Why You Shouldn’t Bully My Children

Aka: Someone called me a “bad***” and this is why:

There are a few things in this world that really make my blood boil. One of those things is bullying. I feel this way partly because I was bullied for almost all my years in elementary school. To this day I still remember the little girls that bullied me by name even though it’s been a good twenty years since I left that school. Although I no longer feel threatened by these girls, my heart still goes out to children who are teased, left out, and bullied.

Especially when bullying happens to my own children.

So you can bet how livid I was yesterday when an older kid slapped my Kindergartner in the face right in front of me after school.

My middle son, the Kindergartner, has always been sort of an awkward kid. He’s slightly immature for his age, but has come a long way since he first started school. My son is just now coming out of his shell and starting to make friends, but still sometimes he runs up to kids and yells something silly to child strangers which I am sure comes off as being weird to other kids.

Which is what happened yesterday afternoon.

Everything was going great after school. My middle son was giving me no problems walking to the crosswalk for the first time in two weeks. The crosswalk guard then told us it was time to cross the street. When we got out to the middle, my middle son ran up to an older kid (who happens to look like Dennis the Menace) and screams something unintelligible to the boy. Dennis the Menace then slaps my son in the face. My son just stared at him like what the heck just happened.

I don’t know what overcame me, but in almost a split second I grabbed Dennis the Menace by the backpack, turned him around in the middle of the street, raised my hand, and came this close to slapping the little brat across his own face. In fact, the only thing that kept me from slapping him was that he flinched as he watched my hand get two inches from his face. So I asked Dennis,

“What the heck just happened? Why did you just slap him?” (We were now on the sidewalk on the other side of the street.)

He replies, “I don’t know…um…he cussed at me.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well you live on *** Street, right?” (I’m still holding onto his backpack; I’m not letting him go anywhere.)

“Yah…”

“Well, let’s go. We’re going to your house and telling your dad that you just slapped my kid.”

By now my blood is beginning to cool off. In fact, I didn’t even notice at that point that I was still grabbing the kid’s backpack while walking him over to his street. Once we got to his street, I let go of his backpack and I told him that the better thing for him to have done if he thought my kid was cussing at him was to tell me instead of hitting my kid. I told him that discipline is the parent’s responsibility and not his because he is a kid. I told him that under no circumstances should he ever hit another kid, especially not a younger, smaller kid.

Then I had him point his dad out who was sitting on his front porch waiting for his sons to get home. Dennis dragged his feet behind me.

Now to set the stage here: Dennis the Menace lives in the same 1970s neighborhood as me with large front yards and smaller backyards. His particular home has hardly any grass and the front yard is covered in children’s toys and bicycles. Dad is a much older man, probably somewhere in his late 60s. Before yesterday I even thought this older man was the grandpa. Dad is scruffy looking and very unkempt with a beer-belly stretching out like a ten month pregnant woman. Lucky me, at least he had a shirt on yesterday.

So, I tell dad what happened.

Dad turns to his boy and asks, “What did he say to you?”

Dennis the Menace says, “He called me an Effing A-Hole.” (Except he said the real words.)

Honestly, I still don’t think that’s what my kid said, but since I saw with my own eyes my kid say something to Dennis, I at least admitted that whatever my kid said that it was enough to upset the brat.

Then the dad thanked me for telling him what happened and that he would discipline his boy. I thanked him for listening and told him I’d do likewise. I then grabbed my three sons and told them it was time to walk home. We proceeded to walk off his front porch when the old man tries to bring up casual conversation with me:

“So, how old are your children?”

“Five, six, and seven,” I reply.

“Oh wow! You just popped out those kids…POP POP POP!!!”

And I’m telling you I came this close to slapping that old man across his face and calling him some choice words myself.

Jerkwad.

PS: For explanation of the above photo, please refer to Out of Context Morons.

Mom: Holding Hair

Mom: Bonding

Mom: Dream

This was originally written for my son’s eighth birthday…

For a long time you were just a dream.
The dream from which I could not awake…
that taught patience.
that was worth the wait.

You are my first born.
The wiggling recipient of first-time mothering…
of underwhelming technique.
of overwhelming love.

For a time you were my only dream.
Then more dreams became your brothers…
to divide my attention.
to multiply my love.

You are my original dream.
The dream that I get to live everyday…
to wake and keep dreaming.
to hug and kiss in wiggling resistance.

Holly is a DFW mom who despite being levelheaded prior to kids now is reduced to tears during Hallmark commercials.

The Pros and Cons of Parenting Failure

History Repeats Itself

History Repeats Itself

When I was in first grade, I went to a Catholic school where we had to wear uniforms every day. One precious day a year, all the kids were allowed to wear whatever they wanted for the grandest day of all…picture day. One boy? Got to wear a turtle neck and LOVE BEADS . He was totally the coolest 6 year old in all of 1971. But not me, nope….my mom put me in an itchy green dress with an ugly scarf to go with it. I did have some pretty rockin’ white patent boots though so it offset my otherwise middle aged attire just a little bit…but not much. It didn’t help that I was sort of a chubby kid with no athletic skills that people picked on.

I got to school on picture day and after enduring an awful lot of laughter over my stylish dress green polyester frock, I looked around and realized all the “popular girls” had bangs while I did not. My mom prided herself on not having given in to cutting my bangs despite my begging her…I had long wavy brown hair that she could do all sorts of things with to make me look even more like a middle aged 70′s housewife. (And not that there is anything wrong with housewives, but honestly, do any of you want to look like your Mom did then? Hip and cool were so not in vogue then in middle America…)

Well, I showed her a thing or two. Everyone, please meet Stiletto Mini, the 6 year old version of The Stiletto Mom.

See those crooked bangs? Yep, those were clipped by yours truly in Sister Mary Catherine Francis Angelica Margaret Elizabeth Anne Catherine’s (because you can’t have too many Catherine’s) class with a pair of little kid safety scissors. Look at that uneven line…but more importantly, look at that evil gleam in my eyes. VICTORY! I may be dressed all wrong but man…I showed her….I totally jacked my hair 5 minutes before pictures…take that! Also? While it looks like I have a missing tooth? I don’t…it’s a SPIT GAP. Ok, so let’s put all this together, chubby kid, dressed like a 1970′s polyester wearing forty year old, uncool hair plus spit gap equals??? You got it, six year old meltdown with safety scissors. Granted, it could look worse but there was a good four minutes spent trying to make them appear even for the picture with tremendous amounts of nun spit and I believe Elmer’s Glue…though I can’t be sure.

When my Mom came to pick me up that day, the nun stoically marched me out to the car and handed me over to my horrified Mother. I’m not sure, but I think they could hear her scream all the way up in Oklahoma, “OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY!!!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR HAIR????” And what did I say? “I fixthed it Mommy.”

So when Oklahoma heard these very words come out of my mouth some 37 years later this weekend, they should not have been surprised. None of this should be a shock to me either because Miss G is a carbon copy of me. (Wanna know what she looks like? The picture above, with blonde hair….evil gleam in eye is the same)

Keeping in mind that Miss G’s circumstances are totally different…she has a the tiniest bit of a spit gap, is very fit, wears super cool clothes and is generally popular, the thing I learned this weekend is bad hair happens to all of us.

Apparently, it went down like this. She had a headband and put it in her hair. Her hair, however, did not want to cooperate and would not form the perfect swoopy on her forehead. So doing what any logical 6 year old girl birthed by me would do…she got out the scissors and went to town. While she did not create the full bangs like I did, she managed to take a huge chunk of hair out of the middle of her face and elected not to tell me but to tuck it into the headband (you know, because I’d never figure it out right?)

Well I did figure it out. While I was on the phone with my cousin (who knew my mother all too well) all of a sudden Oklahoma heard from a crazed Catholic Mom from Texas one more time…“OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY!!!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR HAIR????” And what she say? “I fixthed it Mommy.”

Well, of course you did. And now, Miss G, you have bangs just like Mommy did in first grade. You enjoy growing those out honey.

The Kindness of Strangers

What would you do if your child was sick and no one knew why?

What would you do if you had to take six weeks unpaid leave from work?

What would you do if you were given one day’s notice of eviction?

What would you do if all three events collided into one heartbreaking time in your life?

And what would you do if all of this happened while you were a single mom with no support?

This is the harsh reality one of my coworkers is facing this very moment.

An accounts payable coordinator for a not-for-profit trade association in Irving, Amy has only been with the organization a short time, but she has made a lasting impact, garnering wide acclaim as the consummate problem solver. An innate characteristic that has served her well. However, Amy now faces a problem she can not solve alone.

Since early August, Amy’s watched, helplessly, as her young daughter has been overcome by an unknown illness that’s brought on bout after painful bout of vomiting and fever. Multiple hospitalizations. Even more medications. All to no avail.

And Amy, a single mom, has shouldered this terrifying burden alone. This week, after being at her daughter’s side for more than a month (exhausting what little PTO and vacation time she had accumulated), Amy was notified that she was being evicted from her home…

The office is doing a few things internally to help Amy during this difficult time. But, as we’re a small staff and I know Amy’s needs are great (staggering medical bills and expenses), I wanted to extend the reach to the powerful community of moms.

If you’d like to give a fellow mama some much-needed words of encouragement, a small donation or pass along a simple “thinking about” you, please e-mail helpamom2009@yahoo.com.

Here’s to the beauty and power and inspiration found in the kindness of strangers …

Don’t Take Life Sitting Down – GoGirl Review

I can pee standing up.

That’s right.

I can do anything a man can do including peeing in the upright position.

Thanks to my GoGirl.

Thanks to my GoGirl I am no longer of afraid of hiking and camping out in the woods. Because of the GoGirl I am not longer weary of long roadtrips across hundreds of miles of flat terrain with no rest stops in sight. More power to the GoGirl, because I no longer tremble with trepidation at nasty public toilets…like that one time I went to a community park and the inside of the restroom was covered in abominable bowel movements. I’m just sayin’.

What is the GoGirl you ask?

“Simply put, GoGirl is the way to stand up to crowded, disgusting, distant or non-existent bathrooms. It’s a female urination device (sometimes called a FUD) that allows you to urinate while standing up. It’s neat. It’s discreet. It’s hygienic.” It is also feminine and convenient. European women have been using it for years.

The GoGirl is easy to use: Just adjust your clothing, hold the device up to your body, and urinate. You can then either throw it away or place the GoGirl in the provided bag and wash it for further use. It is made from medical grade silicone and since it is reusable then I consider it also environmentally friendly. Read these instructions for more information on using the GoGirl.

I don’t think I have ever been more excited about a product made for women. Next to feminine hygiene products and the advent of the brazier (over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder), the GoGirl has to be the best invention for women!

Say NO to squatting over public toilets. Say NO to peeing on your shoes. Say YES to the GoGirl!

Just remember: Don’t Take Life Sitting Down.

Mom: Unique

Four years ago today, amidst the sounds of the Notre Dame Fight Song playing from my cell phone (which Daddy deems far too coincidental – just face it hon, you have little choice here!), you arrived in my life. And, it will never be the same.

I have a decent vocabulary, what with being an English teacher in my former life, but there are simply not enough eloquent words to contain all that you encompass in my life and in my heart. You told me the other day you were “unique” and that unique meant “special…one-of-a-kind.” Do you have any comprehension just how true that statement is?

There will never be another you.

You are more than unique, sweetheart, you are the fulfillment of a promise I felt in my heart, even knowing you would be a boy, before your dad and I were married. How did you manage to turn a name I picked out at nineteen and the words, “It’s a boy!” into the delight you have become today?

Motherhood is the most incredible experience of my life, and you were the one who enabled me to have that title, one I will never relinquish.

I chose to love your father. It was a decision to choose that love.

With you, it was never a choice. It was almost an instantaneous thunderbolt of emotion that left change in its wake. And, that is how I see you: the vessel that parted waters and made me a different person. That you chose me as your mother is something I get down on my knees and thank God for – because despite your faults, you have taught me beyond measure.

Regardless of how many degrees I may obtain, nothing has taught me more than you.

When I see the dawning of realization on your face as you figure something out, I know I am looking into your daddy’s eyes and his intelligence. When I see you remember something inexplicably trivial from three months ago, I light up inside knowing you have your mother’s memory. Your grandfather’s extrovertedness. Your grandmother’s empathy. The unbridled curiosity that is solely your own.

You are the amalgam of all those various wonderful qualities found in others joined with the ones that make you you.

You inspire all of us, son.

Thank you for allowing me to tag along on this ride. Happy 4th Birthday, Knute. I love you.

Anglophile Football Fanatic is a DFW mom. She is busy being a mom, but every once in awhile squeezes in a post to her blog to give us a peek into the fun.

Mom: Aspirations

I still sometimes feel like I don’t really know what I want to be when I grow up.

But I do know this:

I want to be more like my daughter.

I want to find joy in everything.

I want to bust a gut laughing at bubbles.

I want to be so comfortable being me that I am totally me, all the time.

I want others to look at me and think, “now there’s a person who loves life!”

Oh yeah, and I wouldn’t mind some of that natural, fresh faced beauty too. )

Christina is a DFW mom.  She writes Momology and takes breath-taking pictures.

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