What's That in The Toilet? (Why, it's tenacious candy!)

#2:  Mom- what is that thing in the toilet?!
Me: It's a long story.  I forgot to clean it up.  I'll do it now.
#2:  But what is it?
Me: Um, it's a peanut butter cup that glued itself to the side.
#2: [Grossed out and perplexed] But how did it get there??
(This is where I would like to blame one of the children but I can't.)
Me: Um, I spit it in there then someone called me and I forgot to flush it and it fused to the toilet...
#2: WHAT?


     I told him it was a long story.  Actually it starts waaayyy back in October.  October 31st to be precise.  My oldest came home with a huge bag of Halloween candy and after giving away the things she didn't like she hid the rest in her bedroom.  I would like to call her a hoarder but it is an adaptive  behavior.  Her parents and brother LOVE chocolate and cannot be trusted not to touch hers.  And while I resent her hiding her bag, I can't blame her.  I remember my parents not letting me bring my candy to my room after Halloween; and I remember lying in bed reading in the nights after.  Hearing a suspicious crinkle and screaming out "What is that?" and the innocent, "Nothing." that my parents lied back.  My husband and I are genetically programmed to raid their stashes.  It proves that they are smart and adaptable if they hide it, right?
     So, anyhow, my daughter somehow escaped our "Let's eat it all now!" DNA.  She has a trait that's inexplicable to us.  Moderation.  She eats a few candies every now and then and makes it last as long as possible.  Crazy, I know.  The rest of us do not have Moderation.  We have, let's call it, Determination.  We are determined to eat it all ASAP.  (Until we are ready to hurl and full of self loathing.)  So when all of everyone's candy has long disappeared, she eats a few a night while we salivate jealously nearby.  And we know there's that stash of candy mocking us through the walls.  We know it's there but we can't touch it...we are unwilling victims of her discipline.
     Sometimes, though, her moderation rains joy on us at unexpected times.  Like Friday when we were all excited and ready to watch the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics.  We love the Olympics and it felt like a party but without all the good food.  Just before it begins, #1 disappears and walks into the room singing, "It's that time of year again!"  We turned lazily and saw the Halloween bag and gave a unanimous cheer!  It was the dispersing of her leftovers! Yes, I understand YOU might not want to eat candy that is "old".  (The only reason #1 was sharing it was because she was worried about it going bad.)  Not the rest of us. They were individually wrapped- how could they be bad?
     So we all pounced on our favorites and most of them were fine.  There were a few that seemed dicey and were tossed.  As I got up to lock up the doors for the night, I snagged a little peanut butter cup that the vultures had somehow overlooked.  (Possibly realizing the foil wasn't airtight. Something I didn't think about.)  I unwrapped it as I walk to the back door, popped it in my mouth and YUCK!  I quick ducked into the bathroom and spit it into the toilet- it was chalky and gross.  I was rinsing my mouth out when someone called me urgently and I forgot to flush the toilet.  I forgot all about it and we all went to bed.  Never suspecting that the concave top was perfectly shaped to suction itself to the porcelain- even underwater!
     The next morning, I walked into that bathroom and there was the peanut butter cup.  I assumed it was just resting against the side and flushed.  That sucker held on for dear life.  (Like one of George Carlin's Rice Krispies.)  I threw some paper in and flushed again -nothing.  Now, this all happened before my son got to the bathroom.  Before he saw it.   Why didn't I take care of it?  Because  I was hoping it would get tired of mocking me and let go.  Or, I was hoping the water would dissolve it.  But also because I am CRAZY.  I am crazy because I DIDN'T WANT THE CHOCOLATE AND PEANUT BUTTER TO GET ALL OVER MY TOILET BRUSH!
     Does that make any sense?  The thing scrubs the toilet!  You know what goes in the toilet!  Why is it grosser to have peanut butter and chocolate on the brush?  At the time, it all made perfect sense to me.  Plus, it was a miniature peanut butter cup; it couldn't hold on forever.  I would wait it out.  [Cuckoo] Well, that only lasted until someone else noticed it and made me realize how deranged I was acting.  Then it was time to defend my family and kill the sucker.  I grabbed the brush and got rid of the menace and did some bleaching to kill any bad juju it left in it's wake.
     So the next time someone gives you a peanut butter cup, you will notice the delicate scalloped edge and the slightly concave top and you will know it has superhuman powers.  (Maybe you could use them to climb up a building like Spidey.)  And thanks to me, you will know that the only safe place to dispose of them is in the garbage.  Because I flaunted my insanity, your toilet brush can be spared.  You're welcome!

Mom's Are Crazy

     My kids have been home from school for a month already and today (yesterday now...) I sent them off for two weeks of day camp.  I couldn't wait for school to end.  I do like them and enjoy having them around.  But most of the other kids around here go to camp and after a couple of weeks with just me for entertainment, we were all looking for a little space and excited for the change up.
     So, this morning, off they went!  I hated packing lunches again but was SO looking forward to the quiet and the "free" time to do chores.  Yes, I was looking forward to my chores.  Ok, not really but I was wanting to have a clean house and accomplish some things that have been bothering me.  Here is the list of all I want to accomplish:  Clean the attic, garage, basement, closets, car, hang pictures, organize photos and so much more.  Like exercising, grocery shopping and prepping out diner.  Oh and I am going to cure cancer too.  And that's just today!  (Well, as soon as I get off the computer!)
     When the bus came, I walked them out to the curb and put them on.  As the driver checked his route and kid list, I stood waiting to wave goodbye while fighting my mom schizophrenia...  I had been excited about the alone time but then I put them on a bus with a stranger and sent them out into this world.  Suddenly, I didn't want them to go.  I knew I was being crazy as I watched the bus until it was out of sight; watching for signs of a crazy driver or faulty wheels.
     Being a mom means wild swings, not of moods but, of emotions. You have these people who drive you crazy and who you love soooo much.  Sometimes you just want them to go away (for a little while).  Then you want them to come back.  Or you're scared when they are trying something new then so proud when they accomplish it.  It's exhausting! Being a mom means squashing down terror all the time.  Their life is yours.  You are so afraid of something happening to them.   (It's amazing that we don't all walk around with fists in our mouths to keep ourselves from screaming.)  Afraid of illnesses,  other scary things, made up scary things...  I feel like they are only safe when they are with me.   (Don't even suggest that that's not even true or I will come to your house and scream at you for 8 hours straight!)  
     So, in an hour and a half, I put them on the bus.  I worried about the driver heading for the border.  (I don't know what border!  There must be one somewhere.)  I started moving furniture to steam clean my carpet.  (Steaming my carpet is on the list too!) When there were no panicked calls from my daughter about a crazy police chase, I decided to go on line to read the directions from said steam cleaner.  Now, enough time has passed that they must be safely at camp.  I can go eat breakfast.  Then I'd better cure some disease before I start to worry about the ride home.  Or about the horseback riding my youngest is supposed to do today.  (Those things are huge!  And have teeth!)   There are so many things that haven't even occurred to me to worry about yet!  I'm tuckered out from maintaining this craziness!  I'd like to take a nap but now that I half started all these projects the house is messier than when they left...  Argg.....


P.S.  My carpet looks fab, my house is half dusted and my children arrived home safely. Huzzah!  (I didn't cure cancer yet, sorry.  I didn't have the right supplies.  Unless you know a recipe that calls for canned tomatoes and beans...  I'll try again after I get the oil changed...)  So today should have been a good morning.  Umm, yeah.  Should have been.  Number 3 woke up sobbing she didn't want to go.  She had a funny feeling in her stomach yesterday around the horses and didn't want to feel it today.  So I had to force her sobbing to get dressed, force her to eat something and force her onto the bus.  So now it looks like anxiety AND guilt are my companions for the day... huzzah...
     

Moments of Super

            A few days ago I took my kids to NYC to shove some culture down their throats.  I know it sounds crass to say it that way but that would be their interpretation.  I don’t know if it’s everyone’s kids or just mine but taking them to a museum is evidence (to them) of my cruelty.  They would rather sit at home on their butts while their muscles and brains wither…  Knowing this, I gave them a few days to mentally bulk up.  I spoke in short sentences so they could understand despite their mental summer-slide: “We are going to the City on Friday.  We are going to MOMA.  We are going to see all different kids of art.  We ARE doing this.”

            So we headed out on Friday morning with minimal complaining.  I guess they had mentally braced themselves. (And were looking forward to meeting up with Dad at the end of the day.)  I was feeling hopeful!  Everything would be great!

            The train ride in reinforced all those great feelings.  A man boarded the train after us and sat across the aisle after a wary glance- I guess he wanted to read his paper in peace.  But my children were delightful.  My oldest read and my two younger ones were chatting sweetly and practicing sign language they had learned from a book.  I swelled with pride.  “Look how wonderful they are!”  I mentally told the man-of-the-wary-glance.  “I must be a wonderful mother!”

            And it got even better!  He asked if they were all mine and then said they were great.  Duh, of course they are! (Well, at that particular moment…)  Rising to the occasion, the two youngers asked for multiplication problems.  I started throwing out problems and they were getting them (almost) all correct.  They wary-man even joined in throwing a few math problems their way.  When we exited the train he told us to have a great time. (And I am certain that he regaled his officemates with a tale of the most delightful children he had ever seen!)

            I exited the train with maternal afterglow.  It was one of those wonderful parenting moments that you want to hold onto forever.  A rare moment when you believe you’re doing a great job.  (As opposed to the millions of other moments in a day that you are sure that you are failing them and/or doing irreparable damage.)  It was awesome.  I keep going back to that wonderful moment.  Because it didn’t last…

            A subway ride later, we arrived at the museum.   I had been so sure that once they saw some funky stuff that they would have some strong opinions and we might have some great discussions.  (And they would decide that I wasn’t torturing them.)  Hahahahahha!  They turned the tables and started torturing me.  The girls were whining and wanting to eat.  The boy declared he wasn’t hungry and would not eat.  (And he gets surlier and more contrary the longer he goes without eating- meaning it was only going to go downhill from here!) I would deal with this!   Today, I am super mom!

            So, I tortured them for a few hours. And, when they didn’t want to listen to me any more, they did want to listen to the free audio guides.  Buying me just a little more time.  The best quote of the day was when I asked them what they were interested in seeing next.  My son mournfully declared, “The only art I’m interested in seeing are benches and the exit.”  He’s lucky that I thought it was funny and was still full of good cheer.  I stretched them as long as was possible without risking a complete breakdown. 

            When I finally gave up, we headed out to meet dad and return home. The complaining eased up with the excitement of seeing dad’s cool office.  We all arrived feeling groovy.  On the train ride home, I was mentally reviewing the day and was still trying to hold onto my fleeting triumph.  They did grant me a few more good feelings by not complaining over sore feet or the boring ride home.  Possibly they were riding the euphoria of culture suffered, survived and over.  (For now!) I don’t know if they retained much but we did have some fun.  And I had those few precious moments of validation (or delusion, I don’t really care which!) that I was a Super-Mom.   Priceless!

Meal Ingrates (or Damn Genetics)

         So you know that I hate cooking.  You know what else I hate?  Serving the food to three ingrates.  Okay, I know that sometimes (or often) I’ve screwed something up.  But there are other times that I have done everything perfectly.  Made a beautiful meal.  With all the proper food groups AND with a nice presentation to boot!  (Rather than just slopped into a bowl from the stove.) And do they grovel and thank me?  Do they praise the effort it took my unwilling brain to comply with the demands that I was placing upon it? No, of course not. 

         Remember the commercials-  “4/5 dentists recommend _____!”  Most nights, 2/3 kids give me a “thumbs down”.  Jerkies.  Even if I liked cooking a little bit, the constant complaining certainly wouldn’t make it very rewarding.  “Oh no, you didn’t tell me we were having this?!” “Arg, you know I hate this!”  “Can you make me something else?” No! As if!  I hated making this the first time!

         I have three children who, I can only guess, inherited very different food tastes.  Since they look like us, I don’t think they were switched in the hospital.  And if there was some mix up, what are the chances that would have happened more than once?  I should have at least two with the same food tastes.

         Anyhow, they have all lived here, with me and my cooking, since birth.  How did they come to have such completely different tastes in food?!  The most frustrating part is that there is almost no overlap of what they do like.  What am I supposed to do? One doesn’t like pasta, one doesn’t eat meat, one does like veggies, two don’t.  One likes fruit, one doesn’t and the other is anybody’s guess.   Just when I think I can keep straight who likes what, their tastes change!

         And why do their tastes change anyway?  How can they happily eat one food for years and, suddenly, they wont eat it anymore?  It’s not like in college where one bad night can put you off a certain drink for the rest of your life.  And it’s not as if they have ever had food poisoning to turn their taste for something.  My personal favorite is when I make something that I know at least one person likes and that person says “I’m not in the mood for this tonight.”  WHAT?! Not in the mood?!  That makes me want to say bad words.  When you cook, you can make what you are in the mood for, %@$%#^^!!!

         There is only ONE meal they will all eat without complaining.  Breakfast for dinner.  We like to call it binner.  We probably have breakfast for dinner once a week.  It’s sort of a pain because I have to be a short order cook- making different egg styles and flipping pancakes or passing out waffles.  But it is totally worth it to have respite from the usual complaining!  Sometimes there is even praise; like when pancakes are in funny shapes or form their initials.   I soak it up to get me through the rest of the week.

         Well, there is one person who doesn’t love breakfast for dinner.  My poor husband- I think he believes that meals should stay in their assigned time slot.  But, my binner has one thing going for it that most of my other dinners do not.  It’s not burned or undercooked or under spiced.  Hopefully that makes up for its time slot trickery.  (And for the way his newspaper winds up glued to the table thanks to wayward syrup… these kids are slobs.)  Unlike the kids, he doesn’t complain.  The poor guy never gets to have his dinner hot or cooked correctly but, lucky for me, he’s a gem who will eat whatever I put in front of him.  Not a quality I was exactly looking for in a man but one I am glad to have found.   And one that certainly didn’t pass down to his children! 

         We never pass down the traits we want.  I know exactly where that “picky eater” gene came from- me.  Whether it was going to pass through my genes naturally is anybody’s guess.  My mother overrode nature with the famous mother curse, ”I hope one day you have kids who… “  Darn it Mom! You didn’t know your own strength at cursing- they are three different types of picky!!  No fair!!  I am going to try really hard not to curse my own kids.  But one could slip out.  Probably when I’m making dinner…

U.S. Wedgie Team

     I LOVE the Olympics.  Love it!  It's a great event that the whole family can get into together.  Lots of events that we all like.  Unlike the "regular" sports offerings that the girls and I have no interest in.  While the boys in our house rattle off stats and names in the traditional "manly" sports, the girls and I have trouble even remembering the rules of said sports! The Olympics unifies our house. We usually all are excited about the same events- definitely more so in the summer Olympics when there is no ice skating.  Ice skating to the boys is like football to me.
     The other night, we were watching the Women's gymnastics qualifying event.  The uneven bars, floor routines and high beam.  And I started wondering about their choice of uniform.  I was specifically thinking about the leg cut of their leotards.  There must be a reason for it.  I guess it probably gives them free leg movement without tugging but it still looked uncomfortable to me.  They looked like wedgies waiting to happen.  I was thinking that maybe a little boy-short would be less awkward.  I mean they have to do splits!  Doesn't that drive leotards into awkward places?!  (I don't actually know since I don't think I have done a split since I was in utero and I wasn't wearing a leotard at the time...)
      As I was wondering this, my children distracted me by asking about some of the movements they make during their routines.  You know what I mean.  When they swing their arms or suddenly snap them up or down.  Movements that are sort of graceful but at the same time herky jerky.  I've always wondered what those were about.  (If you just pulled off a bunch of back flips, surely the judges don't need proof that you can hold your arms over your head...)  I answered that I didn't really know exactly what those movements were to show.  Then I started wondering aloud if maybe on the high beam those movements help them keep their balance.  If maybe, after a spin or a split, it helps them align themselves in space?  Who knows... (Really. If you know tell me!)
      As we watched the floor routine, they were doing these incredible series of flips and acrobatics with more of those semi graceful movements thrown in.  Suddenly, I was wondering again how they kept their uniforms from retreating into awkward places during those contortionist feats. (Sticky wax? Duct tape?)  I started thinking maybe those moves are like gymnast slight of hand tricks.  Could those odd little movements have a greater purpose after all? Maybe the quirky little leaps are to realign errant uniforms. And maybe those somersaults that seem silly after magnificent flips are to distract us from undergarment adjustment? If I bent to tie my shoe and then adjusted a little on they way up  would you even notice?  (I don't really do that! I don't want you to know my secret moves.  But I'm thinking the shoelace thing is a good idea-  unless I'm wearing flip-flops...)  If a magician can make an elephant disappear, I'm sure a gymnast can adjust her leotard without anyone noticing.  (And, unlike a magician, they are performing in the round. That alone deserves a medal!)  
     And I'm back to wondering why they are wearing those leotards with that leg cut.  It has to be a historical/sexist thing.  Were all the judges male back in the day?  I'm too young to remember...(Shut up.)  And, if it is really for practical reasons that they have to wear leotards, why isn't the men's team wearing leotards?