Apparently, I don't understand parenting in the context of quiet, imaginative play.

A couple of things worth noting today:


LOTS of you love McDonald's french fries, and the FREEDOM to steal them from your kid's happy meal.  Seriously, this is how women bond, and form friendships and win that damn prom queen title through good ol' fashioned personality.  Mostly, I think we agree that having someone else decide what we should feed our kids (and how much) feels like the worst kind of patronizing b-s.  Listen, I've bought into the trendy parenting hype ONE TOO MANY times to fall for this little hissy fit over french fries.  And in a STRANGE turn of events, I think the vegans are with me on this one...because I have it on good authority that McDonald's french fries are a vegan-approved food group.

Secondly.  Today is the first rainy day we've seen in quite some time, and my children have entertained themselves for HOURS (literally), building Lego creations together on our dining room table.  Three of my four children have never touched a Lego before in their lives, and now here we are, being all Swedish-Family-Robinson, and building small-scale shit, and being calm and appropriate and imaginative.  Nine and a half years, I have waited for this day, and it's freaking WEIRD and a little too quiet--like a dingo ate my baby or something.  This isn't what childhood looks like, or at least, it hasn't in our house--because (in my experience) childhood is loud and messy and caked in toothpaste and whining for the Wii and kicking the Candyland game board in a fit over the color purple and begging for cheap crap at the Dollar Store.  Quiet imaginative play = zombie apocalypse, I'm pretty sure.  But I'm gonna need to consult Tim Riggins on that one.


Last thing.  I FINALLY broke down and bought G another swim suit today; generally, I like to have 3-4 suits in our arsenal, but this year, G has sprouted out of everything she owns (making last year's suits...inappropriate).  I mention this, because I have been circling Target and Old Navy like a mental patient, just PRAYING for God to send me a cute polka-dotted number in turquoise, or maybe some muted rainbow stripes?  How about just a solid colored tankini (NOT in a neon shade), and I'll add my own monogram?  Shoot, I'm not picky, and really, I'd take ANYTHING that wasn't so bright it was visible from space, or tye-dyed, or with stomach cut-outs, or resembling a hooker's bikini.  And that doesn't exist this year, unless you sell your soul to mini Boden--and I just refuse to believe that I can't find anything CUTE for less than $30.  It's like a personal challenge, and I keep waiting for Target to come through with a late season, large, whimsical, floral print--but sadly, I've been forced to recognize that sometimes even Target gets it WAY wrong, and I have to settle for the fluorescent-pink, Old Navy bathing suit that is so damn bright, it burns my retinas a little.  Now typically, this would be the kind of thing that inspires my wrath, except that this week, I have the french fry debacle to consume me--and the universe has an amazing way of keeping me well rounded, you know?


Just keepin' it real, and pro-french-fry, and impossible to be ignored in a hot pink lycra, friends.

My hormonal rage hath found it's target.

McDonald's, you are on my sh#! list.  

My timing on tonight's dinner was approximately 1.5 hours off--but that's what happens when you fly by the seat of your pants to the zoo for the afternoon.  You see, it's not just about the zoo, it's about the three hour time loss and meal rearrangement that happens as a result.  Recovering from a schedule addiction has given me the shakes, which I suppose is better than a case of explosive diarrhea.

Around 6:30 p.m., McDonald's was decided upon--mostly because it was easy, even if it does cause cancer in lab rats.  We ordered up our happy meals, and the cheap plastic toys on wheels that would spike my blood pressure when they ricocheted off the dirty, tile floor, every 22 seconds.  It made me wish McDonald's was carpeted, but that's like one million times GROSSER than eating human eyeballs, even if they are covered in ketchup.

Upon opening said happy meals, it was discovered that the french fries have...shrunk.  SHRUNK!!!!!!!!!!!!

Turns out, someone bullied McDonald's into skimping on the fries and adding apples.  APPLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I blame Morgan Spurlock (the Super-Size Me guy) or Oprah, or the Kardashians, or Kim Jong Il.  Because you know what happens when I buy FOUR happy meals?  I can steal enough french fries to give myself a respectable serving of lard, that's what.  Except that the new serving size can practically be swallowed whole by a BABY, and so essentially, I am now SCREWED.

If someone tells me that now I get BOTH fries and apples, so help me God, I will punch them in the face.  I came here for MCDONALDS.  If I want to gag over natural fruit, I'll juice some kale and watermelon in the privacy of my own home, thankyouverymuch.  I feed my kids whole wheat bread, and give them servings of milk; I force them to try new vegetables (Squash-gate 2012), I serve them fruit at every meal--unless I haven't been to the grocery store, and my only option is moldy lemons, because I have learned that many of you would call this child abuse.  I own (and use) a juicer, daily.  We don't really snack much, we don't have cavities, we are low on the weight charts, and we are current on our vaccinations.  

So put the f-ing french fries in the basket.  

Because here's how I see it--they are french fries and they taste good.  And we like them.  And we used to have a choice, before the health Nazi's stripped our basic human rights.  My kids are HEALTHY, and a side of french fries every other week isn't going to kill them.  It's really just a casual meal choice, and not a political statement on obesity, or heart disease, or food regulation, or whatever.   I see this path we're walking down, that begins with breast vs. bottle feeding, and becomes about sleep schedules and sign language and mixed-age classrooms and braces--this tendency to make everything a matter of life and death and intelligence.  It is a freaking impossible standard, and one that will have my kids sleeping in a lint-free bubble and speaking Portugese by the time they are parents, because someone will come up with some study that suggests speaking a European language will lower cholesterol by 84%. 

And that will happen over my McDonald's-loving, dead body.  It's a freaking trap, kids.

If I could impart a few pieces of advice to new parents, it would be:

Stick your baby in front of the television AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE.  Give them a bottle within their first week of life, because with all the "Breast-is-Best" insanity, you'll want to chop your boobs right off when your baby is eight months old and STILL refuses to eat anything not attached to your nipples.  Be a rebel and feed your kid fruit from a jar before vegetables (and screw that business of making it yourself).  Let them have a pacifier if they want it.  Toddler shoes from Target are just as good as the ones from Stride Right.  No child has died from these things, but PLENTY of parents have lost-their-damn-minds trying to keep up with the latest trend in super parenting.

None of these are absolutes, mind you.  Just exercises in fighting the mentality that you are doing EVERYTHING wrong, and that you will ruin your child.

I say this, because parenting has become a constant string of very serious and political decisions, when sometimes it's just DINNER AT FREAKING MCDONALDS.  It's not the moral high ground, people--at least it isn't for me.  I have no problem with parents who want their apples, but give me my french fries (and then feel free to just talk about me behind my back).  I could give two craps if every meal they eat in their entire lives is healthy and organic; at this point in the game, I am trying to raise kids who will be responsible, but not suffer with guilt when they take it easy sometimes.  I want them to be able to enjoy life, and know their limits, and not have to over think a side dish in a happy meal.  I want to raise them to make these kinds of choices for themselves--but mostly, to know that choosing FRIES over APPLES every once in a while isn't going to kill them.  But following the kind of rules for doing it perfectly, and taking all the human error out of life, will surely squash all the fun out of living it.

I want my kids to challenge themselves in the way they see and treat others, in how they handle injustice, in being humble, in their work ethic.  I want them to be gracious, and strong and confident and quick to forgive.  I DO NOT want them to spend their lives fixating on the injustice of the happy meal.  Good golly.

Next time, I'm just going to order the 20-piece McNugget meal, and call it a day.  

Less is more, unless more is something REALLY entertaining and blog worthy.

I guess it was last year--after juggling the schedules of three different schools, their start-times, their pick-up ettiquettes and their obligations--that I began to itch for summer break.  I remember this being a curious change of attitudes and events, as I had spent 93% of the years between 2002-2010 thinking that the school years were the *magical* solution to me having a life + six hours of *free* babysitting + my kids learning how to read and do math.  It seemed like such a win-win, what with kids getting educated while I ran half marathons and chiseled my abs and started a lucrative business in cake pop baking.

Except that I hate running, and education comes with HOMEWORK, and I was born without abs, and I have failed the housewife exam (translation: cake pop making) four times.  As it turns out, I don't know how to have a life outside of laundry and facebook.  

And my little people, of course.  Turns out, I LOOOOOOOOVE them.  

In years past, I've psyched myself up for summer with my favorite "buzz" phrase-- Being INTENTIONAL.  Turns out, I have half a basement full of "intentions" in the form of craft supplies that were going to create great memories and family heirlooms.  I made lists of things we were going to do and adventures we were going to have, and it was all really cute and well INTENTIONED--but it was stressful.  It was expectations.  It was not mixing the paint until it was BROWN!  It was wearing the matching bathing suits!  It was never having the same lunch twice in a week.  It was schedules and plans.   Not bad things, unless you live and die by plans and schedules and the appearance of what great parenting looks like.  In that case it just becomes consuming and busy.  A craft to plan, a mess to clean, a meal to make, a lesson to teach, an hour to fill.  It was photograph-able, but it wasn't very fun.  

And you know, my kids can finally handle fun.  In the sense that they can handle stimulation and sugar without acting like meth addicts.  We can visit the pool without the threat of drowning and we haven't seen a diaper or a case of public diarrhea in YEARS.  Today, we played Qwirkle, and no one had an aneurysm!  In biblical terms, we are ready to fly by the seat of our freaking pants--even if that just means eating frozen custard for 90 days straight.  

So THAT is my plan for the summer.  Doing stuff when we feel like it, and watching movies when we don't. I'm already five days in, and the sunscreen routine, combined with Little J's allergic skin reaction to chlorine? Sun? Grilled cheese sandwiches? is making my eye twitch--which *might* mean that we won't hit the pool until 4:00 everyday (dermatologist everywhere are applauding on behalf of my red head).  I don't really know, and I'm not really ready to commit to any kind of schedule or expectation.  Also out the door?  My idea to sew patriotic buntings for our large, outdoor porch.  Yes, this was an ACTUAL intention, but it's just not gonna happen--because these days, I'm lacking the time to simply read the last 100 pages of "Fifty Shades of Grey.  Mostly because I'm borrowing a paperback copy, and it's inappropriate to read porn at the kiddie pool.  So, "Bossypants" it is, when I'm in PUBLIC.

I do have an image to protect.  And simultaneously trash, here on the Internet.  

My mantra for the summer:  Less is more, except when more is an excellent source of blogging material.  

In the hierarchy of stupid human tricks, I think sexual talents *might* always win, simply for their shock value.

Blogworld, I'm gonna tell you something about myself that you probably didn't know.  Or maybe you did, if we are friends and we ever played the stupid human tricks game--you know the one, where people fart the alphabet, or someone decides to hit a cayman crocodile on the head (repeatedly) with their penis and it ends BADLY (TRUE STORY).  


Just to be clear:  I, myself, have never taunted an animal with my penis.  I was, however, able to turn our old beagle on with my shins, if that counts.  I would add this to my list of talents, but as some of you might remember, our dog died a couple of years ago, and was a *key* part of that act, and honestly she had a thyroid problem for YEARS, and so I'm not sure that trick has been possible since 2002 (full disclosure).


Party trick #2 is like that, but not bloody or involving animals, or dry humping or nakedness. 


{Drum roll, please......}


I'm double jointed.  I know, right?


I learned this when one day, I touched my palms together behind my back, slid them right up to my shoulder blades, and made someone vomit in disgusting amazement.  Also, my preferred method of floor sitting was with legs bend outward at the knees, until the age of 34--and now, that makes sense.


This little genetic abnormality comes in REALLY handy at parties (but not ones with crocodiles), in porn shoots, and during the talent portion of beauty competitions; but ALSO, and most practically, during the summer months, when self-applying sunscreen.


Except, you can't really consider it a super-power, with eyeballs that are singularly jointed.  


Days #1-3 of the pool season = upper-back splotch-fest.


Welcome to summer, friends.

Where I hypothesize that the resources and energy that are put into making cheap crap could be redistributed to fight feline AIDS. Or something.

Whenever my house looks like THIS, six hours before we are hosting a barbecue for ten families, it makes me think....

....that if I could harness the amount of sheer willpower and effort that it takes to clean the damn house, then I could probably cure cancer and world hunger in a single. freaking. week.   


Sidenote:  Little crap is the bane of my existence.  It's not so much the dishes, or the laundry, or scrubbing the bathrooms that kills me, so much as the small plastic froggie (and it's militant gang of McDonald's toys and bouncy balls and goodie-bag-items) that take all kinds of effort and creativity to hide, because I am running out of DRAWERS, people.  


When I run for President of the Universe, it will be on a platform that, a.) prohibits pajama day in any way, shape or form in schools across the galaxy; b.) makes it illegal to dress your daughter as a skanky nurse, or Prarie settler, or Little Red Riding Hood on Halloween, and; c.) bans the pressure and expectation of birthday party goodie bags, by outlawing the purchase of mini slinkies, bouncy balls, crayon packs and small animal figurines.  


I realize there is a lot of hate in my heart over really stupid things.  But that's the thing about parenthood; you learn that there is a SOLID line between what you can tolerate, and what drives you into a hormonal rage.  


Today was our first day of summer vacation--more on that next week.  


Happy Holiday Weekend, friends.