Geriatric Parenting: Overprotecting the Fun Out Of Childhood Can Make You Tired

Today I went out and about sporting my usual look: rumpled up, slept on hairdo, baggy pants, decent shirt, flip flops, no makeup.

Who is the last person that you want to see when you look your very worst?

Your ex-boyfriend, right?

Who’s second?

Your ex-boyfriend’s wife.

But, third is your ex-boyfriend’s best friend. I saw this person from a distance and knew a close encounter was inevitable. I looked in my vanity mirror and wished I’d put on a teeny bit of makeup, so I rifled through my purse and came up with lipstick and found a baseball cap underneath the seat to cover up my lovely do.

I still looked like hell.

I was telling Lacye about this on the phone when I got home.

“That’s nothing’” she says… “I had to go to the office the other day, (her husband’s office,) just had to run in for a second….at the very last minute I put on a bra, which was lucky.“

“And I know that bra was all worn out, damn Target bra I‘ll bet.” Lacye has never, ever taken support seriously.

“Worn out yes, but not Target, it was Wal-Mart, anyway,…I had the same ‘went to bed wet’ hair you had, but I couldn’t find my flip flops anywhere. I was desperate, I had both of the girls loaded in the van.”

“What’d you do?”

“The only thing I could. I ran back in and put on my fuzzy slippers.”

“No. You. Did. NOT!”

“Oh yes I did and I was wearing them when I noticed my flip flops were on the floor of the van, so I put those on, instead. I was gonna wear them, I didn’t care who saw it, I’m just at that point, you know, like that girl I saw in Wal Mart that time…”

“What girl?”

“You know, I told you about her, had the fuzzy slippers and pajamas on with two kids hanging on the buggy?”

“I don’t recall it.”

“Oh, please, she did not have on the kind of pajamas that maybe, possibly, could kinda pass for real clothes….Girlfriend had on pajamas, fuzzy slippers and an expression that dared you to judge her.”

“Unreal.”

“Paige, it’s us against them…” She doesn’t elaborate on who “them” is…Husband? Kids? Ex’s? The whole establishment?

“Yeah.”

“Survival of the fittest when you’ve got little ones like this.”

“I know, I know….”

But, really, I think maybe we’re just old….Yesterday, I went to kindergarten lunch with Hannah:

I’m sitting with Hannah and her best friend, Sarah. We proceeded to eat.

“My Mom is 29 years old.” Sarah starts our conversation this way. “But my Dad’s really old, he’s 33.” I think she’s trying to make conversation with me and using her observation of my advanced age, she’s trying to relate to me using her (old-ass 33 year old) father.

“That’s nice….” I say to her, then under my breath I say “Babies…..” ("Babies" came out with a slight air of contempt...)

“What?”

“I said ‘babies.’”

“They’re not babies!”

“It’s kindof a joke, I know you think they’re old, but they’re not. That’s what I meant. They’re young.”

“Oh. … Well, how old are you, Mrs. Flynn?”

“Much older than your parents.”

“Yeah, my Mom’s real old…” Hannah adds.

“How old?”

“I’m 42.” They both look at me wide-eyed. This is an inconceivable number for them, although they’ve previously told me they can each count to 200, which is a good thing, considering I’llsoon be about 200 years old. They’ve been studying dinosaurs and Hannah asked me the other night if I’ve ever seen one, you know “when I was little.”

“How old is your husband?”

“Ancient. He’s 51.” And with this information they both start laughing. They’ve each got their little hands cupped around their mouths and they’re hovering together, laughing conspirationally at the geriatric-ness of my husband and me. It isn't funny....to me.

“Well, since my Mom’s 29, she’s going to be 30 on her next birthday. She was 23 when she had me.” Sarah’s all about numbers…so I figure I’ll shock her with some math of my own.

“I was 36 when I had Hannah and 29, like your Mom is now, when I had her brother, and he’s 13 years old.” Again, Sarah is wide eyed, she’s doing her mental calculations with the numbers I’ve just given her. No matter how you add it, subtract it, multiply it or divide it, the following numbers are old to Sarah: 42, 51, 29 and, yes, even 13... She wouldn’t be shocked at all if I said “yeah, we live over there in the nursing home, with all the other old people.”

And to think we considered having one more. Let’s do the math on that one, shall we? If I got pregnant in the next three months, I’d give birth at 43 and Frank would be 52. When that child is in kindergarten, I’d be almost 50 and Frank would be almost 60. I would be having this exact same conversation and the numbers would compare like this: Sarah’s mother, 29, me, 50. Sarah’s father 33, Frank, 60. Our kid’s sister Hannah, 13, Brother Scott, 21, who’s only two years younger than Sarah’s mother was when she had her.

Ugh.

Hell, no wonder Lacye and I are tired and she’s wearing fuzzy slippers in public. We are too old to be in the baby business. It’s just not natural. Nature dictates that these children could be our grandchildren.

“You know the only reason that girl was wearing fuzzy slippers is because Wal Mart won’t let you in barefooted….” I say to Lacye, getting back to our conversation about being worn out.

“Winn Dixie Feet.” She says, laughing…When she and I were kids, Mom would drag us to Winn Dixie and during the summers we’d be barefooted. When we got back into the car, our feet would be black on the bottom. My friend Dustin, calls it Circle K feet, we call it Winn Dixie Feet.

I absolutely cannot imagine one of my kids having Winn Dixie Feet…as my kids always have the proper shoes, Scott because he’s growing and he pronates (has no arch) and Hannah because she’s growing and has to have the proper support…lest they do not grow correctly and suffer a lifetime of tiny, humiliating feet with debilitating pain, which of course would be

Completely my fault…..

Yesterday I saw three teenage boys on skateboards wearing only swimsuits. No helmets, no kneepads, no shirts, no shoes, just swim trunks and a smile, the way nature intended. No doubt they were also sporting Winn Dixie feet.

I loved it. It reminded me of my own Tom Sawyer type Alabama childhood where kids lived fun, if not totally dangerous lives, picking blackberries in snake-infested fields and climbing tall trees, making mud pies from bacteria laden Alabama clay (hell, we probably ate them...) unlike today’s kids who are over-analyzed, over-protected, over-educated, over-antibacterial-ed, over sunscreened, over-afraid and over-everything elsed by their over-aged parents. If we old parents get a free minute, we have to figure out a new way to protect or promote our kids…

Hell, no wonder we’re tired.

Where’s my damn slippers?

In my next post I'll be writing about my childhood pet velociraptor named "Little Bit." If you'd like to hear about our adventures, please go to the following link and click "Like." You can find my facebook link on the home page.

In Praise of Veruca Salt.....And Her Love For Justin Bieber

Yesterday we hit a milestone.

It’s called “independent play.” Hannah is about to finish kindergarten and for the first time in her life, she went to her bedroom, turned Justin Bieber on her ipod player and proceeded to dance in front of a mirror.

Alone. A-l-o-n-e.

For the first time in nearly six years, I did the unthinkable. I sat down, with a cup of coffee and switched on Oprah.

May 11, 2010, I got Oprah with coffee. The storm that has been Hannah’s baby/toddler/preschool years has officially ended.

Scott was on my laptop facebooking, Hannah was in her room dancing, I nearly felt guilty for the indulgence.

“Look at this.” I said to Scott, as I settled into the recliner.

“Where’s Hannah?”

“In her room….dancing! Hear that? It’s Justin Bieber…(coming from the hall, you could hear Baby, baby, baayybee….) I haven’t seen Oprah in more than five years!”

“Good for you, Mom, you deserve it…”

Commercials go off and I hear Oprah’s voice come on, you know the dramatic voice with the trailer for today’s show…I don’t remember the exact words, let’s just say it went something like this…

“On today’s show…..he’s the biggest….(cameras show throngs of screaming girls) he’s themost talented…..(cameras show more throngs of screaming girls…in Austrailia…) he’s quite possibly the most popular teenager on the entire planet….(a third throng of screaming girls…in Paris…)

He’s JUSTIN BIEBER.

Oh for cryin’ out loud.

The frickin universe is working against me and I know this for sure. Where’s Dr. Oz and his gross dead organs? Where’s Tom Cruise jumping on a chair? Hell, I’d settle for SUZE ORMAN and her financial advice I'll never follow...

The scene switches from throngs of girls screaming, to girls being loaded into an ambulance because they’ve been trampled on at his concerts, then it shows him singing on stage.

I can hear him from down the hall.
I can hear him and see him on TV.
I turn to look at Scott.

“Don’t do it.” He says….”Just change the channel.”

“I can’t. It’s damn Justin Bieber. I’d change it if it were the Jo Bros, but I can’t change Justin Bieber.”

“Come on, Mom, it was your first TV in almost six years. Justin Bieber sounds like a girl. Watch something else.”

“I can’t.” And with leaden footsteps I go down the hall, open her door, where she’s crooning a Justin Bieber song at her reflection in the mirror, holding a giant pink microphone. She stops what she’s doing and looks at me. “You’ve got to come see what’s on TV.”

“Why?”

“It’s Justin Bieber. He’s on Oprah today.”

She runs past me and jumps into my recliner. I grab my coffee and settle into another seat. She is mesmerized by everything she’s seeing, the girls, him on stage, him talking….I’m pretty sure she might be holding her breath. She won’t even blink.

He is talking. Justin Bieber talks. He has words. To say. He’s saying his words. To Hannah. Only.

“I love my fans, yeah, my fans, they’re the best….” “Yeah, I get in trouble sometimes, on tour, my Mom takes my phone away, things like that…” “I like to take one day off a week and be a regular kid….” “No, I don’t get an allowance, I just tell my Mom what I want…” “No, I don’t get nervous going on stage…”

Then Oprah goes on to talk about how she’s selected a family of three girls to go on a limousine ride with Justin Bieber for a day, they get to watch him rehearse, then front row seats for his Oprah concert.

Hannah is not happy about this.

They show Justin Bieber in the back of the limousine with the three girls who are now Hannah’s mortal enemies. Her nemesises (or is it nemesi?)

“I want that.” She turns and says to me with a tone and demeanor made famous by the legendary Veruca Salt.

“What?”

“I want to ride in a limousine with Justin Bieber.”

“Well honey, it’s not that simple.”

“Yes it is. Those girls are doing it.” Her tone, like Veruca’s, is very flat. She very, very direct.

“Yes, those girls are doing it, but they’ve won a contest.”

“I want to win a contest.”

“Hannah, thousands and thousands of girls entered that contest. It helped that their father is deployed in Iraq. He’s a soldier.” As soon as I’ve said this, I can already picture Frank in an army uniform and us tearfully saying goodbye to him for a year or so, so he can risk life and limb by serving our country, so Hannah could have a decent shot at winning a limousine ride with Justin Bieber.

She’d be on Oprah with Justin Bieber, in a limo, then the camera would switch to show a live shot of Frank in Iraq and Hannah would say something sweet like “Oh, hey, Daddy, can you call back later, I’m in a limousine with Justin Bieber. Just talk to Mamma or Scott or Oprah or somebody. Bye.”

“I don’t care who enters it. I want to enter it and I want to ride in a limousine with Justin Bieber, just like them.”

I say nothing because it is pointless. She continues:

“Enter me in a contest NOW!”

Um, okay, I’ll enter you in a contest…here it is:

The Veruca Salt contest. You’ve met every single one of the entry requirements. You are the only contestant. Surprise, you’ve won. You’re Veruca. You are Veruca Salt.

“I’m gonna marry Justin Bieber, I don’t care about Jake (little kindergarten boyfriend) any more.

“Aren’t you gonna date him first?”

“No. I’m just going to marry him. Like you married Daddy.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t you think I can marry him?” Actually, if anybody can, she can….at some pointsomebody will, I just hope for Justin Bieber’s sake, it isn’t Hannah. But it could be….you know karma’s a bitch and he’s had a pretty sweet ride so far. Hannah may be just what he needs…

“Sure, I suppose….”

“How do I get him?”

And now I’m visualizing me with Willie Wonka. “Okay, Mr. Wonka, how much for the little rocker boy?”

“Justin Bieber’s not for sale, Mrs. Flynn.”

“I WANT JUSTIN BIEBER AND I WANT HIM NOW.” My little Veruca would say, looking directly at me, not Wonka.

“Okay, Mr. Wonka, seriously, how much for the young celebrity. My Veruca wants him. We‘d like to take him home….I‘ll write you a check...”

And during that show, Hannah grew up just a little bit. She was able to see what “thousands” of girls look like in a group. It began to click that sometimes life isn’t fair, some girls get to ride in limousines with Justin Bieber, but most girls don’t.

Most girls want to marry Justin Bieber.

But only one girl will….

And mine’s got a better shot at it than most of them and that’s because my daughter thinks she can. My Veruca doesn't see why not... I like the way she thinks.

Go get him, Veruca…..

If you like this note and want to "Share" it, just click the "Share" button at the top, several of my friends do that, it's fine with me.

The Nasty Sucker Contest: The Best of Sibling Rivalry

I'm going back to work, probably temporarily, but maybe more. My youngest sister, Tiffany has moved the furniture store location and now my father, whom she works with, is about to undergo major back surgery.

Dad's out of commission.

It's a two hour drive for me to work there. One way. I'll probably spend one night with Mom and Dad and work two consecutive days a week for a while.

I'm working for Tiffany. My youngest sister. This is so gonna suck, for more reasons than one.

The first reason is that Tiffany fires everybody. Every single person. Tiffany has no problem with the words "YOU'RE FIRED!" She's The Donald of Eastpoint, so from this point forward, I shall refer to Tiffany as The Biffy, because I've always called her Biffy and it flows better than The Tiffany...Maybe she actually fired Dad....

The second reason is that did I mention she's my little sister? Yeah, I know we're old, but that doesn't matter. The law of birth order is one we must follow, um, forever.

The Biffy has been my nemesis since the spring of 1973. I was five and a half years old when she came to spread her sunshine in our lives. She was fat, round, had jet black hair and blue eyes, all in sharp contrast to mine and Lacye's super-skinny, blonde and green eyes. She didn't match us. I was convinced she was some sort of reject because I couldn't imagine anyone actually wanting her, so of course a band of gypsies, on their caravan through Central Alabama, left her on our doorstep on that fateful spring day. And this would be the story that I fed her for years, with my sidekick Lacye agreeing, saying things like "yeah, gypsies....dirty gypsies....you're just a stupid dirty gypsy..."

The Biffy was cute, all smiley and happy.....

The Biffy was not left by gypsies.

The Biffy was Mom's favorite.

The Biffy was Dad's favorite.

The Biffy was MAMMA T'S favorite.

And this meant war. She could have those other two, but not Mamma T.

Lacye and I inflicted all sorts of horrid torment on The Biffy.

We bounced her to the moon on the trampoline.

We taught her dirty words and didn't tell her they were, um, dirty words.

We married her to a doberman in an elaborate garden ceremony and we made her wear his collar.

We stared at her without blinking once through every family dinner. For over ten years.

We licked lollipops, scrubbed them on the carpet of our mother's car floor and made her eat them. Lacye and I referred to this as The Nasty Sucker Contest because we competed to see who could make the Nastiest Sucker....

We called her "stupid" about 10,000 times over the course of our childhood.

We didn't let her ride shotgun, um....ever. The first time she saw the front seat of a car, she was driving it.

Of course for all the childhood trauma I inflicted upon her, she got me back even better when I hit adolescence.

She told Mom that I went to see Porky's instead of Chariots of Fire. Of course going into Chariots of Fire was social suicide, no self-respecting thirteen year old would've made that choice...My bff Kelli and I were looking all kinds of cool, with all the other cool kids, in line to see Porky's. We'd been anticipating the arrival of this flick for months. Every single one of us told lies to our parents, all of whom thought we were watching Chariots of Fire, playing in the other theater, but no, the cool people were in the Porky's line, including Kelli and me, which Tiffany and her little friend Amy witnessed, (on their way into Chariots of Fire....) and promptly reported this information to Mom. I was grounded for six whole weeks, a punishment that surely didn't fit the crime, especially since none of us actually watched the movie.

At the ripe old age of fifteen, I'd grown into a gangly yet slightly heavy teenager with braces. Tiffany was nine years old and Star Wars was the rage. Tiffany could do the "Yoda Voice" better than Yoda himself. She dressed herself in some sort of toga looking getup when she was en Yoda.

Given my less than stellar looks and the fact that Tiffany sat Indian Style at the foot of our driveway steps and made my boyfriend, who was cute and I wasn't qualified to have, fill out an application to enter our home, all in Yoda Voice and Toga, then she slipped the application into a box (with all the other applications, ummm....not).

I looked out the window and saw him talking to her, I saw the toga. Humiliation does not get much worse than that. He began to fill out the paper on his knee. She submitted the completed form into a slit she'd cut in the top of the box. Yoda en Toga granted him entrance. "You may enter now..."

It's amazing I ever got a second date.

So the next year when I started driving, I'd blast her eardrums out with incredibly awesome 80's music all the way to school.

This was a very long ride for The Biffy until she figured out that she could pin me to the steering wheel with her legs locked against the back of my seat...so....while driving.....pinned against the steering wheel, Loverboy cassette on highest volume, (she likes her tapes on ten...) and I am beating the crap out of her locked legs with my right fist.

Yeah, that's right, driving down the road. When we moved to Florida, we were doing this on bridges.

With habits like that, who needed texting?

So, here I am, about to go to work for Tiffany.

After she gets me down to minimum wage and works me like a mule, how long do you think it'll be until I hear the words...

"YOU'RE FIRED!"

But trust me, that won't be the end of it.....she may win this battle, but I'm still in the war.

I'd love to hear stories of your sibling torment, I know we weren't the only ones....and remarkably, as adults, all three of us get along, with only a slight amount of, ummm....drama.

Please follow me on facebook by clicking on this link and then click "Become a fan."

http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Latest-Observation-of-the-Decline-of-My-Sanity/246078574596?ref=mf

Our Vacations Require A Recovery...And Possibly An Intervention.

Details on the Latest Observation of the Decline of My Sanity, a.k.a. Life With Frank, will revolve around spring break.

"Break," to Frank, simply implies "breaking something." "Break" is a verb, not a noun. It is an action word. Break implies doing something, not um, sitting around on one's arse, as would be my definition. Unfortunately it is verb he often dabbles in. Last year, his spring break involved a separated shoulder. I am happy to report that this year there are no new broken bones.

I know this will come as a large surprise to those of you who follow me regularly. Frank and I do not vacation well together. As a matter of fact, I pretty much dread anything that could be labeled as vacation, requiring his presence.

As I often do while writing these posts, I keep the Webster's Dictionary/Thesaurus website open. I plugged "vacation" into the dictionary and it is a noun. It can be used as a verb, as in the act of vacationing...I plugged it into the thesaurus and got this:

breather, relaxation, respite, rest; interim, intermission, interval; feast, holy day, legal holiday; honeymoon; idling, loafing, lounging, slacking off.

Slacking off?

The work begins way before we even leave our house.

He packs the important stuff.

The wave runner.

The wakeboard.

The skimboards.

The ski boat.

The bicycles.

The skis.

The kneeboards.

The life vests.

The helmets.

The ice chest full of beer.

And God forbid it's a winter destination. You will not believe how much crap he tries to get on an airplane. Of course few things are as cumbersome as a boat.

And this year he tacked on our geriatric golden retriever, Dale, who is in need of medication three times a day. Dale might be old, but would still be willing to escape and kill some tiny, vacationing yorkie-type thing. Dale's a lot like Frank. There is not one single thing relaxing about him.

So, thank the good Lord, we drove separately to St. George, me with the kids in the van, Frank in his jeep, ice chest full of beer, bikes on the bike rack, towing a wave runner (no boat!) with the old-ass dog in the passenger seat and headed south. Do you know how many women looked at that getup and said "Thank God it's not mine. Thank God none of it is mine, not even that old-ass dog."

Let me tell you what he did not bring. Lounge chairs for the beach. He did not even think about this item. We are not in ownership of such a thing.

Hell, just looking at it made me tired, but tired as I was, I perform a little mental ritual that makes me laugh, every time I find myself in this situation. I sing the Tigger song in my head. It's my comic relief. The words are as follows:

The wonderful thing about Tiggers
Is Tiggers are wonderful things!
Their tops are made of rubber
Their bottoms are made out of springs!
They're
Bouncy,
Flouncy,
Trouncy,
Pouncy,
Fun, fun, fun, fun, FUN!!!

And one of the most wonderful things about Tiggers
Is I'm the only one

I'm the only one!

~~~~~

I am tired.

Already.

Yep, still in the driveway.

And this is because in the length of time it takes Frank to load up, trailer up, gas up, and whatever-else-up all his crap, somebody is loading up the non-essentials, like the food...the clothes...the toiletries...the kids.

By the time we got there and unloaded, I was already in worse shape than the dog and in much more need of medication.

And so we proceeded to, um, vacation...

Frank swam,

Frank rode the wave runner.

Frank skim boarded.

Frank went for bike rides.

Frank went for jeep rides.

I cleaned the house.

I fed the kids breakfast.

I fed the kids lunch.

I fed the kids snacks.

I fed the kids dinner.

I chased down the old ass, escaped dog. Six times.

I loaded the dishwasher.

I emptied the dishwasher.

I sunscreened the kids.

I hung out wet bathing suits.

I hung out wet towels.

I took a multitude of photos of Frank enjoying himself.

And at the end of the day I drank wine on the deck, giving me a grand total of four collective hours of vacation time.

So, after a fun-filled four days, which seemed more like forty-four days and aged me about two years, we are back. The wave runner is under the shed, the bicycles are back in the garage and I have about ten loads of laundry to do.

My God that was fun.

When are we going back?

Maybe by next time we'll have another dog, a puppy would be great. Or we can have another baby. Or we can invite other people and their babies and dogs to join us. The possibility for fun, recreation and relaxation is positively endless.

For more of Frank's vacation tips, please follow me here on blogspot or on facebook at the following link:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Latest-Observation-of-the-Decline-of-My-Sanity/246078574596?ref=mf

Can you please just play outside? For a minute?

I am in dire need of a parental deflection device.

I've been relegated to the duty of watching my two children and the three children of our best friends today. The children range in age from five to 13. The good thing is that I can yell at their children exactly the same way I yell at mine. The bad thing is that they ignore me, just like mine.

I love all five of these children, but somehow that doesn't mean they're easy to supervise, especially in a group. Individually they're each precious, in a group they become animals. They exhibit pack-like behavior...

I've just been told that my toilet is overflowing.

I've just been told that my $120 Bose headphones and my ipod are in the yard, on the ground.

Before that I was told that there are approximately five mismatched shoes hanging in my oak tree.

Before that I was told that I'm "the world's meanest Mommy" because I won't let them swim. And my reasoning is not because it's too cold, which it is,....it's because I don't want an extra load of towels to wash today.

This group goes through towels like, well, ummm.......toilet paper.

Or yogurt cups. Or Capri Suns. Or Doritos. Or Diet Coke. Or gum.

Or my patience....

What would my parental deflection device look like? What would it be?

I keep kicking them outside and ping....one's back instantaneously. It's almost always a small one. They know I cannot deny them the bathroom or water, yet once on the inside....that's usually not what they're after...

Here is a list of things that do not work well as parental deflection devices:

Me explaining to them what a beautiful spring day it is outside.

Me making up a game for them to play outside.

Me telling them how much fun I used to have playing outside when I was a kid.

Me arming them with chalk to draw something in the driveway, which is outside.

Me reminding them of all the suitable (the word suitable being highly important) outdoor toys.

Me meeting them at the door with "what now?"

Me meeting them at the door with a dirty look on my face.

Me meeting them at the door telling them to "stay outside or else...."

Me meeting them at the door and denying them entry.

Me meeting them at the door and yelling at them.

Me meeting them at the door and threatening to call Frank.

Me locking the door.

Of course the trampoline being somewhat out of commission is not doing me any favors.

An interval of more than 15 minutes of no kid at my door means they're into something poisonous, sharp, toxic, downright deadly or just plain stupid.

Or they're throwing things down into the sewer to see what happens.

Or they're removing the top from the manhole.

Or they're setting something on fire.

Or they're ding-dong-ditching Lisa just to see how many new cusswords they can learn when she comes out chasing them.*

Nah, I'd put my money on setting something on fire, although hearing Lisa scream the "f" word has lots of kid appeal....and so does seeing all kinds of plastic toys in the bottom of the sewer.

The only thing that's considered worthy of fun or attention has always got an element of mortal danger or complete destruction to it, otherwise they'd be in my house, begging me for something that they've already begged me for, 30 minutes ago, usually along the lines of food.

Now they're all five in the pool. All five of them heard me tell them that they could not go in the pool...Now one's gotta go to the bathroom, she's dripping wet. I've denied them towels, they're gonna have to dry in the sun.

Now somebody's crying...

A argument has ensued next to the pool.

Crying is getting louder, accompanied by some yelling.

Now I have five freezing, dripping children who all need to get in the hot tub to warm up.

Better go fetch some towels...

from the yard, because they managed to sneak some out.

Oh, and while I'm out there, I better get my lawn furniture out of the street. The UPS truck just dodged it, I'm not sure how.

I have just un-stopped the toilet...

Oh, and let me just have a little meltdown real quick and dole out some discipline...

Again....I am in dire need of a parental deflection device,

a.k.a., the ability to say "no" to a child,

and a really, really strong cocktail...

*I need to add that the sewer, setting things on fire, the manhole and the ding-dong-ditch are all things that Scott usually does with his friend, Ian, thank goodness none of these were done today.

For more of my parenting advice, please "follow" me here or go to my facebook

blog page and become a fan.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Latest-Observation-of-the-Decline-of-My-Sanity/246078574596?ref=mf

Procrastinating The Tax Man

I actually sat here staring at the blinking cursor after I typed the title of this post. I didn't even want to write it....um....right now.

I am not a procrastinator in most ways. I make my kids lay their clothes out the night before school, I make lunches, snacks, arrange backpacks, shoes, coats.....I even put dishes on the counter for the morning, I religiously make my coffee, even put the creamer and sugar in the cups all on the night before...

However,

there are a few things that I regularly procrastinate....

bills
bathrooms

and I know it's coming...It's not like either is a surprise, it's not like I just woke up on the 16th and have three mortgages to pay....it's not like I don't notice that the kids' bathrooms look like a fifth grade science experiment....gone wrong...

....but....I will procrastinate taxes more than anything on the planet.

Nobody likes taxes, well, except maybe accountants. This is like Christmas season to them.

I'm not assuming that my dislike or procrastination of my taxes makes me unique in any way. I'm just gonna make fun of myself for a minute or two, because, um, I'm procrastinating my taxes....

~~~~~

Beginning in November, I start getting all kinds of annoying mail with the word "tax" on the outside. These letters go into a handy stack in the back of my paperwork basket. The stackgrows and grows and grows and by February I can no longer pretend it doesn't exist. At this point the now very messy and very large stack is transferred to a box.

And in the box I throw all kinds of correspondence that I don't recognize as being familiar mail. i.e. all "tax stuff" and a good bit of junk mail....

By March the box is huge and out of control and beginning to give me nightmares. It won't be long at this point before Frank utters the words I hate more than "Will you give me a foot massage?" and that is: "You need to organize the tax stuff."

Let's see, what other things do I hate to hear almost as much as that?

Hannah (in the middle of the night): "Mommy, I think I'm about to throw up."

Scott (pretty much anytime...) "Mom, I think there's something you need to know..."

My mother: "Have you been to confession lately? I'll bet you haven't even been to church at all..."

My father (on December 23rd...): "Hey, do you mind going out and buying your mother's Christmas presents for me?"

Christi: "Paige, I really don't mind touching up those roots....I think it's been a while..."

Max (my trainer): "I've never seen anybody hold fat through the middle like you do...what on Earth are you eating?"

Good times, good times, all of it....some of my favorite stuff, but none as fun as taxes.

One year, about five years ago, Frank asked me to accompany him to the accountant's office. I was thrilled about this because the only official "dress up business appointments" I get invited to are this and real estate closings. These things make me miss working. I love the opportunity to look smart, dressed up, not haggered....

Anyway....I was excited to go to the accountant's office. The first thing I did was choose what I was gonna wear...and since I, being a housewife, didn't have anything "official" enough for the occasion, I had to go buy something...

Which I did!

So fun!

It was like shopping for work clothes... It was shopping with a purpose...

So after I'd acquired my outfit, I decided to use the excellent new red Coach tote bag I'd gotten for Christmas to hold all that tax crap. I shoved all those unopened letters in the tote bag, pushed them down to the bottom, then on top added a brand new leather-bound Daytimer (completely empty and now it's March) and a fancy ink pen and a calculator, I guess I thought there may be a shortage of these at an accountant's office...

And so I wouldn't create the hideous fashion faux-pas of not matching shoes with bag, (I had no red shoes...) I took my much smaller brown handbag to house my cell phone, checkbook, driver's license, lipstick and credit cards.....

I was ready for business....

Frank even took me to lunch in my snazzy and smart outfit. I thought I could really get used to this "business" business... It floors me that Frank gets to do this kindof stuff every day...

Anyway....we had our lunch, things were great, I was following him in the van to the accountant's office, we parked and went inside...

We sat down in a very fancy office across from our accountant, who was sitting at a very tidy, very organized, very large desk. He asked for our "tax organizer."

Frank looked at him and said "Paige has it..."

I felt a shred of alarm as I do not know what a "tax organizer" is. I say nothing and Frank can sense my slight panic and he tries to help me by saying: "I'm sure it's in that red bag."

"Oh, yeah, I think it is...." I say, taking out my leather bound, yet empty Daytimer, fancy pen and necessary calculator....At this point, Frank looks down at the bag between us. It's on the floor, so the accountant cannot see it...Frank sees all the crumpled up, unopened, giant mess of envelopes. There is one giant white one that I've wedged down next to it because it wouldn't mash down with the rest of them. It's bent and unopened, a legal sized thing, Frank picks it up.

"I think this is it," he says, opening the organizer that has our accountant's name and address on the return label. They'd spent about $3.50 to mail it to us, I'm sure he's noting that this money could've been saved by just handing it to us when we showed up...

"Yeah, that's it..." the accountant says....

Frank opens it and lo and behold, this was something that I was supposed to have "filled out." There are lots of questions and boxes and last year's figures....it was prepared especially for us to help us prepare our taxes, which is pretty much all that other junk that's all unopened in the bottom of my giant red bag...tax stuff and a bunch of other miscellaneous junk mail, that may or may not have included Ed McMahon and Publisher's Clearing House...My "tax box" had come in quite handy for housing all kinds of stuff I didn't care to open.

So, after they open up the handy organizer and throw away the envelope and attached letter...the accountant says to Frank (he's done with me....) "I need your property tax figures."

With a fair amount of fear, Frank looks at me and says "You paid the property taxes, didn't you?"

"I don't know...." Is all I could squeak out, avoiding eye contact because what I know for sure is three things:

I know that I did not pay the property taxes because....
I don't know what property taxes are....
and....
I wish I were anywhere else on the entire planet right now than right here.

~~~~~

Let's see, where would I rather be right now?

Cleaning up Hannah's throw up in the middle of the night...

Rubbing Frank's feet.

Working out with Max.

Getting my roots done.

Shopping for every single one of my mother's Christmas presents on December 23rd.

In confession.....

Actually, I rather be in confession, with my mother on the other side of the confessional....

~~~~~

"Paige, you did pay the property taxes, didn't you?" From the tone of his voice I can tell that we are no longer on the same side. We are no longer a team. I'm beginning to think that this "business stuff" pretty much bites and even though I look the part quite superbly, I'm perhaps,not cut out for it...

Time to admit defeat....

"I don't think I did." Well, almost admit defeat....

"Good Lord..." Is all he can say.

"Look, I've never 'been in on' this 'tax stuff' before, Frank."

"Hey, Paige, it's fine." The accountant says, even though it's clearly not fine...

"You should've explained it to me, I'm sorry, Frank." We'd been married ten years at this point, he was aware I'd never been in on the tax preparation. Of course, in his defense, had I put half the time into tax preparation as I'd put into wardrobe preparation, we'd be set...and very, very organized....

So, admitting complete defeat, I picked up my bag and exposed the dirty little secret I'd been hiding inside.

I dumped all the "tax crap" onto the accountant's very large, very tidy and very organized desk.

And with a little laugh to myself, I couldn't help but notice two things:

His very large, very tidy and very organized desk was no longer very tidy or very organized and with all my crap spilled out onto it.

But now my Coach tote bag was...

My Coach tote was now very tidy and very organized....and very empty. Then I had a thought...

I remembered how close this office is to the mall and, looking so sharp, admitting defeat, I leftall that tax crap with them and went shopping.

I now had an hour to kill and a tote bag to fill.....