Spirit Day - Good Digital Camera = Pixelated Funky Hair

It’s Spirit Day in our school district, and my kids wanted to get in on the action.  The only problem is that I lost my digital camera somewhere in the move, so all I have is my cellphone to document this all important day.  Here goes:

Sport (that’s what we’re calling him these days).  He thinks I’m pretty cool after affecting this ‘do with just a roll of tape and that cursed black hairspray from Halloween.

And a picture of the back because he definitely looks cooler goin’.  Just sayin’.

The girl who will heresoafter (is that even a word?) be referred to as Sis.  She was content with a plethora of ponytails.

And Spunk, because if you know the kid, the name really suits him well.  He knew there would be a use for this sorry, flattened wig someday.  It’s his moment to shine.

I spared you the picture of my crazy hair.  Trust me.  It’s crazy.

And you’re welcome.

Happy Crazy-Hair Friday!

Sugarfree with a Side of Grumpy

A small percentage of their Halloween spoils...

I decided to go sugar-free just 5 days before Halloween.  And because I wanted to make it extra difficult, I swore off aspartame and Splenda too (except for what’s in my Diet Coke—baby steps, people!).

I know what you’re thinking.  

• Who does that?  
• Are you crazy?
• Whhhhyyyyyyyyy?
• Won’t you miss dunking sugar cookies into cream cheese frosting?

(That last one was mine. And the answer is “yes.”)

My body is aging, quickly.  Like a huge, mossless stone rolling down the old hill, I’m quickly reaching the end at which my body cries “Uncle!” and then curses me for signing the Do Not Resuscitate order.  Am I being melodramatic?  Of course!  (It’s the lack of sugar talking.)

Okay, so I’m only 40, and my mother has young genes so I expect to have inherited them.  But that can’t reverse the fact that spending 40 years on this planet eating sugar with abandon, drinking liters upon liters of Diet Coke, and licking butter from the bags of microwavable popcorn has had an impact on my body.  

Allow me to demonstrate:

• I can no longer drape my leg behind my head
• I cannot catch my children if they run away from me.
• In the time it takes me to hoist my body to a standing position after sitting cross-legged on the floor, my kids have fled to Canada.  
• I can no longer sit cross-legged on the floor without losing all feeling in my toes and also my forearms.
• I cannot carry my sleeping 9-year old from the living room to his bedroom without pulling something important in my nether regions.
• I’m not exactly sure what my nether regions are.

So in efforts to reset my body back to 20-year old functionality, I’m trying to consume only that which is natural.  Right now I’m eliminating sugar.  It is not going well.

This past Sunday was Halloween, and after 5 whole days using honey as my only sweetener, I consumed one bag of sugar popcorn and three, okay four, frosted sugar cookies.  But I was safety testing for the children, and it couldn’t be helped. 

I’m now back on track and grumpy as hell.  But I’m getting healthier by the day, dagnabit!  

And younger too, right?  

(Don’t answer that or I might have to chase you down and force you to eat raw vegetables.  But I’d have to catch you first, and we all know I’m not that healthy yet.)

Squid Dissection: a Photo Essay

Did you know that squid have three hearts, clear pellet-like ocular lenses and a reproductive system that rivals the bean weevil?  I didn’t either until I volunteered to help my daughter’s third-grade class dissect squid.  

I will never be the same.

Third graders are generally eight years old.  My experience has shown me that 8-year olds are good at deconstructing SpongeBob episodes, building forts out of blankets and eating an astronomical number of sugar cookies in one sitting.  But squid dissection?

I was lucky enough to supervise my daughter’s dismemberment of the unfortunate cephalopod.  First let me explain that her class was divided into groups of two, each with a grayish, googly-eyed squid in a large styrofoam, carry-out container, like this:

^{Help me, help me!} 

The poor girl (as we would soon discover) never knew what hit her.  

Sis’s lab partner was named Ryan, or as his classmates like to call him, Ryanosaur, because of his obsession with prehistoric creatures. Ryanosaur was a bit more comfortable with the thought of slicing and dicing a squid in the name of science (he plans on a long and lucrative career as a Paleontologist).  Sis, not so much.

But once they were given toothpicks and told to poke and prod their subject a bit, Leah became more enthusiastic about the whole ordeal.  Okay, not really, but at least she didn’t flee the room.

These third-graders were tasked with 1) slicing the squid down the middle to locate its heart, ink sac and reproductive organs

2) decapitating the poor creature and examining its tentacles

3) cutting the head in head in half (at which point my daughter perked up tremendously and the adult supervisor, aka me, became slightly nauseated).

4) popping out the eyes and locating the ocular lenses (at which point the adult supervisor, me again, required an intermediate break)

5) finding and removing the beak

and 6) perforating the ink sac and, using the ink, writing their names on a separate piece of paper. 

Needless to say, our ink sac was small...

There.  That wasn’t so bad now, was it?  I must admit that my daughter was a trooper as attested by the following picture, which was taken after and not before The Dissection, mind you.

As for myself, I realized that while I can deconstruct old Friends episodes, extract slivers and cleanup vomit without incident (not to mention eat an astronomical number of sugar cookies in one sitting), I’m not nearly as equipped as my 8-year old daughter to dissect one ‘lil ole squid.  

The End.

Anthrax in Your Smarties? Happy Halloween!

I took a highly complex and statistically accurate quiz this morning, and apparently I should be a vampire for Halloween.  Because I didn’t like that suggestion, I used an application on facebook which asked me one question and suggested I go as Jeeves the Headless Butler.  And then I became totally distracted and entered to win a free Kindle, because wouldn’t that be cool?

Last year I was hugely successful as Lucille Ball for which I was awarded best costume at a party and went home with a giant frosted cookie and a trophy doubling as a Christmas tree topper.  It left me with a tube of Are You Red-dy? lipstick and an impossibly uncomfortable pair of stunning ruby-red patent leather peep-toe pumps that I’ll probably never use again.  It was totally worth the cookie though.

In order to top Lucy, I’ve been brainstorming possible costumes for the last month or so.  So far all I’ve got is a vampire and Jeeves the Headless Butler.  It’s called Creative Costume Block.  

My kids, however, have known what they want to be for three months or so.  Okay, that’s not true: they’ve change their minds about what they want to be for three months or so.  Sport went from being Percy Jackson to Indiana Jones to Poseidon and back to Percy Jackson again.  Sis went from Mother Nature to a black cat to a witch to Raggedy Anne back to the black cat and then to I-promise-not-to-change-my-mind-ever-again-mom, a unicorn, before settling in on a cowgirl.  And Spunk will be Iron-Man.  Life is simple when you believe in superheroes.  It’s a universal truth, people.

I remember the good-ole days, before there was such a thing as plastic costumes, when kids were witches, athletes, hobos and clowns.  When you used a pillowcase to collect candy instead of a designer, copyright-protected plastic baggie.  Of course, those were also the days when ‘trick’ also meant overturnin’ an ornery farmer’s outhouse while he was still in it.  Okay, so I don’t personally remember those days, but I’ve read about them.  

Regardless, my kids live in these days where costumes are synthetic and go for about fifteen bucks at Walmart and where you have to perform background checks on the people distributing candy to avoid finding Anthrax in your Smarties (maybe I’ll be an urban legend for Halloween).  

Truth is, I still don’t have a costume, nor have I secured costumes for my kids.  I’m wishing that with the advent of modern technology I could actually print out our costumes and be done with it.  I’d pay for that application.  

Until then, I’ll do things the old fashioned way.  We’ll make our own costumes using cardboard, electrical tape and yarn.  Or, perhaps, aluminum foil, staples and pipe cleaners.  Just kidding.  My kids are totally going as mummies wrapped in medical gauze.  No, really.  We’ll go to WalMart and buy their costumes.  And me? I’m going to win that Kindle and go as a boring mom reading Poe while trick or treating. I already have the outfit.

Bullying, Deforestation and Goat Cheese

When early yesterday morning I told my kids that we’d be wearing purple that day, Spunk wanted nothing of it.  

“But it’s for a good cause,” I explained.  “It means we’re taking a stand against bullying.”

He shrugged, unmoved by any political campaign, even if it might be a good investment in his future; he is going to junior high eventually.  

My youngest offspring expounded on his position. a) He doesn’t own a purple shirt, and b) he hates the color.  Logical, rational and sound reasoning.  Six might be a little young to lead a freedom march.

As Spunk went about his business of selecting a long-sleeved gray T, I could hear Sport badgering him from the kitchen.  “EVERYone’s going to be wearing purple, Zack.  In fact, you might be bullied for not wearing purple.  It means you don’t care about other people and that you think bullying is cool!”  His intonation increased with each passing syllable.  By the time I reached Spunk’s bedroom, Sport and his younger brother were circling each other like sickly sumo wrestlers.

“Sport,” I said.  “Are you trying to bully your brother into wearing purple?”

His eyebrows rose in protest, and then, somewhat sheepishly, they fell and hovered at the cusp of his brow, as if contemplating the plunge that would take them to the spot where Kaleb now burned a hole through the carpet with his eyes.  “I guess.”

“Let’s let Spunk choose to wear whatever color he wants today, and maybe he’ll want to change the world with you tomorrow.”

As I watched my two boys work through the power of their own emotions, I realized that while bullying is always wrong, it’s a slippery slope from activist to bruiser, regardless of the cause.  So whether the Belknap family wears purple, red, white, blue or gray, we’re against bullying to the extent that we won’t even tolerate the bullying of the bullies themselves (or those who choose to wear long-sleeved gray Ts).   

We’re also against telemarketing, deforestation and goat cheese in to particular order.

Peace out.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

While I’ve never actually listened to it, I think the title to Deana Carter’s song is ingenious: “Did I Shave My Legs for This?” Because now that I’m divorced, I realize that the frequency with which I shaved was directly proportional to how lucky I might get. These days there’s no one unluckier than me, thus my legs are, well, let's not go there (no one else is, right?).

But I didn’t realize just how poorly, *ahem*, maintained I had become until I was reading to Spunk a few nights ago. We were reclining on his bed, and I held a Junie B. Jones book in one hand and supported my head with the other, giving my little boy a bird’s eye view of my armpit. He looked sideways at me and laughed, “You’ve got hair there?” as if he had just discovered some fangs or a third eyeball. And I have to admit, when I took a peek myself I was a little disturbed. While my lower extremities are definitely a no-fly zone these days, had I really been that neglectful of my armpits? I mean, long sleeves are now vogue, but I thought I was still shaving my armpits, even if only for myself. And Spunk, apparently.

So it got me reflecting on my celibacy, my sexuality and my razor. Are the first two mutually exclusive? Are the last two?

I’m LDS. Mormon. And it’s one of the reasons I have chosen to remain celibate if and until I remarry. That, at times, makes for a seriously frustrated big girl, although I have plenty to distract me, being outnumbered by my kids and all. But even celibate, can I be sexual? Or sensual? Or attractive? And are all those things even related?

Even if I don’t have all the answers, I’ve decided that shaving may reflect on how I see myself as a woman.

The other day my kids were talking about a ‘No Girls Allowed’ sign Spunk had taped to his door.

“What about mom?” Sis asked.

“She doesn’t count,” Spunk answered, leading me to believe that to children Mothers fall somewhere outside the realm of human, and farther still outside the female realm. We’re an entity unto ourselves, a genus and species above playground duties and beneath Santa.

That being said, just because I’m outnumbered by my children doesn’t mean I have to see myself that same way. I am woman, hear me roar, or at least check me out and tell me I have a cute butt.

But if I were really to do something for myself, it probably wouldn’t be shaving. I would get a massage. Although, now that I think about it, I would shave before getting a massage, just like I would clean before having a housekeeper come over.

So maybe the answer is in a regular, two-hour detoxing massage.

Two birds, one stone, smooth armpits.

(P.S. If you want to set me up with someone, please do not refer them to this particular post. And if you know my mother, don’t tell her about it either. Thank you.)

Driving a 26-Foot UHaul across the State

Nothing will test your resolve like driving a 26-foot U-Haul across the state. That or getting someone’s name tattooed to your backside. And believe me, if I could have tattooed the word U-Haul to my booty in 26-point font to avoid actually driving the thing, I would have. Here’s how it all went down.

After the near brain implosion I mentioned in my last column, I was able to pull myself together long enough to pack the majority of our belongings and schedule a U-Haul. My BFF volunteered to follow me through the whole ordeal, to literally trail behind the UHaul in my minivan. And anyone who has ever seen my bumperless, rear view mirror-less, sour-milk smelling Dodge Caravan, knows there’s no truer act of friendship than that.

Together we picked up the behemoth moving van that’s about as long as two fireworks stands stacked end to end. The 26-footer is apparently the largest vehicle you can drive without a CDL which means that it’s the biggest vehicle they’ll allow any old fool (aka me) to drive unaccompanied on public roads.

Before we go any further, let me remind you that my nickname is Worst-Case Scenario Mama for a reason. If something can go wrong, I can imagine at least 14 alternate scenarios in which it does. So when the nice U-Haul man handed me the keys, the first thing I imagined was a cartoon-like sequence in which the big moving van (did I mention it was big?) skids around a corner, skips three times and lands flat on its side. I nearly hyperventilated at the U-Haul transit office.

First, I drove the U-Haul to my house. When I wasn’t thinking about how impossible it seemed for the truck to actually fit inside a lane, it was quite an empowering experience, for all of 5 minutes. Then I realized that each bump and pothole felt as if it was launching the UHaul about 2 and a half feet from the road.

We loaded the van in a number of hours and were ready to hit the road. Let me just say that apparently the universal advice people give those driving big moving vans is this: “Take corners wide.” Really? That’s all you got? There should be a book, or at least a pamphlet, loaded with helpful advice—accompanied, perhaps, by a CD with soothing nature sounds.

It would take too long, really, to detail the 10 -hour drive in that UHaul. Worth mentioning, however, is a 50-mile stretch of road work between here and Boise that made me feel like the UHaul was doing the Rock Lobster. There were also over 200 miles of winding roads with steep drop-offs into churning white water that we won’t discuss. And finally, there was that time that I nearly destroyed my relationship with my BFF because I couldn’t her calling my cell, begging for a potty break. In my defense, I was singing along with Beyonce and all the single ladies (take corners wide? No, turn the radio way up! That’s my first piece of advice).

Finally, after two long days, a bag of Cajun trail mix and 96 ounces of Diet Coke, we arrived to unload the UHaul and head back in my minivan. Never before have I been so happy to walk away from a vehicle. That, my friends, is freedom. Sweet freedom. Now would anyone care to tattoo that to my backside?

Where are we going? Crazy, for now...

You know when you’re trying to pack all your personal effects to move across the state with three kids under foot while also preparing to put your house on the market? And amidst all this you have conversations with your former real-estate agent father in which you’re told to fast-forward to a short-sell because the market’s so bad. Then your daughter looks at you with dewy eyes and asks, “Why don’t you take very good care of our yard?” so you cry hard enough to hiccup yourself to sleep. I hate it when that happens.

I am so stressed that I think my brain might implode. Really. Astral projection, spontaneous combustion, brain implosion. I’m sure they’re all in the same book on the supernatural published by Time Magazine and found on my grandmother’s bookshelf right in between the book on Nostradamus and the novel Futility.

As I move into this precarious state called Limbo, where I’m between destinations and completely unsettled, I realize how ridiculous it is to manage a meticulous household with three young kids. My children, I’ve discovered, are drawn to the cleanest parts of my home like I’m drawn to the super nacho. My Facebook friends tell me it’s something called Unchartered Territory Syndrome (UTS) and that no child is immune.

To prove my point, Sis decided to water the bushes adjacent to the newly squeegeed windows while Spunk spray painted packing boxes in our garage and Sport, in a fit of self-sufficiency never before witnessed, decided to rinse his muddy t-shirt in the bathroom sink, leaving enough forensic evidence to choke an entire CSI unit. And that was just yesterday.

Please tell me why we like to look at clean houses anyway? Who I am I kidding to see a Heloise-inspired residence and feel at home? Sellers would be better off marketing to my demographic by tossing a few happy-meal toys on the floor amidst candy wrappers and Wii remotes. Now that’s an environment to which I can relate.

But, of course, I can’t think about looking for houses until I’ve actually sold this one. And I’d be lying if I said that’s not a thought that keeps me up at night. In fact, I’ve taken to carrying a paper bag in my back pocket so that when people begin sharing their real estate nightmares, and everyone seems to have one, I can take it out and do some deep breathing exercises so that I don’t hyperventilate. Although, hyperventilation is preferable to brain implosion, right?

For the record, I’m completely above using my blog to shamelessly promote the sale of my home. However, I would welcome any of my three readers to call my agent for more information (her name begins with Nina and ends with Baldwin). That, or you could look for the house on the numbered streets with the crazy woman chasing her kids around the yard with a squeegee.

Until then, I will continue to blog from the convenience of this strait-jacket, thank you very much.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

I started this blog six years ago. I was married with three young children in American Fork, Utah.

Now, I'm single, still with three children, but on the cusp of huge changes. I’ve been divorced for two and a half years, and we’ve lived in Idaho Falls, Idaho for nearly four. Now me and the chicklets are moving back to Washington to be closer to my family. I’m currently in the middle of packing up our house while my ex begins his summer visitation.

I’m excited about this new chapter, and I thought it only appropriate that I celebrate with a new-ish blog. While this one still has all my old posts, it also has a new name and address. It’s called “FYI, Sometimes There’s No Grass,” and below, I’ve pasted the post that inspired it all. I hope someone out there enjoys it.

Okay, so maybe I jumped the fence thinking that things would be better over here.  That not only would the grass be greener, but that there just might be a single parent amusement park with a secret spa in the back.  That, like Ann Romano, I would skip through single motherhood with grace and resolve, sporting a flashy ensemble and perfectly coifed hair with my three well-behaved children in tow.  But the truth is that sometimes I wear my pajamas in public, get fruit snacks stuck in my hair and untangle my brawling children at the public library. FYI, Sometimes There’s No Grass. 

This may be news to people, but being a single mother is not as glamorous as some may think.   Not that it’s excruciating either.  Some days it’s like a musical montage to “Sunshine on My Shoulder.”  Other days are as pleasant as exfoliating a sunburn with 60-grit sandpaper.  

And that has nothing to do with my kids, mind you.  They’re in the 98^th percentile of awesomeness (yes, that has been scientifically proven and documented).  It just means that as one woman with three kids, I have a short list of priorities, and they go something like this: 1. parent, 2. make money, 3. parent some more. 4. drink lots of diet soda.  

Of course that’s not all single moms do.  There’s chauffeuring children from school to ballet to soccer to the doctor to the orthodontist to the library and to the drive-thru for Happy-Hour slushies and two for one corndogs.  And then there’s managing the mortgage, miscellaneous bills, co-pays, daycare costs, extracurricular activity fees, and if you’re me, a running tab for overdue library books. There’s worrying about whether the bed-wetting and sibling rivalry are acceptable age-appropriate developmental issues or the result of deep-rooted divorce-related trauma.  And don’t even get me started on homework, housework, budgeting, disciplining, psychoanalyzing, and conflict management with the ex (although those last two might be synonymous).  All this, remember, on a streamlined schedule that includes a full-time paying job.

So as for a personal life, I have none.  Well, unless you count dreaming about that greener pasture and the man who will not only mow it for me but also build an entire playland (bare-chested, of course), install a sprinkler system, and add me to his retirement account.

Aside from my dreams, I don’t get out much.  And when and if I do meet people, it’s in a natural setting like the elementary school, the othodontist’s office or, say, second-hand stores.  

First of all, let me just say that Goodwill Industries is a fine establishment for parents wishing to purchase clothing for children growing at breakneck speeds.  Second of all, I’m a single mom—do I really need a second of all?

So I had been divorced for nearly two years when someone hit on me in a second-hand store.  The symbolism is not lost on me.

But first allow me to set the scene.  We were both in paperbacks when our eyes met, the world stopped and I could barely hear the John Tesh Radio Show being broadcast over the loudspeakers.  And then he asked, “Are you single?”  I answered, “Yes,” following which transpired the most awkward conversation of my life.  Mostly because I’m a little rusty, and I was wearing my fuzzy pink slippers.  I can’t make this stuff up, people.

When I noted the event on Facebook (because I really am shameless that way), my friend responded by telling me that when picking anyone up at Goodwill you have to be sure to wash it, at least twice.  You should also check that it doesn’t have any rips or tears.  Or lice.  Because while it may look like a good deal at first, it could be totally broken, and Goodwill has a No Return policy.  Maybe that warning should be posted on my collar.

So for those of you wistfully imagining what it might be like to be single again or for those beginning that new chapter in your life full of optimism and hope, consider this a public service announcement.  Not only is the grass not greener on the other side, sometimes there’s no grass.  And sometimes there’s just a second-hand guy with a Speak & Spell he plans to sell on eBay.  

Or a lady in the paperback section wearing fuzzy pink slippers.

Welcome to my life as a single mom. 

A Temporary Twilight Sucker

Okay, I’ll admit it. I saw Twilight. Two times. But the second time doesn’t count because it was at the cheap theater on a girls’ night out and I was totally outnumbered.

And yes, I’ve read all the books, and I’ve propagated the Twilight madness by loaning them out to countless friends and family. I understand that such a confession may cause my readers (yes, all three of you) to lose some respect for me, because if anything, I’m sure this blog inspires oodles of respect for the eczema-stricken, dirty-van driving, Twilight-reading soccer mom.

So last weekend me and five other women went to the downtown showing of Twilight and watched the movie yet again. And no it hadn’t changed since the first time I saw it. It’s still the same old vortex of vampires, teen angst, and pubescent romance with a slamin’ baseball scene. And yes, there are still those awkward moments where the film editor must have fallen asleep at his key grip, leaving viewers with long, odd shots of pained facial expressions. No matter; it was a good excuse to eat movie popcorn.

The first time I watched Twilight was days after its initial release (yes, I paid full price the first time I saw it. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.). We went one hour early to secure a good seat. I went with my sister, my BFF and her husband (yes Jason, I’m calling you out), and for 60 minutes we watched the theater fill with teenage girls, giggling with anticipation while texting anyone who wasn’t there to share the moment with them. And there we were smack dab in the middle of the theater, feeling just a titch out of place.

The second time I watched Twilight the theater was full of women roughly my age, a few accompanied by their significant others who were either under the false impression that this vampire movie included much more blood sucking than it did or they were involved in some high-stakes barter that included considerable payback later. Either way, I felt much more comfortable the second time I saw it, if for no other reason I was surrounded by other Twilight suckers like myself.

And for the record, I must also admit that I don’t believe the Twilight series need be admitted into the canon of great American literature (yes, Stephen King, I side with you there), but there’s something about telling a good story that can captivate young and middle-aged alike. That and using some British kid with unbelievably long and messy hair to play Edward who, according to my BFF (yes Ashley, I’m calling you out) is “yummy."

And for my last confession I will admit that I just might watch Twilight a third time. Tonight while the world is celebrating their love, you may find me in the cheap theater yet again sucked into that vortex of vampires, teen angst, and pubescent romance accompanied by nothing but my family-size bucket of popcorn. You’re welcome to join me…

Soccer Hell

I went to soccer hell tonight and lived to tell about it. And by soccer hell I mean AYSO registration at the local elementary school (and you think the lines at Disneyland are long).

If you follow any of my advice, let it be this: do not bring three children with you to soccer registration. We arrived 10 minutes early and were at the end of a line that started at one end of the cafeteria and weaved out into the hallway. By the time we left that line snaked from one end of the cafeteria all the way down the hallway, past the auditorium, out the side door and down the sidewalk. I looked solemnly at the people at the end of the line and offered my sincerest apologies; they were not appreciated.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Way ahead.

We arrived at 6:20 to a stack of forms. I diligently sat down at a table and began to write; my children proceeded to run around like wild banshees, and I proceeded to pretend like they belonged to someone else. It wasn’t until we had been there for nearly an hour that things took a turn for the worst.

We had finally made it back through the threshold of the cafeteria when Sis and Spunk began to fight over the drinking fountain. And by “fight,” I mean brawl, and by “brawl” I mean that Sis began to whoop on her brother like she was making a guest appearance on the WWE. I made the mistake of deciding to wait out the brawl. They couldn’t kill each other, right? Right. But Sis could put her brother in a chokehold that might impair his long-term vision.

My question to you is this: do you leave your place in the three-mile long soccer line to ensure your youngest offspring, who just told you this morning that he would rather live with you forever than grow up and go to college, doesn’t lose his vision to his sister in a drinking fountain brawl? No way! You stand there and yell your daughter’s name across the cafeteria, attracting all sorts of negative attention while your daughter, lost in her own victory, ignores you.

Finally, Spunk escaped, and Sis, from across the cafeteria, felt the dreaded burn of my mommy laser gaze and sheepishly came to stand beside me. “What, Mom?” As if she didn’t know. “You will stand by me until we’re finished,” I commanded.

What followed was the longest temper tantrum in soccer hell history (look for us in Guinness next year). For 15 minutes my daughter wailed at my side, begging me to give her one more chance not to kill her brother over the drinking fountain. There was also periodic jumping, stomping, and pouting. Did I mention that the soccer line had outlasted their bedtime?

When all was said and done, I had stood in line for one hour and paid over one hundred dollars to ensure that my three children were enrolled in spring soccer, meaning that every Saturday for three months I will be watching approximately 210 minutes worth of soccer games. That’s a total of 2,520 minutes of AYSO fun (who said I wasn’t good at math).

And you thought soccer moms were chauffeurs dressed in trendy Gap clothing. No, no, my friends. Soccer moms are the bastions of patience, perseverance, and a piercing laser gaze.

So when do I get MY trophy? (By the way, if I have to stand in line for it, no thanks.)

Are You Smarter than a Second Grader?

I don’t claim to be very bright. But I thought my children would graduate from elementary school before surpassing my IQ. My son’s in the second grade, and he’s quickly becoming the forerunner for smartest-in-the-house. My reign was short-lived.

It doesn’t help that a lot of the stuff I learned in school is outdated. Yes, I’m that old. Like Pluto. A couple years ago it received an interstellar demotion and is no longer a planet. So, "My Very Excellent Mother Just Made Us Nine Pizzas," no longer applies.

And neither does Roy G. Biv. Remember that one? Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, and Violet: the color sequence of the rainbow. Well apparently, “indigo” was fired because it was unable to adequately distinguish itself from Blue and Violet. And there was no press release for that one. I only found out after missing the question while playing Cranium. I lost, by the way, in Cranium. The irony in that does not escape even me.

All this makes me highly unqualified to help my children with their homework. Unless, of course, the new definition of “help” is nag until it’s done. If that's the case then someone please crown me Queen Homework Helper, because that is an arena in which I excel. In fact, is there were a board game for nagging, I’d challenge anyone of you people. Bring it.

But alas, even with my sub-par intellect, I know that helping my children with their homework requires just as much guidance as it does, ahem, encouragement. But what kind of tutor am I? I can barely remember my multiplication tables without the help of a Pee Chee folder (and they don’t even sell those anymore).

My son’s taken to asking me obscure questions like, “Is an otter a mammal?” or “What plants come from spores?” or, my personal favorite, “How does a whale go to the bathroom?” This is where I must be honest and acknowledge that my master’s degree is in creative writing. So I could answer all my son’s questions with stunning brilliance that includes unforgettable details and perhaps a Greek hero with a tragic flaw, but I’m sure it would eventually land the poor kid in the principal’s office. So my typical answer always includes, “Let’s Google that one later, okay?” My kids think Google is like Einstein or something.

So there you have it. Apparently I am not smarter than a second grader. Now wiser, that’s another question. Okay, so it’s not, people. Do I get brownie points for being old?

Anyone, anyone?

I haven't been posting...

So I decided that instead of having a whole new blog, I would just change the name of this one. And I would try to post now and then... The two posts below are from the column, but I do have A LOT of other stuff I want to post about, and one of my New Year's unResolutions is to get busy and post. We'll see how that goes.

Thanks for stopping by (and not giving up on my lil ole blog...).