The Catcher in the Why

Felix came home from school a few months ago singing this song – or a couple of lines from it – over and over again.  We tried everything we could think of to identify it.  I Googled every possible version of the lyrics I could make out.  Nada.  I got a video of it and sent it to his old teachers to see if they had a clue.  Nope.

It starts out pretty clear: We’re crashing in the why.

After that he gets really mush-mouthed.  Other than the “oh-oh-oh-ooooooh” part.

I think he made the whole thing up.  But dammit it’s catchy.  I catch myself whistling it when I’m doing dishes.  Felix gets pretty pissed off about that.  That’s HIS song, and I never get the ohs right.

Do y’all remember that old show Frasier?  There was one silly episode where Daphne had overheard some gross rock band’s song and the whole house was walking around singing the same line over and over: “Flesh is burning, do-do-do-do-do-DO.”  That episode has always stuck with me.  And now my Crashing in the Why is the Crane residence’s Flesh is Burning.

Crashing in the why, y’all.

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Horton Hears a New

I can feel anxiety creeping up on me.  It’s fairly diffuse but I can feel it getting stronger.  It’s all kid-related and due to the imminent changes.

Today will be the last day I pick Felix up from his play school.  This is the place we found after things went so badly at the Stepford Academy, when we didn’t know what to do with Stella or if she would ever fit in anywhere.  She thrived there.  I had 2 years where I didn’t have to worry about her during the day Monday through Friday.  Felix slid in there as well once he turned 1.  Neither of my kids ever cried when we dropped them off, or came running to us as if they had been tortured by mean little elves all day when we picked them up.  They were happy there.  They were allowed – encouraged – to be themselves.  Just a few days ago I went to pick the Dude up, and he had built a giant “machine” which took up about 25% of his classroom; it was taller than I was.  The other kids were kept away and asked to not mess with Felix’s creation.  His new “big kid” school – the same one Stella attends – doesn’t have anything at all to build with on the playground.  I feel sad for my son.  He’s about to have to grow up a whole lot; I fear his new world won’t be as magical as the one he’s used to traveling in right now.

So yeah.  I guess I’m pretty sad about that.

And there’s the impending set of “new” barrelling towards Stella.  Sure, she is probably very ready to get back into some kind of routine.  But her new teacher – no matter how highly-recommended – is unknown to her, to me. Those will be an anxious few weeks, waiting for her to settle down and settle in.  The doubts and “what ifs” enter in.  What if Stella and this new teacher don’t gel?  What if she gets discouraged?  What if she stops working so hard and ceases to care about principal’s lists and student of the month awards?  I’m so tired.  I get even more tired thinking about all of this but can’t stop.  On one hand I want to stop the clock.  On the other I want to just fast-forward 3 weeks and get to a place where things have sorted themselves out.

So I guess I’m feeling maudlin.  I suppose this is a feeling most parents have at the beginning of any new school year.  My feelings may be enhanced by some of our earliest “firsts” and the drama that went along with them.  Next Friday – the first day my little boy goes to big kdi school – I’ll probably be a mess.  Raising these little people is hard.

I know they’ll both be ok.  Kids are resilient, or so they say.  As for me, there’s wine.  Lots and lots of it.

Have a good weekend, y’all.

Yeah, I guess they don’t look worried.

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Rotten to the Chore

It’s been a week, y’all.  While keeping Stella out of camp was absolutely the right call, it’s been logistically challenging.  To be fair, the girl has had a pretty terrific week: a trip to the water park, splash pads, bowling, cupcake decorating, and tea parties.  But it’s all starting to feel so abnormal.  She is like my retired father; she has no clue what day of the week it is.  And that shit is catching.  This morning I woke up and wasn’t sure if I should be panicking that I wasn’t already dressed for work.

She also got a field trip to my office. Wheeeeee!

It’s also so much Togetherness.  And kid time.  My glob, I would dearly love some solitude and adult time.  I’m not sure what that even looks like at this point.  It’s probably not watching porn while naked wrestling in alcohol-infused Jello.  But maybe a conversation where I can get out a sentence without having to stop and tell a kid to stop shaking their ass or not to Wolverine-claw their sibling would be a good start.  Or seeing a movie.  Like F’ing Wonder Woman.  No, I’m not bitter.

(As I type this, my son just raced past me in his underwear bellowing Jingle Bells.  Xmas in July and all that, I guess.)

Did you know you could “accidentally” spit out water all over the living room (without excessive laughter involved)?  Yeah.  That’s a thing.

One of my more inventive ideas this week involved cleaning.  I “let” Stella help me with big kid jobs.  Like mopping and using Windex.  Now lest you worry that I’m changing her name to CinderStella, she kind of sucks at these endeavors.  Her Windex aim is awful.  Lots of wooden things were hosed.  And she refused to listen to my explanation on how to mop oneself out of a room, thereby avoiding foot prints.  But no matter. Some grunge removal is better than none.

I’ve just locked myself in my room to try to post this.  It sounds awful out there.  Will is hollering about jackassery (Sorry in advance to my children’s new teachers for their fabulous new noun.).  It’s only a matter of time before Felix picks the lock.  He may have a promising career in grand theft ahead of him.

Shit.  Will just screamed to someone not to stick “it in your ear.”  Gotta go.  Light a candle for me.  Or something.  

P.S.  I seem to know a lot of people going through some gut-wrenching shit these days.  Show some love out there.  Do a random act of kindness.  Let’s try to tip the scales for those who need it.

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Whip of Fools

We have made it.  Stella has survived Summer Camp Season 2017.  For the next 2.5 weeks, she will be with one of her parents or grandparents.  Togetherness.  Oh yeah.

The particular camp she just finished culminated every week with a “talent show.”  Y’all.  It was so awful.  Those things are without a doubt the most painful things I have sat through as a parent thus far. 

For the most part, these were nerd kids.  This was not a group you would see featured on Fame or Glee.  With a few glaring exceptions, none of these children needed to be allowed anywhere near a stage.  Add in a handful of young, “hip” counselors who enjoy introducing kids to unfamiliar and horrible pop music and you have a new level of hell that Dante himself would be horrified by.

The first week, Stella “sang.”  Despite my misgivings, that was probably the least-awful “talent” she chose to exhibit.  She composed an original song.  It was very short.  Hence the “least-awful” part.   The next two weeks she chose to be a “dancer.”  Her “dancing” made Elaine Benes look like Anna freaking Pavlova.  

Her first week “dancing,” she performed to some horrendous song about a cheerleader.  Yesterday it was to something about whipping a nae nae.  Y’all, this shit made me feel like Archie Bunker.  What does it mean?  What the living hell is a nae nae?

My daughter is amazing and she is talented.  Her talents are not something you can package and put on a stage.  It doesn’t help that she refuses to take artistic direction.  She will/would not consider suggestions such as actually attempting any sort of choreography.  As such, I was the only parent in the room not taking pictures or videos.  My dad would beg me each week to send him a video.  I refused.  I wanted no evidence of these “talent shows.”  

I know.  I’m an asshole.  And I’m already scheming about next year.  We may be learning some magic tricks before next summer.  If I find a sparkly top hat, I can probably sell it to her.  Just please, glob, no dancing or singing or naeing.

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I’m in an odd place today.  Maybe it’s the delay of breakfast and caffeine earlier.  I had to do one of those health screening things this morning where you go in fasting.  This old gal is in pretty good shape.  BP, sugar, cholesterol all good.  Even my liver enzymes were in the solid green range.  So obviously I can drink wine with impunity.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Will picked up an old typewriter at the Take Apart Store. But rather than take it apart, they’ve been “typing” and fighting over it.

Stella right after I busted her for shoving her little brother out of the way. Jackassery, I tell you.

I think part of it is this summer thing.  The wheels are starting to come off the cart at this point.  Poor Stella is just done.  I knew the camp-hopping was going to get to her and it has.  Even though she’s in a familiar place this week, she’s starting to fall apart a bit.  She’s tired of holding her shit together.  My mom gut is in knots.  We were going to send her to yet another camp – just one more – next week, but I just can’t.  She just can’t.  I never had to do what I’m expecting her to do.  Neither did Will.  We weren’t expected to adapt to a new place, staff, and group of kids every single week when we were 6 years old.

Stella isn’t so great at articulating how she feels about things, but I can tell she’s anxious.  She asks me quite often what is next, then what after that, and then what about school.  I can tell she gets agitated during these discussions.

Will and I aren’t on the same parental page, or at least it doesn’t feel like it.  He’s more of a tough love kind of parent.  I’m more mama bear.  I want to protect my kid.  I want her to have fun and be happy and comfortable.  I don’t want to send her into situations where she’s more than likely going to fall on her face – where the expectations aren’t reasonable.  He thinks she needs to learn to adapt – to toughen up.  I agree, but adaptation by nature is a slow process.  That extra bit of conflict doesn’t help the way I’m feeling about it.  Maybe it’s naive, but I would love to have him just say “it’s ok, we’ll handle this,” and help me figure out what the hell we can do.

And my brain hurts, y’all.  I’m so tired of the schedule-wrangling, trying to figure out where she can be and how the Dude fits in, and who can fill in or be available as back-up.  What is plan B? Shit, what is plan D?  What about work?  Can I take her to work so I don’t burn up my leave?  How long can I reasonably expect her to keep her shit together at my office before she starts bothering people?  How long before my boss gets pissed?  I feel very alone with most of this.

Felix’s favorite seat in the house.

But hey.  We’re having a tea party at work on Friday.  It was my idea.  We’re all mad here.  May as well embrace that shit, oui?

Stella has been taking swimming lessons, which is good as the girl is absolutely fearless around water.  She’s doing awesome.  This past weekend, I was working on a crossword while she had her lesson.  I would glance down for the briefest of seconds and *boom* she’d have back-paddled halfway down the pool.  I felt a lot of gratitude at that moment – that A) she’s fearless, although to be fair, that can be a double-edged sword, and B) that there are people out there that are gifted in whatever discipline and are willing and able to teach others.  As her mom, I like to think I can teach my kid just about everything she needs to know (for now), but I gotta be honest: while I know how to swim, it’s ugly.

Felix getting a crash course on the balance beam at a recent birthday party

Peonies.  I want some.  I think they’re beautiful but apparently it gets too damn hot here for them to grow well.

Clearly I need more caffeine.

And we’re all just dyeing over here…

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Jekyll and Hide

I know, I know.  It’s been said to death: this parenting thing isn’t easy.  Sure, there are cute moments, and wine, and funny stories about poop, and wine, and precious memories, and wine.  But some days, you just don’t wanna do it.  I had one of those days on Saturday.

Y’all, I was bitchy.  For no apparent reason, bitchy.  It was that out of left field just because it was my turn to be bitchy bitchy.  I had zero patience.  None were spared.  I don’t even remember what all we did, and no, it’s not the wine.  I refrained from refreshing myself until at least 7:00 PM, seeing as how I had to take Felix to a birthday party.  I was disgruntled.  I was cross.  I am was burnt out.   I was mean, cantankerous, and pissed off.

And then I was appropriately guilty for being that way.

Sunday, for whatever reason, I woke up a different person.  I was kind, creative, and inspired.  I was patient and good.  The only thing I was missing was a big poofy ballgown, a giant tiara, a magic wand, and a name change to Glinda.  We dyed our hair.  We giggled over Snapchat filters.  We had a tea party.  There was a swimming lesson for Stella.  I don’t think I  yelled at them even once.  Wait.  I lie.  I yelled at them a bit at bedtime because dagnabbit I was watching Game of Thrones.

I definitely like myself better as a mom when I’m the good witch.  I know as parents we have to be the bad witch sometimes.  I just don’t like it when it doesn’t make sense.

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The Hair Tonight

It’s been a combination of lack of time and inspiration – why I haven’t been posting much, that is.  It’s the same old song every summer.  It’s too hot.  We don’t have a travel budget.  My daughter doesn’t do the lack of structure due to lack of school so well.  Granted, we’ve not had any terrible weeks since the debacle of art camp, but still.  I can tell she’s burnt out – that’s she’s weary of keeping her shit together.  So am I, for that matter.  I do my best to make stuff as fun as possible, but after 7-8 weeks, I’m tapped out.  I need a break.  I want to see movies – Wonder Woman, Spider Man.  I want to see something different, something new.  I want to breathe different air.  There just hasn’t been any opportunity, and it’s hard not to be bitter about that sometimes.

I’ve become one of those people who just hates a whole season.  I always shake my head at those who claim to hate Xmas or **shudders** Halloween.  But I trump them all with a hatred for an entire 3 months of the calendar year.  I’d love to get to where I love summer one day.  Maybe we, too, can travel and do fun whimsical things.  Maybe it won’t be a source of major anxiety.  Just not now.

Sorry. Whining done.

Shut up, Mom. No one is listening. Especially Felix.

Let’s see.  What’s been happening.  We’ve entertained a couple of times, which was a nice departure for us.  Both times went very well.  Both kids are taking swimming lessons.  I have no idea if my son is learning anything, as his happen when he’s at playschool and there’s no one to provide feedback.  For all I know, they took our $360 dollars and are just dunking him in the pool long enough for him to get wet and pick up that chlorine smell.  And yes, of course I ask my son about his lessons.  He usually responds with something about machines or minerals.

My job continues to be a job.  I was on the road the other day and saw a rainbow as well as a flock of spoonbills.  They are notable for being the only other pink non-flamingo bird I know of.  It’s a  trip seeing them in the air.  I would have photographed it all but I was driving and stuff.

I did take this picture – just not of a rainbow or spoonbills.

Something occurred to me today: our last full payment to my son’s playschool will be paid in the next day or so.  That’s huge.  That’s like one of those milestones like getting out of diapers or losing your first tooth.  Of course as with anything like that, the money has already been spent a dozen different ways in our  minds: home improvement/repairs, landscaping (so that our yard no longer resembles the Heart of Darkness), a new vehicle for my husband (as his car has less metal in it than one of Felix’s HotWheels cars), TRAVEL.

Sorry.  I was almost whining again.

To send you all forth into the weekend, I leave you glimpses of my first effort as a mother at coloring my daughter’s hair.  We went for “mermaid.”  I did ok, but learned a lot.  Next time will be better.  I wanted to dye the Dude, but he’s feeling very protective of his shaggy head at the moment.  He’s digging the “homeless” look.

Have a good weekend, y’all.  I’ll try to get my shit back together.

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Dude Awakening

Dear Future Felix (since I wrote to your sister last time),

How are you?  It’s been a quiet yet busy summer, I suppose.  We don’t have any vacation plans, so everything is local.  While all the vacation pictures other folks are posting online are killing me, you’re oblivious.  You go to your school, hang with the friends and teachers you’ve grown to love over the past 3 years, and now take swimming lessons during the days.  You know soon you’ll go to “big school” with Stella.  I have no idea how you’re going to react to that when the time comes.

I have really mixed feelings about all that.  I love your current school, and technically we could have let you stay another year.  But holy moly we’re about to save a ton of money.  It will be like getting an extra paycheck every month.  We’re not rich.  When your dad and I bought our house, we had all kinds of ideas for home improvement.  Then I got knocked up.  Then I got knocked up again.  And while you and your sister are amazing – my best work ever, I must say – you have taken lots of time and other resources over the past 6 1/2 years.  So yeah, our house looks like shit.  And back to the school thing – you and your sister will once again be at the same place.  You have no idea how convenient that is for your dad and me.

And I think you need it, honestly.  You are so freaking smart – every bit as smart as your sister.  But your brain works very differently.  You are my builder, my engineer.  Your mind is never quiet.  Neither is your mouth, but that’s another matter entirely.  Your imagination is the size of a football field.  But you are so far stubbornly refusing to learn your ABCs.  By  now, Stella was reading – a lot.  You?  I think you know more than you’re letting on, but you need to be challenged.  While it breaks my mom heart to think of you having to sit at a little table and wear those wretched depressing uniforms and not getting to  just play freely nearly as much, I think you’d start to get very bored if I left you where you are for another year.  So change is coming.  Lots of it.

Dude, I know I’m going to get lots of notes home and calls from the school this fall.  You simply cannot stop talking.  I have never met a child that talks as much as you do.  I don’t know how you can possibly think of that much to say.  And I’m your favorite audience.  I think it’s your way of processing what’s happening in your world.  You keep a running commentary going about whatever it is you’re thinking about.  And you ask a lot of questions.  Stella never did that.  You will ask me about a subject – tornadoes, sea cucumbers,  snakes, the circulatory system have all been favorites lately – and demand that I tell you more and more until my knowledge is exhausted and we get somewhere with wifi so I can look more shit up on YouTube.  Then you talk to me about it for hours.  You may be a Jeopardy champion one day, with all the random shit you’re absorbing.

I do want you to know something: as much as you wear my ass – and my ears – out sometimes, I am grateful every day that you’re here, mine, and that you are the way you are.  Your sister is amazing.  She’s brilliant.  She’s beautiful.  But she can break my heart and make me worry unlike any other.  You are my funny little dude.  Holy shit, are you funny.  You don’t even try to be.  You are my comic relief, and there have been days I would not have weathered nearly as well or gracefully without it.  Your latest?  You have claimed ownership of both of the goofy cactus pillows Stella insisted on buying at Michael’s one day.  Every night after I recite Wynken, Blynken, and Nod to you, you make me wedge them against either side of your head before I leave the room.  You look like a botanic male version of Princess Leia.  Who knows why?

Every night

I know you won’t always call me your MyMom or tell me that I’m your best friend.  That last part would be a bit creepy later on, anyway.  But no matter how big you get, you will always be my little bitty dude.  

One last thing.  Forgive me for all the chicken wings.  This was the week I discovered how easy they were to make in the oven from scratch, and since you and your sister both scarfed them down – leaving none for your father – we’ll probably be eating them a lot for a while.  Hurry up and learn to cook.



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Shame Old Song

Dear Future Stella,

We’ve had a rough week.  This was art camp week.  It was supposed to be easy.  You love art.  You were familiar with the facility.  You knew a handful of the kids in the group already.  You had done art camps before – albeit run by different a organization – and had a ball.  And it’s art camp, right?  Stress free, easy peasy.

It was not.  You were written up the first day – arguing with a boy, they said.  They said it “nearly came to blows.”  I was dumbfounded.  You don’t even get rough like that with Felix, and glob knows he asks for it sometimes.  “Is there anything else going on we should know about?”  I hated her tone.  It was the bitchy, pseudo-concerned tone.  Fuck that tone.  Well, she has ADHD, you know, and each week she’s having to adjust to a new camp, staff, location.  It’s a lot for someone like her.  Tomorrow will be better, I said.  The second day, was not better.  You were being sort of restrained when I pulled up.  You  kids were all outside.  You were “trying to jump on the concrete block.”  I didn’t see what the big deal was, but they didn’t want anyone to get hurt.  But you had been  yelling.  All day.  Yelling.  I was flabbergasted.  You hadn’t acted that way in over a year.  What the hell?  And we had talked about all of it going into that day.  You would make better choices.  You wouldn’t act like a jerk-face.

I was embarrassed.  Why couldn’t you just do what you were supposed to do?  Why were you making me look like an asshole mom who doesn’t raise her children properly?

“Do you think it’s that ADHD again?”

I wanted to slap her.  Maybe she had brain fog.  Maybe she really did think that ADHD just fades and disappears like a rash.  What a  moron.  Why yes.  It is the ADHD.  Something is clearly triggering her, and she’s responding emotionally.  She did complain about the noise and I advised her to tell an adult and see if it was possible to go somewhere quiet for a bit to reset.  Did she do that?

Well yes, but they were in the middle of a project and they simply didn’t have the staff to accommodate that.

That’s ok.  Tomorrow is a new day, right?  Better choices.

Day 3 things fell apart.  I was called shortly before 2:00 to pick you up.  You had been written up 5 times.  You were a distraction to all the other children.  You had climbed into the garbage can and knocked it over (WTF??).  I immediately called your father to get you now.  His office was just right around the corner – same building.  He could keep you quiet and safe until I could make my way there.  Your father was angry.  I was shocked and angry and sad and scared.  This was not supposed to be happening.  And holy shit you had another week scheduled at the same camp later in the summer.  What the hell would we do?

I drove home that day trying to understand.  That’s my thing. I can make peace with something if I can understand the nuts and bolts, the whys.  I sent you to your room with instructions not to come out until you could answer that question.  Why did you behave so badly at camp?  What went wrong?  You came out a while later and quietly told me you just couldn’t control your body.  Well there you go.  Dammit.

I read these posts from ADD/ADHD moms, who trumpet that in their opinion, their child’s condition is a gift.  It’s not a disorder.  It makes them special and wonderful.  I have very mixed emotions about these posts.  On one hand, these women must be saints.  They must have a capacity for compassion and acceptance that I’m lacking.  On the other hand, I think they’re fucking idiots.  I look at the looming spectre of summer camps for years to come, the planning, the expense, the desire to give you good summers with fun AND enrichment, always knowing that it could all implode at any moment, and holy shit I don’t have much of a backup. 504 plan meetings.  Visits to your pediatrician every 3 months so we can keep your meds going.   It’s exhausting.  It makes me sad.  It makes me very angry.  At those moments, ADHD is the ugliest damn thing I can think of.  It causes behavior in you that can cloud all of your wonderful qualities.  People won’t know – or believe – that you get straight A’s and read at such a high level.  They won’t see how funny and sweet you can be.

And I have these thoughts and I hate myself for them.  I hate having weeks like this one, where I feel like all I’ve done is berate you or comment on negative things.  I don’t want you to feel less.  I want you to know you are loved and supported.  I don’t want you to think back and remember me as the bitchy mom and you as a fuck-up.

I also want you to know that what happened at art camp was not your fault – not entirely.  Hell, not even 25% from what I can tell.  When your dad came to get you that afternoon, he had to sign all 5 of your behavior reports.  He emailed me copies.  The most common phrases I saw on nearly all of them involved “not sitting in her seat and completing her art,” or “not listening to directions.”  One even used the word “MULTIPLE,” all in caps, just like that.  Was this art camp or an SAT prep course?  And hello?  ADHD?  At that moment I felt that calm quiet that can accompany white hot rage.  Fuck. Those. Bitches.  This was a damn Stepford camp.  You were “suspended” from activities for Thursday, including missing the field trip.  But you would go back to that place over my dead rotting corpse.

I called your dad and unloaded.  I was furious.  I was Mama Bear.  My rage only grew the next day, when I got a message from my friend.  Her son was in camp with you.  He had told his mother some of the things going down.  The staff yelled at all the kids.  A lot.  They told the kids that they were the “worst camp group” they’d ever had, that they would lose their field trip if they didn’t shape up.  And they called the time out area “The Dump.”  They would put kids in The Dump.  They put you -my daughter- in The Dump.  That’s why you were climbing in the goddamn garbage can.  Those twisted despicable women are the ones that gave you the idea – made you feel like you belonged with trash – not knowing or caring how very  literal you are.  So no wonder.  No wonder you were losing your shit.

There will be some blood, once we sort out getting you shifted into another camp later this summer.  We also have to proceed a bit more carefully than I would like since your father works for the same organization.  If not, that whole damn place would be a smoking crater.  But we will handle it.  The director will hear about how inappropriate those women were, how they clearly had no training in handling a kid with ADHD – not an exotic diagnosis in this day and age- appropriately and compassionately.  Hell, they probably couldn’t spell it.

I also promise that I do and will continue to do my best.  I don’t always pull it off.  Some days you don’t make it easy.  But I promise I will try my hardest to understand, to find different ways to reach you when you seem unreachable.  I promise that for every time I have to fuss at you about something, that I will find something to praise you for as well.  Lastly, I promise that as your mother I will eviscerate any asshole I catch trying to make you feel like less.

You are very precious to me, ADHD and all.  Now pick up your dirty clothes and make your bed.



I daresay she had more fun at my office than at art camp. That’s sad.


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For Goodness Shakes

As a mom, I find myself cleaning up all kinds of bullshit messes.  I often find myself wondering aloud how neither of my children seem to have managed to learn how to successfully eat yet.  The amount of food and drink I find spilled on my floor on a daily basis is really pretty astonishing.  But while this is common, I don’t usually think much of it, or at least not until something incredibly horrible and messy happens – something that penetrates my mom/mess-cleaner veneer.

Don’t let the formal attire fool you…

Until Wednesday, if you had asked me what the worst nonbiological mess was that I had ever tackled, I would have readily said the red Kool-Aid mix I spilled all over the interior of my refrigerator.  That was pretty horrible.  I’m not going to lie.  But the release that occurred on Wednesday surpassed the red Kool-Aid mix.  It was a chocolate McDonald’s milkshake.

To set the stage, I had agreed to swing through the drive-through since Stella had had a wonderful day at camp.  And in the name of honesty, I didn’t feel like cooking.  Will and I are just over halfway done with our latest Whole 30, so it’s easy for us to eat “our food” while the kids eat tasty regular stuff.   Fast forward to an hour later, and my kids were mostly done eating.  Jackassery began to ensue.  I heard an impact.  Something had hit the floor.  There was a secondary timbre to the sound, that of rupturing plastic.  Sure enough, while engaging in jackassery, an elbow knocked a 2/3 full chocolate shake to the floor.  Y’all, it exploded like an F’ing bomb.  There was a lake of chocolate on the floor, plus associated spatter.   Sticky rivulets of semi-frozen chocolate shrapnel ran down the cabinets, walls, pantry, and refrigerator.  It was like Dexter visited a malt shop.  It was awful.

THIS is what I need at my house, I swear.

I went mad monkey Mom and bellowed at them both to leave the kitchen, banishing them to Stella’s room (where the jackassery continued, lest you think me a big old meanie fun sponge).  Of course, the whole thing wouldn’t have been so bad had I not spent the previous 15 minutes shrieking at them to “calm down use your inside voice get on your stools will you please finish eating before playing sit down stop rough-housing stop hitting each other sit down NOW keep your hands to yourselves I don’t care who kicked who first just sit down and eat for crying out loud.”

It made me pine for McDonalds’ good old days- those of the fried cherry pies, styrofoam containers, and the waxed paper cups they would put the shakes in instead of their designer wanna-be Starbucks Frappuccino cups; they may not have been as glamorously “McCafé” but they would have simply gone splat upon impact vs. exploding like an unpoked potato in a microwave.


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