Category Archives: Bad Mommy

I Suck at Moderation

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Since we started this vacation and until reinforcements arrive (T-minus 54 hours until Sheepdog is here!), I have removed many of the standard limits which I usually impose upon my kids.  There have been no bedtimes, they may or may not have showered or bathed, Twizzlers and Smarties have become their own major food group, Kid D has learned two new slang/ curse words, and no one even knows where their shoes are anymore.  And we are all thriving!

Of course I’m kidding.  The first few days were fun and exciting and all “Let’s Eat the Forbidden Fruit!” but now the kids are just overtired, dirty and have stomach aches and splinters.  Many of them fall asleep in public places in the middle of the day and/ or burst out in tears for absolutely no reason.  And one of them is always not talking to another one for some reason.  It’s like the first few days of Lord of the Flies.

This kid's mom must be Super Fun! He fell asleep in the middle of a party.

Apparently, my kids crave order.  They may think that they don’t want rules and limits, but I know that it makes them feel safe and secure and keeps them young for just a little while longer.  And they may think that they want to grow up right this minute, but that’s not what is best for them.  And I see it in their behavior and their language and their demeanor every single day.

See, I have been trying this little experiment for years now.  I may take naturally to being a drill sergeant kind of parent, but I also want my kids to have memories of growing up in a house with a mom who was fun and silly and a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of girl.  So every once in a while (vacation is a great time because everything gets upended anyway) I let Captain Chaos run the show.  And every single time it is fun for a few days.  Until it is not so fun anymore.

So maybe tonight I’ll make a healthy dinner, but we can go for a walk to get ice cream afterwards.  And instead of banning video games today, I can set a time limit so that nobody plays for eight hours straight and gets all crazy-eyed and combative.  But I’ll tell you right now that Kid E is going to bed by 7:30 tonight and every single night thereafter.  Because a grouchy, unrested Kid E is always miserable.  Moderation be damned.

When we lessen or reduce our extremes we are more likely than not heading toward normalcy.  And who doesn’t want to be normal?  Moderation has the best chance of survival in the long run.  It is just so hard for me to put it into practice.  It is one of my Life’s Big Struggles.

What I am figuring out, slowly but surely, is that moderation is the way to go.

Isn’t it always?  [Buzzer sound].  I guess I still have a lot to learn.

Oh!  Now I get the saying, “All things in moderation, even moderation.”

This is not going to be easy for me.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Thirteen Hour Car Trips Will Almost Always Lead to Drinking

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Our vacation this summer is going to be spent at my mom and dad’s house in Somers Point, New Jersey.  They live in a marina in a not totally kid-friendly house that is close to the beach.  It is an all-around awesome place, except for the lack of kid-friendliness and the fact that they only have three bedrooms and not enough beds to house the seven people in our family without blowing up some extra sleeping arrangements.  Fortunately, for space reasons, my parents are in Mexico for the first two weeks of our visit.  For the last few days of our trip, we will all cram into the house, go to the beach, celebrate the 4th, eat and drink together and basically remind one another why it is good for children move out of their parents’ house when they grow up and have families of their own.

*****************************************************

On Wednesday morning at 1 a.m. Kid E wandered into my bedroom and climbed into my bed.  About an hour later he informed me that I could take him back to his bed because he was no longer comfortable.  About an hour after that my alarm went off, signifying the incredibly early start of our very long travel day.

“Let’s get this party started,” I mumbled, 98% sarcastic, as I dragged myself out of the warm bed and put on my clothes and pulled my hair up into a ponytail.

By 3:45 a.m. I was easing out of my Georgia driveway with Kids A – E fully seat belted inside, an insane amount of beach gear zipped into a gigantic Thule bag on the roof, and too many bikes racked onto the back.  I may have looked like Jed Clampett, but I felt like The Bandit, (North) East bound and down, hopeful that I could avoid the Smokeys as I hauled ass along the I-85 and I-95 corridors.

As far as long car trips go, this one was really good.  We stopped just north of NASCAR’s Mecca (Charlotte) for some breakfast, but that was our only break other than one pit stop for gas (the kind that makes the car run) and one “I have to poop right now!” false alarm from Kid E when we were just 60 miles from our destination.  So, it was really two gas pit stops (LOL: fart joke).  The traffic was fairly light, road construction was minimal, and the Po-Po must have had a Beef and Beer Fundraiser somewhere else, as they were not occupying many of their standard access road hiding spots along the highways.

We pulled into our destination just after 5 p.m., very ready to stretch our legs and eat some dinner.  Luckily, my mom is awesome and she left two trays of lasagna and two pies for us to eat.  I stuck dinner in the oven, enlisted Kids A, B, and C to carry our gear in and unpack, disassembled the bike rack, and detached it from the trailer hitch.  Then I proceeded to sit on a beach chair and do nothing while the older four kids rode their bikes, RipSticks and scooters around the gloriously flat and virtually car-less street out front, all while Kid E squirted everyone with water guns.

Mommy's BFF

I said another silent prayer of thanks for our safe arrival, the minimal in-flight fighting and “Are we there yet?” queries, and for the ability to put the pedal to the metal and make it here in just over thirteen hours.

Then I did some quick math in my head, figuring that I had basically been up since the middle of the night.  I realized that one of my kids is a new swimmer and another can’t swim at all and we are staying in a house that is surrounded by water.  The kids had car trip fever and they had now begun fighting and trying to run each other over with their bikes.  Sheepdog is not due to arrive for another whole week.  How am I gonna do this all by myself?

So I opened a bottle of wine and proceeded to drink the whole thing.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Having a Lot of Kids Will Almost Always Lead to Drinking

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

This past weekend we were heavy two cosmonauts (temporarily).  Sister C and her husband traveled to Jekyll Island for a wedding and her oldest two kids stayed with us.  My nephew is seven and my niece just turned five.  They are good and get along well with my kids.  So we threw them into the pot and told them to hold on tight for a bumpy ride.  Seven kids over three days was gonna be FUN!

Friday was Day One.  I was getting my hair cut and colored (I have the Catch-22 of giant Jersey Girl hair that grows super fast, yet started turning grey when I was only 25 years old) because my sparkles (what I call the evil grey hair when it shines next to my naturally dark hair) were lighting up like a Christmas tree.  My appointment was early, so I just asked Kid B (Kid A sleeps like the Teenage Undead until noon if you let her) to watch them all until I got back.  Sheepdog had made the mistake of deciding to work from home that morning without checking our schedule first, so he got roped in on the babysitting gig too.  Actually, the Wii ended up babysitting three of them, as the boys played video games until their eyeballs were just about to pop out of their heads.  The girls went upstairs and dragged out the $17,000 worth of American Girl Doll equipment, clothes and furniture that we have in a closet and played until their little fingers were bleeding from working those tiny buttons.  I gave them spaghetti and meatballs for dinner and ice cream cake for dessert, then they were off to bed!  Everybody was happy.

Saturday was Day Two.  We had a 1st Birthday Party to attend for my youngest niece later in the afternoon, but it was sunny and hot in the morning so we decided to get everybody dressed and ready for a day at the pool first.  Nine sandwiches, drinks, snacks, towels, bathing suits and eighteen flip-flops (well 17, as Kid E still has the boot on his left foot), and an assembly line of sunscreen later, we headed off to the neighborhood pool for some cooling off.  I was Mama Duck with my seven little ducklings marching behind me along the side of the road.  As we walked I heard the dreaded rumble of thunder off in the distance.  Crap.  We decided we could eat lunch at the pool while we waited the required 20 minutes before being able to go back in the water after thunder and we pressed on.  No sooner did we get to the pool than another boom of thunder rocked our ears.  Double crap.  The skies still looked blue and the clouds were not menacing, so everybody just ate lunch and we hung out for our second penalty.  As it goes, just seconds prior to the end of the waiting period, yet another thunderbolt crashed somewhere far away.  Despite our insistence that it was just a neighbor bringing in his trash cans, the lifeguard went all hard-core and shut us down again.  Third strike and all, we gathered our things and headed back to the house, never having even dipped a single big toe into the cool pool.

After our complete bust of a pool day the kids all complained that they were hot and sweaty and sticky from sunscreen and they all wanted soapy showers before the party.  Sheepdog was adamantly opposed and suggested we just hose them off in the backyard.  But I conceded to their request, mostly because they went straight into pj’s the night before.  By the end we depleted the hot water supply from our not one, but TWO hot water heaters, but everyone was clean, cool and dressed for the party.

Now the party for my other niece was in Kennesaw, which is forty-five minutes away no matter how you cut it.  The big monster truck that I drive all of the kids around in only fits seven (especially with all of the car seats), so we had to formulate a plan on how to get there.  We had the option to take two cars, but after much discussion we opted to take the truck and just put two people in the waaaay back, using body and boyfriend pillows for back support.  Sheepdog and I both grew up in the 70’s and have ridden seat belt-less on the hump in the back seat or in the empty bed of a pickup truck.  Hell, the “infant car seats” from when we were babies were basically laundry baskets that got put on the front seat next to the driver.  And we’re both fine, so we decided to Old School it.

I am considering this for my next car, as they say they were able to fit 13 people into it.

One dumb ass decision by Sheepdog and me, a driver who fell asleep at his wheel and two busted up cars later, we were getting a fire truck escort over to the right shoulder on GA-400S.  Our girls riding in the back saw that the driver was nodding off and called to Sheepdog to PLEASE GET OUT OF THIS LANE RIGHT NOW, DADDY.  He told them that it was fine, yet turned on his blinker and attempted to move over in the bumper-to-bumper traffic.  As the girls continued to let him know that they were frightened and he (and I) countered for them to calm down and that no one would really drive while asleep, but we were moving over nonethele… KABOOM!  He rear-ended us.  Fortunately we were going under 15 miles per hour and not even one person was hurt (the guy’s car is a different story – he lost his entire front end).  Oh there was some screaming at first from the jolt of the impact, but the kids really were troopers.

You really can’t even imagine how bad the sleeping driver felt when he learned that he just crashed into a car filled with seven little kids on their way to their cousin’s birthday party.  Why not just run over some nuns and orphans while you’re at it?  But, like I said, everyone was just fine and we went on to the party and had a great time celebrating and visiting with even more aunts, uncles and cousins.

So Sunday comes afterwards.  Day Three was a hot and sunny once again, so we decided to just go balls to the wall and attempt the pool one more time.  Suits, check.  Gear, check.  Food, check.  Sunscreen, check.  You know the drill by now.  Mama duck and baby ducks.  And on this day there was no thunder.  As a matter of fact, it was a fantastic day at the pool all around.  The kids had fun, swam like fish, and Sheepdog and I managed to keep an eye on everybody and we even got to spend some time hanging out together.  By the time we gathered out things almost four hours later we had four or five more kids who came back to the house along with us, everybody a little sunburned and everybody a little worn out.  It was a great end to a (mostly) fun weekend.

After Sister C came to gather her chickens and take them back home, and Kid A took off to go to dinner and the movies with her friends, and Kids B and C were invited to sleep over at their friend’s house, I made a simple dinner of burgers and dogs for Sheepdog, Kid D, Kid E and myself.  As I was standing at the grill I said a prayer of thanks that we were all safe, and I made a promise that no one was ever riding without proper seat belt restraints under my watch again.  And then I came back in the house and opened a giant bottle of wine and I proceeded to drink most of it.  Because having a lot of kids will almost always lead to drinking.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Dance Recitals are Torture

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

The other six of us all got dressed up this past weekend and we headed out to watch Kid A dance ballet in her studio’s recital.  It was held at a local high school that has its own performing arts center.  I just love watching Kid A dance.  Her movement is so precise and controlled and just peaceful to watch.  But the dance recital just kills me.  I don’t care how beautifully it is done.  Dance recitals are torture.

Let’s start with the preparation of the dancer.  Even the youngest of them (most studios have dance classes for kids as little as three-years-old) get full stage make up.  I understand the reason for needing it (stage lights are very bright and they drown you out), and I guess some people find it cute to play drag queen with their toddler, but it seems so very wrong to have these kids wearing six times more make-up than most strippers wear to work.  Then there’s the shellacked hair bun, which requires seventeen-thousand pins plus a net to hold it in place and a rocket scientist’s mom (because even the rocket scientist needs a mom’s help with this thing) to assemble.  And they don’t make enough chemicals to remove this stuff, so you’d better just get used to it.  Your dancer is going to look this way for most of the summer.

"You will TOTALLY were these again!" said their dance teacher.

Let’s move on to the costumes… they usually come in several parts, none of which I can ever figure out how to put on in the right order.  And they never come with assembly instructions, and I end up trying to put it together like it is a 250-piece play kitchen and I’m panicking at midnight on Christmas Eve.  It’s a good thing that Kid A is paying attention.  Oh, and you’ll need to buy new tights for the show.  The kind that you’ll never use again, and they cost half of a week’s worth of groceries.  The really great thing is that you get to keep the costumes!

Then there is the sales portion of the recital.  There are professional photo sessions (individual and group), DVD sales, poster sales, flower sales, and sometimes even keepsake sales to remind the dancers of the particular experience (As if the actual digital footage of the whole show to the tune of $40 a copy would not remind them enough.  No, they need a stuffed polar bear in a tutu made in Taiwan by a six-year-old who gets paid three cents a day to truly remind them).

Finally, we get to the day (or days! with multiple showings! like Broadway!) of the dance recital.  The performance is usually held in the middle of some unincorporated town, at least six hours away from the studio.  On top of that, your dancer has a call time that is three hours prior to when the doors open to the public.  Until then, no one is allowed to come in out of the sweltering heat and sit down in an auditorium that never has enough seats, and then only the very front row has an unobstructed view.  Most of the time the air conditioning in the theater will crap out about an hour into the first half of the performance.  By Intermission (yes, the show is long enough to justify an intermission), you are so sick of watching all of the variations of “kick ball change” and dancers cross leaping across the stage that you consider encouraging your dancer to try Chess Club instead next year.

Business Idea: Figure out how to get approved for a temporary liquor license inside of a school to provide a mobile cash bar for dance recitals.  Offer theme drinks, such as “Ballet Bombers,”  “Jazz Hands Off My Drink,” and “Beer Straight from the Tap Shoes.”  Provide special honorary seating for dads and grandfathers who got dragged there by the moms trying to relive their own unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

Nevertheless, we all went to watch and support Kid A while she performed in her annual recital.  I sat next to someone who reeked of cigarettes and Sheepdog sat near someone who needed more deodorant.  We all smiled and clapped and cheered, especially when Kid A was on stage – and she danced so beautifully – but mostly we cheered when it was over.  That is just what you do.  You support the ones you love, even when it is complete torture.  Because that is how childhood dreams and memories are made… on the proud shoulders and empty wallets of the parents who love them unconditionally.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Girl Power: Fail

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I have always been the kind of girl who wanted to do the stuff, instead of sitting idly by and watching someone else do it for me.  As a toddler I’m sure I petulantly said, “Do byself!” more than I said, “Mama.” (Sorry, Mom).  As a teenager I excelled in both Home Economics and Industrial Arts classes; I even earned the Shop (I.A.) Award at my 8th Grade Graduation ceremony. “That’s my SON!” yelled my dad, his chest swelling with pride.  I know how to sew a button, drive a stick shift, change out a toilet flapper, orienteer myself out of the woods, and cook a medium-rare petite filet on a gas grill that I lit all by myself even if the starter does not work.

Now don’t go thinking that I am some angry feminist who does not need no ma-an around to help me survive.  I just like the security of knowing that I could do these things if ever I need to.  I have no desire to cut my ma-an off at the boy parts to show how strong I am.  That would be a dumb power play and, I think, the mark of an underconfident, weak woman.  I respect and value Sheepdog and his contributions very much.  I think that Sheepdog and I make an excellent team because we respect each other and we have walked a mile in each other’s shoes (well, as much as that is even possible) and we both work together to run this family.

The problem with our current roles is that we have been in them for a while, so my survival skills are now a little stale.  I haven’t been the breadwinner in this family since we were first married and I worked full-time and Sheepdog was in law school.  I would most likely not succeed in an office environment at this point in my life (Um, so you’re saying that I should not take a little siesta after I watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey on my computer.  This company is lame.  Take this job and shove it!), nor would Sheepdog last being a full-time stay-at-home-dad who has to sacrifice regular workouts for sick kids and cross-country travels for SpongeBob SquarePants (truth be told, SpongeBob is awesome and we both watch that show if it happens to be on), but you understand what I’m saying.  Unless you keep practicing all of your skills, you may lose them.

As you know, the past few days have been filled with E.R. visits, pediatric orthopedic surgeons and Wee Walker Boot applications.  It has also been filled with the cold-that-will-not-go-away, a kitchen knife accident (I actually have a lot of these – I think my knives hate me) and a broken dishwasher, thanks to good old Mr. Murphy and his stupid Law.

Fortunately, the home improvement stores were having Memorial Day sales this past weekend, so we got a new dishwasher for a great price.  Delivery was scheduled for Wednesday.  On Tuesday the robot lady called and informed me that our delivery time was to be between 8 and 10 PM.  Odd, but I can’t exactly question a robot and I know we’ll be home then, so I pulse uno para “si.”  Sheepdog says that it is a good plan, because he can disconnect the old dishwasher when he gets home on Wednesday night.  Don’tcha know that the delivery guys call me the next morning, after Sheepdog has left for work (that is decidedly not near our house, by the by), and tell me that the robot lady has a screw loose and she actually meant AM.  So they’ll be by within the hour and could I be ready to accept delivery of the new dishwasher and give them the old one for free pickup?  Ever the “Do byself!” Girl, I again respond in the affirmative, and proceed to get my dishwasher disconnecting groove on.

Do I cut the red wire or the blue wire? Do a good job. Do a good job. Do a good job.

Long story short, even though I have Sheepdog on the speaker phone for tech support and I send him a picture of a new problem every two minutes from my phone, I do not manage to disconnect the dishwasher by the time the delivery guys ring my front doorbell.  I do, however, manage to almost flood the kitchen (which is directly above our fancy media room, mind you), seriously scratch up the wood floor in a spot that I look at every single day and it will quickly drive me mad and require a complete refurbishing of all of the wood floors on the first level, and also turn off both of our hot water heaters which later required Sheepdog to relight the pilot because no one was getting hot water for their evening showers.

Sheepdog then comes home after a full day of work, uninstalls the dishwasher, installs the new one, diagnoses and fixes the above-mentioned hot water issue, and then does about two hours more of work on his computer before bed.  I think I heard him make a couple of Tim Taylor Tool Time self-satisfied grunts throughout the night, but I did not comment at all because they were completely justified.  In my self-pitying rut, I threw in the towel about making a nutritious dinner, ordered pizza and picked up a giant bottle of wine.

Girl Power: Fail.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a crap load of This Old House episodes to catch up on, so that I may continue to be worthy of that Shop Award.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

What Does a Girl Have To Do To Get Pulled Over Around Here?

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Yes, I do know a little something about the penal code

So, I visited my hometown this past weekend, spent a few hours one day just speeding driving around my old neighborhood thinking maybe I’d see one of the many boys I grew up kissing who are now totally cute police officers in said town, yet not once did I see a cop.  (What?  Don’t you judge me.  Mama’s just doing some window shopping.  I don’t ever buy anything!).  Ironically, as I was driving home from the airport last night so excited to see Sheepdog and the kids, I ran a yellow light and immediately saw the flashing blue lights behind me.  Oh, crap.  In yet another exciting turn of events, the police officer at hand ended up being completely smoking hot.

As he was asking for my license and registration, I kept thinking over and over in my head, “You are yummy.  Am I suspicious-looking enough for a pat-down?”   Or, maybe I said it out loud.  I plead the Fifth.  He walked back to his patrol car (I think he was laughing, so maybe I did mutter something – who even knows?) and ran my very boring record on his policeman’s computer.  My heart was beating a mile a minute when he returned  to my car just a few minutes later.

“All right, Miss, you be careful out there,” he said in his hunky, Hollywood cop voice.  I was shocked and I thanked him for only issuing me a warning.  “No warning,” he corrected me with a pearly white smile.  “You have a nice night, okay?”  As I not so subtly checked out his walk back to his cruiser in my side view mirror, I was incredibly grateful for many things: (1) he did not call me Ma’am; (2) I would not have to fork over any cash for a moving violation fine; and of course (3) good-looking men in uniform.

When I got back to the house and told Sheepdog of my tribulation, he was shocked that I did not get a ticket.  He kept asking me if I had flashed my boobs or some other inappropriate no-fair-cute-girls-get-away-with-anything accusation.  He was incredulous, but we were both so glad to see each other that he decided to just let it go.  I checked on all five sleeping kids and crawled into bed, dreaming of sexy Halloween costumes for Sheepdog, so grateful to finally be home.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Inappropriate “Fortune” Cookies

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Kid B came home yesterday with a paper for me to sign about an upcoming Market Day for the 6th graders at her middle school.  Each child has to come up with a prototype – of anything really – which they will then mass produce (twenty or more are required) for under twenty dollars.  They will then “sell” these items in a market-like format in the cafeteria or gym for “dollars” (most likely something counterfeit with the principal’s picture on it).  The goal is to have the most fake money at the end.  It is also supposed to teach stuff about supply and demand, manufacturing, sales, price points, and getting rich quick schemes.  I’m in.

From what I recall of Kid A doing this same project, a lot of kids bring in some sort of craft project.  Pipe cleaners, beads, pom-poms, popsicle sticks, felt swatches and glue guns.  Ugh!  This is not my area of like or expertise.  My mom was/ is a kind of Martha Stewart on meth (extraordinarily creative and never sleeps), so I grew up in a house full of crap projects everywhere.  Sorry, craft projects.  I kind of hate them actually.  If this is the plan, I’m now out.  Kid B knows this and wants me to help her (read: do the project for her), so she opts for something she knows I’d be on board with… baking cookies.  Smart kid.  I’m waaaaaaay back in.

Who wouldn’t want to buy a chocolate chunk cookie?  Sales will not be a problem, but we should try to stand out even more with some kind of hook.  One of the requirements is that the items have to be individually packaged, so each cookie has to be in its own plastic bag.  We thought about it some more and Kid B came up with the idea of putting a little fortune inside each bag and calling them “fortune” cookies.  Fun, right?  Then I had the additional brilliant idea of gearing the fortunes specifically to her audience.  This is apparently where I got out of hand.

My proposal was this…  She should divide the cookies by secret color coding into three groups – teachers, girls and boys.  There will be a set of fortunes geared toward each customer.  For example, teacher cookies would say things like,”YOU ARE EVERYONE’S FAVORITE TEACHER” and “YOU WON’T HAVE TO DEAL WITH ANY CRAPPY, KNOW-IT-ALL PARENTS NEXT SEMESTER.”  Girl cookies would have fortunes along the lines of “THAT’S TOO MUCH EYELINER –  YOU LOOK LIKE A PROSTITUTE” or “YOUR BOOBS WILL GROW OVER THE SUMMER.”  And the boys’ cookies would say things like, “YOU WILL SOON BE AS STRONG AS YOUR DAD,”  “JUSTIN BEIBER CALLED AND HE WANTS HIS HAIRSTYLE BACK” and “A GIRL WITH LOW SELF-ESTEEM WILL LET YOU GET TO SECOND BASE VERY SOON.”  I had some real zingers.  I was laughing at myself so hard that I almost didn’t hear when Kid B told me I was fired from the project.

I am so under-appreciated.  Whatever.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

I Suck at Dogs

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Sheepdog and I were married a little over a year when I had the brilliant idea to get a puppy.  I never had one growing up, but Sheepdog did.  Plus, I figured that we should test our care taking skills out before I got pregnant with a human.  We scanned the newspaper ads and drove out to a farm in Elmer to meet and pick up our new “baby.”  He was a chocolate lab with beautiful blue eyes.  We named him Max.

Max was trouble right from the start.  I thought he was possessed.  He chewed everything… shoes, furniture, doors, floors.  He dug up plants.  I had no idea what I was doing and I was a horrible dog disciplinarian.  I was at work all day and Sheepdog was in law school, so Max was home alone for long stretches at a time.  He began to hate us for it and he acted out accordingly.  Looking back, I should have done so many things differently.  I was naive and inexperienced and just threw in the towel.  Through Sheepdog’s sister we found a friend in West Virginia who had a 100-acre farm and wanted Max as a hunting dog.  No, really.  He went to go live happily ever after on a real farm.  I struggled desperately with it, but I finally conceded that I was just not a dog person.

Shortly after Max left I got pregnant with Kid A.  Then came Kid B.  And then Kid C.  And a miscarriage.  And Kid D.  Life was messy and chaotic and busy enough without adding a dog to the mix.  None of our houses had pet-friendly yards and I had horribly bad memories of Max still fresh in my mind, so I did not even consider it again until more than a decade later.  But during this time Kid B had become obsessed with dogs.  I mean crazy obsessed.  It was weird.  She would crawl around on all fours and somehow make her hands look like real paws.  She would bark and make other dog noises that were so authentic that I often thought there was an actual dog in our house.  What kind of horribly selfish parent wouldn’t get a live dog for this kid?  Me.  Because I’m just not a dog person.

In 2006 we moved on Halloween Day to a bigger house with a great yard.  The kids quickly settled in to their new schools as I unpacked our things.  When the holidays rolled around and I started planning for the big day I got an idea.  What if I surprised the kids with a dog on Christmas Eve?  It would be perfect!  This time I would do it right.  No brand-new puppy, but a dog that was about a year old.  It would definitely be a rescue this time too.  I endlessly researched breeds, talked to dog owners, scanned the internet, and found the perfect dog.  He was a 10-month-old vizsla mix named Chex.  I thought he was perfect.  Sheepdog went to pick him up on Christmas Eve and I kept the kids busy until we could surprise them with the newest member of our family.  It was exactly as I had envisioned it… the kids squealed with delight when we told them that Chex was our dog.

Turns out, our dog was too strong for any of the kids to handle him.  His freakishly powerful tail was inconveniently at face-height for the children so he kept whipping them all in the eyes.  And he was highly excitable and peed on just about everything.  He was on top of the kitchen counter with lightning speed.  Kids C and D quickly became so fearful of him that they locked themselves in their rooms, telling me through closed doors and tears that they were never coming out again.  And it was Christmas Eve.  Things calmed down a little and we read the Christmas Story and put the kids to bed.  I walked Chex and put him in his crate for the night.  He immediately started to howl.  Like a crazed wolf.  On a night with a full moon.  I truly believed with all my heart that Santa would just skip our house that night because Chex would scare him away.  I cried myself to sleep with absolutely no visions of sugar plums dancing in my head.

Some time in the night I decided that Chex had to go back.  We simply could not keep this dog.  Half of our kids were scared to death of him and, frankly, I was scared of him too.  He was so strong!  It broke my heart, but we called the family who we got him from and humbly asked if we could return him.  Immediately.   Sheepdog loaded him in his truck with his stocking full of new toys and treats and drove off.  On Christmas Day.  So, that was special.  I struggled desperately with it again, but I was reminded that I am just not a dog person.

After the 18-hour dog debacle, I vowed to never again even entertain the idea of getting a pet.  My friends and relatives made me promise that I wouldn’t do that to my family or – just as importantly – another poor dog.  Then I got pregnant with Kid E.  More chaos, more lost sleep, more life.

Fast forward a few years.  Kid B deepened her obsession with animals, especially dogs.  While she outgrew the acting like a dog phase, she began relentlessly asking about us getting a dog just about once every other month.  I told her we’d think about it (lie), but it just wasn’t a good time for us to get a dog (never will be, kid).  When I was reading a book about animals to Kid D’s kindergarten class I asked who had pets.  Everyone in the class except my kid raised their hand.  I felt horrible.  What was wrong with me that I couldn’t just suck it up and get my kids a dog?  They teach responsibility, provide companionship and security, and can reduce stress and anxiety.  I was being selfish and a bad parent for not giving those things to my kids.

So I did it again.  Oh, yes I did.  I researched breeds.  I scanned the pet adoption websites.  I talked to people who had dogs.  I found a beautiful puppy at the Georgia SPCA that I thought would be ideal.  Sheepdog was concerned initially, but he just couldn’t deny the many benefits of dog ownership that I was repeatedly pointing out.  Very reluctantly, he got on board.  We gingerly approached the subject with the kids, making sure that they knew up front that we were just testing the waters.  They were over the moon.

I took Kid A and Kid B with me to the shelter.  Interestingly, the dog room was set up like a maze but I was immediately drawn to the exact spot where they held the puppy I found online.  And not only her, but her litter mates as well.  They all had Girl Scout cookie names… Shortbread, Thin Mint, Samoa, etc.  They were all adorable, but Shortbread and I bonded immediately.  The girls loved her too.  I asked about her adoption.  Shortbread had been recently spayed and her incision had become irritated.  We couldn’t bring her home for at least a week, which was a great thing in my opinion because I still was taking baby steps and I wanted to live with this decision for a little while prior to pulling the trigger.  We put down a pre-adoption deposit and they gave me her paperwork.  I left the shelter feeling really good about dog ownership.  This time I was going to do it!

Until I wasn’t.  By mid-week I had developed a significant twitch in my right eye.  I kept having nightmares about worms.  And vet bills.  By the end of the week I was in a full-blown panic about bringing home this puppy.  Even though I was reminding the kids hourly that we were still just entertaining the idea of getting a dog (they did not know about the deposit), they were devastated when I announced that we were, in fact, not adopting Shortbread.  I was so proud that I put and end to the nonsense prior to actually involving the dog, but I was still the worst mom on the planet.

As protection from myself and any future insanity about dog adoption, Sheepdog swears to never allow me down this road again.  He guarantees to forbid it.  By now I think the kids have forgiven me.  I continue to struggle with it, but I think now I truly understand that I am not a dog person.  More than that, I suck at dogs.

Maybe I’d do better with cats. (I’m totally kidding)

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

I Have to Start Somewhere

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

…mid-sentence, so I can introduce you to my lack of formality right from the beginning.

Right now my life revolves mostly around my husband and our five kids.  My husband (“Sheepdog”) is an attorney and a cyclist (road and mountain).  The kids (“Kid A,” “Kid B,” “Kid C,” “Kid D” and “Kid E”) – three girls followed by two boys – go from high school all the way down to pre-school, so we are dealing with a huge array of life experiences.  I want to write about them because (1) I like to write; (2) they provide endless funny, scary, sad, exasperating stories that are sure to entertain; and (3) having something to do is probably better for me than watching DVR’d reality shows all day.

Many people tell me that I am good at managing a large family.  Organization comes very naturally to me.  Honestly, I love what I do most of the time.  There are always periods of adjustment (the start of a new sports season or new school year) and times of desperation (when everyone is sick or when I try to do too much of anything), but I have an incredibly supportive husband and generally really great kids so we usually make it all work.  The balance comes from having a good system with a fair distribution of responsibilities, but also a wicked sense of humor because you know what they say about the best-laid plans.

I really like the idea of reminding people that nobody is perfect and nobody has the ideal life, no matter how awesome it may seem from their Facebook page.  I hope that I am able to write as openly and candidly about the times that I screw up as I am about the things that make me proud.  I am actually convinced that it will make for better reading when I focus on the former.  Fortunately I like to make fun of myself and I have ample opportunities to make a mess of things.

I am a little obsessive-compulsive, although that has surprisingly subsided slightly with age (Sheepdog may argue with this point).  I make my bed every day.  I love a good schedule.  I like potty humor.  I love zoos.  I do not love animals.  I love sleep and the beach.  I may get a little orgasmic if I can sleep on the beach.  I can be judgmental.  I do not like working out, but I do it because I dislike being out of shape more.  I like being a stay-at-home mom because I can wear sweatpants to work, but I feel bad that I do not take more time to do my hair or put on makeup every day.  I can be ornery.  I am not very politically correct.  I like to be good at things.

I have been blessed with good health and good luck and a good family.  I realize that the world can be a very scary place if you don’t have those things.  I believe that positive thinking and consistent hard work can make a big difference.  I believe in the power of shared experiences and how hearing about somebody else going through something similar can make you feel less alone.  I hope that you will read along as I go through and tell you about my life experiences and that you might laugh and cry and scream.  Both with and at me.

Welcome to my world!

Oh, and wish me luck for tomorrow…