Category Archives: Bad Mommy

Spring Broken

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Last week was the kids’ Spring Break.  Spring Break for us is nine glorious days of no school, no activities, no alarms, no packing lunches, no carpools… nothing.  It is the absolute antithesis of our normal existence.  In the past we have traveled nearby over Spring Break (Dollywood and the indoor water parks of Sevierville, TN, anyone?), but the last few years we opted to stay home and enjoy a more relaxing time off.  The awesomeness is compounded by the fact that everyone else migrates to the beaches and this place becomes a virtual ghost town.

And now that the kids are older, I don’t have to entertain them every second of every minute of every day.  They can actually entertain themselves.  Which makes all of the nothing that much more something.  And by “entertain themselves,” I mean constant bickering, which I have come to believe that they will never outgrow.  Whatever, as long as they leave me alone.

Now, for those of you who have been following my crazy stories from the beginning, you may recall that despite my attempts to be a better human being, I Suck at Dogs.  But I am also very quick to forget things, which I blame on all of these pregnancies and resultant children that have permanently addled my brain.  The same kids who are constantly begging for us to get a dog.  Day and night, night and day.  Every birthday or Christmas or random Tuesday, the number one thing on their wish list is a family dog.  And I know that they think we are terrible, horrible parents because we never did it.  But still, Sheepdog and I did not get them a dog.

Instead, we got them two.

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“Y’all gon’ make me lose my mind, up in here, up in here.” – DMX (from their album, “…And Then There Was X.”
But how perfect would it have been if it came from their record “Year of the Dog… Again?”
I know, right?

Their mother was rescued and when they had her on the table to spay her, they realized that she was pregnant.  She delivered five pups (four boys and a girl, all black with white markings except for one of the boys) just a few days later.  We met them when they were just under three weeks old and have been going to visit every weekend for the past six weeks.  We watched them grow and play with their litter mates and learn from their mama.  Incidentally, she and I were quite simpatico because we were both always bitching about having five kids who always wanted or needed something from us.  Solidarity, sister.

We were originally drawn to the girl puppy, but she ended up acting all uppity when we visited her.  I was much more drawn to two of the boys.  We went back and forth on the idea of one puppy versus two, but we opted for the double whammy mainly because people told us that they would keep each other company.  We also figured that, with our five kids, we would need more dogs to go around.  I know what you’re thinking… why not just get one for each?  But I emphatically drew the line at two.

They had to stay with their mom while they nursed and foster mom until they got neutered, which was last Thursday.  The rules of the rescue organization state that they could come live with us once they had a successful recovery from surgery.  So yesterday, on our last day of Spring Break, we all hopped into our XL vehicle, loaded a giant dog crate in the back, and headed over to the Chattahoochee River Club to pick up the newest members of our family.

And now, 24 hours later, with the kids all off at school and Sheepdog out of town all week for business, I am sitting here thinking, “What in the world did I get myself into?”  In my heart I know that we got these dogs because the experience will teach the kids responsibility and promote selflessness and there is nothing sweeter than a child and his or her dog(s).  But in my mind… let’s just say that it is very scary in there.  I am feeling anxious and overwhelmed and again like there is something wrong with me that I freak out when animals are actually living under my roof, despite my best efforts to be the willow.  I am definitely feeling much more like an unwavering oak.  Actually, it is kind of easy to feel like any kind of tree since two very active puppies are constantly peeing and pooping on me.

There is something seriously wrong with me.  I have decided that I am Spring Broken.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Put ‘Em On the Glass

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I like Monday mornings.  I’m not being sarcastic.  Mondays are my “get it done/ bang it out” days… laundry, grocery shopping, a fast workout, appointments.  I figure I’ll have one long, crappy day that is filled with as many of the sucky chores as I can cram in.  Then, later in the week I can do the fun stuff… bake, visit with a friend, watch a Kevin Smith movie marathon, nap, maybe post a blog or two.

Sheepdog always calls me to chat on Mondays and I’m all like, “Why do you keep calling me… I’m BUSY!”  Plus, we just spent the whole weekend together.  What the hell else could we have to talk about?  I like doing stuff together on the weekends, with the kids or without, but the OCD in me really likes it when Monday morning rolls around and Sheepdog has pedaled his way down the street and the kids are all out the door and I can get down to brass tacks with my To-Do list.  I’m always slow to start on Mondays, but once I get going, I am a machine.

Early this morning Kid D and Kid E had crawled into bed with me to cuddle.  We still had a half an hour before we needed to start the day so I was still trying to actually sleep, but the boys were having none of that.  Kid E was perfecting his explosion sound effects (his latest hobby) and Kid D was having a full-on, all-parties-have-to-participate conversation.

“How was your sleep, Mom?”

“Mmmmmm.”

“What does that even mean?  Are you hungry, or still sleeping?  It is supposed to rain today.  80 percent chance, according to The Weather Channel.  My game will probably be canceled.  We are supposed to play the Nationals again.  They are really, really good.  We have had, like, 5 games with the Nationals get rescheduled because of bad weather already this season.  I don’t know how we’re going to make them all up.  Dad and I had a really great practice yesterday.  I was working on my hitting and he kept yelling at me and throwing things at me so I would be distracted.  But I did a good job staying focused.  Did you hear that new song by Muse yet?  I heard it on the radio and I really like it.  Are you going to buy it on iTunes?  You should and then I can download it.  Can you do that for me?  Can you do it today, so you don’t forget?  What else are you doing today?”

“Shhhhblammm!” goes Kid E.

I slowly and reluctantly began to wake up.  And I remembered that it was “bang it out” day and I had an appointment on my schedule first thing this morning.  So, without much thought, I answered the chatty kid.

“I have a doctor’s appointment early this morning.”

“What for?”  Of course.

“Well, it is just an annual exam.”

“Exam of what?”  Nosy bastard.  I’m still tired and I have a lot to do today and I’m not in the mood to play 20 Questions.  I’m just going to give it to him straight.

“Technically, it is of my boobies.”  That’ll shut him up, if only because he’ll be giggling for the next ten minutes.

“Shhhblammm!  Shhhblammm!  Shhhblammm!” goes Kid E again, and then he chimes in, “What about your boobies?”  He joins his brother in fits of laughter.

“All right, gentlemen.  That’s enough.  I am going to the doctor to have them make sure that my boobies are healthy.  It is something that every woman should do every year.  Eat right, exercise and get your girl parts and boobies checked.”

“Are they checking your boobies for milk?”  Smartass.

“No, Mr. Smartypants.  These boobies no longer make milk.”

Kid E goes back to sound effect production, but Kid D is contemplative.  I can tell his mind is back to working overtime.  And then he cracks a smile as he turns to inform his little brother.

“Oh, I get it.  They’re checking to make sure that her milk hasn’t turned into cheese!”

Shhhblammm, indeed.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

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Take Me Out to the Ball

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

This weekend Sheepdog and I went out.  On a date.  To a Ball.

I know, I know.  How did a girl who is – by conscious choice – perpetually in flip-flops and sweatpants, and usually in bed by 8:45 on Saturday nights, end up at a fancy-schmancy ball?  So weird and just wrong, am I right?  Well…

Cinderella’s shoes for The Ball. Sheepdog approved.

Earlier last year I was talking to my dad about travel.  He and my mom are fortunate in that they go on a lot of trips throughout the year.  But one of the things that drives him crazy is the inefficiency of commercial airports and airlines.  Well, duh.  Flying sucks nowadays.  Gone are the days when everyone is all dressed up in the airport like they are straight off the set of Mad Men.  These days you are more likely to see people in their actual pajamas than you are people in suits.  It is no wonder that we are treated like idiot cattle and consider it a “good flight” if we don’t have to sit in our teeny, tiny seat next to somebody who needs more than one seatbelt extender (more often than not this is also the person who has the very questionable showering habits) and/ or we didn’t have to hang out on the runway or tarmac with only recycled air for countless hours waiting for fill-in-the-blank (clearance to take off, repair of the broken filangie, the pilot to sober up, blah blah blah).  So, half joking but half seriously, I suggested that he look into private planes.

One thing that I will tell you about my dad is that he is a big talker.  Not that he doesn’t often deliver, mind you, but he sure does like to make grandiose plans, especially around cocktail hour.  And only about 17% of those plans actually come to fruition.  For example, just last year he brought up the idea of “The Epic Trip,” involving him and my mom, me and my three sisters, and our husbands.  He sent out an email to all of us that explained how he wanted to go somewhere and do something truly meaningful together, so he asked us to submit ideas and wish lists.  The girls dreamed of huts in Bali, the boys named world class golf resorts, and Sheepdog wanted us to work on a dude ranch in Montana.  The best idea came from the Other Rob Fisher (long story short, my dad always accidentally uses a bogus email that he thinks is for my brother-in-law, but in fact belongs to a really funny guy with the same name who always comes up with awesome responses to our group missives, without acknowledging that he is not actually Our Rob Fisher – it can sometimes take a while for anybody to catch on), who suggested we should go surfing in South Korea and he attached an article like this one to the email:

Surfing in South Korea (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

Anyway, I looked into flying on private jets.  What I discovered was a whole new world of luxury and lavishness that I had never before allowed myself to fantasize about.  But after peeking behind that curtain, I was all about it.  And from what I have heard from those who have flown this way before, it is like crack.  You will never want to go back to Hartsfield-Jackson or Spirit Airlines again, sister.

So I reached out to a couple of companies on my dad’s behalf.  We went back and forth for a while and my dad and I finally got our schedules to mesh and we went to a meeting a few weeks ago with a rep from one of the best.  And I think the big talker actually got excited about the idea of a private plane.  We will see once the quote comes back.  But in the meantime…

The rep called me last week to see if I (or my dad, more importantly) had any questions.  I actually did, so I met with him one more time.  He also mentioned that he had two extra tickets for a black tie event and asked if Sheepdog and I would be interested in attending, along with him and his wife.  They also have a crap-ton of kids, like us, so he figured us moms would be all excited about getting dressed up and not having to take care of them, if only for a few hours.

Normally, I would make up some excuse as to why we were unavailable, but I recently made a promise to myself that I would try new things.  I vowed to go out of my comfort zone and be open to new people and experience different adventures.  So far, all I have done is use a telephone number instead of a website, when available, to deal with customer service issues.  And I thought I was making grand strides!  Before I could even control myself on the telephone, I blurted out that we would love to attend The Ball with them.  Gasp.

We ended up having a really fun night.  In typical fashion, I wanted to back out around 4PM.  Sheepdog was sick with a cold, the boys did not want us to leave them, and it started raining buckets.  But I dragged my sorry butt into the shower and proceeded to get dolled up (hair AND makeup… I know!).  Sheepdog put on his tuxedo (he looks fiiiine in a tuxedo, by the way – more incentive for me), and off we went.  The Ball was to benefit the American Heart Association, so there was a silent auction and dinner then a live auction.  It was really fun to watch as people raised their paddles to spend thousands of dollars in support of a great cause (and a trip to Hawaii).  We really enjoyed the rep and his wife too.

One of the funnest moments of the night for me was seeing that another woman had on the same dress as I did.  I pointed it out to Sheepdog and he tried to make me feel better by saying hers was “more purple” or something, but there was no denying it.  I bought it off the rack closest to the cash register at Macy’s, for goodness’ sake, (yeah, I’ve never been much of a shopper) so what did I expect?  I honestly did not care, but thought it would be fabulous if Sheepdog ever so subtly took a picture at The Ball of me and the woman “together.”

photo (1)

Who Wore it Better?

Thus confirming that, despite even my good-hearted attempts to evolve as a person and try new things, you still can’t take me anywhere.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Put ‘Em Up

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I got in a fight and lost.  Against the Sun.

I made an appointment with my dermatologist to have her look at a little thing on my foot back in late February or early March, but when I returned from Cabo I had a tan.  I didn’t want my dermatologist to think that I was some kind of irresponsible sun worshiper, so I canceled the appointment.

Then came the summertime, and I was an irresponsible sun worshipper.  I took the kids to the pool or the beach regularly and, while I sprayed their little backs and fronts and ears and noses and even scalps with hundreds of dollars worth of “the really good stuff,” I will admit that there were some days when I forgot to slather it on my own cheeks.

Summer ended.  My tan faded.  It crossed my mind once or twice to make another appointment with the dermatologist, but other things came up which required my attention.  It was laundry day or dinnertime or someone needed new socks or a new hairbrush or it was someone’s birthday or soccer game or book fair.

That’s weird… “book fair.”  Why did “book fair” just come to the forefront of my consciousness?  Wait a minute.  What day is this?  Oh, crap!  What time is it?  I was supposed to be at the book fair for Kid D ten minutes ago.  See what I mean about the other things taking over?

OK, I’m back.  I barely made it to the media center before his class was shipped out.  When I found him, Kid D was just wandering around with his wish list, looking abandoned and sad.  But it was nothing a few baseball books couldn’t cure.

So I finally got around to making (and going to) an appointment with the dermatologist on Monday.  She told me that my foot thing was nothing and then she did an all over body scan.  While she was staring at my cheek I asked, “Oh, so you like my age spot, do you?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, that’s no age spot…” she responded as she blasted my face with her evil freeze bottle.

Mama said knock you out.

So now I have a nasty cut on my cheek that will take some time to heal.  In the meantime, I am wearing a band-aid over it because it makes me look more like a tough boxer than a dumb sun bunny.  I might even keep the Everlast glove on while I run my errands.  What?  Don’t you judge me.

The doctor confirmed that I am still allowed to go to Cabo in February.  And in the summer I can still go to the pool and the beach too.  I just need to be extra vigilant about anything new or interesting, and I have to remember to put the good stuff on me.  Every single time.

Speaking of time, take some right now and make your own appointment.  Don’t brush me off.

Wait.  “Brush.”  Somebody said something about a brush this morning.  Oh yeah, Kid B broke hers and she needs a new one.  I’ll go to the store right now, I just need to find my boxing glove first.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Over the (Hawk) Hill

Posted on by Stacy Swiger
Last Thursday I had some kind of unholy, unprecedented strain of PMS.  All five of the kids were ganging up on me by playing a rousing game of Who Can Get On Mommy’s Very Last Nerve?  So when Sheepdog came home from work and (uncharacteristically) asked, “What’s for dinner and when’ll it be ready?” before even saying hello, I felt totally justified in telling him that I wanted “to hit (him) very hard in the face with a(n effing) shovel.”  Obviously, I needed a break.  The very next morning I hopped on a plane to Philadelphia.  We were all very pleased that I got away for a bit.
 

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When I was a senior in high school I did what almost everyone else was doing and I applied to get into college.  Three colleges, to be exact.  I was smart, involved and had yet to experience any hard slaps-in-the-face from life.  I was Miss Absecon 1987 and Holy Spirit’s homecoming queen, for goodness’ sake.  So I was in utter disbelief and completely devastated when I received thin envelopes from all three schools telling me no, no and wait.  It was April of my senior year and all I could say when asked where I was going in the fall was, “I honestly don’t know.”

I remember going in to see my school guidance counselor in a daze and asking what I was supposed to do at that point.  He mentioned a small school on City Line Avenue in Philadelphia called St. Joseph’s University.  I had not heard of it before, but my grades and SAT scores were on track to allow me admittance there.  I do not recall the administrative details that followed, but I do know that my parents moved me into a college dorm up on Hawk Hill as that summer drew to an end.

But even with my very own spot in the SJU Class of 1992, it turns out that I still was not sure of where I was going.  I spent the next two years floundering.  I went to parties and bars, but not many classes.  I changed my major and therefore my schedule countless times.  I made stupid and sometimes dangerous choices.  I got my heart broken more than once.  Looking back on my freshman and sophomore years at St. Joe’s, I recall a general sense of sadness and isolation, which was made even worse by my belief that I was surrounded by so many people who all seemed to be having the time of their lives.

My parents saw that I was not happy and they finally convinced me to come back home (a fate worse than death at the time!).  I would work and take classes at a local college in order to bring up my GPA.  Then I could reapply to another school or schools, and eventually earn a degree.  That is how I ended up at West Virginia University as a transfer student in the Fall of 1990.  I met Sheepdog there after just a few weeks.

Short Aside… Yes, WVU was a giant party school back then (and still officially is, according to Princeton Review), but I had thankfully gotten most of it out of my system by the time I moved to Morgantown.  Note that I said most, not all.  Now that’s a true story.

After years of ruminating (and some good, old-fashioned therapy), I look back on my first years of higher education with a smile.  It was the time when I walked on to the varsity cheerleading squad for the basketball team and I got to cheer on national television and travel all over the East Coast to other schools in the Atlantic 10.  It was when I learned that accounting was definitely not my thing, but english and eventually journalism were.  It was when I learned how I didn’t want to be treated by boys, and therefore what I did eventually want from a partner in life.  Most importantly, it was the time when I learned what I did and did not like about myself.  It was where I learned that having a rhinestone crown placed on your head doesn’t mean jack, so I needed to buckle down and start working for what I wanted.  It was where I made friends for life, because college years can be so intense that bonds are forged deeper and stronger than during any other experience.

This past weekend I traveled back to City Line Avenue for Hawktoberfest 2012 and to celebrate the passage of 20 years since the Class of 1992 had been handed their sheepskins.  Originally I booked my plane ticket and hotel room because it was an excuse to spend time with friends who now live scattered all over and I rarely get to see (save for the occasional wedding or funeral or milestone birthday celebration in the Dominican Republic), but it turned out to be so much more than that for me.

I saw people who I hadn’t seen in decades.  I listened to the stories of how their lives had played out, as well as their plans for the future.  I heard the classic tales again, but I also listened to new ones that I never knew about.  One girlfriend teased, saying that I was quite the social butterfly… talking to absolutely everyone, but that was the best part of the experience for me.  We went out to dinner and shared so many memories and bottles of wine.  We played softball on the incredible new field.  We posed for pictures in front of our old dorms.  We tailgated (I know, I know… how do you tailgate without a football team?) and gossiped and laughed.  I laughed until I was hoarse.  It was very, very good.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. This was taken just before 2AM on 54th Street.

On Sunday, we roused our sad, over the hill selves out of bed with lots and lots of coffee.  After we checked out of the hotel, a few of us who had later flights walked around the campus.  It is so much bigger now, with all of the new buildings and dorms and fields, but it is still the same in so many ways.  It was awkward but comfortable at the same time.  I had to catch my breath several times as I walked through the old Fieldhouse (now Hagan Arena) and down past Finnesy Field.  I actually had tears in my eyes as I went from Lafarge to the Chapel and the old Newmann Hall and then crossed the foot bridge to McShane.  They fell silently down my cheeks as I walked down the tree-lined Lapsley Lane to the most magnificent view of Barbelin Tower.

What’s magis? It’s a Jesuit principle that underlies everything we do at Saint Joseph’s University. It inspires us to think a little broader, dig a little deeper, and work a little harder. More simply put, magis calls us to live greater.

The tears were few but they were powerful and cathartic.  I felt such peace and comfort in knowing that St. Joe’s was the first of many steps in bringing me to where I am in my life today.  It defined me, both good and bad.  And it feels so awesome to own that.

I left Hawk Hill feeling light and happy, albeit a little old.  I left with renewed friendships and some new Facebook friends.  I left with a memory card full of photographs.  But mostly I left with a palpable gratitude for the life I have now and the people who are in it.  It never ceases to amaze me how life twists and turns, takes us up and down the hills and sometimes even mountains, and lands us where we are right at this moment.

Sometimes we just need to be reminded.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Say It! Say It! Say It!

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I have said this before, but it bears repeating…

Sometimes I just can’t control my own ornery.

I try (some days I try harder than others) to act civilized and “normal,” but there are times when I just let it all hang out simply because it feels good.  Plus, it makes me feel closer to (Ma) Kettle.  That’s my mom’s mom who died from cancer two years ago.  She was the Queen of Letting Your Freak Run Around Unchecked and Unfiltered.  Admittedly, she could be totally embarrassing in public but that woman was fun and funny as hell.  And I sure do miss her.

“If you don’t like it, you can go shit in your hat!”

Anyway, I was at my home away from home the grocery store last week stocking up on items I buy in bulk that don’t fit in the cart during regular orders (10 or so cases of flavored seltzer water, a mega-pack of toilet paper and paper towels, 2-for-1 bottles of vitamins, multiple giant bottles of wine… essentials for the apocalypse).  I packed my cart to the brim and I headed to the checkout.  Being the frequent flyer that I am at this store (back in college a dive bar called Cavanaugh’s was my Cheers, now-a-days the ghetto Kroger is where everybody knows my name… sigh), someone scrambled to open a lane just for me.

I actually did not recognize the clerk who was giving me the red carpet treatment.  He was definitely new.  But he ran his lane with mad skill and had me through in a jiffy.  As I was whipping out my credit card and preparing to swipe it he told me to hold up, as his register was spitting stuff out like it was a married Jewish girl.

“Ooooh!  You got a lot of coupons today,” said the newbie.

“Oh yeah?  Anything I can use right now?”  I asked, unimpressed unless there was.

He examined the paper strip with feigned intensity.  “Mmmmm… I don’t really know you (as he looks back at all the wine and TP) but you seem like you would probably buy Lunchables.  And you’re a girl, so you can definitely use this last one for… you know.”

Insulted by his insinuation yet intrigued by his phrasing, I push back.  “I know what?”

I look at the coupon that I now presume is covered in anthrax because this guy won’t even touch it with his bare hands.  It is a coupon for tampons.  Harmless, little cotton tampons.  And just the thought of them is freaking this guy out.  My ornery is just begging to come out and play.

“Tampons,”  I say boldly.  “Can’t you even say the word?  Tampons, tampons, tampons.”  My voice is getting louder.  Several nearby heads turn in the direction of our lane.  “It is 2012.  You are a grown-ass man.  You have got to be kidding me,” I whisper-yell.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh!  You don’t have to say it!” he whisper-whispers back at me as his face turns the color of a baboon’s butt.  “Stop saying that word!”

I figure that I have embarrassed him just enough to retaliate for the pre-packaged-kids’-lunch-box-product comment, but I insist on adding one more thing.  “So you’re single, right?  (He glares back at me but I see from his reaction that I am correct)  Well, you will never get a real, live girlfriend if you can’t even say the word ‘tampon’ out loud.  So here’s your homework for today… when you get done your shift you’re gonna get in your car and drive home.  I want you to say the word ‘tampon’ over and over and over for the entire trip.  Tampon, tampon, tampon, tampon.  It will be good for you.”

I then go out into the parking lot and unload my cart full of goodies.  During my own car ride home I proceed to chant not only “tampon, tampon, tampon” but also “penis, penis, penis” and “vagina, vagina, vagina” for good measure.  I like to keep my reflexes sharp, you know.

When I got home I unloaded the car and went upstairs to take a shower before I started making dinner.  Ironically enough, it was then that I realized that Aunt Flo had come for her annoying monthly visit.  And guess what was missing from my bathroom cabinet?

I wish this post was in color so I could end it with a big red period.  More than that, I wish I had used that stupid coupon.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Safe (Whew!)

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

This is my fair warning to you all… Kid A has gotten her driver’s license.

Against all odds (and by “odds” I mean the fact that she usually drives ten to twenty m.p.h. below the posted speed limit and she hit every. single. one. of the cones during the parallel parking portion of the road test), my first-born now holds a Class D Provisional License from the State of Georgia.  I am frightened.

I have already reconciled the fact that learning how to drive and getting a license is a necessary right of passage for any human being who wants or needs to get anywhere in life.  I know this because I spent a lot of time considering which major cities she could possibly live in that employed practical and accessible mass transit options.  Then she wouldn’t ever have to drive.  Yay!  Problem solved.  And despite Sheepdog setting a really great example of how you can get almost anywhere using two wheels plus public transportation, Kid A was not having it.

I have also reconciled the fact that (even though it may be my deepest, darkest wish) I can not control everything.  My children will grow up.  They will fall down.  They will succeed a little and fail a little.  And some, if not all of them, will get into accidents while driving.  Shiver.  Here’s to hoping for fender benders and nothing worse.

Girl drivers rule! Marcia sure wasn’t the one who hit the cone and broke the egg. Enjoy your omelette, Greg!

The day of Kid A’s driving exam was looming and I was still struggling with the fact that she could be legally behind the wheel very soon.  She was continuing to improve but her driving skills were spotty at best.  She would have really good days and then she would cut off four people in under a mile.  She was super confident from all of her practicing, while I sat helpless in the passenger seat.  By this point I had gotten my gasps and sighs under control because they just made her more nervous.  I know this because she mentioned it once or twice (or 3,077 times).  So now at least my silent clenching muscles were getting a really great workout.

It was decided that it would be best for everyone involved that Sheepdog take her to the Department of Driver Services on the day of her scheduled exam.  It was also decided that she would be solely responsible for gathering the required paperwork for said exam.  She had been practicing for months and was taking the road test in my mom’s car (a nice and safe 4-door sedan) because she couldn’t drive a manual transmission (Sheepdog’s car) and she was very uncomfortable driving the XL SUV that we use to cart around the whole family plus luggage on trips.

So it is the day of the test and Kid A and Sheepdog head out of the house as the rest of us yell, “Luck!”  But after several minutes they are both back inside the house, scrambling and worried.  During a last-minute paperwork review it was determined that the insurance card for my mom’s car had expired two days prior.  The premium was paid in full, yet the DDS would accept nothing less than current proof of insurance, which we did not have.  I proudly refrained from calling Kid A a dumb ass for not realizing this sooner, although I thought it really loudly in my head.  I also thought that it was the universe’s way of telling her that she wasn’t ready to get her license and I breathed a sigh of relief that she would not be driving alone, at least for a little while longer.

But, no!  In a bold move, Kid A said “Stick it!” to my universe theory.  She was stubborn and proud and confident and determined to get her license on this day.  She climbed behind the wheel of all 222.4 inches of our Yukon XL (which she had only driven once more than a year prior, swearing never to wrangle that beast again) and headed out to take her test.

I wasn’t even a little surprised when I got the call from Sheepdog that she passed.  She is a very safe driver and she continues to get better every time she goes out to practice.  And she showed us that she can handle pressure with grace and style by the way she stepped up and drove a completely unfamiliar monster vehicle (c’mon… it’s almost a bus for all intents and purposes).  I mean, she should have earned her commercial driver’s license after passing in that thing.

It has been several weeks since the test.  She even has her own car now.  It is much more reasonably sized and very safe (with something like 72 airbags inside, to make her mother feel better).  She has improved exponentially since she started driving alone, so I feel a little better about letting go of control.

But not totally… she still has to text me when she gets where she is going.  So now I anxiously await the “Safe” message from both Sheepdog (after he rides his bike into work) and Kid A every time I look at my phone.  I see those words and I unclench, at least until the next time.  Baby steps, folks.  I’m a work in progress.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Mother’s Day Tea

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Today was very important for Kid D.  He woke up vibrating with excitement and secrecy.  He put on his best dress shirt and tie.  He has been working hard for weeks preparing for a very special Mother’s Day Tea, which his first grade class held this morning.  It was a Very Big Deal.

Since I was invited and all, I got out of my pajamas dressed up and headed over to the elementary school for the festivities.  Every year the first graders put on this show in order to make their moms get all sappy and sentimental and to watch them cry in public.  I mean, they play “Wind Beneath My Wings” as background music, for cripe’s sake.  There is always plenty of sweetness and love and lemon pound cake and itchy dress clothes and video cameras and it is just totally awesome.

This year did not disappoint.  One smooth operator wore a tuxedo!  The kids all sang “Puff the Magic Dragon,” which is a much sadder song than I ever remembered (P.S. I looked up Honah Lee and it is a fake place.  I’m bummed.)  They also each wrote and read aloud a poem with the theme “I Love You More Than…”  The kids this year included standard things like “video games,” “the chocolate chip pancakes you made me for my birthday,” “our trip to Disney World,” and “our dog, Mutley.”  But my favorite this year was when one little blonde girl said “I Love You More Than… Dad.”  I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, even though I don’t think she actually meant to say that.  It was part of another sentence or something but the way it actually came out was truly awesome.  I wanted my kid to say that.

Puff, let me introduce you to my friend, The Giving Tree. Tree, this is Puff.

There were little notes and drawings and pictures talking about moms posted all around the classroom.  There was a whole wall of mom portraits obviously drawn by the kids.  For some reason, we all looked very angry in those renderings with scowls on our faces and nobody could tell which one was supposed to be them, but they were still cool.  Then there were these Runaway Bunny-style short sentences.  You know the book by the Goodnight Moon lady that has a petulant little bunny rabbit who tries to leave his mommy and every time he says he’s going to morph into something to get away (a rock on a mountain, a fish in a stream, a sailboat), his mother always adapts into something that can catch him (a mountain climber, a fisherman, the wind).

This was Kid D’s version:

If you are the baseball bat, I will be the player who hits a home run with you.

Well, hmmmm.  Now most of us are well-versed in baseball metaphors.  With that in mind, his project seems dirty, right?  I will acknowledge that my brain has permanently set up camp in the gutter but this seems pretty wrong.  It actually sounds like something Sheepdog said to me just last week.  I can tell you emphatically that baseball to Kid D is just baseball, but with his father being straight outta West Virginia he can’t be playing fast and loose with words like that.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Just Say No to Cash

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

For those of you who know me very well (and there are only like nine of you on the whole planet… “I’m a loner, Dottie.  A rebel.”), you are well aware that I do not enjoy chatting on the phone.  There are certainly exceptions, but I rarely spend my free time yakking it up.  Yesterday was a unique day for me in that I called or was called by every single person in my family of origin (also known as “907 Chelsea Peeps”).  It wasn’t even anybody’s birthday or a holiday or anything really special.  I can’t tell you the last time that happened.  Not that we need to stop the presses or anything.  I’m just saying.

So in talking to everybody I got a crapload of new information… updates, ideas, stories, gossip.  You know, the good stuff.  Some of it was really good stuff too.  Let me just say that in the game of OMG One-Up, my family will probably win.  We’d come in second place at the very least.  There’s some crazy stuff out there, people.

Anyway, Sister B called me in the middle of the day and mentioned that she was collecting money for some group teacher gifts and she had an idea for a nicer presentation than just handing over cash in an envelope.  I was unaware that cash in an envelope was not nice, but apparently I don’t know anything.  So I told her to write a post and I’d put it on my blog so anybody who reads it can copy her idea.

Or you can just give cash in an envelope.  Seriously, I don’t see how that can be a bad thing.

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End of the Year Gift Idea by Guest Writer, Sister B

It is that time of the year again…soccer banquets, religious education end of year parties, graduations, last day of school parties, ballet recitals, cub scouts graduation ceremonies…I don’t know about you but my wallet is empty!  I am so thankful for the adults who help my children throughout the year in so many different ways, whether it be their coaches, teachers, school administrators, instructors or leaders.  They work so hard, demonstrate incredible patience, foster a love of learning in so any ways, and I took on the coordination of the donation of funds towards a group gift.

I know from my teacher friends that gift cards are always the best because if they get another candle or apple-themed “#1 Teacher” mug they are going to literally scream.  But I just didn’t want to put a big gift card in an envelope and call it a day.  I wanted to take a few minutes and a little creativity to show those who have earned a year end gift that we appreciate all that they have done each and every day of this past year.  I did not want to spend a lot of money because the majority of the funds should go towards the gift card for the individual who deserves the kudos!

I searched the internet and found this adorable phrase – “Thanks for helping us ‘grow’ this year!”

I was inspired to create a gift card holder with a flower theme.  I found small baskets 2 for $1 at the local dollar store.  Target had faux felt flowers in the $1 section and they were bright and colorful and cheery.  I found gardening signs also in the $1 section at Target and made a sign on my computer with the clever phrase.  I purchased a styrofoam cube from the dollar store, cut it in half and placed it in the bottom of the basket.   Then, covered the styrofoam with shredded paper, inserted the faux flowers, stuck in the sign and voila!  Instant end of the year gift card holder!  Can’t wait to give these to my kids’ specialists, coaches and teachers and they can enjoy them for many years to come.

 

There are several other variations of this gift idea.  You could purchase fresh flowers and just make the sign.  You could buy a plant from Home Depot or Lowe’s.  You could have your kids make homemade tissue paper flowers.  The possibilities are endless.  But with a little creativity, you can really show the teachers in your life your thanks for all of their time this past year.  And your gift will stand out from the rest of the pile of gift cards in plain envelopes, guaranteed!

What Did One Math Book Say To The Other Math Book?

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

“Dude, I’ve got a lot of problems.”

I love that joke.  Probably because I am a math book.  And one of my biggest problems keeps popping up lately… I am very ornery and I tend to bring out the ornery in those around me.  And that can get us into some hot water at times.

For example, I see Kid C and D’s elementary school bus driver every weekday morning.  He is a really nice, reliable man in his late forties or early fifties.   He drives safely and he keeps the kids in line and they all say he is a great bus driver.  Everybody likes him.  I even know his wife (she was the previous elementary school bus driver for Kids A and B when we first moved here).  We always exchange pleasantries and what’s-going-on’s, but we are usually limited to yelling just a few words back and forth to each other over the very loud diesel engine.

Prior to Spring Break he told me that he was going to Las Vegas for vacation.  For the last few days before school was out I would yell, “Vegas, Baby!” while raising my arms and laughing uncontrollably whenever he opened the bus doors.  The other kids on the bus looked at my kids and were like, “Is your mom drunk again?”  Whatever.  It made me giggle.  And, no, there is nothing else in my coffee.

So when we returned from Spring Break and all of the groggy kids were climbing onto the school bus on Monday morning I asked the bus driver how his trip went.  He smiled a wistful smile and said it was really fun, as if he had either lost a lot of money at the craps tables or he really wished he was still on vacation.  Or both.  I didn’t want him to be sad, so my ornery busted out with some bright-side support and I yelled, “At least you still have your pants on!”

He laughed out loud and then succumbed to my bad influence.  The engine was very loud but I think I heard him yell back, “Yeah, but I’m not wearing any underpants!”  …in front of a school bus full of little kids.  The poor man realized what he said as soon as it came out of his mouth and was mortified.  Imagine the face that a minister would make if he dropped the F-bomb in the middle of a church picnic.  The bus driver made that exact face.  Thank goodness all of the kids already think I am crazy and don’t pay attention to anything I say, so nobody was really listening to us anyway.  I don’t want anybody getting in trouble, so I will say again that the engine was really loud and I probably did not hear him correctly.  But if he did say it, then chalk up one more for my very bad influence.

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Thank goodness.

Speaking of Vegas, Sheepdog gave a speech on food traceability and its impact on recalls in litigation at a food-borne illness conference in Las Vegas last week (I know, I know… how sexy is that?).  Now, I have shared a lot about Sheepdog over the past year, so I feel like you all should know him pretty well.  Even so, I can not stress enough how much of a square peg Sheepdog is in the holes of Sin City.  He does not drink, he is the married father of five children, and if he is not working like a madman to pay for all of those children to be housed, clothed, fed and educated, he is either running or riding his bicycle somewhere.  Not exactly the things that come to mind when you think of Vegas, right?

Sheepdog is more than a fish out of water on the Vegas Strip.  The place genuinely scares the crap out of him.  He went there only one time years ago for our brother-in-law’s bachelor party weekend.  He went out there with something like $200 “fun money” in his pocket (the most money he ever had in his possession at one time up until that point, and it was a big deal financially for us to send him there with that much) and then called me from a strip club or somewhere because he had already used up all of the money.  After only being there for an hour.  I won’t even say how much cash he ended up dropping that weekend, but it was not an itty-bitty number.  Apparently there was just so much of everything available twenty-four hours a day.  And apparently Sheepdog’s intensity does not translate into anything good in a place like that.

So Sheepdog and I were both joking how ever since that trip Vegas scares the bejesus out of him.  And it turns out that at least somebody was paying attention when we were talking.

On the drive home from preschool on Wednesday, we were talking about Sheepdog and I reminded Kid E that his Daddy was in Las Vegas.  From the backseat I hear him say to nobody in particular, “Daddy is a-scared of Vegas.”  For whatever reason, I found this to be particularly funny.  And I found it to be even more hysterical when Kid E asked what, specifically, it was that Sheepdog was a-scared of.  Cue the ornery me.

Now, I’m not proud of this (although I do keep laughing about it), but I told Kid E that Daddy was scared of “too much boobies and drinking and spending money.”  And being a four-year-old boy, he thought that me saying those things was absolutely fantastic, and he proceeded to repeat them over and over and over again.  And I, of course, kept encouraging him because he follows up saying “boobies” with that priceless little kid giggle that just melts my heart.  At least I did remind him that he wasn’t allowed to mention any of this when he was at his Lutheran Church-based preschool.  Fingers crossed that I don’t get a note from his teacher anytime soon.

“Dude, I’ve got a lot of problems.”  Trust me, I know.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…