P.S. Pick up milk.

Dear Future Suttie and Molly,

You’re welcome.

You’re welcome for whooping your tails when you needed it. You’re better for it, which means that it was worth the tears (yours and mine…secretly shed in the closet after the fact).

You’re welcome for caring enough to show you love but also discipline and love in the form of discipline. I have seen too many children with constant praise and no punishment turn into butthole adolescents and asshole adults. I don’t want that for you, and I wasn’t put on this earth to make you feel good about your bad choices.

And, yes, I realize that you are growing up in what many have dubbed an “entitlement culture.” And that’s fine…as long as you understand that I, too, am entitled. I am entitled to spank your butt, to revoke your freedoms, to enforce my rules, and to embarrass you in public. So choose wisely, my dear ones, so that I can invoke my other privileges of showering you with affection and rewarding your good judgment.

Now, you may be thinking, Mom, what has brought on this sudden bout of sincerity and plain speaking? Well, it all started with a normal Wednesday morning trip to Walmart. Ah, Walmart, the cradle of life for misbehaving children, both of you included, who seem to lose every lick of sense as soon as we cross that ill-maintained threshold.

On this occasion, Suttie, you were at school, and I’d remembered to load up a snack bag for Molly, so things were on the up and up. I cannot, however, say the same for the poor mother of at least three who I encountered in the food storage aisle.

This unfortunate soul was trying to wrangle her very loud, very active boys into her cart as one was ripping Ziploc containers off the shelves to build a fort and another was jumping up and down in the main area of her buggy like a ritalin test monkey. I didn’t realize there was a third until I saw her bend down and try to coax him from beneath the cart where he was hanging on for dear life upside-down with his back against the “coke rack” like a hissing possum. She was clearly overwhelmed, and I couldn’t help but think, “Woman, where is your wooden spoon?!”

Then, just as I was turning my cart around to give her some privacy in which to wrench the conch back from Jack, Piggy, and Ralph, the Ziploc engineer sauntered up to me and smacked me on my thigh. Yes, smacked a total stranger. Not really knowing what to do, I simply said, “Hi,” and looked at Mom, sure that she would prompt him for an apology or, at the very least, devour him whole. I would have been happy with either.

But instead of correcting his behavior or forcing him to admit fault, she looked back at me and muttered an exasperated, “Kids!”

I would have gone with “demons,” but I rarely argue semantics in Walmart. And after letting out another defeated sigh, she called for my attacker, leaving the containers on the floor, and wheeled her cart onward, with Bubbles still going ape-shit up top and the possum still hanging and hissing from the bottom.

Now, you two are not perfect, and Molly, sweetheart, at times, you border on psychotic, but by now, you both know that homey don’t play that. I will never be okay with you disrespecting and purposefully disobeying me or acting with the intention to hurt another. Never. ever.

And I will gladly cut other moms (and dads) slack because kids misbehave, they act up, they go wild. When they exit the walls of their homes, they think that none of the rules apply, that every store, mall, playground, and restaurant is a Lord of the Flies-style anarchist state. But as a parent, you have to do something. ANYTHING! Even a step in the wrong direction is better than no step at all. If you yell too much or lecture too much or invoke the Devil too much, you can rein it in and begin again. But if you do nothing, then their young, but acute sense of logic says that what they’re doing is okay. And if they feel validated in doing whatever they want, regardless of appropriateness, at 6, then you can’t question why they share that mentality at 16.

The whole situation reminded me of an encounter that we had with a father and son right after the 2011 tornadoes, which devastated parts of this area. Your father and I were helping to clean up the remains of a friend’s nearly destroyed home, and we noticed a teenage boy working his tail off over here, over there, doing whatever he could to help. When a local church brought around sack lunches, your dad and the boy and the boy’s father all sat down to take a much-needed rest. But the father, noticing that the boy had a lunch when not everyone had been served, told him to give his lunch to your dad (who was still waiting) and to help pass the rest out before eating his own. After the boy left, my husband complimented the father on how well behaved and hard working his son was, and the father simply responded, “I stays on his ass.” It has become our parenting mantra.

And although I hope that today was a fluke and that the mother who I met was just having one of those days (we all have them – the days when I can’t tell you “no” anymore, when we’ll have to start again tomorrow), I have a sinking feeling that her sons won’t turn out to be the well behaved, hard working kind.

So you’re welcome, my loves. I care about you enough to correct you, to hug you, to scold you, to tickle you, to question you, to love you…they are all equally important to me. You are entitled, yes, that is true. You are entitled to my love and also to my direction. And you are blessed because your father and I stays on your ass.

--------------------------------------------------

Dear Mom,

Thank you.

Thank you for the whoopings, the spankings, the pops, the stink eyes, the scoldings, the lectures. Thank you for taking the time to set me right when I was wrong, even when you were tired from work and overwhelmed with my extracurriculars, when you would rather have been hugging your little girl or, God forbid, taking a moment to eat a hot dinner or just catch your breath.

It made a difference in the person I’ve become. And only through adult eyes can I truly see the value of those less-than-fun memories. I now know that it was hard for you, too…that it was necessary…that it was done purely out of love.

“And when I’m 35, I’m going as Thor’s second cousin’s hairdresser…”

Ah, Halloween…the time of year when we can dress our children up like the living nightmares that they are. I kid.

One thing that my children are learning about this Halloween is that you have to lock in those costume choices early–just like Christmas gifts. If I don’t know what you want by November 17^th then you’re getting whatever I can find at Sam’s (“Dear Santa, thank you for the 300-count box of vacuum bags. I didn’t know what to do with them, so I gave them to Mommy. She laughed like Ursula from The Little Mermaid. It was scary.”)

Suttie decided back in July that he wanted to be Jack Skellington after seeing The Nightmare Before Christmas for the first time. He also decided that it was crucial to the authenticity of the character to learn all of Jack’s songs and dance moves and to perform them for us twice daily. Thanks, Tim Burton, you sorry son of a bitch.

So the search began. We went to the ends of the internet searching for a Jack Skellington costume and only found one: a $55 number from somewhere in the UK that we unearthed on ebay. And four days later, after I talked myself into buying a $55 used costume, Jack was on his way to our house. I even ordered him some separate skeleton gloves to complete the ensemble because I’m just that kind of super mom–you know, the kind that worries about skeleton gloves but can't remember if the kids actually had a bath this week or if we just talked about it.

But after the Jack costume arrived and his excitement died down, Suttie saw a picture of the latest Ironman movie and declared that he wanted to be Ironman for Halloween. Say what?! Uh-uh, hells to the no, you are going to be Jack Skellington if I have to glue that mask to your face and round out our night of trick or treating with an ER visit to have it removed.

And every week it seems, he’s got some new character that he’d just love to be for Halloween: Thor, Luke Skywalker, Spiderman, all of the Ninja Turtles…at once, a kid with a limited understanding of personal space (no costume necessary). He’s even started charting out his costumes for the next several Halloweens to make sure that he covers them all: “And when I’m 32, I’m going as Batman, and when I’m 33, I’m going as Robin, and when I’m 34, I’m going as their butler.” It’s good to see him planning for the future.

But the only thing that’s worse than Suttie asking for a new costume every other day is his constant queries about what I’m going to be because apparently an exhausted, overworked, overstressed mother of two was soooo last year.

Now, I consider my husband and me to be “fun” parents. We have tickle fights and wrestling matches (with the kids, not each other….weirdo), we risk staph infection going to Chuck E. Cheese, we make jokes at the kids’ expense. But we draw the line at dressing up like Mario and Luigi to drag our children from door to door hours after they were ready to go home...cause $55, people. We don’t really have a strong reason to back us up on this other than the fact that the kids make us look like idiots enough on a non-costume day. And like most true Americans, we like to take a stand before we've thought up any real reasons to do so.

So tomorrow, when Suttie asks me what I’m dressed up as for the big night, I’m going to tell him the truth…that I’m an undercover spy with an invisible uniform and hidden weapons. Because blatant trickery is the third line of defense in my parenting arsenal behind bribery and hiding the good snacks in my closet.

P.S. Here's a glimpse of Suttie as a young Jack Skellington. He made me post this:

For better, for worse, for richer, for....pass.

2013 has been an unlucky year of expenses for the O’Neals. I don’t want to bore you with the details, but here are the highlights: a brand new trampoline that hated our kids so much that it chose a mangled death in a field over their happiness, a dish washer that out-logiced us when it found no reason to clean our plates since we’d be dirtying them up again anyway, two car batteries that wanted to meet Jesus on the first day of our vacation, and some truck wiring that was far too appetizing to the local field mice. Such is life….especially for the O’Neals whose bad luck can only be rivaled by the descendants of Stanley Yelnats.

On the up side, I’ve racked up an impressive amount of credit card points with the sweetness that is 1% cashback , so it’s all good. I mean, who isn’t willing to spend $3000 to get $30 back?

Amid such financial hickups is when the differences between men and women and how we approach spending really shine. Now, Sutton and I have similar viewpoints on the big issues: we treat most things with humor, especially if it’s inappropriate; we value our time together as well as our time apart; and we never eat after 9:30 at night. I don’t pretend to know the secret of good relationships, and Lord knows that I’ve had many fail (I mean a lot…like a whole lot…seriously, I got around), but this is what works for us.

We even have a shared ideology when it comes to spending: DON’T. Apparently, cheap is contagious, and I caught a bad case right after I married an engineer. Yes, we’re serious about saving money, but not in a doomsday-prepper kind of way. It’s more of an our-kids-break-everything-we’ve-ever-bought-and-their-replacements kind of way. However, when money has to be spent, my financial philosophy and that of my husband occupy different time zones.

For example, Sutton might say something dumb like, “Kate, we need x, y, and z home repairs, or our house is going to collapse around us,” and my totally reasonable response might be, “No, what we need is some new throw pillows in the bedroom because the old ones are jacking up the French provincial vibe that I’ve been trying to copy from The Bronson Pinchot Project for two and a half weeks. You know that my best friend just redid her living room, so if you don’t let me do this, you might as well kill me now!”

Both are equally valid claims, with one being slightly more valid than the other (I needed those pillows, people), but they showcase how differently we approach our spending habits: mine focus on creature comforts and his try to keep us alive.

Similarly, I can justify buying a $49 set of Pottery Barn place card holders for a Christmas dinner that consists only of our parents and two small, place card-eating children, but if he comes home with a 20oz. Mountain Dew that wasn’t on my shopping list, I’m looking around the house for things to sell.

We also differ drastically in how we keep track of our finances. My husband hasn’t kept a checkbook register in…forever.  Literally never has. Money comes in, some goes out, some stays…he’s good with that vague sense of awareness.

Not me. I work out our bills and chart our monthly/yearly savings goals down to the penny – with no less than 5 calculator windows open on my computer at a time. In fact, I’ve already got us mapped out for 2014. And if there is a seventy-five cent difference in where we are and where I thought we’d be, well, let’s just say the kids know where the emergency smelling salts are stashed.

And that’s not to say that he’s not an excellent financial planner; thankfully for my sometimes part-time, sometimes no-time working ass, his financial wisdom is always on point. He’s just so much less panicked about it than I am, which makes me jealous, which then pisses me off. So what’s the moral of the story? Saving money is great and definitely a wise decision in these uncertain economic times, but sometimes Mama needs her hand-knotted throw pillows, and everyone’s gonna have to just deal, okay?

The 5 Stages of Parenting Grief

I realized something today as I watched Molly throw a fit in Publix because one of the bag people (politically correct?) tried to give her a balloon. When your child is pitching a full tilt, throw-self-on-floor, smack-at-strangers hissy fit, as a parent, you go through a series of emotions that mirrors the five stages of grief.

Stage 1: Denial

The first response when your child goes rogue is to simply deny that it’s happening. Yep, just keep throwing those groceries up on the belt, exchange pleasantries with the clerk, pick out some gum, all while ignoring the fact that your child is now dangling from the cart by the safety belt after various rage-induced contortions.

Another form of denial is to acknowledge that this child is out of control, but to pretend that she isn’t yours. I like to look around with a concerned expression and hold my hand over my eyes, like I’m trying to spot the offending parents; then turn back to the cashier and shrug, as if to say, “They just let anyone have kids these days, am I right?”

Stage 2: Anger

Obviously, once you admit to yourself that this thrashing child is yours and that Pandora’s box has, in fact, opened and all hell is now loose in your buggy, your blood will boil at your fit-throwing child. Yes, you understand that they are too little to deal with the world in a calm and rational way and that certain things (e.g., a free balloon) will send them spiraling into an abyss of wrath and confusion. But that doesn’t make you any less pissed that this is happening for the entire checkout line to see.

And it doesn’t just stop with your child. You’re mad at everyone in the effing store; hell, everyone who even thought about going to that store today. You’re mad at the bag person (still doesn’t feel right), the checkout clerk, that d-bag of a balloon, the balloon’s manufacturer, and your husband…because when things go wrong during your day of mothering, there’s really only one person to blame – the SOB who did this to you…twice.

Stage 3: Bargaining

Now, there’s a lot more bargaining that goes on in the O’Neal household than I care to admit. Seriously, these kids could turn a loose puzzle piece into a pet elephant after a day on Craigslist.

But when they’re acting a fool in public and all of the threats and punishments and stories of gypsies that steal bad children have lost their mojo, then I’m willing to offer up damn near anything (a sucker, a new doll, a unicorn) to get us out of there so that I can really let them have it.

Stage 4: Depression

In my experience, there are two kinds of depression that set in when your child has decided to become a crying, sweating lump of dead weight outside of your home. One is the kind that you leave in your child’s backside after the fifteenth fit of the day. Just kidding….ehh.

Then there’s the genuine article: “I’m a failure as a parent. My child is never going to listen; things will never get better.” In these moments, it’s easy to imagine your child as a grown adult, lying face down on the floor of a conference room, wailing and beating his feet and fists because an important contract fell through.  But this too shall pass…right into the next stage of back talk and direct defiance, but more on that later.

Stage 5: Acceptance

The fifth and final stage of parenting grief as your child continues his or her tantrum is acceptance. Thank, God! You made it. You have now come to the realization that you can never leave your house ever, ever again. And once you accept that, you can begin to cope.

I recommend online shopping, and if you’re looking for someone to talk to, QVC has some really lovely operators.

Sorry, kids, but a helmet a day keeps Mommy's night terrors away

This post is going to start with a simple request. Will everyone please stop trying to scare the living poo out of me?

I just finished reading a blog post about car safety and children that might as well have been titled "The 10 Ways You Might Die Today and Other Fun Factoids." In this post, the author explained that, if I have anything lying loose in my car, it will become shrapnel in the case of an accident, with CDs turning into ninja throwing stars and earbuds becoming garrotes. And as I sit here basking in the article's afterglow, which has rendered me clammy and pale, I’m faced with the certainty that the umbrella that’s in my floor board will automatically deploy itself and impale us all if we ever again venture down the driveway.

But this isn’t an isolated incident. It seems like every day, my Facebook newsfeed, email homepage, DVR, and Twitter account (I should really get outside more) are all loaded up with warnings about the dangers that face my children if I dare to let them out of their beds in the morning. As someone who’s diagnosed herself with three types of terminal cancer and a flesh-eating virus this year alone, I really don’t need your help to not sleep at night. (But, hear me now, one of these times, I’m gonna be right, and on that day, my tombstone will feature a solar-powered version of the GIF below and an inscription reading, “I told y’all!”)

Anyway…………

I’ve absolutely reached my threshold for mom panic. Just today I caught the tail end of some show that I should have known not to watch because it was called “America Now,” and nothing good can come from dwelling on American now, but it was naptime, and the remote was all the way on the other side of the couch.

So, Bill Rancic (who apparently anchors the fake news now) comes on to introduce a segment about toddlers and sippy cups, and my spidey-senses start tingling because my toddler uses a sippy cup — what do, Bill?

Well according to a lady dressed in scrubs with unverified credentials, I’m not supposed to give Molly a sippy cup after the age of 1 (epic fail) because she may walk around with it and fall. Long (and horrifying) segment short, best case scenario, it will become lodged in the roof of her mouth until the end of days; worst case, they’ll have to surgically remove her front teeth through her nostrils. Admittedly, they didn’t say it so graphically or really even mention the nostrils thing, but they didn’t have to; I could tell that’s where they were headed.  

Instead, she’s supposed to already be using a lidless cup, only while seated at the table during mealtime. Shhheeee-iiiiittttt...next you’re gonna tell me that I shouldn’t let her use a steak knife or eat little pieces of her napkin. Back off, Nanny 911; this is the real world.

Now, some of you may already be following the no-sippy initiative, and kudos to you if you do. The lady in scrubs is definitely a fan. But Molly is on the go too much for me to strap her down every time she needs a drink, so the only reasonable solution was for me to invent this (patent-pending):

On to over-the-top example, part deux.

Do you know what can ruin a beach vacation faster than Sutton’s Borat impression?

Reading an article link about dry drowning on your second day there, that’s what. This situation was made far worse by the fact that Molly likes to eat pool water (panic-inducing habit #234). After each chlorine craving, she would come up spluttering like a politician, which led me to spend every night of our so-called vacation watching her sleep Edward Cullen-style. What’s worse, when she woke up in the middle of the night, as she is sometimes wont to do, I was forced to wave my hands in front of my face while saying, “Doodloo-doodloo-doodloo…This is all a dream” in my best Wayne Campbell voice. It was humiliating.

Even now, three months later, if she chokes on her apple juice or splashes too vigorously in the tub, I feel obligated to place a 24-hour ban on lying horizontal.

Nope, there’s no way to win. The world is a minefield, and unless I plan on my children living here forever (which is sooooo not happening), I’m going to have to face the truth that I can’t protect them from everything and, just like I have to pick my battles, I have to pick my worries as well. Otherwise, I can go ahead and add heart attack to my list of self-diagnoses and finally be right for once. (Psych…it was just gas.)

Sibling love: If Suttie doesn't make it, can I have his bath toys?

Right now, right in this moment, my children love each other. I mean truly, deeply care about each other, and although they fight over juice pouches and Angry Birds and the sweet spot on the couch and car headphones, there is a genuine affection between them that trumps all of that. In fact, as I’m writing, Molly is leaning over Suttie as he plays the iPad and he’s just reached up and patted her gently on the head. Of course, she’s followed that up by swatting his hand, but she only did it at half strength, which, coming from Molly, is a real gesture of love.

Case in point, last Saturday was Suttie’s first fall t-ball game and, t-ball being t-ball and four year olds being four year olds, the parents and fans spent the entire game yelling instructions like, “Run to first! No, not that way! The other way! Toward the coach! Oh My God!” or “Quit digging at your bottom and watch the ball, son!”

Now, Suttie, he’s a cool kid, but he has got to be the slowest runner in the history of t-ball. Something happens to him when he’s out on that field that makes him think it’s okay to get half way to first and then robot walk the rest of the way or practice his Gangnam Style dance moves along the path to second or throw his arms straight behind him in a failed attempt at aerodynamics that only puts him awkwardly off balance. So his dad and I spend most of the games shouting at him to “run fast” and “stop dancing” and “be normal.” Last Saturday’s opening grudge-match was no different.

But as we yelled at him to run faster, Molly became increasingly upset, and I could only imagine the direction of her thoughts: “What’s he running from? Zombies? Ghosts? Ghost zombies? If he’s gone, then there won’t be any half-eaten Poptarts lying around for me to swipe. Noooooooooo!!!!!!!!”

This process repeated every time Suttie had to run: parents yelling, Molly looking worried and crying, Grandma taking Molly away from the field, Molly trying to run away from Grandma. By the end of the game, she was pretty traumatized, and that’s when I witnessed the sweetest exchange between my son and daughter. Suttie had gone to meet the rest of his team under a tree for post-game snacks (the main reason for playing) and Molly toddled up to him, gave him a concerned, searching look, then wrapped her chubby arms around him and just held on. And after a beat, he did the same.

In that moment, I felt immense pride, not because his team won the game or because Suttie made an amazing play by stopping a hard-hit line drive (although I am proud enough to mention it here). I was proud because these two kids, my kids, were embodying everything that we’re trying to teach them about family and sibling devotion.

And this would be an ideal point to end this blog post. But I’ve never been accused of brevity, and it’s really not the end of the story anyway.  Yes, my children showed a sincere love for one another on that baseball field, but they still fight and show jealousy and get hurt feelings just like any other brother and sister pair. But now I have something to cling to in those exasperating moments. When they can’t stand to be in the same room with each other, when tattling reaches an unbearable high, when they accuse us of being unfair and playing favorites, when Molly has a crush on every one of Suttie’s friends and it aggravates him (and his father) to the core, I can think back to that baseball field and know that, foundationally, they love each other and won’t travel through this life alone.

Of course, there’s no guarantee that they’ll stay close as they age. I’ve seen it too often, siblings who once played innocently together growing into relationships that are rife with animosity and resentment. I think they’re safe from Cain and Abel’s fates, but I want more for them than holiday dinners and birthday phone calls. 

So, our task begins. Balancing an awareness and acceptance that they will fight, they will even bemoan the other’s existence, while reminding them of their lifelong bond and their joint obligation to pay for our luxury nursing home. Because, if worse comes to worst, as their parents, we’re more than happy to give them a shared enemy if it means that they face it together.