Nothing Motivates Me Like Spite
Friday, December 11th, 2009Parenting is not for the faint of heart, mind or spirit. Nor is it for the easily distracted. I fall into one of those categories, and if you are new here, it won’t take you long to figure out which.
On Thursday the twins had their Christmas program. They are the oldest kids in the preschool, and you guessed it, they came almost last. OK yawning. I know, I love kids, mine. Yours? Not so much. Ironic, I know, half of my children were once someone elses.
So, our morning started out with the Princess wanting to wear her program outfit. Which was “Sunday best”, not suitable for a day at school with arts and crafts, so “no”. Well, you’d think I’d told Paris her purse-a-poodle had to stay outside. DRAMA.
She got to school where her teacher explained the same thing I had, that the program was not until night time. Which appeased her two hour fit. Why do kids believe anything that their teachers say? I used to drive my mom crazy with “Mr. Martin said….”
Speaking of “Sunday best” we attend a church where the dress code is “dressed”. Anything goes. Really. So, how much time and energy do you think I’ve put into dressing up the boys? Less time than it took me to write this sentence. So…..
I had to go shopping, and boy did Mommy score on some “Sunday best” ness for Boog. I will be taking applications for his future wife. Just email me.
Buying cuteness, was not enough, I would also wash it, and as button ups tend to do, the button holed side of the shirt got all wrinkly. Meaning I had to iron. I don’t. But since The teacher thinks I’m a horrible foster parent, I decided to prove her wrong. I might even use starch. Nothing motivates me more than spite. Boog was going to look good, because looking good is proof positive of good parenting. I don’t care how many times the f-word was used in the process of getting him so darned handsome.
Of course the whole ironing process brought about many questions. “what’s that? What’s it do? Why are you doing that?” Blah blah blah, leave me alone, I’m trying to prove that I can fake it with the best of them. Felpsy questioned as to it’s particular brand of hotness. I said. VERY, don’t touch. After completing the ironing, I unplugged the iron, wrapped the cord around it and set it on the counter. Not a nanosecond after turning my back, Felpsy was headed straight for it. That boy cannot fight the impulse to do the exact opposite of what he is told.
“Suit up babies.”
And we were off. Everyone looking all Sunday best and what not.
Radical asked if he could play his DS during the program. No, but Mommy can text. (He has much better parents than I did.)
Turned out that DS playing would have been less rude.
Shortly after sitting down, I thought we had made a huge mistake. Like sitting directly on top of a dead body type of mistake. There was a foul and unpleasant odor.
Turns out the boys were having a farting contest.
I LOVE boys.
Kids did their cute thing. Princess asked us about 10,000 times “Did you LOVE it?” Yes, baby we loved it.
We were instructed to gather our kids after their performance and have them sit with us until the end of the program. There were two classes after the twins’. We made it through one. Because upon hearing about the awesome farting contest he’d missed, Boog decided he wanted in. But having been warned to NOT have a farting contest, Felpsy had to make up new rules that resembled nothing like a farting contest. It involved sitting on each others hands so that noise would be unnecessary. Did I mention how much I LOVE boys.
Despite their behavior we had to eat, and since it was the twins’ celebration they got to choose. We went to “Pa Playa” which is not the name of the restaurant. But my Hispanic kids have been living with us too long. Proven later when Felpys got a smidge of jalepeno juice in his mouth. He thinks Medium Pace is too spicy. This was about to kill him, until he found a new obsession. I pointed out the jalepenos and told him that was the source of his discomfort. He then touched it. I then told him not to touch his eyes or nose or mouth until he washed his hands. Guess who went straight for his eyeball?
We had a fine dinner. And neither of twins ate theirs. We then waited for the check. And waited. And waited. I hate waiting. I then sent Tech Support and the kids out to the car hoping that they would see an empty table and come running. Before he left me he said “You will be paying right?” Like suddenly I became a check skipper after 13 years. Then I realized that he was probably verbally reinforcing to both of us that it was my responsibility to make sure it was taken care of . Because as I mentioned earlier, I am easily distracted.
I paid. I tipped. I left. Finally.
We drove around looking at Christmas lights, and came home and fought about going to bed. I’m ready to just pile them three deep and hope for the best. It’s exhausting. I eventually win, but only until I go to sleep, they then quickly get themselves into the positions that they were fighting for all along. So is it really a win?
The one advantage of not putting them into a pile is that when I put them in their own bed they feel they have to sneak to a community sleeping arrangement, therefore they are quiet. If they start in a pile, there is usually a farting contest or an “I can say ‘weiner’ more times than you can say it before Mom comes in here and shows us her crazy face.”
One of these days I will feel nostalgic for this time,
and this is just a guess, but bail money will probably be involved somehow.
