Family of the Year

Okay, so a friend of mine in blogland has posted a couple of times about feeling like "mother of the year" for the parenting faux pas she has made lately. I actually have felt inspired by her vulnerability and thought it necessary to share just a few of the special blunders I have made as a mom of 7. So, April, not to be a copycat...but here goes:

FAMILY OF THE YEAR:

On our way home from church last night, our middle son (age 9) informed dad and mom how annoyed he was with all of his sisters and their chattering and singing in the car. We did nothing. We said nothing. A few moments later, he begins to cry and appeals quite dramatically that we really need to shut them up because THEY are annoying HIM. Laughable. This was the boy who literally made sound effect noises 24/7...and only stopped out of fear of the newest mom threat and I quote..."I'm going to shave your head and glue it to your butt."

So, the loving response of dad and I on our way home from CHURCH, was this..."Hey kids, let's all sing really loud the most annoying songs we can think of!" So, here it went:

"Jeremiah WAS A BULLFROG...bum, bum, bum, (Dad did the sound effects), WAS a GOOD Friend of MINE!....bum, bum, bum..." Oh yeah, we got into it. We sang it over and over and louder and louder...the kids in the seat next to him...sang it AT him. Then we sang "Shot through the heart"...and then I think we tried to sing some Pat Benatar, well and then we were home.

I can still see him cowering in the back seat with his hands in his ears and curling up as if to go to his "happy place." My friend April says her hubby and her have agreed to pay for therapy or college, but not both. I'm with ya, April, we will be paying for therapy! (April can be read at http://www.aprilsreign.blogspot.com/ I am too lame and too tired to try and figure out how to make links to her page.) And a note to my readers, please don't allow me to introduce you to April and then you and April start getting together without me...that always happens! I introduce people to each other, and before you know it...they are dining out and doing movies while I sit at home. (Yeah, I know, world's smallest violin is playing for me as we speak.) Remember...you gotta dance with the one who brought ya! (EEWW...flashback of line-dancin' country days.)

FATHER OF THE YEAR:

Dear, sweet daddy of this family is a funny guy. He is somewhat quiet, but has a great sense of humor and of course always laughs at my jokes. Plus, he mops. That, my friend, is all the romance that I need. There is nothing more appealing than a man with a mop...yeah, baby. Can you just see the Calendar? Mr. February lives with me. Hot. (Oh, and cleaning bathrooms...that is foreplay.)

Anyway, a few years back he and the kids were watching the movie "Flipper." You know, the one with the guy who has the Austrailian accent? Paul Hogan, I think. I am in my bedroom and I hear hysterical laughing. My bionic woman ears perk up and I listen more closely...those darn kids are rewinding the movie over and over and listening to Mr. Hogan so eloquently say..."You butt-faced wombat!" Of course, I am mortified, because my kids were little...and their virgin ears would be tarnished by this...as if hearing it in the movie once was bad enough, but they were focusing in on it! As you can imagine, my mom-horns come out and I am furious at them for being soooo inappropriate....and as I run into the living room I find that it is not my children, but my spouse. HE was the one trying to master the accent..."Yuh bott fayced wahmbat." I beamed with pride, as you can imagine. And thunked Dear Hubby on the head and forced him to tell the kids why they will not be saying that outside of our home. Yeah, right.

Part two...A few years back we went to a fourth of July picnic and fireworks display with our friends, who live in another city...and we were introduced to all of their friends (conservative Christian home-schooling people) and we tried to fit in. We wanted them to know how like them we were and how we could easily join in with our sweet, responsible, Christian family. Uh huh.

Things were going swimmingly (dumb phrase, but I like it) and then I hear some drama emerging from the playground. Apparently my son (the one who doesn't like singing in the car) had perfected the movie line and decided to share it. (We encourage our children to share.) Something got a little lost in the translation, and as the other little narcs were telling on my precious son, I heard this:

BFW*: "That boy called me a butthole."
My friend: "What boy?"
BFW: "That boy" (Pointing to my dear child.)
My friend to my son: "Did you call him a butthole?"
My son: "No."
BFW: "Yes he did, he said I was a Butthole Combat."
Me giggling: "OH, no he just said Butt-faced Wombat." (Totally PG. See, all is good in the world again.)

Thanks dad for teaching him this one. The sad but true is that I was relieved that it was only the Paul Hogan line. There were plenty of other movies that may have been quoted! Phfew.

*Oh, and BFW (Butt-faced wombat) is merely to protect the identity of the whiner. I couldn't remember his name anyway, needless to say we were not invited back.

MOM OF THE YEAR:

Now, I like a good laugh. I even don't mind laughing at my own expense, however if this story leaves this blog, I will be forced into the witness relocation program. So, I can tell you all, but then I have to kill you. Capiche?

So here goes,

It was Christmas eve day...we had just been to a breakfast for which I dressed up. My black wardrobe was highlighted with a sparkly red Christmas sweater and matching red sparkly heels. We had 6 children at the time and had agreed to let the children draw names and buy a Christmas gift for one of their siblings...something that they picked out themselves. (Dumb, I know...and on Christmas eve...can you imagine the lines at Kohl's?) So Dear Hubby and I separated with three kids each and set off to help these kids make their selections. I had the two boys...probably 12 and 6 at the time....and I had the baby girl in the stroller. You would think that I had it relatively easy, as I sent all of the squealing estrogen monkeys with their dad.

I am helping daughter with finger firmly shoved in her face sucking non-stop, to select an appropriate gift. She doesn't give a hoot...and I think she is pooping. So, trying to make short work of this whole process I yell at my boys (who have since disappeared) to get their "butts over here and shop!" Yep, real classy. Oh, but it gets better. One lesson my son has not learned (the younger boy) is that when you mess with the bull, you get the horns. I tell him repeatedly that he needs to quit taunting his brother and summon him to COME HERE!

I look over at him, and it is apparent that the butt-faced wombat has picked on his brother for the last time because this is where the older brother snaps and whacks him to the floor! (Any of you who know the middle boy, know about the drama...and as you can imagine...he was not hurt, but fell theatrically to the floor to get my attention.) As if the fall wasn't enough, it was accompanied by a high-pitched squine...that is a squeal and whine mixed together. Of course, at this point I am not amused, and I think we are attracting an audience...it is hard to tell over all of the Christmas music.

Well, as mother of the year I felt it was necessary that I scoop him up, kiss his cheek and...yeah right. No sir...I took those pretty ruby red Christmas heels and kicked him in the head...lovingly whisper-shouting at him to GET UP and KNOCK IT OFF!

Not only did it not don on me until later that Kohl's has video cameras all over the store, but I also sat that evening and watched the news waiting for this headline:

Christmas Fatigue Causes Mom to Lose it With Her Kids...Kohl's Department Store Aids in Her Arrest.

No such luck. Apparently on Christmas eve, all bets are off. I still had to go home and wrap those darn presents. Sigh.

So, April...You have my address...bubble wrap that tiara and Dr. Phil parenting book and send it to me STAT! You are dealing with a professional here. And should I end up in the county jail, could you at least send me a jumbo bag of M&M's? Plain, please. Maybe I could bribe my cell-mates to do my sit-ups for me.

Oh, and officer...you won't find any DNA on those heels. But should you need me to enter them as exhibit A, come and get em!