eats two strawberries with tear-streaked cheeks and asks if we can go. Yes. YES. But not without his teacher taking a photo to capture this uncomfortable moment for my Mother's Day frame. Yes, please, let me remember this moment forever. In the frame he didn't want to make me.

T requests a salad for lunch and we drive to the restaurant quietly. He must be tired. He probably needs a nap. As I pull into a parking spot he finally speaks.

"You know why I'm so mad at you?"

Stunned silence. Wait. What? All that crying and begging to go home and crankiness is because my 4 year old is mad at me?

I turn back to look at him in his car seat, still buckled, car still running. "You're mad at me?" I ask incredulously.

"I'm so mad at you, mommy. You were late for Mother's Day tea." And he starts to cry all over again.

And I start to cry. I can't believe how bummed he is. How disappointed he is. How hurt he is.

I was five minutes late. I'm never late. I'm always ridiculously early and I'm certain my not being there right away left him feeling like I might not show. And I can't imagine how he must have felt thinking I wasn't coming back when I promised I would. I missed one of the three songs they sang and only because I was dropping off his brother at another school.

But it's not about missing the song or being late and while I am shaken and hurt to hear how upset he is by my tardy arrival, that this is what the whole morning had been about, I'm more frustrated that this is the mother I now am: The fifty percent mom.

I've never been 50 percent of anything. I don't do 50 percent. For better or worse, I give everything my all. And here I am, held prisoner by the court system to be no more than a 50 percent mom to my own children.

Going from being 100 percent mom - stay-at-home mom even - 100 percent of the time because that's all I've ever been and all I've ever been allowed to be, to having the family law court system tell me that I can only see my own kids 50 percent of the time on a schedule a judge declared 'fair' - complete with written scheduled phone calls on my non-custodial days between certain time frames - is devastating. Going from room parent and school volunteer to not being allowed on field trips because it isn't 'my day' with my kids is unjust. Having the kids on a day that is not, by court order, 'mine' being coined "babysitting" when I'm their mother, only getting them on every other holiday and their birthdays if, by chance, they fall on 'my day' and not 'his day' is just... wrong. 

And on the days I'm lucky enough to be allowed to be their mom - those kids I gave birth to - because, you know, the court let's me be, I'm spread so thin that I'm not always able to be 100 percent of a parent to all of them. I find myself five minutes late to Mother's Day tea, being laughed at by a classroom full of mothers who are clearly better than me, and worst, left feeling like I've failed one of the three people who depend on me the most.

Well, fifty percent of the time.

I feel like I'm being robbed of my motherhood.

Trying to stop the tears streaming down my own cheeks, I picked up T out of his car seat, almost too big to carry, and reminded him, "Listen buddy. I'm sorry I was late. I promised I would be there and I was -- it just took me a little longer than I expected. But I will always do my best to keep my promises to you. You know why? Because I love you. To the moon and back."

I can't have my boys 100 percent of the time but I love them all of the time and no one can take that from me so I remind them every chance I get and hope that it's enough.

So a Mormon, a Jew and an Atheist write a blog post...

"Mom!" he screams from the second row of my mommy SUV, tethered to his car seat for his safety and mine. "I just saw the cwoss where Jesus died!"

I cringe a little. Just a couple weeks back at Holy Christian Loves Jesus Praise the Lord Preschool (HCLJPLP, for short) and the boy is all reverent and shit.

"Um... I don't think that's the exact one, but I could be wrong." I say carefully, making sure I don't deflate his Jesus balloon. For now he is satisfied with this answer and, as usual, our conversation returns to the normal, comfortable topic of Starbucks - or rather "Stawbucks" - where he's just asked the manager for a job application. Totally normal for a 4 year old. If he's mine.

It's been a good week or so since I've offended someone on the internets [see my tweet where I *joke* likening Lord of the Rings to being Star Wars on horseback and thereby am told I am "worse than tea party Muslim hater" on Twitter] so I thought I'd talk about that dude God. If you can't take a little humor mixed in with a bit-o-religion it's best you walk away now. This is my disclaimer.

I get asked often - especially here on this blog and on Twitter - why I have sent my three boys to a holy rollin' preschool like HCLJPLP when its religious views leave such a distaste in my mouth. (That holy water is bitter, y'all.) The truth is, there are many reasons why my boys have all gone there for preschool. First and foremost, beyond its religious teachings, it has an outstanding academic program (even at the pre-k level) that makes our local school district look incompetent. That is why I picked HCLJPLP. The religion came with that academic program and has, in all honesty, taken some getting used to. However, I feel strongly that even though I don't believe in the things the school is teaching my children when comes to "god," I know they have a right to be exposed to those ideas and make up their own minds about what they believe.

I am a born, raised, baptized and maybe, possibly even micro-chipped Mormon (they can track you down, people) who has not seen the inside of sacrament meeting since the day I turned 18. The rules in my mom's house included going to church every Sunday until you were 18 and... I didn't go a single day after.

I knew from an early age that it wasn't for me. I didn't believe in it - not just Mormonism, but god himself/itself. I had a hard time sitting in cold folding chairs every Sunday for three hours, listening to words I didn't agree with. I was incapable of nodding along, pretending to agree and so I would politely debate the 'facts' with those who would speak and my questions were met with not only surprise (no one ever questioned the teachings!) but disdain.

"I don't think you get it. If you don't believe in the bible, " one bishop told me in a private meeting, "you're not going to go to Heaven." I'm not sure if this was a tactic to scare me into believing or if he was genuinely scared for my eternal damnation or what but I looked him dead in the eye and said, "No, you don't get it. If I don't believe in heaven then I don't believe in Hell so I am really not all that worried."

I never got called to another meeting with the bishop again.

In high school I would pretend to be Jewish because being Mormon was so not cool. The Mormon kids all hung out together under the big tree in the lunch area, being good christ-like children by, ironically, judging others for their sins. Besides, Judaism was the smart choice when it came to choosing your religion - they had eight days (fine, nights) of gifts, not just one, and just about every one of my Jewish friends got a new car for their 16th birthday. The Mormons were clearly doing it wrong.

My plan of being a Jew went awry quickly and I had to quit Judaism when I started receiving gifts every day during Chanukah from a secret Jewish admirer. The Mormon guilt I was raised with set in and I had to stop pretending to believe in something I knew nothing about. And to think I gave up pork for this. [I would later find out that I am actually Jewish, but on my father's side which apparently doesn't count. THANKS DAD.]

But it didn't matter because really, I didn't believe in Judaism either. In all truth, I didn't and do not believe in anything. And here's the part people don't understand about atheists. Maybe not all atheists, but at least some atheists... Some of us don't believe in god not because we don't want to or because we have this overwhelming urge to go against society's grain. Some of us would really love to have something to believe in, we just haven't found it yet. Or, maybe, we've found something else; something different than god. That doesn't make us bad people or sinners or even lost souls.

And it certainly doesn't make me feel differently about the people in my life who do believe in god. To each their own. After all, I did marry a devout Catholic who attends church regularly. You know, Christmas mass every fourth or fifth year, whenever his grandma is in town or if there's a family wedding.

I take that back. I do believe in something. I believe in being a good person. That simple.

So I'm writing this instead

Insert cleverly written post here with a profound unexpected underlying message carefully folded into the post here and maybe a startlingly brilliant photograph that corresponds on an artistic level here and wa-laaa! this is my blog post.

I mean, 'cause *this* surely isn't it. A mother too tired and worn down a week into the new school schedules (yes, three boys = three different bell schedules, three different drop-offs and three different pick-ups) with all those sandwiches (cut this way, NO CUT THIS WAY) barely able to keep enough juices and waters and bread OH MY YEAST the bread! in the house, let alone remember to re-bra again before leaving the house for one of the billion soccer practices or MMA training sessions? Nope. I would never write something so GAH and BLAH and UGH.

So I'm writing this instead.

*bows*

Big man on the little campus

Just minutes before you awoke for your big day, I stole a glance or two - perhaps a snapshot or twelve - of you, still asleep and cozy and seemingly small. I resisted the urge to climb in your firetruck bed with you, to wake you and stare at you and ask you what happened to the baby version of you.

Instead, you sprung from your bed EXCITED! OVERJOYED! SUPER IMPORTANT! knowing today is your day to be big man on little kid campus where you will rule the pretend bus and miniature picnic tables and woodchip-filled playgrounds of preschool.

Like every other special occasion you raced to the front door to see if Grandma had left you donuts and balloons. Of course she never lets you down and there they were, a dozen donuts and a bouquet of balloons bigger than you commemorating your First Day.

As I made your lunch and packed your Super Heroes backpack I listened to you dress and talk to yourself, repeating over and over, "Lookin' goooood." Your confidence both scares me and makes me proud and it's no wonder the kids gravitate toward you on the playground.

You let me take your picture, even telling me how to do it "right" and I both laugh and cry a little because you're so stinkin' funny but... I'm lost on where the time went. Here you are, blond-ish and brown-eyed when you were born - just born? - with jet black hair and crisp blue eyes. You're no longer a baby.

You're a endearing mix of stubborn and kind, raucous and lovable, with a sense of entitlement that will someday have you ruling the world. You already rule ours.

As you step out into the big bad world of playground politics today, part of me wants to be there to protect you but mostly? I know you can handle anything that comes your way.

Whatever you do, T, today, tomorrow, years from now... make your mark. Be heard. Be loud. Be strong. Be you.

I lingered on the playground until the bell rang this morning, wanting to be there to watch you go in; to say good-bye and offer a "you can do it" hug.

But instead? You marched right into line, gave me a sideways glance to let me know that a hug from me would totally cramp your style, and then, only after seeing that I could really use a little "you can do it" love, hesitantly offered up a fist bump.

Love you Big T.
_____________________________

Interview with Big T on his 1st Day of School

Big T's 1st Day of Pre-K from Undomestic Diva on Vimeo.

Field Trips: Designed to make you love *your* kids more

After spending a good portion of the day on a farm picking strawberries with about 100 three, four and five years olds in 60 mph frigid winds it's a goddamn miracle I'm able to type this, let alone make dinner too. While still in clothes. DID YOU HEAR THAT CANDY ASS? I'M MAKING DINNER DESPITE MY VERY LONG CRAZY POKE MY OWN EYES OUT DAY. And I'm not even in pajamas yet. YET.

But that's me, Mom of the Year.

Oh shut-up.

I've helped with enough of these field trips to know better than to volunteer yet I do it anyway and not just because I've got this weird YOU'RE GOING TO KILL MY KID IN YOUR CAR WITH YOUR WRETCHED DRIVING SKILL MRS. LEXUS phobia either. I do it because I can and I should and really it's fun getting to pick strawberries/pumpkins/tour grocery stores (WHY THE FUCK DOES A KID WANT TO TOUR A GROCERY STORE? I'm an adult and I don't even want to shop at one.) with my kids.

Key words: my kids.

The other kids? Good god. I hate to say it BUT SOMEBODY HAS TO and the truth is (we all know it) that other peoples' children - for the most part - aren't nearly as smart or cute or tolerable as our own. Except yours, of course.

Oh you know it. Sure, there are a few cute ones you don't mind helping pick out the red versus the green strawberries. But the rest? Well, god bless those teachers and AMEN.

My kid has a snotty nose? Gross, but I grab a tissue, wipe it and move on. Someone else's kid has a snotty nose? I find another parent and point dramatically while yelling EWW! EWW! EWWWWWW! someone send that kid home before he gives my kid the probably just allergy induced snot!

My kid gets all hyped up and obnoxious over the idea that We! Are! Going! On! A! Field! Trip! and it's like Oh look, my son is so excited! How cute! Someone else's kid kicks the back of my seat while screaming and speaking in tongues about 'wabewwies' as I drive his overzealous short self to the farm (all 25 freaking minutes, KICK! KICK! KICK!) and I have to stop myself from threatening "No dessert tonight!" to the little boy who is clearly not as well-behaved as mine.

And my kids were exceptionally well-behaved. Except for a couple of quote/unquote bad things they *might* have said during our day at the farm that Jesus or Mary or Moses might not approve of. But then again, Jesus or Mary or Moses weren't at the farm, were they?

OR WERE THEY?!

And besides, it was my 3 year old who said those "bad" things; who obviously wouldn't know better than to yell "JESUS CHRIST!" when he fell a second time in the mulch. (I only got two dirty looks from that one. Then again there were only two adults nearby. HE COULD HAVE BEEN PRAYING OR HAVING A REVELATION for all they knew. Christ.)

Oh and then on the drive home he saw some horses on the side of the road and exclaimed (in his best Eastern Tennessee accent) "Wha da hell?"

I mean really, WHA DA HELL? Horses where we live? I hear ya kid. I hear ya.

Did I mention the teacher was riding in our car? Yeaaah. Aw well, add it to my Bad Parenting Rap Sheet. Wha da hell.

We won't even discuss whether tethering other peoples' children to the back of the tractor ride to exhaust some of their pent-up energy is legal or talk about the parents who do come along on the field trip, but obviously not to help... just to socialize with other parents (who does that nowadays? That's what Twitter is for. Duh.) while I tell their daughter to quit flashing her little 'underwears' at the farm workers or their son to not stick his hand in the emu's cage. IT WILL PECK YOUR EYES OUT, SON.

You're welcome, parents of Holy Christian Loves Jesus Praise the Lord Preschool. 

"I am also a nose picker"

My seven year old, the sponge, will attempt to read anything you put in front of him. Or in this case, anything he happens to find for himself.

 
Of course, there were some BIG words in this particular pamphlet "Phosphatidylserine: Mental Clarity at Any Age" and as he read aloud we nearly died laughing when he read the sentence, "I am also a nose picker."

I am also a neurologist. A NEUROLOGIST, son.

Happy Birthday, Jesus!

And yes, I'm referring to Geez-us, not Hay-zeus.

Honestly, I don't know if I need to write anymore than that to pretty much sum up what a weird wacky morning it was at Holy Christian Loves Jesus Praise the Lord Preschool (HCLJPLP) where we ignored the idea of a Christmas party (god forbid you mention S-A-N-T-A who allegedly is not mentioned in the bible and therefore SINFUL!) and went ahead and threw sweet baby Jesus a birthday party.

A *birthday* party.

Like with birthday party hats. That I had to go run out and buy before the big HOORAH! because the teacher didn't have enough for all the students. And with cupcakes... not with green and red frosting but with colorful balloons! and confetti! and

HOW DID WE END UP HERE?

There were arts and crafts (SO MANY! ARTS AND CRAFTS!) and sticky hands and kids high on sugar running amok and holy hell if I have to assemble one more got-damn nativity scene out of stickers I might accidentally have a passing knowledge of the story of the birth of Geez-us.

Jesus.

But I survived. I showed restraint. I refrained from tweeting. During the party, at least. And the kids enjoyed themselves. Which, good... although I worry they're being converted into holy rollers. That was until we opened the door to leave and my 5 year old looks up at me with all 1,000 of his arts and crafts to bring home falling out of his arms and says, "What are we going to do with all this shit?"

*dies*

*of pride*

*and a little embarrassment*

*but mostly pride* 

God's children love me

You'll be surprised to hear that I have no scathing details of events gone wrong at Holy Christian Loves Jesus Praise the Lord Preschool. Yet. The lightning has yet to strike me, my four year old has yet to drop the F bomb and it's only been two weeks so like I said... YET.

The truth is, my kids are loving it. (True story.) We stop by Starbucks every morning on our way to get this mama her tall extra dry decaf cappuccino so I can sit on the curb of the playground, drink my coffee and watch the boys interact and play until the bell rings to line up and go in. While they have a particular fondness for the slippery red slide and the playhouses where they make mulch pancakes, the other kids seem to enjoy... me.

I don't get either.

My only theory is that these kids are so over-exposed to god and what's good and righteousness that approaching and engaging me in conversation, karate chops or interesting bug finds is the equivalent of being told not to touch a flame because IT'S BAD! IT COULD HURT YOU! and the more you warn a kid not to do something, well there you go, they go and do it. They love me!

Just the other morning I sympathized with a little girl who said she lived far away from school and none of her friends wanted to play with her. I asked her if she wanted me to cut a bitch* and she just smiled, took a seat next to me and made mountains in the mulch.

Another little girl brought me a baby roly poly to show off. "Cool," I lied. I turned my head to check on my boys and when I looked back at her, she was frantically searching her hands, her sleeves, the ground and finally the bottom of her shoes for that roly poly. Whoops.

One little boy came up and karate kicked me in the shin. I'm pretty sure that's because he thinks I'm cool too.

Today I saw a little boy try to hit a little girl for wanting to share a toy with him. I felt a fucking martyr by yelling out, "Hey mini Chris, leave little Rhianna alone. JESUS IS WATCHING YOU for Christ's sake."**

Besides all the playground fun (and by fun - I do mean for me. If you think people watching is fun, watch kids engage in social activities. It's how you'd expect celebrities to behave except with less alcohol and more Adderall.) my boys are loving cherry apple. Yeah, I wasn't sure what "cherry apple" was either until my 4 year old finally explained that it's where they go once a week and have to fold their arms "like this" and sing. Ohhhh... chapel. I get it.

Course, this is the same child who tried to throw a bible verse in his older brother's face when he was being mean to him. L-Dub says obediently but sternly, "Be kind to others and avoid time-outs, 4:15!"

Wha?

At Back to School Night we realized what he really meant was "Try to be kind to each other and to everyone else. - Thessalonians 5:15"*** It was plastered on every damn wall of the place.

Do I even need to type [eye roll]?

Amen.

:::

*Of course I didn't say that to her. But I knew that's what she was hoping I'd say.

**Of course I didn't say that either. But I did stop the fight. Because I'm like Mother Teresa.

***Yes, I had to google that. Can't wait to see who finds THIS post because of THAT bible quote.

Twitter is to tourettes what benadryl is to allergies*

*Don't hate me for that title. TONGUE-IN-CHEEK people, learn it.

I know I've been blogging about my kids a lot lately which is sort of odd because I don't normally blog about them often... just lately they've been all up in my grill and provided plenty of fodder and just like that wham! bam! you can call me a mommyblogger if you dare, but I'm pretty sure the number of times I drop the F word in its many contexts excludes me from that fine group of women.

I have no point to this other than to warn you that this is yet another post pertaining to my kids... kinda sorta where "about my kids" = the nightmare that is Back to School Night.

The actual meeting the teacher and getting to see the classroom part isn't all that bad, really. It's that godforsaken 20 minute assembly beforehand where the principal gets up and tells you in her best monotone voice (think Ben Stein) how enthusiastic she is about this school year, how test scores are up and how much she loves us parents even though I can't get the bitch to return my phone calls when I have a concern.

If her speech isn't enough to make me itch and want to stand up in the middle of the room of at least a few hundred attentive parents and walk out because I NEEEEEEDED TO, the lethal combination of women's competing perfume (literally - war of the roses. And in some cases, war of the grass or compost piles it smells like) and eau de charcoal from the menfolk could have been killing me slowly. Like black mold.

Where the fuck is Larry H. Parker when you really need that bastard?

Candy Ass points out after that I could *possibly* have a mild form of tourettes because I feel the absolute need to make snarky comments OUT LOUD every time they run through my head (read: constantly). Thankfully, I feel like Twitter has alleviated much of this embarrassment on his part since now rather blurting out everything I'm thinking, I twitter most of it and *only* blurt out some of it. Progress, right?

In between my eye rolling, I survey the other parents who are happily waving at each other from across the auditorium, who are clapping and even w00ting for certain teachers when they are introduced and who flock together before and after the assembly to cackle like hens. I will never fit in with them. This, actually gives me some relief. 

Later, women wearing aprons (why aprons? no one is cooking. I don't see a gotdamn cookie in this place) will accost me about joining and getting! involved! in! the! PTA! and fuck, I may have been guilted into the position of team mom when it came to soccer this year, BUT DO NOT TAKE ME FOR A FOOL LADIES, I will not be PTAing it up ever. EVER. Here's my $5 for the PTA fundraiser, now leave me alone. 

:::

The tangent where I get all pissy:

Did I mention our PTA's fundraising goal for the Jog-A-Thon this year? You know, at a time when people are losing their homes to foreclosure, banks are closing their doors, unemployment is at its highest and the economy is struggling? Oh, our school thinks $50,000 would be great. 

$50,000

Don't EVEN get me started on where that money went last year. 'Cause I couldn't tell you. I had to buy/donate $200 worth of ink cartridges so my son's Kindergarten class could print homework. The only field trip he had was the one where they *walked* to a grocery store *across the street* to take a tour. You know, so when they grow up to bag groceries, they're well informed. 

(I told you not to get me started.)   

I did not get struck by lightning. I'm sorry.

Tonight was "Meet the Teacher" night at Holy Christian Loves Jesus Praise the Lord Preschool (HCLJPLP) where my oldest once attended pre-k and now my younger two are about to attend beginning Monday. Coincidentally, I hear the school will now be offering exorcisms at no additional cost beginning Monday.

If you've followed our HCLJPLP debacles under the "Private School Drop-outs" category on my blog, then I'm sure you're thinking a) WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING SEND MORE KIDS THERE and, b) Did you get struck by lightning the moment you walked into the chapel? and, c) PLEASE TELL ME YOU GOT STRUCK BY LIGHTNING WHEN YOU WALKED INTO THE CHAPEL.

Believe me, I fully expected to be struck by lightning just by entering the parking lot but God loves me, God loves us all! and praise the lord and God Bless you, I walked away unscathed, only leaving behind a few grimaces on the faces of the holier than thou who seemed to find my tattoos and cleavage not quite as Christ-like as their judgmental gossiping snickers.

To my surprise L-Dub, our little mouthy dude with a four-letter vocabulary that could make a construction worker blush, was actually the shy one. He wasn't too sure about the classroom, his surroundings, about the dead man nailed to a cross on the wall (confusing, for a 4 year old, no?) but found his bearings when it was time to survey the playground. He was also curious about the fish tank and its proximity to the microwave; an observation I hope to god does not come back to haunt us come parent/teacher conference time. The good news: His shyness just may keep him from dropping the F-bomb. The bad news: I'll bet he's only shy for the first week and then we're fucked. (His words, not mine.)

On the otherhand, our handful, Mr. Charm himself Big T decided too much attention was on the teacher who was speaking to the parents in his classroom so he decided to demonstrate his Chuck Norris skills and karate kick the shit out of me in the middle of her speech, complete with "Hiiiii-yaaaa's!" and twisted arm movements that makes me think he may have seen Kung-Fu Panda a few too many times. I should probably be embarrassed by this but really, I think he just set the tone for any potential bullies that he may be three and small but he is not one to be fucked with. Well damn, I think the tuition has already paid for itself.

The awesome news is, you get to look forward to what is sure to be several months of endless blog fodder as we once again dive head into a world where we don't belong, where the holy are surprisingly unrighteous, the observations are priceless and the first-hand experiences of being a disbeliever in a place of the oh-so-faithful are sure to leave me with some stories to tell.