Homecoming Round II

In case you've forgotten Homecoming Round I, our daughter was voted to be the Homecoming Court's Freshman Attendant last year and big drama ensued with "The Queen Mother" over my daughter's dress and the ridiculous tradition that the Queen holds the power to not only choose the court's dresses, but apparently should also get to choose exactly where the dress is purchased and how much the parents pay. I cried bullcrap, found the exact same dress on Amazon, paid $66 rather than $200, apparently "broke tradition" and may or may not have ruined Homecoming 2010 by doing so.

But let's move on before I get mad.

Our son is a Senior this year. A few weeks ago, I asked him if there was any chance he could be voted Homecoming King. He said there was no way, because in the history of this school, tradition indicates that it always goes to a football player. Tradition also states that the King chooses the guy escorts. Therefore, as tradition goes, the Homecoming Court consists solely of football players. My son played golf. Not football.

But as you know, traditions are made to be broken.

My son was voted Homecoming King. That probably happened because he's a great kid, he's funny, entertaining, nice to everyone, has amazing school spirit and a level of confidence that encourages acts of individuality, not to mention his dark black eyes, long eyelashes and a smile that lights up a room....but hey, I'm his Momma.

Oooooorrrrrr, it might have had something to do with saying "Balls" in his Vice President election speech at the County wide National Honor Society banquet last Spring, causing a scandal like no other that rocked the school, led to threats of a dismissal hearing and subsequently ended with a Facebook fan page, media coverage, his NHS probation, 2 NHS advisers quitting, his new found fame, legendary status and nickname...."Balls."

Drama seems to find us wherever we go.

Whichever the case may be, he was voted King. So he picked his court. The Golf Team and a band member. And drama ensued. Whatever.

In the midst of the drama, I came to a realization. "I'm The King Mother!" And I felt the warm glow of power take over.

So last Wednesday, when the Principal called me into his office to discuss my son bringing his yo yo to school, I had to fight the urge to remind him that my son is The King and I'm The King Mother, therefore, we don't have time to be bothered with yo yo nonsense.....

But instead, I apologized and promised him that Z wouldn't bring his yo yo to school anymore. Choose your battles, people.

To top off this amazing experience for our family, this year's (beautiful & amazing) Queen (and her awesome family) chose our 4 year old daughter to be the Homecoming Princess and it still completely melts my heart.

Homecoming Round II was a huge success. The kids in that school had the courage to step out from under "tradition" and vote for who they wanted to be King, regardless of what sport he played.

My son had the courage to pave a new path by choosing a court of kids who may not have gotten the opportunity otherwise, proving that if you don't like a tradition, it's up to you to change it!

As for me, I'm still enjoying my reign as King Mother.
Complete with tiara.

Don't worry. The power hasn't gone to my head at all. (Buahahahahahahaha!)

Sleeping in a van down by the river....

We spent our weekend at Family Church Camp. When things barely go smoothly in the safety of our own home, they go about as you'd expect when we go camping out in the wild....or in this case, our van.

This year the tents were filled to capacity. My in-laws were in one tent. Our girls were in the 2nd tent with both of our dogs. And Z and Nick were in the 3rd tent. That left my husband and I sleeping in our van, propped on cushions from our patio furniture, hatch wide open, with our box fan hanging on bungee cords blowing in on us, beside the comforting glow of the fluorescent blue light of the bug zapper. It's a redneck camper, people. And it was working out just fine until Chuckles got the bright idea to spray bug repellent through the fan in an attempt to coat our "camper" to keep mosquitoes away. That might not have been such a horrible idea if he'd done that before I lay down or if he'd even given me a heads-up of what he was planning so I could at least close my eyes. Enter marital dispute #1 of the weekend.

We awoke Saturday morning covered in a thin layer of dead moths. Nice. But things were looking up by the afternoon when we were having a blast at the lake. Paddle boats, a water trampoline and a water slide are just a few of the fun activities. But the big hit every year is the giant "Blob" in the middle of the lake. Basically, it's a huge mattress of air at the base of a platform. Person #1 sits on the end of the mattress. Person #2 jumps from the platform onto the other end of the mattress and bounces person #1 into the water. Sounds fun, right? Well, not if person #2 outweighs person #1 by 150 pounds. Which brings me to marital dispute #2....

Someone, who shall remain anonymous but his first name is George, bullied me into allowing my husband to blob me. His bullying was disguised as "encouragement" with phrases like, "It's only water" and he even went so far as to loan me his life vest for "full coverage" against back smackers.

I listened carefully to all the lifeguards instructions: Lean forward, keep your head up, keep your legs down, stay straight as a pencil and drop feet first into the water. Got it. I was a gymnast. I was a cheerleader. I pride myself on having control of my own body. So I nervously sat on the end of the blob and listened as my husband loudly counted to 3.

Here are the things the lifeguard should have told me: Between the sound of him yelling 3 and the time he actually lands on the blob will be an eternity of dead silence as your mind suddenly grasps the possibility of your own untimely death. The silence will be suddenly broken with a loud "POOF" that sounds like you've been shot. You'll then be catapulted into the air where your mind will go numb, your body will take on movements of it's own and you'll lose all control of your bodily functions. Finally, and most importantly, keep your eyes and mouth closed to avoid hitting the water face first with your eyes bulging and your mouth wide open in a silent and useless scream.

I smell a lawsuit.

The good news is, the remnants of bug spray was immediately washed from my eyes. The bad news is, I think I swallowed a fish, my inner thigh is severely bruised, my eye became slightly discolored and my marriage is suddenly on the rocks.....all in under 30 seconds.

We survived to see Sunday morning when the only eventful thing that happened was that we couldn't find our dog, Axel. Our family spent the next several minutes loudly calling her name. "Axel! Axel! Axel!" And she came back. As we packed up to go home, a friend from a nearby camper approached us with a question...."Did you guys really name your dog Asshole?"

Welcome to church camp.

V.B.S (Vacation Bible Scammers)

We spent this past week at our church for Vacation Bible School. When my husband and I sign up to help each year, we're automatically given Nursery detail. We're in charge of children under the age of two.

Basically, we're assigned to the least impressionable age group. I'm not offended. I'm actually relieved that our church knows us so well.

Factor in my husband's care-free child-like approach to nursery duty which includes eating 5 animal cookies per each 1 he hands out and his habit of falling asleep in the middle of the floor while kids smear him with half chewed before mentioned animal cookies.

Now combine that with my PMS and you've created the perfect storm.

VBS started on Monday. By Tuesday we were researching marriage counselors.

So Tuesday evening as we made our way to the nursery and an older couple rushed past us to the information desk making wild gestures with their hands, my husband and I had opposite reactions. Mine was to keep walking. His was to see how quickly he could insert himself into the situation.....and then drag me along for the ride.

As I made my way past the table I heard him excitedly say, "My wife knows Sign Language!" (Crap. Be careful what you tell people.) Granted, I used to know Sign Language. But when you don't regularly use it, you get rusty. I'm certainly in no condition to be anyone's translator.

I turned around expecting to help this couple register their child for VBS and the man began slowly spelling with his fingers....E.M.E.R.S.O.N. "Got it. Your child's name is Emerson." He shook his head no and spelled it again. "Emerson." More frantic head shaking. Dude, I might be rusty, but you're spelling out Emerson and I'm PMS'ing so for the sake of my husband's personal safety for getting me involved in this train wreck, start saying something that makes sense.

He grabbed a pen and paper and wrote Emergency.

Let's note what we know so far. Two people rush into a church and they're both deaf. One of them misspells Emergency in his own language. That's 2 red flags in the mind of me the signing cynic.

So when he wrote that his mom is in the hospital in Toledo and he needs $20 for gas to get there, I mentally checked out. As I was saying, "No" I turned to see my husband pulling $7 out of his pocket. (Oh, good grief. And immediately a few hand gestures for my husband came to mind.)

The guy snatched it out of his hand and looked around to see if there were any other takers. Nope. Shocker. He was eventually led to one of our ministers, whose wife, it just so happened, had been recently warned of the fake deaf couple scam and he handled it appropriately.

Opposites attract. It's true. My husband will believe what you tell him. I probably won't. My husband takes anything at face value. I'll do research. My husband could win a social reality game show like Big Brother or Survivor. I would become the all-time hated contestant who everyone wants to physically harm after the first episode.

But somehow it works. We survived to the end of the week of Bible School and walked out of there last night still happily married.....me with gradually balancing hormones and him crusted with dried cracker slime and seven less dollars in his pocket, but still married.

(A friend, who shall remain nameless but whose initials are G.D recently requested that I occasionally include some "useful information" on my blog.....So, this is for you, G.D: Long John Silvers is offering a special: 8 piece family meal with one side and 12 hush puppies for $10....all served in a super-cool giant cardboard treasure chest with paper plates for your convenience. Extra crispies are no charge.)

What happens in da family, stays in da family.

Every family has their crazy stories that are labeled "Confidential." Under no circumstances are these stories to be spoken of in public.

Our family is no different, with exception of one thing. I have a blog.

And some stories are too good to file away.

If you're familiar with my blog, you know that most of my Top Secret stories involve everyone else in my family. (Well, except for my 4th of July entry from last year when I ate 3 plates of jello jigglers that turned out to be jello shots and I showed up drunk to the church picnic. Whatever.)

But in the interest of fairness, (and threats from my family), I feel the need to share with you what happened in this house this morning.

We're preparing for a garage sale next weekend and everyone is busy going through their things they've outgrown. K showed up in my bedroom and asked, "Can I sell this?" There in her hand hung my 21 year old Prom Dress. And as any woman knows, you can't be in a room with an old sentimental dress and not try it on.

Boosted by my recent weight loss and a fresh pair of Spanx, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the dress. When the zipper reached my butt region, we heard a little rip and she gasped. In my best "no big deal" voice, I explained that I just needed to put it over my head.

I got my beautiful strapless gown into place and I was one zip up my back away from running outside to surprise my husband who was my Prom date when I originally wore this dress. I excitedly told K to zip me up and then I stood there impatiently waiting. Five minutes and lots of panting and gasping later she said, "I'm not strong enough!" Good grief. It's just a zipper. What's the problem?

I ran upstairs and recruited A to help us out. Ten minutes and more grunting and A says, "Can you suck in?" (What the heck does she think I've been doing?!) I said, "I AM sucking in!!" She said, "Can you suck in your upper back?" (How in the h*** do you suck in upper back fat?) Finally, she said "We need Z's help." (Yes. Because this situation isn't quite humiliating enough.)

Enter the 17 year old boy who took one look at me and said, "Why?" So in the sweetest "mom voice" I could muster I said, "BECAUSE THIS FITS ME, D*** it!!!"

Three kids and ten minutes later, the zipper made it's way to the top. Just as Z yelled, "She's in!!" the zipper ripped from the bottom and left a gaping hole in the middle of my back. The teenagers burst out laughing and ran from the room, but K stuck around to comfort me as I stared at myself in the full length mirror. She patted my back and said, "It would have been fine if you hadn't breathed."

I'll keep that in mind next time.

To the man!

This weekend is all about the man.

The man who bought me a super-sized box of Captain Crunch peanut butter balls for Mother's Day.

The man who tried to kill a raccoon in our garage with a bow and arrow but shot through our refrigerator instead.

The man who tries to scare the neighbor's peacock up the road when he gets loose to "teach him a lesson."

The man who ordered the "Shocking Roulette Game" and then played it with our kids. (Our toddler "won" the first two rounds.)

The man who DJ'd the church youth dance and introduced them to such artists as Van Halen, Bon Jovi, and Def Leopard.

The man who wouldn't stop posing with his shirt pulled up beside the Girls Gone Wild tour bus at a gas station on our way to Hilton Head.

The man who would get sucked into the 90 minute time share presentation by the guy standing outside the Hilton Head Walmart if I wasn't there to lure him to the van with a package of Oreos.

The man who faithfully watches Finding Bigfoot because "you should be prepared."

The man who wears his Ohio State baseball cap everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

The man who makes fun of me for watching this season's The Bachelorette, but then asked me where Bentley was last week.

The man who hit 2 triples during our co-ed softball game last week and then accused me of arranging that with the other team as part of a "cruel fitness program."

The man who used clothes hangers, wires and the car battery to electrify the ground, thus sending fishing worms to the surface for bait. (Two worms fell for it....or just came to the surface out of morbid curiosity.)

The man who willingly pulls over to allow our toddler (or me) to relieve ourselves along the side of the highway and doesn't even roll his eyes when our toddler (or me) doesn't quite make it.

The man who knows how to have fun.

The man who has his wife and children at the top of his priority list.

The man who is slow to anger. (Unless it involves the Buckeyes or the DirectTv service tech named Roy.)

The man who baptized our daughter in the ocean at sunrise.

The man who swept me off my feet 21 years ago and hasn't put me down since.

The man who gives freely with no strings attached.

The man who loves UN-conditionally.

The man who makes me laugh (almost) every day.

The man who doesn't have a selfish bone in his body.

The man who shows me every day the kind of person I want to become.

So, here's to the man!!!

Happy Father's Day to the one we know we can trust and the one who knows how to love.

We love you.

I pray everyone has the man in their lives to celebrate this weekend. Enjoy!

Anonymous

Hi. I stalk read blogs. And when I feel really strongly about something, I've been known to leave comments. Occasionally, but not always, my comments drip with sarcasm in a style referred to as snark. I write fluent snark. You may or may not be familiar with some of my work. It's always signed "Anonymous." (Shhh...don't give away my secret.)

Granted, you're never completely anonymous. You're usually required to sign up for an account so someone somewhere can track you down if need be. That little "track you down" feature has paid off for me on several occasions when I've been contacted by websites to do some snarky writing.

So why do I hide my snark behind "Anonymous?" Because besides my sarcasm, I'm also pretty well known for my fear of people. Fear of judgement. Fear of hostility. Fear of conflict. Ultimately, fear of rejection. I know what it all feels like. Family, friends or strangers....fear feels the same. So I hide behind my anonymous mask.

I've shared before how Facebook was my first step out of hiding. My blog was my second. Both leave me feeling transparent and vulnerable, but both have helped me successfully break free from the chains of fear that used to bind me so tightly. Great risk = Great reward. So true.

I've come a long way on my road to freedom. I've actually never felt more free in my entire life and that feels....well, free! So am I ready to step out from behind "Anonymous?" Nope. Which brings me to what happened today.....

I clicked onto one of my favorite blog sites to find a post about her experience in a department store and a detailed account of how she witnessed another mother behaving with her children. It was told in a humorous way and wrapped up with self reflection of how we mother our children. It was funny and thought provoking. I loved it. So I was completely shocked to scroll down to find this woman being ripped to shreds and being accused of everything from "being judgmental" to "ignoring abuse." Some of the comments were getting pretty nasty, especially by one particular poster who simply referred to herself (himself?) as "Roomthreeseventeen." (Yikes. If you were trying to choose a code name that sent chills of fear up everyone's spine, congratulations. You did it.)

I jumped to my blog friend's defense with a comment laced with some of my best snark that I save for truly special occasions and clicked Enter. To my shock and horror that inflicted immediate stomach cramps and four subsequent trips to the bathroom, my full name appeared under my post. And I couldn't delete it. Holy crap. (No pun intended.) Suddenly my mind was filled with images of the faceless Roomthreeseventeen, dressed in a dark hooded robe, finding my house and ending the life of the Anonymous Queen of Snark and nobody would know where to find her (him?) because she (he?) was smart enough to list only the number of the room of the dungeon where she (he?) sleeps.

Cut me some slack, drama runs deep here.

Two hours later, I'd contacted and heard back from my blog friend. My super snarky comment was deleted, hopefully before the armed and dangerous Roomthreeseventeen got a taste of my gift and I can happily return to my life as Anonymous.....and always remember to set my security alarm at night for the rest of my snarky life.

Happy Mother's Day

This morning I read an article by Andrew McGinn that made my day. Not only do I also hate all things Caillou, but I finally found someone else willing to admit to stepping outside of the "How to raise an emotionally healthy and mentally stable child" box that someone, somewhere decided exists.

I'll admit, when our oldest child Z was born, I had every intention to conform to that box. Not only would he never be permitted to watch shows that society deemed "violent" but this son of mine would never be permitted to play with toy guns, either. He would grow up to be a peaceful gentleman who treated his younger sisters with nothing but kindness and the utmost respect. From my lips to God's ears....

Three years after he was born, as I proudly wore my invisible "Self-Righteous-Mother-of-the-Year" award on my forehead for all to see, I was stunned to walk into our playroom to find that he'd lathered rubber cement all over his 1-year old sister's head and was holding her to the wall until she dried. Holy crap.

Not long after that, while I was giving them baths, this "gunless-full-of-peace-and-love-future-gentleman" of mine began making gun shooting noises while aiming his man-part around the bathroom. The next day we went to the dollar store and stocked up on plastic toy guns.

From that day forward we took a more relaxed approach to parenting. It didn't take us long to become "those" parents who people place bets on how soon their kids will need therapy.

When he was 5, his favorite movie was Con-Air. (It still is.) When he was 7 and I knew he was telling me a lie, I wrapped the computer mouse around his hand, told him it was a lie-detector, and then I made it beep every time he answered. When he was 8, we realized we didn't know where he was and found him dangling by his shirt on our privacy fence gate. When he was 9, I attempted to home-school him "for his own emotional protection from the bad influences of public school." One day we got a bill from our cable company. Z, who was a fan of Play Station and Game Boy thought he hit the jackpot and found a television station that combined the two.....Playboy. We sent him back to school.

Clearly, we'd screwed up with this "How to raise a stable child" philosophy.....or is it that very philosophy that is screwing us up? Suddenly we live in a society where every child has to receive a ribbon whether they actually win or not for fear of scarring their little hearts. We now live in a world where to discipline a child is to strip them of their rights. Suddenly, it's considered emotional abuse to set standards for your children and then expect them to follow through.

Good grief. I'll take our way, thank you very much. And the proof is in the young adults we're witnessing our children become. A is 15 and K is 11 and they're growing into the sweetest and most respectful young ladies you'd ever meet. Z, at 17, is charming, funny and extremely responsible. (Well, he did say "balls" during his National Honor Society speech and got put on probation, but whatever.) And did I mention they're all on the Honor Roll? (No thanks to me, I assure you.)

The jury's still out on C, who's 4, but we have high hopes. Granted, she's addicted to Laverne & Shirley reruns, wants to work at Shotz Brewery when she grows up, enjoys staying up till 3am, sleeping till noon everyday and she begins each day with a cup of coffee. So far so good, wouldn't you say?

So I'm going to enjoy a guilt-free Mother's Day because why shouldn't I? I'm imperfect, I screw up, I have regrets, I make questionable choices and there are many areas I could and should improve on. But, God has blessed me with 4 amazing children, who I love wholeheartedly and unconditionally and who are "emotionally healthy and mentally stable" despite my parenting techniques. Wheew!

Happy Mother's Day to all those moms who do their best and trust God for the rest!