{ Lookin' Like A Fool With Your Pants On The Ground }

When I was around 20 I started to know a whole lot about how to raise other people's kids.  I did not have children.  I did not want children... but I did know that when I did want and have children, they would not behave like those kids in the mall that hid from their mother under the Nordstrom clothing racks like some kind of freaky little special-ops ninja.  I also knew that they would not say things like "you can't make me" when I told them to clean their room, yell out "take that you fool" while pretending to shoot the guy in the pew next to us during church, or write their initials all over the upholstery of my Volkswagen van with a bright blue Sharpie... (including the top of their baby brother's little bald head.)

What I did not know, however, was that every time I thought to myself  "my child will never do that" God would dig through his personnel files and pick out the kids who he knew would totally do "that"...and then he would send out a memo to the shipping department that said essentially "Hey, you know how we didn't know where in the heck to send this one?  Well, I just found him a spot.  By the way, clear your schedule, because you're gonna want to watch this.  Oh, and pull up that training video "Pride and You".  I think we'll be able to get some updated footage."

I'm pretty sure that babies start out as babies primarily so that you can start out kidding yourself into thinking that you are the reason that they are so squishy and cute.  You can believe that they sit up because you are a good mother, and use the baby sign language to ask for more freshly steamed sweet potatoes because you are a good mother, and learn to walk in uncomfortable shoes like a proper human being because you are a good mother.  We say it's all about the baby, but really it's mostly about "Hey look what my kid can do.  Don't you think I'm a good mom?"  This is a trap ladies... and I'll tell you why.  Eventually you are going to take your above average child to a Zumba class at your church and while you are doing your ab work at the end of your "wow, I didn't know I was Latin" exercise extravaganza he will walk over to some random lady who has clearly done more sit-ups than is healthy... and kick her.  Just like that.  (This actually happened to my friend of mine... a good friend and a good mom).  All I'm saying is that if you start thinking that the reason your child has the talents, or disposition or personality that they do because of something you control... when they turn beasty, you're in for a massive identity crisis.

Don't get me wrong.  I believe that parents play a huge role in the development of a child, but I've known too many good moms who feel totally defeated when faced with a child who came with a little more fire, or tears or hatred of seams than everyone else things they should have.  Really good moms who have had to put up with the comments about "if you'd just let her cry it out then she'd sleep"...or "if he's hungry enough he'll eat it"...or "it looks like you've got your hands full"... Which is what I got to hear from a total stranger last week when I turned around at the park to find my 4 year old son, bum exposed to the world, peeing in the flower bed.  I looked her right in the eye and said "You know, I'm never quite sure what people are trying to tell me when they say that".  Then, I pulled up my son's pants, told him (really loudly so that every mom within earshot could hear) "good job keeping those pants dry buddy" and headed for the car... with my pointy chin held high... totally embarrassed and wondering how I could be so bad at this mothering thing after almost 11 years.

... maybe I'll just blame his father for this one.

{ Let me check your pants }

 A few months back, when we were looking for a new place to live, I applied for a job as an onsite apartment manager.  It's not like when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up I said "the onsite apartment manager for an over 55 property", but I was willing to take one for the team.  I've been out of the paid workforce for over 10 years, so when they called and asked me to please bring my resume to the interview I thought that maybe they were joking.  They weren't.

I actually Googled "how to write a resume with little or no paid work experience".  Supporting my theory that you can learn anything from the internet, I was able to write something that was not a total embarrassment.  It consisted of basically taking all of the stuff I've done as a volunteer and making it sound like someone should've been paying me to do it.  I was ready to start sending out demands for back wages, but apparently the people at the property management place were less impressed.  Here's something I learned from that - nothing makes you realize that everyone who ever claimed that you are smart and capable and talented were lying right to your face faster than not being able to get a job as a resident apartment manager. (I also kinda blame Google.)

I was asked to put together a similar job history for an application to a midwifery program that I'm interested in.  I wrote the work timeline that they asked for, but it sounded pretty boring, so I tore it up (I actually just deleted it, but tearing it up seems way more dramatic and decisive) and wrote this instead:

• Mom - 1999,2002,2005;  employment responsibilities include: First Responder/Medic (specializing in Magic Kiss Treatment - proven to heal any hurt, except broken hearts),  Transportation Services, Science Project Research Fellow, Lego-Conflict Mitigation, Light Saber Technician (contracted primarily by pre-school boys),  Financial Controller, Calendaring and Schedule Coordinator, Life and Style Coach, Soccer Party and Birthday Catering, Homework Tutor  (English: all levels, Math: K-3), Head of Housekeeping, Laundry Delivery Service, Social Etiquette Instruction, Director of Nutrition and Food Preparation Services , Psychological Counselor for ‘Tweens, Costume Mistress (including but not limited to Halloween, Soccer, Ballet, and School Pictures), Law Enforcement Agent, Pharmacist (special training in the uses of Tylenol, Chocolate Cake and Breastmilk).

I never submitted it.  I had finished up my application, tracked down my transcripts, and was figuring out how I was going to pay for school, when I found out that I was getting a new employer... baby #4... and it is because of him that I need to update my resume.

I was picking up the living room while the baby was on his stomach doing his wounded-soldier-drag-crawl when I looked down and saw poo running up his back.  Not down.  Up.  Have you ever heard that saying about  poo not running up hill?  Well, put enough gas behind it, and it loves running up hill.  I grabbed the wipes and started my HazMat cleanup, but seriously,  who was I kidding?  Whoever invented those wipes either has a baby with the world's smallest bum, or a baby that came out knowing all about flush toilets.  So, I just flipped him over and pulled the whole diaper off... and then I panicked.

My baby is breastfed.  I do not even own a bottle (Keep your pants on people.  I'm not telling you what to do with your girls, only what I do with mine) - and I hold off on solid foods until my kids can say, "Hey lady, how 'bout some of that sharing that I hear so much about?"  (Primarily because the constant cleaning-eating-spilling-cleaning-eating-spilling cycle annoys me.)  So, I was pretty sure that there should have been no  big red things in my baby's diaper.

At first I thought that it was blood, (because of the hemophilia) and I had no idea how I was going to apply direct pressure and get an icepack to go ... where it needed to go.  Then, I realized it was something solid and so (thankfully) not a trip to the emergency room.  I then did something that I never thought I'd do.  I picked two red mystery objects out of my baby's poo with my bare hands, wiped them off, and examined them. (Take that "Dirty Jobs" guy.)  I'm pretty sure my younger self was there watching and shaking her head ... and gagging, but my poo curiosity was just too strong.  I looked at the red things.  I turned the red things over.  I thought "I am really glad no one can see how interested I am in these pooey red things." I realized what the red things were.  Two partially digested pieces of cardboard... from an empty box of Girl Scouts cookies that had been discarded onto (what else) the floor by the swarm of locusts that are my children.  Awesome.

So... thanks Motherhood, I've just added two more jobs to an exponentially increasing list of skill sets - Waste Management and Forensic Anthropologist, (although considering that my baby's first solid food was an empty box of Girl Scouts cookies, I might want to brush up a little on the "Nutrition Director" portion of my work history... also, probably not great commentary on the "Head of Housekeeping" thing either).  Now all I have to figure out is where to send my invoice.  

Three-minute secrets to make your pants look younger.

I don't love rules.  OK - I don't love rules as they apply to me.  Ironically, at least two out of three of my children show a clear aptitude for "conduct policy enforcement", also known as "head hall monitor".  Each day they debrief, giving a detailed report of all of the goings on at T. Elementary School, including recess, lunch, and the always adventurous, educational, and slightly disturbing bus ride home (this, my friends is another post all together).  They remember how many stickers D. got on his "cooperation chart" during calendar time, and which girl B. was talking to when she got a warning during the spelling test. But when pressed with the question "what did you learn today?" they stare at me like Timothy Geitner trying to explain the AIG bonus thing.  

I think mostly I just don't like other people trying to be the boss of me.  I relent slightly on this where my mother is concerned (anyone that lets you live inside their body for almost a year earns some bossiness currency with that), and also to my sisters as it relates to giving my children things that I would normally say "no" to.  They say things like "come here to your Auntie" and then they somehow totally undermine me without being disrespectful or rude.  It is a true blessing for the children of the crazy sister to have access to the far more stable sisters to plead their case.  It's child advocacy at it's most effective, really.

I, however, am not now, nor will I ever be, ok with getting lifestyle/parenting advice from magazines, Oprah Winfrey or (let's face it) most of the time, my pediatrician.  They try to tell me lots of stuff that has nothing to do with medicine that I pretty much roll my eyes at because I know that by my next child, their recommendations will have changed based on the "latest research".  I especially do not like it when a magazine to which I have subscribed  (presumably because it was part of a magazine and wrapping-paper school-fundraising sale) shows up at my house covered in an airbrushed and professionally lit photo of some supermodel/celebrity/mom trying to resurrect her career by sharing with me and other common folk her three minute beauty tricks and radically new mothering philosophies.   

The latest of these allegedly real-mom advice givers is Helena Christensen on the cover of my "Cookie" magazine.  If you don't know who she is... remember when they used to have music videos on MTV?  Remember the Chris Isaak music video "Wicked Game"?  Remember the pretty-much-nudie girl frolicking on the beach in the Chris Isaac music video "Wicked Game"?  Meet Helena.  (Mom, I always covered my eyes - promise.)  In case you're clinging to the edge of your seat like you're watching an episode of Lost, her "three 3-minute beauty tricks" are: 

1.a warm, nude face, 2.red lipstick, 3.metallic eyeshadow.  Gee, thanks Helena.  My guess at your "three 3-minute beauty tricks" was : 1.  Look like Helena Christensen.  Oh, did I say three tricks?  I meant one.

In addition to salvaging her otherwise hopeless appearance with her magic red lipstick, apparently Helena is also a "hands on" kind of mom (she probably chooses the nanny herself), and is qualified to dole out parenting advice as well.  She says of her 9 year old son, "He's all that matters.  He's my best friend."  To that, I say:  Crazy Talk.   I am not my 9 year old's best friend.  I never hope to be.  I am not my child's peer.  I never will be.  I am her mother, I will always be her mother, and being her mother means that I love her more than any of her BFFs ever will.  Being her mother means that I love her so much that I do what is best for her, not what is fun for her - even when that means I'm not super popular with her.  I am an adult woman, and my mother?  Still my mother.  What I've seen in my life is that women that had a friend instead of a mother, spend their whole lives searching for someone to help them feel secure by being their bossy, stable, female authority figure and they latch onto anything that comes close.  Thanks Helena, but I'm the bossy one around here and since in the end everything is the mom's fault anyway... I'm going to earn my kid's therapy hours the old fashioned way. 

ps - Your "He's all that matters" theory = selfish, self centered children who think that their needs supersede every one's around them.  Sometimes, children need to understand that they are not all that matters because, let's be honest  - they just aren't.  It doesn't mean that we don't love them, but it does mean that they need to learn to wait their turn... for siblings, or life, or for mom to go to the bathroom... by herself... without anyone watching her... or telling her random facts about how sharks, or worms or dinosaurs poop too.

I am hoping that one day I will see featured on the cover a magazine the beauty secrets of a real life woman addressing things like; "When you just can't get around to showering - best scents for masking the smell of throw-up", "Bras that make your boobs look like they did before you nursed three children" and "Acne and wrinkles-who knew they could go together?"  The parenting section would have advice like "Don't worry - you're doing fine and it's not your fault.  Lots of kids pick their noses in public.  Just speak really loudly and say "Your mom told you not to do that anymore.  Hey, where did she go anyway?", then roll your eyes and walk far enough away to feign a convincing search for the mystery mom." 

Now tell me women all over the country would not line up to buy that.  I, for one, will be looking for that publication to purchase in the next school fundraiser, and if I know anything... so will Helena Christensen.  Or at least her nanny will.

My pants have an extra pocket for my wand.

First off - I love my new layout.  It's from Leelou blogs and I think the little owl rocks.  (I decided that a lot of her stuff is too cute for me, but I have a thing for owls so, I forgave her.)  I think I will name it Wentworth after my favorite Austen character and he will just sit there waiting for me like good ol' Captain Wentworth waited for Anne (sort of).  (I don't remember if Jane spelled Anne with an "e" or not, but I do... because it's right).

And speaking of owls, those of you who know me are probably surprised that I didn't go with "Hedwig" ala Harry Potter.  It is my one pop culture indulgence- (I refuse to get sucked into crazy teenage vampires in love).  I don't care what anyone says - Harry is good people and I love everything about him.

The month of November brings lots of good things to love.  My daughter for one.  She turns nine this month.  Nine years... nine breaths.  I am convinced that something happens to your sense of time when you have a baby.  Part of you is forever left there, on that day, in that place, having that baby - like a bookmark on a really important page of a really important book. Like the breadcrumbs that Hansel and Gretal left on the trail to be able to come back to where they started. Like some kind of emotional tattoo that never fades or looks ugly and trashy.

I remember clearly in this instant how she was all slimy and pink and bloody and fat and there was strawberry blonde hair on her head and her ears, just like I was holding her then.  I remember how she smelled like birth - I don't know how to describe "l'eau de birth" but let me tell you, if Eden or Heaven have a smell, that's it.  New, organic and juicy.  (By the way- Hell smells like a child with the flu at 3 am...  just in case you were wondering.)

 I remember thinking that the throwing up was finally all over and that I wanted a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake.  I remember her screaming and how I thought "a soprano - maybe we can sing together".  I remember thinking that she looked like her father, and that it wasn't fair at all, since I had done all the work.  I remember how I felt all  primal and wild like an animal standing between her cub and a predator... turns out it was only the nurse wanting to give her a bath.  Birth has a way of exposing a girl in more ways than one.

I look at my daughter now and she is so tall (not really) and so thin (really) and she has fantastic freckles on her nose like she was dusted with magic freckle powder, and she runs and talks - a lot- and reads and is - like a person.  I signed up to have a baby, and what I have now is a person.  I don't think I got that nine years ago.  She doesn't get to stay a baby, even though there is no convincing my memories that she is not.  Even though when she was 2 she promised that she would (apparently, she is also a big, fat liar.)

After her, November will never be November for me again.  To me, probably forever, November  is baby having time.  When I smell that fall smell and the pumpkin patches going by and the crisp air and red leaves, I can feel it deep in my body that she remembers what happened nine years ago and she's wondering when it's going to happen again.  (As evidence I offer exhibits 1 and 2 - my sons- born in October, all 3 within a month of each other. All I'm saying is that I had one other pregnancy that was due in May, but that ended in October - 1 month before my daughter's birthday, almost 1 year to the date of my 2nd child's birth.  I think we can agree that this proves that pregnancy voodoo is real.) 

 I am not having any more babies, unless there's some kind of terrible accident, but I am glad that I got to do it three times.  My daughter will never remember the first time she saw my face, but I will never forget the first time I saw hers.  When she was born, someone else's story became my story.  When she was born,  she stitched herself into my soul.  When she was born, so was I ... and that's a magic that not even Harry Potter can top.

Don't leave your pants in a pumpkin patch

One thing I loved about holidays growing up were the corresponding Charlie Brown TV specials.  I mean, who doesn't love "It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown?" (I think that's what it's called).  In case you never watched this - in which case I think you can make a persuasive argument of abuse and/or neglect - Linus sits in the punkin patch (that's the folksy spelling that I just made up) all through Halloween waiting for the Great Punkin to bring presents to all the girls and boys.  He manages to talk Sally into sitting with him (or maybe she volunteers because she is not so secretly in love with this big headed, punkin obsessed kid), and they wait all night for the Great Punkin, who - shocker - is a no show.  In the end she gets pretty hacked off because she realizes that she missed all the good parts of Halloween while she was waiting around on the dreams of some stupid boy (there's a lesson in that girls).

Well Linus, do not despair - I have found your people and they have got your back.  Maybe you did not know this (and neither did I until I watched a public television special called "Lord of the Gourd" - because we get 4 channels on our TV), but there are people in this great land of ours that are just as passionate about punkins as you are Linus.  These produce engineers dedicate their lives to growing and weighing off giant punkins.  I'm talking about punkins that weigh 1044 lbs. , 1225 lbs., 1091 lbs.  (Apparently this last weight was a disappointment because they interviewed a bunch of people that seemed really upset about it.  I'm talking tears people.  No joke.)

If you think you've seen commitment, think again.  These punkin growers make Navy Seals look like a bunch of lay-about slackers.  The punkin competition circuit is apparently similar to a cage fight to the death and is wrought with hidden perils.  Among these - rodents, water, no water, bugs (all kinds), and sabotage from jealous competitors.  (Yes, sabotage - one family actually has surveillance cameras all around their punkin patch to catch the perps.  Which, they let us know, should serve hard time for their crimes against giant gourds.  It's vegicide is what it is really and we can't punish that severely enough I say.)

All other endeavors take a back seat to nurturing the punkins.  One of the growers actually said "sometimes I can't go to family stuff, like my daughter's soccer games, because I have to feed the punkins".  I pictured him sitting next to a huge punkin holding a spoon and yelling, (much like Brando in "Street Car..." or "On the Waterfront"), "Puuunnkiiinnn.  We could have been a contender".  (It was all very dramatic in my mind).

I was all impressed with these people until one of them said that taking care of his punkin was harder than taking care of an infant.  This was followed up by comments like :  "when you cut the punkin from its stem it's like cutting the umbilical cord from your baby", and "taking your punkin to the competition is like taking your child to college".  There was actually one lady (who ps. did not have actual human children)- that named her punkin Shasta (apparently her punkin was a stripper) and says it takes her days of solitude to mourn the loss of her punkins.  (By the way - Shasta weighed in at 700 lbs., that's a lot of stripper).

Okay.  Punkin Crazies answer me this, did you make dietary decisions based on what you could throw up with ease everyday of your punkin's growing season?  Exactly how many stretch marks will you carry for the rest of your life due to rapid weight gain because your punkin insisted on taking up every inch of space inside your body that it could get it's greedy little punkiny hands on?  Did someone tell you that your punkin would be ready to go to competition on a certain day, but then the punkin decided that it wouldn't be ready until 12 days later?  How much sleep do you average per night when your punkin is cutting its teeth? Is it hard to find a punkin sitter on short notice?  How do you get away with leaving your punkin out in the field all night because I'm pretty sure the state would frown on that if I did it to one of my kids - even if I did cover them with a handmade patchwork quilt like you do.  I'd imagine that "this is how the giant punkin growers do it and those things get huge" might not be an acceptable defense when children's services came a knockin'.  And finally, what is the going rate for punkin tuition these days, because I'm checking into selling my organs on the black market to pay for my three kids to go to college and if you've got a better plan I'd love to hear it.

Punkin Growers of the world hear my voice - unless you can answer these questions to the satisfaction of every mother that has grown, birthed/adopted, cleaned the amazing variety of bodily fluids from, and dried the tears of another human being - enough with the infant references.  (This goes for all you animal lovers out there too - although I know I'm gonna take a hit for it.)  Nothing that you take care of will ever be like taking care of a child.  I don't care how cute it is, or how much time it took to do it, it's not taking care of a child.  It may be a noble pursuit, or a passionate hobby, but it is not taking care of a child.

Even Linus could figure this one out, because at the end of the day when his punkin disappointed him, he went home to the one whose work was raising actual children.  His mommy.  And if she believed, as I do, that the best way to deal with disappointment in life is to eat something that tastes good, she would've served him up a big old piece of punkin pie (with whipped cream) and smiled at the irony of it all.

Little Man Pants

My oldest son turned 6 on Thursday.  It's amazing to me that he can change so much, but my stretch marks, which are the same age as him, are essentially the same.  I think it's a bit of a cruel joke that a body can start out all smooth and lovely (if I do say so myself) without much effort at all, and then when that same body gets pregnant - hot dog in a microwave.  Stuff exploding all over and not a thing you can do about it.  Anyway...

I grew up in an all girl household (as most of you have heard) and it was a pretty liberated existence.  I didn't even know that most families usually wore clothes at home, because we figured - why bother?  It was a mad rush up the stairs to get decent every time the door bell rang.  I'm not sure if anyone ever saw the Running of the Girls, but if you did - please keep it to yourself - I might run for office one day and if it got out that I was a semi-nudist as a teen it might cause a lot of work for my campaign staff.

I always assumed I would have all girls like my mother.  My first child was, to my delight, a girl.   My first niece - was a girl (obviously, but there is no gender neutral term for your sister's kids).  Then I got pregnant again, and I assumed that baby #2 was a girl.  I had names and everything.  At the ultra-sound, when they showed me all my baby's business, I told the ultra sound interpreter lady that she needed to check again because "girls don't have those."  She assured me that girls don't, but my son did.  I was not pleased. (I know as a mother I was supposed to be thrilled with whatever I was getting, but motherhood and I don't always see belly to belly).  

Months passed and then (very long story short) I was holding a baby boy, that looked a little bit like Yoda, smelled that really good smell that only women can smell on newborn babies (sorry men - but you are totally missing out here) and was looking at me like he knew me from a long time ago and was so glad to see me again.  I was in love with that boy from the moment I saw/smelled/kissed him. I'm still in love with him. Before he goes to bed at night we take turn saying "You are the moon and I am the stars, and my love is all around you."  He made that up when he was 4 and it makes me want to cry when I think that one day he will probably say it to another girl.

So, here are the reasons I adore having sons and would take a hundred more (in theory only):

5.  Boys love their moms.  They give big hugs and big kisses and think you are the most beautiful girl in the world.  One day my son and I were driving in the car and we passed a woman running with her dog.  She had apparently been mugged by a shirt thief leaving her to run home in almost no clothes (poor thing) and she was also very...bouncy.  A few seconds after passing her my son said "Mom, did you see that?"  I thought "Yeah, I thought she was gonna lose an eye".  Then my son said "That was the biggest dog I've ever seen" - like she wasn't even part of his mental picture. Now that's a good man.

4.  Boys are simple.  Feed 'em something messy, clothe 'em (in anything), water 'em and they're happy as little clams.  (I'm not sure what clams are happy about.  I will not be happy if I come back as a clam.)

3.  Boys have an upgraded sound chip.  My sons can make noises with their mouths that I thought only came from sci-fi movies.  They can imitate rockets being launched, guns being fired, lasers being blasted.  Do you know what a light saber sounds like when it's activated by its Jedi - well I do, because my boys make that noise all the time.  It is also my signal to intervene because it means that there is an impending battle between - a. my sons, b. my sons and the dog, c. my sons and my pottery.  Eventually I'm sure I will grow weary of their noises, but right now, I'm still pretty impressed.  (ps - I've tried to make these noises myself - no good).

2.  Boys don't have girl friends (that is friends that are girls) and so escape the girl friend drama through which my almost 9 year old daughter is living right now.  I have suggested to her on more than one occasion that she play with boys instead, (this was my coping mechanism of choice) but she says that boys are "stupid and gross" so I guess that's a no.  All I'm saying is that my son and one of his friends played Legos together for like 2 hours the other day with no issues (that they didn't resolve on their own) and at the end of it announced that they were glad to be best friends (even though they have played together twice - total.)  Now, that's male bonding.

1.  Little man clothes.  If you think that only girls have cute clothes, you obviously have never purchased little tighty whiteys for your 3 year old.  FREAKING ADORABLE.  Even better - little tiny boxer-briefs for your 6 year old.  Seriously, I wish my boys could just show everyone what they look like in their unders because it is that cute.  (But that would be weird and the state might have something to say about it so, luckily for them, I do keep them clothed.)  I am also a fan of the little man white shirt and tie combo for church, and the sweatshirt layered with a vest for casual wear.  Plus, no stupid hair bows, or those head bands that look like some tribal torture device (have you seen the marks those things make on little bald heads)  like little girls have to wear.

If you have not discovered the genius of boys, I recommend that you get yourself one - if for no other reason than to raise them up right (eg - mine always put the seat down) and in female solidarity provide a really good husband for some little sister out there who will one day hear that she is the moon and he is the stars and his love is all around her.

I always borrow my sister's pants without asking

I have three sisters.  I am the oldest, and therefore the bossiest.  The standing joke is that the only reason I was born first is because I cut in line.  A couple of things in my defense-  

1.  I know I am bossy - there has to be a boss, and since I like to be the boss, my bossiness comes in right handy.

2.  I had to be bossy because I was the oldest and therefore "responsible" for the stuff my sisters did.  I had to tell them what to do out of self defense and self preservation.  (They will deny this, but we all know the truth.)

Anyway - along with my bossiness I was known for being the fiesty one.  All fiesty all the time.  Sister #2 (we'll call her Keely) was the nice one, the sensitive one.  She was the one that my grandmother liked best because she always tried to keep the family peace.  (Except once when she was a teenager, but I'll talk about that later.  It's a pretty good story after all).  By the way Sister #2 actually named this blog, for which I have never given her proper credit.  Now I have. So let it be written, so let it be done.  Sister #3 (we'll call her Awny) was the stubborn one.  I actually don't remember her being any more stubborn than any of the rest of us, but there you have it.  Sister #4 (we'll call her Nika) was the talker.  (This is a gene that somehow floated across the gene pool and got all over my daughter.  I swear that girl uses circular breathing so as not to miss a word.)  Nika's tongue is the proverbial double edged sword.  Swift and unyielding.

So here's the thing, if you came across us in a dark alley (unlikely, because we all have kids that need to go to bed early) but if you did, I am not the one that you would need to watch out for.  The smart money would actually go on Sister #2.  You might not guess it, but she will totally take you out.  Especially, especially if her kids are involved.

This brings me to the injustice perpetrated (again with the sounding out of the big words) upon my little angel niece, who when presented with a wrong choice runs the other way.  (It would not suprise me if she actually ran, she's a pretty good runner.)  She does not like to be in trouble.  (I have heard of these people, but she is proof that they exist.)  So, she was falsely accused by her dreadful, mean, and no doubt smelly bus driver of the gross infraction of sitting on her knees and hitting the seat in front of her on the bus this morning.  (Yeah, I know.)  She wasn't even given a chance to defend herself, because Miss Dreadful M. Smelly just kept saying - It's not your turn to talk.  (I know).  My little angel niece had to stay late on the bus and everything and she did not take it well.

My sister, also, did not take it well.  I felt myself actually shrinking back from her on the phone as she told me this story.  She wasn't yelling.  She wasn't even raising her voice.  But I could tell, because I know.  I know that everytime she sees that bus driver lady after this, she's going to get that feeling in her stomach, and her eyes are going to narrow, and if she had a tail with a rattle on it, she would be giving fair warning.

Long story long, I am posting this to let Miss Dreadful M. Smelly know, if she meets my sister in a dark alley,  she'd better be able to run as well as my niece, because sometimes the quiet ones are actually the fiesty ones in disguise.  And my sister is.

  

grass stained pants

My husband Derek and I have a standing joke that, although based on stereotypical gender-role assumptions, for us is sadly true.  In our marriage, I am the boy.  I'm not certain whether or not this phenomenon is a product of being raised by a stay-at-home dad (although obviously my mom made a suggestion here and there), or,  if when God was organizing intelligences and creating souls, some actual boy cooties somehow contaminated my otherwise pristine femininity.  (I had to keep sounding that word out - it's tricky).

I have long believed that there was some kind of secret orientation to girlhood where secrets of the girly sisterhood were explained.  Clearly, I was not invited and I think I missed some of the finer points that govern girly conduct.  For example, I do not even like the word cuddle let alone the actual act.  (Quoting my 15 year old nephew "It makes me want to throw up in my mouth").   I use quotes like - "It makes me want to throw up in my mouth".  I think Valentine's Day is a holiday promoted by the greeting card cartel (or "cardtel" for short) for the sole purpose of exploiting an unwitting consumer base, and if Meg Ryan's in a movie, I ain't watching it.

But it became clear to me today, as I watched my 5 year old niece play soccer, that the major difference between me and other girls can be summed up in one word - and here it is- "balls".  (Stay with me people).  As I watched my niece run around the field with her little pigtails bouncing, in a shirt that came down to her shin guards, the only thing I could think was "GET THE BALL".  While the other moms were shouting encouraging words like " do your best",  "good try, Honey" and "that's okay - it really doesn't matter which goal you score on Sweetheart",   I seriously wanted to yell - "don't let him take that ball from you - KNOCK HIM DOWN".  (Apparently, the rules on parental conduct have changed since I was in sports. Apparently, we don't say things like this anymore. When I was in a game - any game - my family was like some kind of crazed tribal war party ready to verbally assault anyone in their path including, but not limited to: the referees, other parents, players, and food vendors.  It was how they showed they loved me.  There was none of this silent treatment, passive-aggressive, "parental observer" nonsense.)  At one point a little boy from the other team actually yelled "I want a hug mommy" and ran off the field, during the middle of a "play" (I use this term loosely).  His mom totally hugged him and giggled about how cute her little cherub was.  I, on the other hand, noticed my niece's team's advantage and was on the verge of yelling "score now- that little momma's boy left the goal open", but thought better of it.  The thing is, if that were my little cherub, I would've thought the same thing, and sent his little goalie butt back in the game.  I ask you, what kind of boy-girl am I, to put a ball in front of a little boy's affection for his mother?  A winner, that's what.  It's not a pretty snapshot of my soul, and I'm not saying it's right - but there you have it.

I was always more aggressive than the girls around me.  I never wanted to be a cheerleader.  If those girls needed someone to cheer for, I figured they could cheer for me.  I never cared what my hair looked like (while I was playing). In high school I let my boyfriend (a soccer player himself) shave the whole back of my head because the hair was bugging my neck when I had to set the volleyball (something I did often, since I was a setter).  My mother took it rather well, I must say.  

I wasn't one of the girls that screamed and ran away when a little boy chased her on the playground.  If a little boy chased me, either I would turn on him (who's chasing who now, little man?), or simply outrun him (the best feeling in the world is to outrun a boy - even now.  I know, I've got "issues"- are you not paying attention?).  And I certainly was not going to be polite and take turns at getting the basketball... or volleyball, or softball, or baseball.  (Although, ironically for this post, never a soccer ball.  We didn't play soccer in the Montana of my childhood.  It was a state law or something - too European for Big Sky Country.)

In the end, my niece's team scored "some" goals and the other team scored... I'm going with - "not enough to beat us" goals (again, scorekeeping is not allowed).  My niece scored three times, and I kept my big mouth shut - for her sake.  But deep down, when I watch her play, I can still feel that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know you're going to get to the ball first.  And the adrenaline rush of being better than that other kid, and seeing that quantified, with mathematical certainty on a score board is something that, though I know I should've gotten over by now, will always feel really, really good.  Which just goes to show that sometimes - to this girl at least - it's totally about if you win or lose and not at all about how you play the game.