Amy's Mama Drama

No, no. I said "Goldfish". They're just Goldfish!

You've done this, right? Let your kid throw ping pong balls at the church fair at the little Goldfish bowls? I mean, what could it hurt, right? You're giving some money to the good sisters at Saint Mary's, and a $20 to Petco for one of those tanks-in-a-box, what could go wrong?  Right? Right? What could be crazy or irresponsible about such a time-worn tradition?

I don't think most people realize the ramifications.

Although, in retrospect, I do wish I'd realized my daughter was using the whole $5 I gave her. And I probably would have paid more attention if I'd realized that she was unusually good at getting the balls in the bowls. Then I wouldn't have been so shocked with the eleven little baggies they handed her.

But nothing could've prepare me for the news about Goldfish. Did you know this already, and I was just sleeping during that part of the parental instructions?

Goldfish require 5 gallons of water. EACH. some experts say 10 gallons. I was holding enough goldfish to require nearly $500 of aquarium real estate. WTF?! Any less and their toxic pee kills them.

Of course the kids are standing right next to me, so my visions of an extremely affordable final flush for half of them came to an abrupt end. "I told the nun we'd take good care of them, Mom!"

I look at My Man. He shoots daggers at me with his laser father-vision. I was in charge during the fish-winning incident. He can't understand how could I allow her to win eleven, 5-gallon-needing fish from a nun - known tricksters, all of them. Sadly, I really do believe he would have taken one look at that Sister with the ping pong balls and just known it was bad news.

We both turn sad faces to the Petco guy. He is senior enough to do some math in his head, "You know, we have two 25-gallon tanks that are on clearance. You'd have to buy the gear, but it's a lot cheaper than a 50 gallon tank." And yet, light years away from my $20 tank-in-a-box dreams.

Curse you Goldfish-hustling Nuns!

And Mama Goes, "Huh?"

Yeah, I know, I never write anymore. Sigh. It's not laziness. It's confusion.

Forget toothpaste, I've entered the, "Dazed and Confused Years." And I'm referring to me, not the kids. My father, bless his heart, gleefully says that this will continue for years. Heaven help me. I don't "get" anything. I'm in a perpetual state of "Huh?"

Case in point: Peanut's homework. She's written directions on her homework guide. I stare at it. It's some kind of acronym, WTDFB or some such nonsense. I say, "What does this mean?" And she just looks at me with that cool, dispassionate stare tinged with sympathy - a look only an 8-year old can pull off. 

"It means I have to practice my spelling, the words I missed, and then finish my reading comprehension," she states. There is no attitude, only distracted nonchalance.

"Well then, let's practice spelling, then you can finish the comprehension questions," I say, girding my loins.

"Okay," she says, and BANG, I'm confused again. Where is the battle, the groaning, the "this isn't fair and I hate it all" speech? But hey? Who am I to look a gift-horse in the mouth. We're not fighting about homework - take it and run with it!

"Okay, then!" I chirp, and repeat the words missed in her practice test. She aces the spelling (another change) and we move to reading comprehension. The Man gets involved. "How is this supposed to work? She can't fix the sentence by moving around the words. The words are WRONG!" I grab the sheet back and stare at the sentence. He's correct.

"Huh. I wonder how's she supposed to do that."

Peanut puts her hand out for the sheet and her father and I look up and hand over the paper. She peruses it.

"I don't have to move the words around. The directions say, "Fix the sentence." I need to write new words. 'Tommy and me helped the teacher with the project' isn't right. It should be 'Tommy and I'."

"Wait," her Father says. "I thought it was supposed to be "me". But that doesn't sound right."

"No," I say to him, "You take the other person out of it and use whatever sounds right when it's just the "me" person. So she's right, it should be 'Tommy and I' because it would be right if it was 'I helped the teacher with the project.' I look away from The Man and smile at my daughter, feeling like I solved a tough riddle. She looks bored. "You guys got it now? Can I write it down?" 

"Ah. Guess you didn't need our help on that one, huh?" I feel a little sheepish.

"Thanks Mom. I've got it," she quickly writes it all out, correctly, and with lovely penmanship, I might add.

Her father and I look at each other. We're proud, sure. It's nice to have her in command of her homework. But there is fear. This is only third grade - there is shorthand we don't understand, and a 9-word sentence almost kicks our butts? 

So, can I still be funny when I write about parenting now? I'm not sure, but I know Mr. Berglund is laughing his ass off, wherever he is. As my 11th grade English teacher, he was quite clear about the limitations that occur in life for those who can't diagram a sentence. I just figured since I made it this far, can pay the mortgage and all, I was out of the woods.

Maybe not quite yet.

The Toothpaste Years

I need a reality check. Anybody out there with kids ages 3-8 feel my pain?

I'm talking about toothpaste pain.

No, it doesn't hurt my teeth, or my children's teeth. It's my walls. And my floors, and my bathroom counter, bedspread, carpet, hardwood floors, hairspray container and, of all things, the toilet.

Is it just me? Or do others with children of this age find themselves redecorated with fluoride-infused, bright blue sticky highlights?

Just last night, as I was lying in bed, contemplating all the things I did not get done that day, The Man asked, "What's this on the carpet?"

"It's toothpaste," I answer, not even looking.

"No, it can't be. It's all the way over here by the window, no where near the bathroom."

"It's toothpaste," I repeat. 

He ignores me, "Is it a smashed bug or a banana or something? Hmm, can't be it's a funny color. Have the kids been playing with Playdough again?"

"It's toothpaste! It's everywhere I don't want it to be," and I start to giggle. Because of the Visa  commercial. I crack myself up and laugh harder. Maybe I'm even a little hysterical. "I can't even leave home without it," and now I'm an out of control hyena, because I worked in American Express and I find this toothpaste-credit card tie in hilarious.

The Man finally stops and looks at me. "Are you okay? Because that's not really that funny. We have goop on the carpet. Really smeared in there. What is this crap?"

"It's TOOTHPASTE!" I hoot. "It's EVERYWHERE. It follows me. It flies from our children like fleas from an infested dog. I got it on my butt last week, after sitting on the toilet without looking first. It's on my best sandals, and I still can't get it out of the wood grain on the bathroom door! My God, haven't you seen it?! We're in the toothpaste phase of child rearing! We're surrounded. We've fallen into the toothpaste years and we can't get out," That does it. I found another cliche and I cackle myself into stomach cramps. 

The Man is squatting at the goop, poking at it with his finger. "Oh my God. It is toothpaste," he looks at me, crestfallen. "That's why the tile grout is looking vaguely blue. That must have what got on my keys a couple of days ago," he says, almost to himself. The pieces fall into place for him. "When does this end? How do we make them stop?"

I finally sober up a little bit, "I don't know, honey. I've yelled, I've threatened. I've monitored them like a prison warden. I've made them wash it out of everyplace I find it. And still I find toothpaste on the door handles. I think we just need to ride it out."

Please, someone, tell me. How long do the Toothpaste Years last? Is it more like Toothpaste Months, hopefully? Is there an END?! 

And if not, any good recipes for getting toothpaste out of the carpet?

The Neil Diamond Revenge

So, The Man won't go to the store for me. He refuses to leave his computer game.

I am feeling pissy about that.

So I changed the password on my computer, launched "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" from the Neil Diamond Greatest Hits album, checked that the speakers were just loud enough, locked the keyboard and left.

His computer sits right next to mine.

I'm laughing my shallow, petty ass off all the way to the store.