I used to be a wonderful mother. I don't just mean good, I mean truly wonderful. I made no mistakes and I had all the answers. I knew exactly what to do in each situation with a child. Was the child simply being childish and needed to be instructed? Was the child just tired and needed a nap or hungry and needed to be fed? Or was the child just flat out beyond help and needed to be locked up in a padded room for the safety of self and others? My nephew usually fell into that category, but he still held a large portion of my heart - proof that I'm a saint.
Like I said, I was a wonderful mother. Then I had my first child, and I became a good mother. We had a few glitches, like the time my angel baby drank the lawnmower gas. He wasn't being disobedient or anything, because I had never thought to tell him not to; I just assumed he had the sense God gave a goose. I thought wrong.
He never got away with a thing, let me tell you. I was strict like you wouldn't believe. He couldn't even look at me cross-eyed and I was all up in his grill. "Don't look at me in that tone, boy. You will show me respect. I'm your mama, hear me?" He heard me. The whole neighborhood heard me. He still painted his carpet green and blue.
But he was a good child. Never gave me a moment's worry, aside from the annual visits to the emergency room every January, three years running. After that, he wasn't allowed to run, jump, or even leave the house from New Year's until February first every year.
Then came baby girl number one. Blond hair. Big blue eyes. Awwww. Great big lungs. Bad temper. My good mother methods were not quite as effective with this one. One day I'd had it up to *here* with her, and I took her by the arm and hissed (we were in public and you know how I hate to make a scene), "That is ENOUGH." She gave me a look that sends shivers down my spine to this day. "No, YOU are enough," she says. And the beating commenced. It took some doing, but I won. She got some good licks in, though.
Child three, a bouncing baby boy, came along, and he followed the rule book on happy children. What a joy! And that sweet smile! All you had to do was look at his sweet self and he'd break into gales of laughter. What a relief after the aforementioned child that gave the exorcist nightmares, to have a sweet little angel. I would raise this one to adulthood with no problemos whatsoever, yes I would.
He turned three. One day, while wearing his 'Piderman costume, he threw his 'Piderman hood/face at me, told me I had stinky feet, and hasn't liked me since.
Child number four came out somewhere between the stinky feet incident with child number three and the exorcism of child number two. Four - a girl - got fed once in a while, and her diaper was changed. On a good day, she was clothed, but it was a rare event. It's a good thing she was bald as a balloon, because at that point I had no further desire to earn my Wonderful Mama award, or even a Doesn't Totally Suck Mama award, and would never have found the time to comb it.
I'm not sure if she was a good baby or not. That time period seems hazy to me. What I know is this: in three days, that child will turn ten years old. And I'm not sure she's going to make it. I may have slacked off a little to much in the discipline department with that one. For ten years, it's been a litany of "eat your veggies.... no you may not have a snack because you did not eat your dinner. I don't care if it was yucky. There are starving children in Ethiopia that would love to have it. Because I can't just mail it to them; I made it for you....... go to bed...... stop whining............ stop arguing......... stop kissing boys you're only five for crying out loud............. I said go to bed already................ if I said no to a snack, it means no cookie. Yes, a cookie does count as a snack. Well, then, no dessert either. Because I said so. God made me the mama......"
And today's conversation is a nice one. "When's the last time you brushed your teeth?"
She thinks for a minute. "Mrs. Sam made me when I spent the night with Dani."
Facepalm. I totally suck. "That was last week!"
"But it's only Monday."
I always thought I was a stubborn person, but she's more stubborn. She's wearing me down. I can feel it. After ten years of her badgering me, day in and day out, I've found my life is much more peaceful if I just let her have the cookie.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Yesterday, Scotlyn and I saw an alligator on the way home from town.
No big deal, really, considering we live in southern Louisiana, but I'll admit to it being excited. Scotlyn was overjoyed and wanted to bring him home as a pet. Do you see this big boy? He's far enough way to not measure him, but I'd put him at no less than six feet. No thanks.
After posting the picture on Facebook, Chad called and wanted to know where we'd seen him. I told him off the road about two miles from our house, just on the other side of the river we live close to.
"Now you know you have gators," says Oh Wise One.
"Of course there are gators down here, but they aren't in our lake."
"Of course not." I detected sarcasm. "They stay on the other side of the river."
"This was an itty bitty swamp right by the river. We live a mile from the river, and our lake is big. Big lakes don't have gators."
"Lake Placid."
Did I raise this boy? Did I bring him into this world to have him treat me like this? I'm pretty sure I put my best effort into having a Mama's boy, and look how he turned out. Where did I go wrong?
Here's another example, from a couple years ago (and also a prime reason I no longer believe in having fun with my children):
I took my children tubing, thinking they would enjoy it. Pssshhh. While on the river, a storm began brewing. Lightning struck in the distance and thunder rumbled, but there was nowhere to leave the water. The banks were high and covered in trees and vines and the such. We were more likely to get snake-bit if we got out than lightning-struck if we stayed in. So instead I had to endure this for two hours.
Ainsley screaming bloody murder, trying to drag me from my tube with dagger-sharp nails. She would not be reassured that the storm was miles away. It wasn't even raining. Scotlyn was worried but not to the extent of gnashing of teeth. She was also more upset that she didn't have her mp3 player with her and she could have gone to Karis's house if I'd told her it was going to storm. For the last time, I'm sorry.
Pierson hunkered down for the duration, staying as far away from the ear piercing shrieks as I would allow.
Then there was Chad. Chad stayed close. Wasn't that sweet of him, to help me out with the fearsome child? Hmmm. After a short time (hour, hour and a half, who's counting) I had her down to a dull roar of worries when the next rumble of thunder sounded. She shuddered, but held still. My brave girl.
Chad, my first born, the "man" of the house while his father was away, took it upon himself to sing to her in her time of need.
"We're all gonna die.
No one will find us,
cuz we're all gonna fry.
The lightning's gonna hit us,
And we're all gonna die."
Every. Single. Lightning. Strike. He sang that song. She shrieked. He sang louder.
He's still alive, which just proves the power of a mother's love.
No big deal, really, considering we live in southern Louisiana, but I'll admit to it being excited. Scotlyn was overjoyed and wanted to bring him home as a pet. Do you see this big boy? He's far enough way to not measure him, but I'd put him at no less than six feet. No thanks.
After posting the picture on Facebook, Chad called and wanted to know where we'd seen him. I told him off the road about two miles from our house, just on the other side of the river we live close to.
"Now you know you have gators," says Oh Wise One.
"Of course there are gators down here, but they aren't in our lake."
"Of course not." I detected sarcasm. "They stay on the other side of the river."
"This was an itty bitty swamp right by the river. We live a mile from the river, and our lake is big. Big lakes don't have gators."
"Lake Placid."
Did I raise this boy? Did I bring him into this world to have him treat me like this? I'm pretty sure I put my best effort into having a Mama's boy, and look how he turned out. Where did I go wrong?
Here's another example, from a couple years ago (and also a prime reason I no longer believe in having fun with my children):
I took my children tubing, thinking they would enjoy it. Pssshhh. While on the river, a storm began brewing. Lightning struck in the distance and thunder rumbled, but there was nowhere to leave the water. The banks were high and covered in trees and vines and the such. We were more likely to get snake-bit if we got out than lightning-struck if we stayed in. So instead I had to endure this for two hours.
Ainsley screaming bloody murder, trying to drag me from my tube with dagger-sharp nails. She would not be reassured that the storm was miles away. It wasn't even raining. Scotlyn was worried but not to the extent of gnashing of teeth. She was also more upset that she didn't have her mp3 player with her and she could have gone to Karis's house if I'd told her it was going to storm. For the last time, I'm sorry.
Pierson hunkered down for the duration, staying as far away from the ear piercing shrieks as I would allow.
Then there was Chad. Chad stayed close. Wasn't that sweet of him, to help me out with the fearsome child? Hmmm. After a short time (hour, hour and a half, who's counting) I had her down to a dull roar of worries when the next rumble of thunder sounded. She shuddered, but held still. My brave girl.
Chad, my first born, the "man" of the house while his father was away, took it upon himself to sing to her in her time of need.
"We're all gonna die.
No one will find us,
cuz we're all gonna fry.
The lightning's gonna hit us,
And we're all gonna die."
Every. Single. Lightning. Strike. He sang that song. She shrieked. He sang louder.
He's still alive, which just proves the power of a mother's love.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Is It Okay to Be Mad at God?
Answer this honestly, do you think it's okay to be mad at God? This question was asked in Sunday School today, and we had a pretty even response on yes, no, maybe, and I don't know. I was so confused I answered yes AND no. After hearing the high school girls giving their arguments supporting their opinions, I was swayed both ways. I guess that makes me impressionable, huh?
In order to go further, I need to flash back to earlier in the week. We are reading through the Bible in a year, and this week we read in 1 Corinthians. Part of what we read on Tuesday were the verses about God never giving us more temptation than we can handle. They've been turned into the common saying of "God doesn't give us more than we can handle". I've heard that saying many, many times, but that day, for some unknown reason, the verses brought back a vivid memory.
I was standing in my mother's driveway the day after my brother's death. (Keep in mind that this was more than 20 years ago, but so many things this week have happened this week that have made me think that I'm supposed to share this story.) I had come out of the house, just to escape from the walls closing in on me. The driveway was as far as I got. I stood there, realizing I had nowhere to go, nowhere to turn. I looked up, and I got mad. You're not supposed to get mad at God, you know, but I couldn't help it. It was simmering, way down deep, and it was starting to boil up. I could feel it rising.
My fists were clenched when the forbidden thought entered my mind. Why didn't God stop this? I wasn't walking with God at that point in my life, but I believed - I've always believed. My brother had a lot of problems - way too many to handle. And they just kept piling up higher and higher, one thing after another: financial, family, health. God should have taken some of them away. Why didn't He? Why did He just stand by and let Shawn kill himself? What kind of God does that?
Right there, in the midst of my forbidden anger, my Uncle D came up to me. He's one of my favorite people in the world, and he's a godly man. I lashed out at him. "Why did God do this? Why did he give Shawn more than he could handle?"
I figured Uncle D would give me a look of disappoint or disgust and then rain hellfire and brimstone down on me. Instead, he looked at me with the compassion of Christ and said, "I don't know all the circumstances, but I do know that God gave Shawn other paths to take, and Shawn didn't choose them."
When I showed anger to God, he showed me mercy, and he put one of His people in my life exactly at that moment to answer my question. I can't say I gave my life over to Him then, but I will say that it made me think more and think deeper. It started me on the road.
So, can we be angry with God? I think whatever true feelings we have, God wants us to share. He made us, right? So He gets it. But we need to deal with our feelings and realize that He is God. He knows better than us, and He has a plan. We don't have to see it or understand it to trust it.
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it. 1 Corinthians 10:13
In order to go further, I need to flash back to earlier in the week. We are reading through the Bible in a year, and this week we read in 1 Corinthians. Part of what we read on Tuesday were the verses about God never giving us more temptation than we can handle. They've been turned into the common saying of "God doesn't give us more than we can handle". I've heard that saying many, many times, but that day, for some unknown reason, the verses brought back a vivid memory.
I was standing in my mother's driveway the day after my brother's death. (Keep in mind that this was more than 20 years ago, but so many things this week have happened this week that have made me think that I'm supposed to share this story.) I had come out of the house, just to escape from the walls closing in on me. The driveway was as far as I got. I stood there, realizing I had nowhere to go, nowhere to turn. I looked up, and I got mad. You're not supposed to get mad at God, you know, but I couldn't help it. It was simmering, way down deep, and it was starting to boil up. I could feel it rising.
My fists were clenched when the forbidden thought entered my mind. Why didn't God stop this? I wasn't walking with God at that point in my life, but I believed - I've always believed. My brother had a lot of problems - way too many to handle. And they just kept piling up higher and higher, one thing after another: financial, family, health. God should have taken some of them away. Why didn't He? Why did He just stand by and let Shawn kill himself? What kind of God does that?
Right there, in the midst of my forbidden anger, my Uncle D came up to me. He's one of my favorite people in the world, and he's a godly man. I lashed out at him. "Why did God do this? Why did he give Shawn more than he could handle?"
I figured Uncle D would give me a look of disappoint or disgust and then rain hellfire and brimstone down on me. Instead, he looked at me with the compassion of Christ and said, "I don't know all the circumstances, but I do know that God gave Shawn other paths to take, and Shawn didn't choose them."
When I showed anger to God, he showed me mercy, and he put one of His people in my life exactly at that moment to answer my question. I can't say I gave my life over to Him then, but I will say that it made me think more and think deeper. It started me on the road.
So, can we be angry with God? I think whatever true feelings we have, God wants us to share. He made us, right? So He gets it. But we need to deal with our feelings and realize that He is God. He knows better than us, and He has a plan. We don't have to see it or understand it to trust it.
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it. 1 Corinthians 10:13
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Not at My Grandma's House
Scotlyn has a new saying: "Not at my Grandma's house, you don't!" I have no idea where she comes up with this stuff. Her mind must be a scary place.
Anyway, on the way home from church, and I have no idea why, she told me that.
I'm very mature, so I responded with wisdom. "Oh, yeah? Well, your grandma doesn't want you coming to her house, because she says you don't behave right."
"I behave better than her."
She has a point. Have you met my mother?
Anyway, on the way home from church, and I have no idea why, she told me that.
I'm very mature, so I responded with wisdom. "Oh, yeah? Well, your grandma doesn't want you coming to her house, because she says you don't behave right."
"I behave better than her."
She has a point. Have you met my mother?
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Yardwork Is of the Devil
I hate lawnmowers, and lawnmowers hate me. I now have more lawnmowers than a body ought to own, and how many work? Go ahead, hazard a guess. Well, it depends on your definition of "work".
For example, our riding mower "works" if you don't mind jump starting it nine times out of ten, which will almost always require pushing it up the hill to the car. We have a battery charger....somewhere. And it has a big honking deck, since when we bought it we had five acres to mow, so it has three blades. Right now, the middle blade doesn't work. No, I don't know why, and I'm not picking the thing up to find out. That's man work, and my man is convienently located in the middle of the ocean while my grass grows up to my elbows. And I can't load it up and take it to a mower-fixer-person because it's stinking BIG. I'm a girl. I should not sweat.
Our new yard has lots and lots and lots of trees and bushes and stumps and rocks and roots and decks and half buried cinder blocks and other fun stuff in it, so I thought it prudent to buy a push mower at the beginning of spring. I never expected to actually have to use it. That's man work, right?
*WRONG*
That darn husband of mine thinks working 90 hours a week exempts him from mowing the yard. The nerve. So my sweet daddy comes to mow the yard for me. I was hoping this would be a weekly thing, but he turned 70 in April and got lazy on me. By the time I actually have to break out the new mower from the box to find out it doesn't work, it's too late to take it back. I wasn't too terribly upset because I didn't really want to mow anyway. I used the riding mower and the yard had some paths in we could walk on. It resembled one of the alien mazes that appears in cornfields overnight. You know what I'm talking about? No aliens were responsible for that; it was all me. I beat the aliens at their own game.
Well, now that we've spied snake number eight for the summer, and he was knocking on our back door, I thought it would be a good idea to just go ahead and buy another mower. I've already called a professional service to see if they would do it. The owner knows me and knows our yard and he won't return my calls. I'm sure it's just an oversight. But anyhoo, since he must be booked, I bought a new mower yesterday and started on the front yard. It wasn't so bad. I got it finished a bit ago and turned to the side yard, betwixt the house and the lake.
The grass there is at least knee high, and in places up to my shoulders. My new mower, sarcastically called a Brute, took one look, shuddered, and died. I walked over to my rider and decided I'd tried to smoosh the grass down, if nothing else, with that. Here's the list of grievances I know hold against "Troy".
For example, our riding mower "works" if you don't mind jump starting it nine times out of ten, which will almost always require pushing it up the hill to the car. We have a battery charger....somewhere. And it has a big honking deck, since when we bought it we had five acres to mow, so it has three blades. Right now, the middle blade doesn't work. No, I don't know why, and I'm not picking the thing up to find out. That's man work, and my man is convienently located in the middle of the ocean while my grass grows up to my elbows. And I can't load it up and take it to a mower-fixer-person because it's stinking BIG. I'm a girl. I should not sweat.
Our new yard has lots and lots and lots of trees and bushes and stumps and rocks and roots and decks and half buried cinder blocks and other fun stuff in it, so I thought it prudent to buy a push mower at the beginning of spring. I never expected to actually have to use it. That's man work, right?
*WRONG*
That darn husband of mine thinks working 90 hours a week exempts him from mowing the yard. The nerve. So my sweet daddy comes to mow the yard for me. I was hoping this would be a weekly thing, but he turned 70 in April and got lazy on me. By the time I actually have to break out the new mower from the box to find out it doesn't work, it's too late to take it back. I wasn't too terribly upset because I didn't really want to mow anyway. I used the riding mower and the yard had some paths in we could walk on. It resembled one of the alien mazes that appears in cornfields overnight. You know what I'm talking about? No aliens were responsible for that; it was all me. I beat the aliens at their own game.
Well, now that we've spied snake number eight for the summer, and he was knocking on our back door, I thought it would be a good idea to just go ahead and buy another mower. I've already called a professional service to see if they would do it. The owner knows me and knows our yard and he won't return my calls. I'm sure it's just an oversight. But anyhoo, since he must be booked, I bought a new mower yesterday and started on the front yard. It wasn't so bad. I got it finished a bit ago and turned to the side yard, betwixt the house and the lake.
The grass there is at least knee high, and in places up to my shoulders. My new mower, sarcastically called a Brute, took one look, shuddered, and died. I walked over to my rider and decided I'd tried to smoosh the grass down, if nothing else, with that. Here's the list of grievances I know hold against "Troy".
- Four flat tires
- Dead battery
- Blades don't work
- Wet seat
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Family Government
Recently, my fourteen year old daughter took part in a civics class called TeenPact. It ended with a weeklong trip to Baton Rouge, where she got to spend the week learning all about how to draft bills and turn them into laws. Her father and I are so very proud that she is now showing interest in something (anything!) besides dancing, horses, and Luke Bryan, but take last night as an example of what we have to put up with...
Scotlyn has always liked a calm atmosphere, which must really suck if you live in our family. So, after listening to X-Men on surround sound while trying to do her math (yes, I make her do math in the summer) and breaking three pencils in frustration and stabbing herself in the knee twice, she asked to be excused to work on a project. Sensing I was the next to be stabbed, I agreed. She came back with:
A Bill to End Useless Noise
Purpose: To make a quiet environment for easier learning.
To do away with loud distractions during times of learning.
A BILL TO BE ENTITLED AN ACT
Section 1.
It shall be unlawful for any loud, distracting noises to be going on during any time of schooling, unless it is a part of the learning process of the curriculum.
Section 2.
Any of these loud distracting noises include the following: movies, music, talk radio, football games, screaming at football games, singing, whistling, television shows, clapping, talk radio, talking to self, slamming doors, mumbling under breath (I had her add that - pet peeve), and TALK RADIO.
Section 3.
Violating this act will be punishable by the following: having to listen to Justin Bieber's music for one entire week, being doused completely with elephant urine, spending a year in prison, being restrained from the jacuzzi tub, fine of $100 (payable to Rep. Skeeter Whitten), having all of your flashlights taken away, and being thrown to the alligators at Insta-Gator.
She lined us up on the couch upstairs, called us to order (which means we aren't supposed to speak), and named me speaker of the house. I like to talk, so that's cool. She proceeded to the read the bill to us.
She didn't even get all the way through when Peter looked at me. "You put her up to this. I know you did."
"What's the deal with elephant urine?" Pierson jumped off the couch and yelled.
"You, sir, are out of order!" Scotlyn glared at him with Slitty Eyes of Death.
Peter tried to explain what "doused with elephant urine" meant. Ainsley jumped up. "I don't want to get pee'd on by an elephant! It's bad enough when Scooby does it!"
"People! Sit down! You're all out of order!" Scotlyn/Skeeter points at me. "You're supposed to be the Speaker. You give them permission to speak."
"They don't seem to need it," I point out.
Peter raises his hand. I gave him permission to speak, and he addresses the Lady At the Well. "Do you have a problem with talk radio, young lady?"
"I'm not 'young lady'. You must address me as Rep. Skeeter Whitten."
"I see. Well, Rep. Skeeter Whitten, can I ask another question?"
"You may, Rep. Daddy Whitten." She regally nods her head while adjusting the ragged legs of her cut-off jammie pants.
"Thank you, Rep. Skeeter Whitten. Can amendments be made to this bill?"
"They may be addressed, yes."
"Wonderful. In that case, I say this whole family government be amended to a dictatorship until such time as you pay the bills."
Case closed.
Scotlyn has always liked a calm atmosphere, which must really suck if you live in our family. So, after listening to X-Men on surround sound while trying to do her math (yes, I make her do math in the summer) and breaking three pencils in frustration and stabbing herself in the knee twice, she asked to be excused to work on a project. Sensing I was the next to be stabbed, I agreed. She came back with:
A Bill to End Useless Noise
Purpose: To make a quiet environment for easier learning.
To do away with loud distractions during times of learning.
A BILL TO BE ENTITLED AN ACT
Section 1.
It shall be unlawful for any loud, distracting noises to be going on during any time of schooling, unless it is a part of the learning process of the curriculum.
Section 2.
Any of these loud distracting noises include the following: movies, music, talk radio, football games, screaming at football games, singing, whistling, television shows, clapping, talk radio, talking to self, slamming doors, mumbling under breath (I had her add that - pet peeve), and TALK RADIO.
Section 3.
Violating this act will be punishable by the following: having to listen to Justin Bieber's music for one entire week, being doused completely with elephant urine, spending a year in prison, being restrained from the jacuzzi tub, fine of $100 (payable to Rep. Skeeter Whitten), having all of your flashlights taken away, and being thrown to the alligators at Insta-Gator.
She lined us up on the couch upstairs, called us to order (which means we aren't supposed to speak), and named me speaker of the house. I like to talk, so that's cool. She proceeded to the read the bill to us.
She didn't even get all the way through when Peter looked at me. "You put her up to this. I know you did."
"What's the deal with elephant urine?" Pierson jumped off the couch and yelled.
"You, sir, are out of order!" Scotlyn glared at him with Slitty Eyes of Death.
Peter tried to explain what "doused with elephant urine" meant. Ainsley jumped up. "I don't want to get pee'd on by an elephant! It's bad enough when Scooby does it!"
"People! Sit down! You're all out of order!" Scotlyn/Skeeter points at me. "You're supposed to be the Speaker. You give them permission to speak."
"They don't seem to need it," I point out.
Peter raises his hand. I gave him permission to speak, and he addresses the Lady At the Well. "Do you have a problem with talk radio, young lady?"
"I'm not 'young lady'. You must address me as Rep. Skeeter Whitten."
"I see. Well, Rep. Skeeter Whitten, can I ask another question?"
"You may, Rep. Daddy Whitten." She regally nods her head while adjusting the ragged legs of her cut-off jammie pants.
"Thank you, Rep. Skeeter Whitten. Can amendments be made to this bill?"
"They may be addressed, yes."
"Wonderful. In that case, I say this whole family government be amended to a dictatorship until such time as you pay the bills."
Case closed.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Bathroom Cleaning
When my kids grow up and move out, I am going to have to get a J.O.B. I'll tell you why. I woke up this morning to silence. That's nothing new, since without my hearing aids I'm deaf as a teenangster listening to her parents, but there really was silence; it wasn't just me. No kids. Hallelujer, as Madea says.
First, I let the dogs out and fed the horses. Then I sat down and got dibs on my own laptop. What a novelty. Not one whiney kid asking how much longer 'til they could play Toon Town, Avengers, or Facebook. Now, I'll never admit this to them, but it takes some of the fun out of having the computer when I'm not keeping it from them. Kind of like sneaking into bars before you're 21 being so much more fun than once it's legal. Not that I'm admitting to that either. But the experience was a little flat.
Next thing you know, I up and decided to clean the bathrooms. Now that, my friends, is something I hope to never get a wild hair to do again. Not a good move on my part. Nasty. The kids are supposed to clean their own bathrooms upstairs, but I figured I'd go ahead and give them a lick and polish. (Not a good thought, licking those toilets. I need that thought out of my head. Ick ick ick.)
My bathroom is huge. Jacuzzi tub. Four girls - FOUR - took a bath (with swimsuits because we're not exhibitionists. Please.) on Sunday night in it. They must have had bubbles to the twelve foot ceiling, because scum was everywhere. I climbed in, my reindeer jammie pants (they were on sale for $5!) rolled up and sprayed scrubbing bubbles everywhere. Ev-er-y-where. This was my problem, you see, because I had not thought this through. I had neglected to bring a cloth or sponge with me, intending to let them sit for a bit while I did the sink and shower. I was going to climb out, but have you ever tried climbing out of a three-and-a-half foot tub that's covered in slime?
After I scrubbed the tub with my body, I moved on to the rest of the room, which I'm happy to announce was much easier, as was the guest bathroom.
All the was left was the upstairs bathrooms. I must admit to dreading them. Kids are notoriously nasty creatures. I've learned this in my nineteen years of experience as the mother of four. I decided to spray the boy bathroom down first, thinking it would need some time to allow the bubbles to do their magic. Upon entering the room, I realized that since Chad has moved out: #1. It has a floor, and #2. Pierson has kept it clean. He has only neglected the toilet, which I can understand because really, aren't toilets supposed to be icky by definition?, and the ring in the tub. I sprayed it and went to the girls bathrooms. Their bathroom was just shy of pristine.
I was somewhat disconcerted to realize that my children have been doing a better job than I have of cleaning their bathrooms. I promised myself to either do better or add my bathroom on to their chore list, and got to work. Within minutes I was back in Pierson's bathroom, and that's when I learned...
Boy dirt is not the same as girl dirt. Boy dirt does not come off. That ring in the tub is there to stay. I scrubbed, I sprayed some more, I changed cleaners. Nothing, except maybe the dirt grew. I'm giving up, assuming that at least, it's clean dirt, right? Dirt can be clean, and if I can't get it off with cleaners, he can't get it on him in the tub. I hope.
Maybe I can just paint over the dirt. Oh, who cares? He's a twelve year old boy. It's not like he bathes anyway.
First, I let the dogs out and fed the horses. Then I sat down and got dibs on my own laptop. What a novelty. Not one whiney kid asking how much longer 'til they could play Toon Town, Avengers, or Facebook. Now, I'll never admit this to them, but it takes some of the fun out of having the computer when I'm not keeping it from them. Kind of like sneaking into bars before you're 21 being so much more fun than once it's legal. Not that I'm admitting to that either. But the experience was a little flat.
Next thing you know, I up and decided to clean the bathrooms. Now that, my friends, is something I hope to never get a wild hair to do again. Not a good move on my part. Nasty. The kids are supposed to clean their own bathrooms upstairs, but I figured I'd go ahead and give them a lick and polish. (Not a good thought, licking those toilets. I need that thought out of my head. Ick ick ick.)
My bathroom is huge. Jacuzzi tub. Four girls - FOUR - took a bath (with swimsuits because we're not exhibitionists. Please.) on Sunday night in it. They must have had bubbles to the twelve foot ceiling, because scum was everywhere. I climbed in, my reindeer jammie pants (they were on sale for $5!) rolled up and sprayed scrubbing bubbles everywhere. Ev-er-y-where. This was my problem, you see, because I had not thought this through. I had neglected to bring a cloth or sponge with me, intending to let them sit for a bit while I did the sink and shower. I was going to climb out, but have you ever tried climbing out of a three-and-a-half foot tub that's covered in slime?
After I scrubbed the tub with my body, I moved on to the rest of the room, which I'm happy to announce was much easier, as was the guest bathroom.
All the was left was the upstairs bathrooms. I must admit to dreading them. Kids are notoriously nasty creatures. I've learned this in my nineteen years of experience as the mother of four. I decided to spray the boy bathroom down first, thinking it would need some time to allow the bubbles to do their magic. Upon entering the room, I realized that since Chad has moved out: #1. It has a floor, and #2. Pierson has kept it clean. He has only neglected the toilet, which I can understand because really, aren't toilets supposed to be icky by definition?, and the ring in the tub. I sprayed it and went to the girls bathrooms. Their bathroom was just shy of pristine.
I was somewhat disconcerted to realize that my children have been doing a better job than I have of cleaning their bathrooms. I promised myself to either do better or add my bathroom on to their chore list, and got to work. Within minutes I was back in Pierson's bathroom, and that's when I learned...
Boy dirt is not the same as girl dirt. Boy dirt does not come off. That ring in the tub is there to stay. I scrubbed, I sprayed some more, I changed cleaners. Nothing, except maybe the dirt grew. I'm giving up, assuming that at least, it's clean dirt, right? Dirt can be clean, and if I can't get it off with cleaners, he can't get it on him in the tub. I hope.
Maybe I can just paint over the dirt. Oh, who cares? He's a twelve year old boy. It's not like he bathes anyway.
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