Twas the night before TAKS, when all through the house,
moms were grilling their children like a nuthouse.
The clothes were laid by their beds with care,
in hopes of avoiding the morning warfare.
The children were cowered, strung-out in their beds,
while visions of math problems scatter in their heads.
And, I, in a panic, downed my first nightcap
While dad settled down for his long nap.
When upstairs there arose such a clatter,
We sprang from our bed to see what was the matter.
Away up the stairs, we flew like a flash,
Tore open his door, and fell down with a crash.
As the whelp on my cheek started to grow,
I knew I had reached a new low.
My son was sitting on his bed amid the clutter
of weeks of Flashbacks, fractions, and flashcards, with a stutter.
While I started to sputter,
my sweet little son had turned into a nutter
I brushed myself off and sat on his bed,
to see if I could ease his sweet head.
He muttered about fractions, perimeters, and patterns,
So I listened and tried to ease his concerns.
I told him TAKS really isn’t a big deal,
But if he fails, I’ll feed him to an eel.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Diary of a Wimpy Mom, take 2 and don't call me in the morning
Here’s a little tip: Don’t go to Sonic to pick up food for your family before you have boot camp. It smells too good and your willpower will fade while you are ordering for everyone but you. And, really, don’t inhale a cheeseburger, tater tots, and a vanilla coke minutes before your friends pick you up for boot camp.
Realistically, I probably should’ve stayed at home, especially after that burger, but Blondie and I went on a weekend retreat and I ate like there was a famine coming.
While we were gone, I received texts from hubby. Not wonderful love notes letting me know how much my family missed and loved me. No, just texts letting me know that my family was dropping like flies from the flu. I had left Friday with only one child down, by Friday night, hubby was down; Saturday night, little T was down. I soooo didn’t want to be next and asked if maybe we should just quarantine them and I should stay at the resort. No one agreed with my solution, so I went home on Sunday.
By Monday’s boot camp, I was ready to go run off the germs and scrumptious desserts. So, off I went, breathing like a 90-year-old emphysema patient with a cigarette. I didn’t care that I couldn’t breathe, I had weight to lose and germs to run from.
So off I went, filled up on germs, fast food, and fluid in my lungs. I was shocked to find out that I couldn’t make it through boot camp. I even had an asthma attack while I was there trying to run my hiney off, or maybe that was just my cheeseburger stuck in my throat – who could be sure?
After Drill Sergeant starting off yelling for me to get on the hop, and me telling him that there was too much hopping going on (without my usual zeal), he began to realize that I wasn’t just being my normal pain in the ass self – I was being an extra large pain in the ass and a whiney one at that.
Brownie and I were doing the hop scotch thing and I told him that the cones were too high. He told me that cones couldn’t take drugs so that was impossible. I looked at him with daggers and repeated that I was short and that they were too high. They were high too, because while I was walking/stomping through the obstacle course of hop scotch, he pulled me aside and told me he was concerned. Meanwhile, Brownie hopped but didn’t scotch and went down in the mud on her pretty face. She was whining in the background trying to get our attention wanting to know if anyone was concerned about her. Obviously, we weren’t. Drill Sergeant knows who the princess is.
After the hop scotch debacle, Brownie and I went on to the arm press, leg lift thing that has had me in traction for the past two days (which is why I’m late in posting). Then we did some weird oblique things. But, the best thing was the spider, because I was the only one who could maneuver on the bars backwards and forwards. It was beautiful, because while Brownie and I were giving the obliques our half-hearted attempt, we got to see Blondie up there asking at the top of her little voice, “Why is this called spider?!” She was spread eagle on these bars that are like uneven bars with her butt up in the air. She totally looked like a spider – a stuck one.
Oh, and, Blondie was already not talking to us. Brownie and I had paired up the first week. So on Monday, Blondie’s partner from the first week jumped on her like Blondie had started playing for the other team – you know, like white on rice, like a flea on a tick - you get the picture. We tried asking her when we all paired up after instructions if she wanted to be with one of us, but she just gave us dirty looks and walked away with her lip curled up. I think she might have been upset.
I’m sure she’ll get over it and pick me up today if for no other reason than to watch Drill Sergeant torture me.
Realistically, I probably should’ve stayed at home, especially after that burger, but Blondie and I went on a weekend retreat and I ate like there was a famine coming.
While we were gone, I received texts from hubby. Not wonderful love notes letting me know how much my family missed and loved me. No, just texts letting me know that my family was dropping like flies from the flu. I had left Friday with only one child down, by Friday night, hubby was down; Saturday night, little T was down. I soooo didn’t want to be next and asked if maybe we should just quarantine them and I should stay at the resort. No one agreed with my solution, so I went home on Sunday.
By Monday’s boot camp, I was ready to go run off the germs and scrumptious desserts. So, off I went, breathing like a 90-year-old emphysema patient with a cigarette. I didn’t care that I couldn’t breathe, I had weight to lose and germs to run from.
So off I went, filled up on germs, fast food, and fluid in my lungs. I was shocked to find out that I couldn’t make it through boot camp. I even had an asthma attack while I was there trying to run my hiney off, or maybe that was just my cheeseburger stuck in my throat – who could be sure?
After Drill Sergeant starting off yelling for me to get on the hop, and me telling him that there was too much hopping going on (without my usual zeal), he began to realize that I wasn’t just being my normal pain in the ass self – I was being an extra large pain in the ass and a whiney one at that.
Brownie and I were doing the hop scotch thing and I told him that the cones were too high. He told me that cones couldn’t take drugs so that was impossible. I looked at him with daggers and repeated that I was short and that they were too high. They were high too, because while I was walking/stomping through the obstacle course of hop scotch, he pulled me aside and told me he was concerned. Meanwhile, Brownie hopped but didn’t scotch and went down in the mud on her pretty face. She was whining in the background trying to get our attention wanting to know if anyone was concerned about her. Obviously, we weren’t. Drill Sergeant knows who the princess is.
After the hop scotch debacle, Brownie and I went on to the arm press, leg lift thing that has had me in traction for the past two days (which is why I’m late in posting). Then we did some weird oblique things. But, the best thing was the spider, because I was the only one who could maneuver on the bars backwards and forwards. It was beautiful, because while Brownie and I were giving the obliques our half-hearted attempt, we got to see Blondie up there asking at the top of her little voice, “Why is this called spider?!” She was spread eagle on these bars that are like uneven bars with her butt up in the air. She totally looked like a spider – a stuck one.
Oh, and, Blondie was already not talking to us. Brownie and I had paired up the first week. So on Monday, Blondie’s partner from the first week jumped on her like Blondie had started playing for the other team – you know, like white on rice, like a flea on a tick - you get the picture. We tried asking her when we all paired up after instructions if she wanted to be with one of us, but she just gave us dirty looks and walked away with her lip curled up. I think she might have been upset.
I’m sure she’ll get over it and pick me up today if for no other reason than to watch Drill Sergeant torture me.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Diary of a Wimpy Mom – Yes, I’m back.
Obviously, I haven’t posted in awhile. Well, it’s because I totally wimped out on those girls. Brownie and Blondie stuck with it and, of course, that’s when all the good stuff happened! But, once school started, I didn’t care if I got as big as a tent, there wasn’t any way I was rolling my ass out of bed at 5 a.m. for anything – not even a $1 sale at Neiman Marcus! Okay, well maybe if it was in the shoe department. But, especially not to flip 18 wheeler tires through the mud. I mean it takes effort to look this good and that extra hour of beauty sleep takes me from an 8 to a 10 baby!
So, while I was getting my beauty rest and workin’ up to that 10, that’s when this guy decides to die in the parking lot in his car to be found by my girls and the rest of the people who want to be skinny. I mean how fun of a post would that have been right? How cool is that to find a dead guy, right? I mean why couldn’t he be considerate enough to die earlier when I could’ve found him?
Oh well, it turns out, he was just a REALLY heavy sleeper because all of the tapping that turned to banging that those boot campers did he just slept right through. He finally woke up when the cops got there, so it was all good.
And, as it turns out, when you ditch boot camp in favor of more sleeping in, other things start creeping up to a 10. Someone who has a small frame and is barely 5 feet tall, really shouldn’t be in the double digits, you know what I mean? So, here I am again – flipping tires in the mud.
But, it sure isn’t at 5:30 in the morning. Oh, no! I convinced Blondie and Brownie that they needed my witty comments to keep things lively and the only way to get it was to sign up for the evening class. They totally bought it – suckers!
So Brownie and I were up there in the drizzling rain in 40 degree temperatures ready to melt that fat away. Yes, Blondie wimped out on the first class – she said “I ain’t into all of that measuring crap. I don’t need to weigh in!”
I have to confess, I’m not sure anything melted because everything was frozen - even the mud seemed frozen. It was so friggin’ cold. I do think my butt froze up and fell off on that 1 mile test run though – so that’s a plus!
Of course, Drill Sergeant was SOOO excited to have us back. (Brownie and Blondie had actually bailed on him too during the last six week session.)
I don’t remember if I mentioned this before, but when we start a new session, we have to measure, weigh, and do a fitness test. So, Brownie was busy with her push-ups, and these aren’t girlie push-ups on your knees – oh, no, these are full-on push-ups with your legs straight and your nose touching the ground, but not your tummy. (I’ve tried that, but he said, “oh no Pebbles, I don’t think so.” He doesn’t know that my friends call me Princess, so he just calls me Pebbles.) So, she is going at these push-up things - up, down, up, down - just burnin’ up those muscles, and then she starts getting tired. But, she’s gotten me so into it that I’m cheering her on. So I say, “Hercules, Hercules! Keep it going girl, you can do it!” you know Eddie Murphy style, because I’m trying to encourage my girl to keep going. But all of the other boot campers start laughing so Drill Sergeant has to explain his peanut gallery to all of the newbies.
But, they didn’t realize that I was doing them a favor because after our fitness test (and you would think that we would’ve remembered this by now) we had to go and do it all over again and do the same number of reps when we were bustin’ a gut to do all of those sit-ups, push-ups and pull-ups during the test.
Oh, well! Some people never learn. I guess that’s why the wimpy mom is back in boot camp. I wonder if they have a remedial boot camp?
So, while I was getting my beauty rest and workin’ up to that 10, that’s when this guy decides to die in the parking lot in his car to be found by my girls and the rest of the people who want to be skinny. I mean how fun of a post would that have been right? How cool is that to find a dead guy, right? I mean why couldn’t he be considerate enough to die earlier when I could’ve found him?
Oh well, it turns out, he was just a REALLY heavy sleeper because all of the tapping that turned to banging that those boot campers did he just slept right through. He finally woke up when the cops got there, so it was all good.
And, as it turns out, when you ditch boot camp in favor of more sleeping in, other things start creeping up to a 10. Someone who has a small frame and is barely 5 feet tall, really shouldn’t be in the double digits, you know what I mean? So, here I am again – flipping tires in the mud.
But, it sure isn’t at 5:30 in the morning. Oh, no! I convinced Blondie and Brownie that they needed my witty comments to keep things lively and the only way to get it was to sign up for the evening class. They totally bought it – suckers!
So Brownie and I were up there in the drizzling rain in 40 degree temperatures ready to melt that fat away. Yes, Blondie wimped out on the first class – she said “I ain’t into all of that measuring crap. I don’t need to weigh in!”
I have to confess, I’m not sure anything melted because everything was frozen - even the mud seemed frozen. It was so friggin’ cold. I do think my butt froze up and fell off on that 1 mile test run though – so that’s a plus!
Of course, Drill Sergeant was SOOO excited to have us back. (Brownie and Blondie had actually bailed on him too during the last six week session.)
I don’t remember if I mentioned this before, but when we start a new session, we have to measure, weigh, and do a fitness test. So, Brownie was busy with her push-ups, and these aren’t girlie push-ups on your knees – oh, no, these are full-on push-ups with your legs straight and your nose touching the ground, but not your tummy. (I’ve tried that, but he said, “oh no Pebbles, I don’t think so.” He doesn’t know that my friends call me Princess, so he just calls me Pebbles.) So, she is going at these push-up things - up, down, up, down - just burnin’ up those muscles, and then she starts getting tired. But, she’s gotten me so into it that I’m cheering her on. So I say, “Hercules, Hercules! Keep it going girl, you can do it!” you know Eddie Murphy style, because I’m trying to encourage my girl to keep going. But all of the other boot campers start laughing so Drill Sergeant has to explain his peanut gallery to all of the newbies.
But, they didn’t realize that I was doing them a favor because after our fitness test (and you would think that we would’ve remembered this by now) we had to go and do it all over again and do the same number of reps when we were bustin’ a gut to do all of those sit-ups, push-ups and pull-ups during the test.
Oh, well! Some people never learn. I guess that’s why the wimpy mom is back in boot camp. I wonder if they have a remedial boot camp?
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
My attempt at domesticity
I had a pile of my husband’s shirts that came out of the laundry a little more wrinkled than normal. It might have something to do with having sat in the dryer overnight. But, who knows? Maybe the wrinkle fairly came and had a party on hubby’s shirt.
So, since the kids are out of school and I have a little extra time on my hands (because I don’t have to drive them all over the country), I decided to iron his shirts rather than just throw them back in the washer.
I got out my ironing board and found the iron. It still had a little water in it, so I plugged it in and waited for it to heat up. With Christmas music blaring and kids happily cleaning upstairs, I got to ironing all of the wrinkles out of his shirt, feeling very domestic. It probably took me a good five minutes for one shirt. I pulled it off expecting it to look wonderful. It didn’t. So, I tried another shirt, and then another, all with the same result. At some point (about 30 minutes of ironing later), that old adage about doing the same thing over and over popped into my brain.
I think my iron is faulty. I texted my husband with my conclusion and he thought my phone had been hijacked and wanted to know who was texting him. Because he knows his wife, and she doesn’t iron, she puts clothes in a bag on the front porch for the dry cleaning man.
This is why we dry clean.
So, since the kids are out of school and I have a little extra time on my hands (because I don’t have to drive them all over the country), I decided to iron his shirts rather than just throw them back in the washer.
I got out my ironing board and found the iron. It still had a little water in it, so I plugged it in and waited for it to heat up. With Christmas music blaring and kids happily cleaning upstairs, I got to ironing all of the wrinkles out of his shirt, feeling very domestic. It probably took me a good five minutes for one shirt. I pulled it off expecting it to look wonderful. It didn’t. So, I tried another shirt, and then another, all with the same result. At some point (about 30 minutes of ironing later), that old adage about doing the same thing over and over popped into my brain.
I think my iron is faulty. I texted my husband with my conclusion and he thought my phone had been hijacked and wanted to know who was texting him. Because he knows his wife, and she doesn’t iron, she puts clothes in a bag on the front porch for the dry cleaning man.
This is why we dry clean.
Friday, December 10, 2010
My first day
Today was my first day to sub for our elementary school although I’ve racked up loads of volunteer time. I’ve only subbed at the preschool prior to this.
I have to admit that I was a bit nervous about how the day would go. Would the kids behave? Could I get everything done? Could I count to 22 all day long? Well, the day went great for me.
My bladder? Not so much.
While staying at home, or working from home, or even when I worked in an office, I could go to the bathroom whenever the need struck, which for my pea-sized bladder, it strikes fairly often.
So, you can imagine my dismay when I looked at my schedule to see that I would have to wait four whole hours without even the POSSIBILITY of a bathroom break!
We recently went to see our family for Thanksgiving. They live four hours away and we had to stop twice for potty breaks. Not for my eight-year-old, not for my five-year-old, but for me – both times. My boys LOVE driving with me.
I’m not really sure what happened, because before I had kids (Yes, I am blaming them. No, I am not above it, or ashamed about it.) I could go for hours and hours without having to stop.
So, I’m contemplating this whole four hour thing and thinking, “wow, it’s really hot in here.” I broke out into a sweat over the whole bathroom situation. So, finally, after morning announcements, attendance, running club (don’t ask), reading to the kids, circle time (we called it something else and I’m still used to subbing at the preschool so whatever), some writing activities, two, count them TWO bathroom breaks for the kids, but not for me, I take my kiddos down to lunch and then I’m off to find a potty.
I stop at the ONLY adult bathroom in the ENTIRE school (a school for 1000 kids I might add) and someone is friggin in there!!! CRAP! They have no clue that I’m about to wet my pants, and going home and changing my clothes, is so NOT in my scheduled 20 minute lunch time (I had to make sure the kids got to where they are going and all – I’m sure I probably didn’t need to do that, but it was my first time). So, I politely knock. No one answers. I’m trying to decide whether to break down the damn door or call 911, when our receptionist happens to walk by. So, I ask, “Her Name, are these the only bathrooms?”
Luckily, they weren’t. They have two hidden bathrooms that are secret for people who work there and I (yes, I) got to use one. I felt honored and relieved to get to go.
I have to admit that I was a bit nervous about how the day would go. Would the kids behave? Could I get everything done? Could I count to 22 all day long? Well, the day went great for me.
My bladder? Not so much.
While staying at home, or working from home, or even when I worked in an office, I could go to the bathroom whenever the need struck, which for my pea-sized bladder, it strikes fairly often.
So, you can imagine my dismay when I looked at my schedule to see that I would have to wait four whole hours without even the POSSIBILITY of a bathroom break!
We recently went to see our family for Thanksgiving. They live four hours away and we had to stop twice for potty breaks. Not for my eight-year-old, not for my five-year-old, but for me – both times. My boys LOVE driving with me.
I’m not really sure what happened, because before I had kids (Yes, I am blaming them. No, I am not above it, or ashamed about it.) I could go for hours and hours without having to stop.
So, I’m contemplating this whole four hour thing and thinking, “wow, it’s really hot in here.” I broke out into a sweat over the whole bathroom situation. So, finally, after morning announcements, attendance, running club (don’t ask), reading to the kids, circle time (we called it something else and I’m still used to subbing at the preschool so whatever), some writing activities, two, count them TWO bathroom breaks for the kids, but not for me, I take my kiddos down to lunch and then I’m off to find a potty.
I stop at the ONLY adult bathroom in the ENTIRE school (a school for 1000 kids I might add) and someone is friggin in there!!! CRAP! They have no clue that I’m about to wet my pants, and going home and changing my clothes, is so NOT in my scheduled 20 minute lunch time (I had to make sure the kids got to where they are going and all – I’m sure I probably didn’t need to do that, but it was my first time). So, I politely knock. No one answers. I’m trying to decide whether to break down the damn door or call 911, when our receptionist happens to walk by. So, I ask, “Her Name, are these the only bathrooms?”
Luckily, they weren’t. They have two hidden bathrooms that are secret for people who work there and I (yes, I) got to use one. I felt honored and relieved to get to go.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Eight-year-old goes to the ballet
Today, my third grader went with a bunch of other third graders to see the Nutcracker. Just so you know, the Nutcracker ballet is one of my all-time favorites. It conjures up memories of me in a frilly taffeta skirt, patent leather shoes, and a pretty, frilly white shirt with my hair all curly and in bows. It gives me that same magical feeling you get when you go to Disney World. So, I always dreamed of taking my children with me to the ballet to enjoy this wonderful form of art.
So, naturally, I was a bit peeved, and more than a little jealous, when I discovered that the third grade field trip would be to one of my favorite ballets, and that they didn’t need any chaperones. In a 20 minute speech, I told my eight-year-old son how privileged he was to get to go and how much I love it.
This morning dawned nice and cold – perfect for my son to dress up in stuff that usually makes him hot and whiney. I sent my darling off and wondered during his time on the school bus if he was anticipating the magic that would happen on stage. I glanced at the clock later and knew that he was watching a beautiful performance and hoped that he could follow the story. Then it came time for me to pick him and some neighbor kids up from school.
“How was the play guys?” I ask.
An eight-year-old’s critique: “It was boring. And the guys wore tights!” Lots of giggling from boys and girls, and I’m thinking “Oh, great, what are they gonna say about what they saw in the guys’ tights?” And, I wait for it as the giggling dies down enough for them to speak. “ The guys wore tights, and you could see their butt cracks!”
A car full of kids erupts in laughter. And that is what an eight-year-old thinks of my favorite ballet. Oh, well, I guess I didn’t really want an eight-year-old that was cultured anyway. Then I was told that they looked like little Lego people on stage.
So, naturally, I was a bit peeved, and more than a little jealous, when I discovered that the third grade field trip would be to one of my favorite ballets, and that they didn’t need any chaperones. In a 20 minute speech, I told my eight-year-old son how privileged he was to get to go and how much I love it.
This morning dawned nice and cold – perfect for my son to dress up in stuff that usually makes him hot and whiney. I sent my darling off and wondered during his time on the school bus if he was anticipating the magic that would happen on stage. I glanced at the clock later and knew that he was watching a beautiful performance and hoped that he could follow the story. Then it came time for me to pick him and some neighbor kids up from school.
“How was the play guys?” I ask.
An eight-year-old’s critique: “It was boring. And the guys wore tights!” Lots of giggling from boys and girls, and I’m thinking “Oh, great, what are they gonna say about what they saw in the guys’ tights?” And, I wait for it as the giggling dies down enough for them to speak. “ The guys wore tights, and you could see their butt cracks!”
A car full of kids erupts in laughter. And that is what an eight-year-old thinks of my favorite ballet. Oh, well, I guess I didn’t really want an eight-year-old that was cultured anyway. Then I was told that they looked like little Lego people on stage.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
News Flash: I'm going to get REALLY old!
So, I had some lab work done and my doctor informed me that I’m going to live to be a hundred!
Wow! That is OLD. Although I wasn’t entirely surprised considering how long my great-grandmother and great-great grandmother lived (yes, I was privileged enough to get to know them both). But, to actually hear those words come out of my doctor’s mouth was a little surprising. He may have been exaggerating a little, but hey, who cares?
So, that puts my expiration date around 2076. If I’m going to get that old, then I expect science to make some advances in the last two-thirds of my lifetime.
We need a permanent fix to graying hair. After all, I can’t spend my whole retirement on getting my hair done. And, for those of you keeping track, I’m already retired. Yes, I know, I have a sweet life. Don’t you wish you could retire in the first third of your life?
Second, after watching my grandmothers, they really need to do something about arthritis. What good is it going to do me if I live to be 100, and can’t put on my jewelry, or write these wonderful posts?
Third, also after seeing my grandmothers, you have to do something about that whole hunched over thing. I’m already short at a whopping 5’1”. I’m pretty sure they don’t make cute clothes with a hump in your back. It’s hard enough finding clothes to fit as it is.
Fourth, you REALLY need to get cracking on this whole Alzheimer’s thing. Who cares if you’ve seen a century’s worth of innovation if you can’t remember how to walk in heels?
Fifth, you need to do something about heart disease. Hubby’s response to the news was “Wow, that’s great honey.” Quickly followed by “I guess that means you’re going to have a second or third husband.” But, really, how could I ever live without my wonderful, sweet, charming husband? Gag. Yes, well, maybe next time I’ll marry for money. Love you honey!
So, here’s to science and hoping they can learn to make cute shoes that don’t hurt your feet! Get crackin’ guys!
Wow! That is OLD. Although I wasn’t entirely surprised considering how long my great-grandmother and great-great grandmother lived (yes, I was privileged enough to get to know them both). But, to actually hear those words come out of my doctor’s mouth was a little surprising. He may have been exaggerating a little, but hey, who cares?
So, that puts my expiration date around 2076. If I’m going to get that old, then I expect science to make some advances in the last two-thirds of my lifetime.
We need a permanent fix to graying hair. After all, I can’t spend my whole retirement on getting my hair done. And, for those of you keeping track, I’m already retired. Yes, I know, I have a sweet life. Don’t you wish you could retire in the first third of your life?
Second, after watching my grandmothers, they really need to do something about arthritis. What good is it going to do me if I live to be 100, and can’t put on my jewelry, or write these wonderful posts?
Third, also after seeing my grandmothers, you have to do something about that whole hunched over thing. I’m already short at a whopping 5’1”. I’m pretty sure they don’t make cute clothes with a hump in your back. It’s hard enough finding clothes to fit as it is.
Fourth, you REALLY need to get cracking on this whole Alzheimer’s thing. Who cares if you’ve seen a century’s worth of innovation if you can’t remember how to walk in heels?
Fifth, you need to do something about heart disease. Hubby’s response to the news was “Wow, that’s great honey.” Quickly followed by “I guess that means you’re going to have a second or third husband.” But, really, how could I ever live without my wonderful, sweet, charming husband? Gag. Yes, well, maybe next time I’ll marry for money. Love you honey!
So, here’s to science and hoping they can learn to make cute shoes that don’t hurt your feet! Get crackin’ guys!
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