Letter to a Vagabond

Dear Lady at School Who Only Wears Pajamas,

School has been in session now for what, a week and a half? Everyday I do the drop off and the pick-up thing. Actually, I do that little routine twice because Boss Lady gets out at 11:30 and The Boy isn't released until 3:00.

Every morning I manage to throw two waffles in the toaster for The Boy because without his waffles he will in fact go screwball ape shit crazy and every morning Boss Lady gets her cereal. I consume coffee. Sometimes it's hot, sometimes it's cold, sometimes it's vodka. The Boy's hair gets all spikey and semi-mohawked and Boss Lady gets a ponytail. If these early morning hours go smooth enough, she might even get her beloved pigtails which is saying something for my time management skills because Boss Lady has more insane intersections in her hair than downtown LA which means getting a straight part down the center is damn near impossible. I do it because Boss Lady is ... well ... bossy and she sometimes rubs my back when Legal makes me want to drink lots of Nyquil and sprinkle Flexeril all over my Raisin Bran.

Anyway, in the midst of this regularly scheduled chaos, guess what lady? I manage to walk out of the house in actual clothes. I sometimes even dismiss my bedhead by running my fingers through my hair and on occasion, I have even found the time to throw on a pair of sunglasses so as not to frighten the little ones. So why JesusHellChristShit do you always arrive at the school in your Powerpuff Girls flannel pajama bottoms, a flimsy tank top, no bra and some slippers? And why are you wearing Powerpuff Girls clothing in the first place?

It drives me C.R.A.Z.Y!

You arrive at 3:00 in the exact same thing! Oh, and by "arrive" I mean that you walk. You walk to and from school in your pajamas and slippers with four kids; two of them trailing behind you in their pajamas as well. Can you not find 60 seconds within that 6 hours that the kids are in school to, ohh I don't know .....  get dressed? Are you writing the Great American Novel? Studying quantum mechanics? Or are you watching General Hospital and re-runs of Dog the Bounty Hunter?

Look, I don't know if you reside within Babbleville's finest real estate or if you live in the prettiest little double-wide you ever did see. Either way, I'm just tired of being confronted by your nipples at 8:45 every morning and hearing the sound of those damn slippers as you shuffle and flop your way back to the couch.

Enough with the damn pajamas and buy a fucking bra.

- Miss Spoken

The Boy's First Misdemeanor

Does this look like the face of a criminal?  

Look closer ....  closer ...

Last night The Boy, Boss Lady and I had dinner at Grandma's house. And when I say dinner, I mean that while most of us ate enchiladas, The Boy had pasta (remember that pesky eating disorder I diagnosed him with?) and not much else.

On the way back home, we had a brief layover at The Store That Claims To Sell Things Way Cheaper Than The Other Stores. I don't usually hit this particular spot but was lured by the promise of that creamy garlicky goodness known as Boursin cheese. Alas, some Boursin-Cheese-Eating-Harlot must have snatched every last one of them because they were all gone. I did however learn that Wolfgang Puck has a new line of frozen appetizers out on the market. So with my cart full of chilled risotto balls, snacks for my wicked children and an array of lotions and potions that I don't really need, I pay for my haul. Needless shopping done, we arrive home and I throw The Boy and Boss Lady in bed. No bath because I said so. Lights out.

Cut to the next morning.

Before I can even peel my eyes open, there is a small warm body next to me softly whispering in my ear, "Mom, don't look at the gum in the drawer. Plllleeease."

Shit.

Is there sticky sweet and strawberry scented gum attached to everything in my makeup drawer? Is it his drawer? Is there a web of fruity gluey goodness entangling his new school clothes? Or is it (gasp!) a ball of gum, partially eaten by The Boy and partially feasted on by a colony of ants?! 

His pleading is escalating as I approach what I think to be The Drawer. Sure enough, inside there is a pack of candy. Not gum though, it turns out to be Jawbreakers. It also turns out that while I was distracted by frozen Wolfgang Puck and bottles of $3 wine, The Boy put the jawbreakers in his pocket, i.e. he stole them!

I've been down this road before with my oldest daughter. When she was two years old, I took her to the Berkeley Flea Market and she "accidentally" took off with some hippy chick's stash of string bracelets. That probably really was just an accident. It wasn't an accident however when she was busted stealing energy drinks at the local grocery store. Or lifting eyeliner from Walgreens. 

The Boy feels bad and wants to know if he'll be going to jail. Not this time. He will however, be going back to that store, confessing his crime and paying for his Jawbreakers.

Get off the junk, son

Thin Mints, Chinese Orphans and The Boy

Things that are thin:

 * The MacBook Air

 * Karen Carpenter

 * My Patience

 * Thin Mints

 * The Line Between Love and Hate

 * Chinese Orphans

 * My son, The Boy

I know The Boy is only six, but I'm pretty sure he has an eating disorder. Like any concerned, highly strung and sometimes intoxicated mother, I spent some time Googling toddler eating disorders and forced the pieces to fit my puzzle.

Pay attention people.  Here are some signs that your precious little lanky and angular first grader might have an eating disorder, too:

Does he/she wear big or baggy clothes?  Sure does. My son couldn't keep his pants on for nothin'. We could be in a room with 500 people and if the word Pants! was shouted, my son would be the first to wiggle his size 5's back to where they belong without skipping a beat.

Does he/she have an obsession with continuous exercise? Yes, in fact he does. His workout routine starts at 6:30 in the morning with cardio. This usually entails playing Wipeout in his bedroom and then running circles around his mother's bed, repeating the words Waffles, Waffles, Waffles. By 10:00 he's ready for the pool and will swim all day long if his mother lets him, which his mother doesn't because she has things to do too and is fed up with sweating her ass off in this Nevada heat which is clearly just an expression because her ass is just as big today as it was yesterday. Swimming is followed by skateboarding, biking and a little bit of downhill luge. Most days also include shadow boxing and some All-State worthy freestyle wrestling with his younger sister, Boss Lady. When it comes to exercising with his older sister, he prefers to lick his hand, smack her across some area of exposed skin and then run for his life. 

Visible food restrictions and self starvation?  Where do I start? The Boy eats PB & J but only without the J. He eats more pasta than Mario Batali, but only with butter or Alfredo sauce. No red sauce and no cheese and good God don't try to slip him a meatball. If he's forced to sit at the table while his sister has dessert, he might have an inch or two of chicken. No fish. No beef. No hot dogs. He prefers a bun with just ketchup. Might eat rice. Must have waffles in the morning. No eggs. Likes his cereal dry with a glass of milk on the side. Likes apples, hates melon. Big fan of chips, salsa and taco shells with no filling. Is repulsed be vegetables and all things green, except of course green Otter Pops.

What's a parent to do?

Well ... I've got that book, Deceptively Delicious, but with The Boy's all-day-every-day workout routine it's been hard scheduling time to steam, puree and jar vegetables that I'm supposed to sneak into his meals. Mama has to have time to chill, uncork and pour Chardonnay too, you know. 

I am however making the switch to whole wheat pasta. Hold your applause.

The Boy, shown here in a display of deep shame.

It is clear that the stigma of being the only six year old in his entire school to be diagnosed with the rare Possibly-Maybe-Probably-Not-Eating Disorder is a great burden to carry.

That, or he is passed out from too many Skittles.

A Letter from the Edge

Dear Reader,

I think my kids are trying to drive me crazy and I don't mean a little bit batty.  I mean it in the clinical sense -- insane, mental, 51/50. I haven't found any "real" evidence just yet. No blueprints of their grand scheme shoved under their mattress. No diary entries detailing their diabolical mission. They are way to smart to leave a paper trail. Sure they might look innocent enough, but I'm on to them. Don't call me paranoid, just hear me out.

There are common psychological torture methods that even a 17, 5 and 4 year old must be aware of, right?  How about sleep deprivation? I don't remember the last time I fell asleep and stayed asleep. I am beyond exhausted. Yesterday, I took a stab at a cat nap.  My 17 year old decided to rummage loudly through my makeup drawer and my 4 year old thought it was a good time to "check her email" by incessantly banging on my keyboard. Of course my mom calls at that very moment (I think she's in on it too) and my daughter tells her I'm asleep. Liar!

And how about the use of sound? Extremely high volumes of noise capable of dynamic range intended to interfere with rest? It worked in Waco and it's working here in my house, too. My kids like to play roller coaster in their room .... at 6:00 AM! I beg them to Please Be Quiet and Shut Your Door, but they're like some third world country prison guard and show me no mercy whatsoever. Ever heard of Constant Chatter?  I'm sure Wikipedia doesn't list it as a form of torture but they should because it is unhinging me. I've never been subjected to Chinese Water Torture but come on, it cannot be more painful than Constant Chatter.

Masterminds, I tell you!  They even have me questioning myself. I'll pick up their room before I go to bed, only to find toys and clothes thrown about in the all-too-early hours of the morning. I'm sure I remember putting everything away .... don't I? And yesterday, Max was so sick with an ear infection and fever that he was crying to go to the doctor's office. When we arrived at Urgent Care his tears were gone, his temperature only slightly elevated and he was playing in the waiting room.  But he was sick just 30 minutes ago .... wasn't he?  I must be losing my mind.

These kids of mine .... they are super-human in their abilities to cause distress. Their bedroom must be some kind of Think Tank where they plot, not play. Maybe there's a secret door that leads to the Legion of Doom that I have yet to discover. Either way, they're out to get me, I just know it!

S.O.S.