We Are Not the Osbournes, Are We?

So I'm trying to download a song that Alex wants onto my iPod. He wants Greenday's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams", but when I google the lyrics, I see that the f-word is included in them. I looked around for any downloadable radio edits, but there are none to be found.

This sent me into a quandary of moral relativism. Is it really so bad to allow my son to hear a song with only one bad word in it, when the rest of the song is really good? And really, he will hear it anyway, with me not having the cleanest mouth on the block and all. And he will probably hear much worse as he grows up. Why, I used to listen to Prince's "Dirty Minds" album, and it didn't kill me!

Then I called a friend of mine, who is very clear-headed, and she told me that it is one thing for him to hear it on the radio once, quite another to have it at his disposal whenever he wants it. Oh, all right. I guess I can't really send the kid to a Lutheran school, take him to church every week, then not follow through on his media consumption. Also, as his mom, it is different if I BUY it for him than for him to sneak it, like I did with Prince and my mom.

So, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" is not on my iPod, and I am bummed. Why do they have to wreck a whole song with just one word? They could have used "messed up" or "fluffed up" or any number of other words to fill that spot. Grrrr.

Wipe N' Dipe

I have decided that my real job description as a housewife should be this: WIPER. No frills, no flowery wording. Just what I do.

A normal day looks like this: wipe my teeth, wipe my face, wipe makeup off and put it back on.

Wipe the baby's bottom, wipe the baby's teeth, wipe the baby's face. Repeat as necessary.

Wipe the breakfast dishes, wipe the sink, wipe the counter, wipe the stove. Repeat as necessary after every meal.

Wipe the glass, wipe the dust, wipe the dog hair off the floor.

Wipe that smile off your face, wipe the slate clean, wipe the day off the calendar.

Repeat until you die, or get a housekeeper, whichever comes first.

Dirty Knees, Happy Mommy

So, yesterday I took Joe to the park for the first time to play on the jungle gym. He's two already, but last year he was not walking, and still had the trach in, so playing at the park with its dirt and pollen floating in the air was not high on my priority list.

But this year, he has learned to walk, and climb, and has no trach, so he is basically just a different boy than last year. I watched him climb the stairs, go down the slide, and scale a small incline (30 times!) that must have been like a mountain to him. A couple of times, he fell in the dirt, and ended up with dirty knees. I got a little teary-eyed, because two years ago I wasn't even sure if he would be alive at this point, and if he was, would he just be sitting in a stroller or wheelchair watching everyone else having fun? But no, that has not been his fate. In fact, to look at him yesterday, he was just like all the other kids, if a little tippier than most since he is a recent convert to the walking world.

I used to look at all the other little kids and be so angry and jealous that their moms just got to have fun with their kids, and I had to turn into a nurse for Joe. Well, yesterday I was just like the other moms, and it was sweet. I don't know why he has had to deal with all the pain and surgeries he has had, or why he can't just be "normal" like everyone else. But for a short time yesterday, there were no worries about the tests coming up, or the challenges he will face. It was just a mom, a boy, and a pair of dirty knees.

10 Years From Now...

I was carrying the groceries in today and was struck by how filthy my front storm door was. The handprints, lipmarks, and general yuck comes courtesy of my two year old little angel. He seems to think that glass doors are just not right unless there is a huge streak of Joe goo across them.

That got me to thinking...

In 10 years, I will no longer have any babies to leave handprints about two feet high.

I will find out whether Joe will be able to talk, sing, and attend school.

I will not buy diapers, wipes, or trip over a potty chair in my bathroom.

I will not have any more artwork made by clumsy little hands that practically seeps as much love as it does glue.

I will be living with my husband, and only two boys, as my oldest should be done with college about then. My middle son will be graduating high school.

I will have a couple of initials after my name. The first, I hope, is RN. The second is MSN (Master's of Science in Nursing), and the third is CRNA (certified registered nurse anesthetist).

I will be approaching my thirtieth wedding anniversary. 28 years, to be exact.

I will have a few stamps in my passport, which now is sadly lacking them.

I will have met people who may become good friends, and I will have lost others who mean a lot to me.

I will have changed my hair, my glasses, my weight, and my clothes from the way they look today.

What will not have changed is my love for the people closest to me, the faith I have in God, and the knowledge that no matter how much I plan, I have no idea what any phase of my life is going to bring. My children will have struggles, my husband and I will too, but we don't know what they will be until we step into the fire and emerge on the other side. I can hardly wait to see what God has in store!

"F" as in ....

Well, a big milestone yesterday. Not one that will get commemorated on a scrapbook page though. My eldest son, the one to whom the younger ones will look for inspiration, has just lowered the bar of family grades: he got his first F. In religion, of all things. Not to underestimate its importance, but really, how do you get an F in Religion? That's like failing an adult enrichment class. Sheesh.

So now, he has no other choice but to knuckle down for the next six weeks. No Playstation, no phone, no computer games. Man, my life is gonna suck. Those are all the carrots I use instead of beating him with sticks. Guess I'll have to go out back and cut me a switch now.

Let the fun begin.

Just Another Manic Monday...

When my husband and I decided to get married, we (meaning I) managed to pull together the whole thing within five weeks. Tim had, by then, already transferred to Wisconsin to start a new job. In those five weeks, I lined up a dress, a caterer, booked the church and fellowship hall for the reception, planned the cake, attended a shower, picked out my Maid of Honor's dress, ordered invitations, planned the menu and continued to work at my job at The Limited. Tim was responsible for: showing up. Oh, and he had to get a suit bought and tailored, but I went along on that trip too.

Fast forward 17 1/2 years, and not much has changed. This morning, I woke up at 6:20 AM, plugged the coffee in, answered emails, fed the dog, drank a cup of coffee, and hit the shower by 6:50. I was dressed and made up by 7:20. From there, I pressed Nick's pants for school, made two lunches and stuck them in boxes, reminded the kids to get their hair combed, teeth brushed, and eat breakfast. I then (about 7:30) got the baby out of bed, dressed him (including hair and teeth), fed him and tube-fed him a bottle. I let the dog out, got the baby's coat on, and pushed all three boys into the minivan by 7:53 to pick up our carpool buddies.

Tim's morning went like this: At 7:10, get in the shower. Shave, get dressed, walk out the door by 7:30.

There are times when I really wish I had been born with a penis.

There is a common fallacy about women who choose to be stay-at-home moms (SAHMs, in ‘net lingo). It isn’t about our commitment to our children or husband, it isn’t that we want to be able to provide warm nutritious meals for our families, and it isn’t that we LOVE running errands and driving on field trips. No, it’s that we love to clean. Tell someone that you stay home with your kids, and the first response is a snarky, “Oh, gotta work on that stubborn waxy buildup on the kitchen floor, huh?”

Let me be the first to say, I did not like to clean when I worked, and that feeling has not increased since I’ve been home. You cannot see yourself in my dishes. You cannot eat off my floor. Sometimes, it’s ill-advised to eat off my plates if you’re not sure what stage the dishwasher is in. So, let’s let go of the Donna Reed ideal already, huh?

I stayed home for a lot of reasons. The first of which was that I am essentially too cheap to pay my entire paycheck to a daycare center. The second was that my second son, had he been in a daycare, would have been booted out unceremoniously by the second week. Even at two, he would have been labeled “incorrigible”. I also like the fact that I do not have to rearrange my schedule if someone starts a fever, needs a ride to baseball practice, or wants me to go along on a really cool field trip.

So, while I used to wonder what women did who stayed at home all day, I now know that not all of us use the time to buff and polish the house. Sometimes it’s enough just to buff and polish my kids’ faces before their Dad comes home, you know?