So I was charged with the task of creating a video post talking about what I am grateful for in my life. Yesterday was crazy. I woke up late and rushed around the rest of the day trying to make up for it. I don’t have video skills. I knew there was no way I was going to edit up some fantastic piece in one day and properly give tribute to all of the things I’m grateful for.

But I had a video camera.

And of course I had my kids (they’re always hanging around).

What a brilliant idea! I’ll film my kids being sweet and loving and talk about how much they’ve changed my life…enriched it.

They were more interested in the cat.*

I’ve developed an enhanced sense of humor since having kids (I had to). I think that’s pretty cool.

And yes that was my underwear you saw flying behind my head. So much for the folded clothes–and my dignity.

*No children were seriously injured in the making of this video and the cat had already hidden herself far away from the crazies. Though head-butted by his younger brother, my middle son has his mother’s hard head and popped up unscathed just moments later.

Yesterday’s rain storms left us with a gorgeous day today.

My garden needing weeding, the carport needed organizing and well who doesn’t want to spend some time at the pool. But were the adults in this family doing that today?

No.

There we were pulling everything out of the car port so we could power wash the siding to remove the dirt encrusted spray of what looked like a case of soda. (I’m not sure it wasn’t that much.)

Apparently, when you get a group of kids together and provide them with an ice tub full of soda it’s really fun to shake them up and spray them at each other.

So we’re pulling out trash cans, setting up the power washer (and fighting over who gets to use it) when I look inside and notice that all three of our boys are inside in the air conditioning sitting out the couch playing video games.

Oh no they weren’t!!

All of the sudden I had a wonderful idea!

Boys come here please. Go get the bucket, a few scrub brushes and sponges and the dish soap and come out here please.

The boys were going to learn a lesson.

Oh cool! Yay bubbles! Can we wash the car next?

Yeah that lasted five minutes.

My arm hurts.

I’m doing all the work.

I’ve been scrubbing for 20 minutes and it won’t come off.

You’re a horrible mom.

Why yes my children. Yes I am. But my siding is clean and I’m thinking the next time you go to shake up a soda you might remember all the fun you had today.

The mommy wars draw lots of attention. People like nothing more than women fighting whether it’s over a man or about how to raise children or in mud.

I hate nothing more.

As women, we moved apart during the Industrial Revolution. We moved to cities–away from our families and away from the women who were our support systems. The focus of our attention became the men who brought home a paycheck. We began to see one another as a threat rather than an extension of our network.

That’s just dumb (my intelligence is blinding, no?).

I say this all in an effort to mitigate any comments that might be made about what I am about to write next.

cue the whining…

It’s summer. My kids are home. Family events are taking place. The weather is gorgeous. My garden needs attention. My house is a mess.

I WANT TO STAY HOME. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THE OFFICE ANYMORE.

Stupid money and bills and luxuries and travel. If it weren’t for you, I’d be job-title free!

And poor.

Oh well. Back to work.

Dear Small People* Who Climb into Bed with me at Night,

It sends warm fuzzy feelings directly to my heart just thinking about the fact that the most comforting thing to you is to sleep nestled up against me.

BUT, we must have some rules. Trust me, following these will come in handy later in life. I can’t get into the WHY now, but I promise. I’m your mom. Would I lie to you?

1. Humans lie PARALLEL to each other in bed.

2. Limbs are to remain still–even during dream state. Flinging and flailing of extremities is strictly prohibited.
3. Wetting the bed is not appreciated—especially when you leave your co-sleeper with the wet spot to sleep in.
4. All nails must be trimmed neatly. Drawing blood is highly frowned upon by most except for the random girls who read Twilight one too many times and really?? That trend will be tired by the time you’re old enough to understand what a freak your mom is for giving you these helpful hints for “co-sleeping.”

Love,
Mom**

*No! I’m not talking about THOSE little people, I finished with that phase back in ’97. Jeez, keep up!

**The same mom who worries weekly about the kind of mate you will make later in life, and winces just a little each day for the men or women who might have to live with your love of fart humor and inability to pee INTO the toilet.

Tonight you asked how many sleeps you had until Kindergarten. Telling you it was almost 100 would have been so overwhelming especially since you can’t count that high yet.

But in a year from now?

You’ll be counting the stars. You’ll be reading. You’ll know what to do during a fire drill.

Once you start Kindergarten, you’ll probably be broken of the verbal habits we’ve let slide because you’re our youngest and damn if they aren’t cute.

No more will you tell me about how you “runned” on the playground. Next baseball season you won’t ask me if we can go to the “‘session” stand. And I’m guessing that your favorite toys will cease to be described as “mines.”

I mean you’ve already left “sanks” (thanks) and “pickels” (testicles) behind.

Guess I’ll just have to savor every last one of my 100 opportunities to get you into your “jamas” before school starts up again in the fall.

“White Trash Mom” You may bristle at the term.

I’m still a bit sensitive to it from time-to-time, but I’ve met Michelle Lamar in real life (oh alright, I love her). There isn’t a mean bone in that woman’s body (unless you’re a member of the Muffia) so I know it’s not a term meant to demean but rather to unify those of us who don’t feel we fit into modern June Cleaver model.

Wait, you do? Why the hell are you still here?

I’m kidding. Relax. That’s what being a “White Trash Mom” is all about.

I established yesterday that I never feel like I fit in. Do you think becoming a mother rectified that?

Hardly.

When my son first came to live with us at the age of three we were so green at parenthood that we took him to happy hour with us. That stopped with #2 because I was too tired to even consider happy hour.

What was our first son’s first favorite song? Faithfully by Journey. You don’t think he learned to love it by me playing The Wiggles in the car do you?

My youngest son has worn nothing but baseball pants every day for the past two years. Every. Day. I’m not phased because my middle son wore flip-flops every day for two years straight often on the wrong feet or mixing pairs for months.

Will my boys be permanently scarred by my approach to motherhood?

It’s entirely possible, but pretty unlikely.

And it’s not like they aren’t going to dysfunctional adults one way or another. I mean look at our parents (of course, not you Mom). They grew up in the June Cleaver generation.

If the way I mother my boys qualifies me as a “White Trash Mom” according to Michelle, then RIGHT ON!

My oldest just made the Honor Roll, my second is reading ahead of grade level and my youngest has been helping me fold laundry.

Doesn’t get much better than that.

This post was written as part of the SV Moms Book Club. Check out DC Metro Moms to see links to other posts about the book.

I have a feeling I’m only the first woman who will fall in love with those eyes of yours.

I don’t know if it’s their dark blue color, those ridiculously long eye-lashes or the ever-present sparkle that melts my heart every time.

Whatever it is, they will serve you well. Of course, you seem to already know that you little stinker.

Today we were up with the birdies to head south for the last baseball game of the season. Waking up at 6:15 a.m. on a Sunday morning isn’t my favorite thing to do, but the drive was beautiful with all the fall colors and it was just me and my boy.

It’s not often we get to have that much time together alone.

We were done by 11:20 a.m. and ready to head home having just lost by one run in the bottom of the last inning. He just wanted to get out of there.

“I hate losing mom.”

“I know but you got to get out there and play a sport you love with your friends. Think about M who played a whole season without winning and still had a smile after every game.”

“Yeah, that’s true, but it doesn’t hurt to win every once in a while.” “And you know what I hate about losing? It means we didn’t do something right. We could have played better.”

He was really okay. He doesn’t take it as hard as some kids. And I love that he thinks about how he can make changes to affect the outcome next time.

Sorry–little bragging.

The terrific thing about living in Virginia is that we are surrounded by historical landmarks. How often do we take advantage of them? Not often. But we were up and out and it was still early and we actually had a Sunday afternoon with no plans, so I suggested a detour to Fredericksburg–just me and him–on the way home.

What a great day!

We visited Kenmore, the home of Fielding and Betty Lewis (George Washington’s sister). It was built before the Civil War and is going through restoration right now.

Big A wasn’t too psyched about the idea of taking a tour, but it was just the two of us on it and even without furniture in the house he was filled with questions.

He really was interested in how people lived, in how old things were, and had clearly paid attention to some of his history lessons being able to talk to the docent about Virginia history.

I walked around with a perma-grin the entire time.

Done with our tour, he then begged me to go over and visit the Fredericksburg Civil War battle site. How can you say no to a kid who wants to do more “hysterical” stuff as we joke in my family.

He could barely contain his excitement. He kept saying “do you think a confederate soldier stood here?” (I’d move one step to the left and say “no I think they stood right here.”)

The Civil War has never been something that interested me greatly–until today. Walking along the trails and looking over the fields where thousands of young men were killed fighting to protect a version of their country, I was struck by how much we take for granted even in at a divisive political time such as this election.

It wasn’t lost on me that those boys on that battle field could have been my boys. I owe it to those soldiers and the families who lost them to think of them and remember their sacrifice. And to be grateful for their passion to protect a country that really was still such a new experiment.

It’s easy to forget sometimes.

There were plaques around the cemetery with stanzas from a poem(s?) (I still don’t know which one, but will research it.) that say it better than I ever could.

I titled this photo above “hope.” For the words are my wish for my boys, their children and their children’s children.

My kids won’t find the embarrassing stories I share with the world if I do it on another blog.

Right?

Just in case they do, let me say this.

Boys,

I want you to know that I do remember what it was like to be a pre-teen and I’m not unsympathetic. It’s just that I’m discovering there are certain traditions that are the rights of every parent. And when you become parents yourselves, I fully expect you to “torture” my grandbabies in the exact same way.

Please know my sweet things that the “fights” I put up to your attempts to fit in are only for show–and I am giggling in my head the whole time. For I know hormones are taking over your body, which is prohibiting you from exhibiting any normal sort of behavior–kinda like demonic possession without the projectile vomiting (there better not be any projectile vomiting).

Sharing some of your stories with my friends?? It’s just that a mamma has to do something to maintain her sanity.

I love you forever,
Mom

The following letter was written by a friend of mine who is just so exasperated by Gov. Palin’ that she fired off this letter off to our dinner group. It is reprinted here with her permission. You may often see her commenting on this blog as Harried Mom of Three. I’m trying to convince her to start her own blog.

Dear Ms. Palin:

As a liberal, feminist, woman, I am not upset that John McCain picked you for what your supporters deem my “opposition to a pro-life, spunky, good looking woman.” What I am opposed to is that you are a woman who seems to have gotten to the top for ONLY being pro-life, spunky and good looking and for not having any other substance.

My great hope was that when a woman was a hair’s breath away from the top office of the land that she would actually be able to handle the job. Over the last week, you have proved that you cannot handle even the largest softball of questions from Katie Couric of all people.

How, as an American citizen and a mother, am I supposed to trust that you’ll be able to outwit world leaders when you can’t even outwit America’s journalistic sweetheart?

And, please, please stop talking about journalistic “gotchas.” We’re not giving you a pop quiz. We’re trying to figure out what you are made of and whether or not we want to select you for one of the most important job in this country. You should be able to answer questions thrown at you, including naming ONE newspaper from your great state that you might read in a regular basis.

I will admit that Barack Obama has never held an executive position in government–and I’m nervous about that. However, I’m willing to give him some leeway, because he’s proven on a regular basis that he’s thoughtful, intelligent and well read.

There’s a reason that “Joe Six-Pack” shouldn’t be (vice) president and it’s because it’s a hard job filled with lots of responsibilities and it involves making many important decisions.

Stop blaming the media for YOUR inability to answer questions, stop blaming liberal women for your inability to snow these voters into supporting you and stop blaming Gwen Ifill for being biased. If your running mate’s campaign didn’t know she wrote that book back in August when they agreed to her as moderator of your debate then I’m afraid they read the paper as infrequently as you do.

Love,

K