Just what we need in our house…more audible farts.

With the holiday season in full swing and my children’s ridiculous list for Santa growing bigger and bigger everyday, I have found myself less interested in what they really want and instead, am choosing items off their list based on their ability to drive me, less crazy.

It’s selfish, I know, but as any parent who has been subjected to the sights and sounds of Switch and Go Dinos will attest, sometimes not granting their every wish, is what’s best for everyone.

Enter the Despicable Me Fart Blaster.

About a week ago, while shopping for a birthday gift at Toys R Us, we happened to come across this little gem and my 5 year old son has been infatuated with it ever since. He talks about it at least twice a day, and over the past few hours I have noticed that he has begun speaking as though it is already under the tree. He has carved out a space in his heart for it, and a shelf in his room despite the fact that Santa is still on the fence about it.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t want to make my son’s dream of triggered farting come true, it’s just that I personally try to steer clear of that type of comedy (dick and fart jokes) and am having a hard time encouraging my son to engage in it.

I understand a love for bodily functions is perfectly normal in boys his age and am reminded of that fact every time he utters the words “Baby Booty Poopie Pie” when I ask him if he needs to use the bathroom, but just because it’s normal doesn’t mean I have to like it.

My fear is that if I give him the one thing that he wants this Christmas, I am once again, setting myself up for frustration and of course, failure.

So the question for today is: Is there such a thing as responsible Fart Gun use? Can I teach my 5 year old how and when to use it appropriately, or when you give a kid a Fart Gun are you essentially saying “Go…Be an asshole”?

2013

2014  –  A new year…a new Santa…an almost identical reaction.

Well done kids.

We came home from school wearing this and despite the fact that we were genuinely relieved by it’s message, we were left asking what the f@$k is going on in kindergarten that we needed to point out our drug free status?

We caught her in an intimate moment.

We let the kids decorate the tree and quickly realized that our height was somewhat limiting in terms of ornament placement.

We went to Bloomingdales where we discovered that it, has already begun. 

We found out that love, really is, blind.

We went to the La Brea Tar Pits and discovered that nestled in the crotch of a super casual brown bear, is the last place he wanted to be.

One of those moments that I find hard to enjoy.

As stated in my very first post, I began writing this blog as an outlet for my my queries, musings and sheer frustration with the parenting process. I decided to call it 5 to fifteen because my mother has always said that kids are at their best between those ages. She promised, in no uncertain terms, that it would get easier and now that my son is well into his fifth year you may be asking, was she right?

To that, I say…well, sort of.

All, is not necessarily, good in my hood, but it is much better. We certainly have more good days than bad, which I absolutely consider a win and over the past few months, I have noticed a slow but significant transition into a more independent, less manic young man, which pleases me to no end.

I admit, that for a while there, I did question if things would ever get easier and now I can say with the utmost of confidence that there is a light at the end of this tunnel. I have even found myself counting down the years until both of my kids are over five so that my husband and I can enjoy a little time off. An idea, which now that I think of it, just makes me sad.

I realize as I write this, that being a parent is an odd thing. We all chose to embark on this journey and yet we find ourselves at times, wanting to speed it up. While all of those parents who are on the other side urge us to “enjoy the little kid moments while you can, because you will miss them when they’re gone”, I’ve most likely locked myself in the bathroom and am reciting the serenity prayer. It’s a funny thing because the days can feel so long but looking back, the years seem to have gone by in an instant.

This blog has been my daily reminder of how trying the parenting process has been for me and at the same time has helped me to remember what a gift every tear, every tantrum and every moment really is.

So I guess the point of this is, yes, it does get easier and my mother is thankfully correct, but I think it’s best that I try not to focus on the future, as hard as that may be, and instead be in the moment.  And let’s be honest, my son is only 5 and a half, things could go downhill pretty quickly from here. There is still plenty of time to prove my mother wrong and discover that my pre-emptive purchase of www.thisparentingshitishardatanyage.com, was, and still is, a good investment.

The leftovers.

From the moment your children join the ranks of the educated, they will be, as you probably were, forced to participate in the yearly tradition of school portraits. As a result, you the parent will be asked to choose a photo package that will no doubt, be looked at by your children as an indication of just how much you love them. Or at least, that’s how I remember it.

When I was young I can recall, quite vividly, rushing home from school to deliver to my parents, the all mighty Picture Day order form. Back then, there were 6 packages, listed A through F.  A was considered the deluxe package and was the Rolls Royce of photo packages. It boasted several eight by tens, a handful of five by sevens and twenty four wallet size photos. TWENTY. F@$KING. FOUR.

At the other end of the spectrum was F, the basic package made up of one sad little five by seven and four wallet size photos. Package F was the Ford Fiesta of photo packages and of course, the one that my parents chose every single year.

Needless to say, Picture Day was not my favorite, as I could only assume that my parent’s feelings for me were lukewarm at best, and that my dream of making it rain with wallet size photos, was not to be.

So this year, when my son brought home his order form for the first time, you can bet your balls I chose the biggest baddest package Lifetouch Photos had to offer. It didn’t matter how much it cost, so long as it screamed “Mommy loves you” while simultaneously sending a message of “F-U” to my withholding parents.

Of course, I realize now, as I sit here with 36 wallet size photos of my son that will absolutely go undistributed, that my parents weren’t actually being cruel or withholding, they just weren’t being excessive. The reality was that I was their third child and the fifth grandchild on both sides. No one wanted a portrait of me and my parents weren’t going to overbuy to prove anything to anyone. It was nothing personal, it was just good sense.

As it turns out, overcompensation is kind of a theme here in my house as both my husband and I find ourselves giving to our children all sorts of things (material and otherwise) based on some skewed memory from our childhood. The situation with the school pictures has reminded me that making a concerted effort to not put your weird shit on your kids is probably a step in the right direction in terms of raising well behaved, balanced, non-assholes.

Having said that, I know that next year I will not make the same mistake. I will have the good sense to choose a photo package based on the number of pictures I actually need and as a result, won’t be forced to give away five by sevens as parting gifts to our Thanksgiving guests.

In the meantime however, I would like to mention that the first 36 people to share this blog will receive an adorable wallet size picture of my son, courtesy of Lifetouch Photos and of course, my own stupidity.

A transcript from an actual conversation yesterday:

Nate:     Mommy, remember when Olivia was coming out of your…

Me:        Here we go…

Nate:     NO! Remember when Olivia was being born…?

Me:        Yes.

Nate:     Remember when I was sitting on the couch and Papa came in and said “Nate the baby is here!”

Me:        Yeah buddy I do.

(unusually long pause)

Nate:    Was that couch a sectional?

Me:        Huh?

(condescendingly) 

Nate:     Was…that…couch…a…sectional?

Me:        Uh..no, I think it was a pullout.

(long pause)

(returns to playing Lego)

Me:        Good chat Nate.

Look forward to more insight courtesy of my children coming soon.

Just like they did it back then.

Yesterday morning my son’s kindergarten class celebrated Thanksgiving a week early, by reenacting the ceremonial feast between the Pilgrims and the Indians.

I, was fortunate enough to bear witness to this adorable little event where by which, the kids sat down for a historically accurate feast of goldfish and mini muffins followed by songs of turkey worship and thanks.

The kid’s electrifying performance of that old classic; I’m Thankful For My Friends At School most certainly warmed my heart, but it also got me thinking about gratitude and wondering just how thankful my 5 year old really is.

Like most parents, I have taught my children to say thank you and despite the fact that I have to remind them every so often, they have basically mastered that skill. But saying thank you is certainly not the same as being thankful and I am reminded of that reality every time my son thanks me for his iPad then immediately throws a temper tantrum  because the WiFi is slow.

The dictionary defines the word gratitude as the quality or feeling of being grateful or thankful. In terms of qualities that I wish for my children to possess, gratitude is definitely up there on my list. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder is it something that can be taught?

If gratitude is in fact a feeling, one would argue that it’s impossible to teach and perhaps true gratitude only comes with advanced age and experience.

So the question for today is: Can you really teach young children to be thankful and if so, how? 

We were reminded that just because someone offers you *free* face painting, doesn’t mean you should take it. He asked for Spiderman…he got this.

We absolutely fell in love with a baby who happens to shit out a charm and were prompted us to ask, does no one just poop, poop anymore?

We realized that now, might be a good time to start weaning her off of her “soother”.

We discovered, based on our 5 year old’s choice of book from the school library, precisely why he hasn’t made much headway with the cool kids.

We realized that a stern, yet politely worded note and excessive use of caution tape is wasted on a boy who can’t read and has a thing for caution tape.

You can’t go back.

Just this past weekend, I half jokingly said to my husband that I would “kill for a cold” because then, I would have an excuse to spend the day in bed.

I wasn’t looking for anything too severe, no strep or stomach flu, just a little something to justify eating my lunch in bed and watching t.v. all day.

Of course two days later, when I woke up with a sore throat and fever, I knew the universe had heard my call and granted my request.

Good news right?

Wrong.

What I neglected to realize was that as a stay-at-home mom, being sick changes nothing. In addition to a million other things, I still had to walk my son to school, do laundry, serve meals and play, it just meant that I felt like shit while doing so.

What I realize now, is that my fantasy was not just to be sick, but to be sick in my mother’s house, under her care and back when I was seven. If I would have been more specific in my wish, perhaps I would have spent the day watching Muppet Babies while being served root beer floats and jello instead of popping pills and counting down the agonizing minutes until my kids went to bed.

I learned today that despite my best efforts, there is no going back. I am a mother now and as such, must suck it up in order to keep the little people  I birthed, happy and alive. I must also come to grips with the idea that my children will not cease to need me just because Mommy is sick and instead, accept the fact that no matter how swollen my glands are, they will still want to know when their goddamn chicken nuggets are ready.

So here is to another day of motherhood and mucus. Wish me luck and pray that the rest of them don’t get what I have, otherwise prepare yourself for a series of blogs documenting my slow but painful journey into madness.

Day One.

Six days ago, UPS delivered a delightful box of holiday accents to my home.

Six days ago, I removed said accents from their oversized cardboard casing and offered it to my kids.

Six days ago I made a very bad decision, because six days have gone by, and that f@$king box is still in my living room.

It’s no surprise really, the same thing happens every time a box large enough for my kids to sit in enters our home. I, with the innocence and coordination of a baby deer, bound into the room loudly proclaiming “I’ve got a surprise for you” and upon seeing said box, my children respond with the kind of intense excitement usually reserved for Christmas morning.

So begins the tumultuous relationship between myself, and that box.

Over the past six days, that box has been a car, a cave, a house, a prison and a poorly crafted rocket ship. It has been colored on, painted over and essentially bedazzled into submission. It has proven to be the source of great fun, the catalyst for many tears and of course, a major pain in my ass.

I honestly don’t know why I allow such an to object in my home. Perhaps laziness is a factor as I find breaking down large boxes a tedious job, or maybe it’s because to my kids, an empty box is like their own little version of crack. Regardless, I need to remember how I feel about that box today, so that I avoid making the same mistake in the future.

So in an effort to jog my memory the next time Pottery Barn or Amazon comes a knockin’, I have made a list of simple truths that one must take into account when considering bringing a child sized, empty box into their home.

1. What you think will be an afternoon companion will inevitably turn into a week long freeloader.

An empty box is kind of like that great Aunt who insists she’s only popping by to say a quick hello before she heads back to Arizona, but who you find holed up in your guest room 5 days later. Like that great Aunt, your kids will grow to love the box and you will quickly realize that the length of it’s stay is no longer within your control.

2. There will be tears.

If you, like me, have more than one child, you already know that all of them will want to be in the box….at the same time…all of the time. One can also assume that you are painfully aware of the fact that siblings confined to a small space is always a recipe for disaster. No matter how big the box is, there will never be enough room for all of them and because of that, it will serve as a cage where by which, they can kick each other in the face without apology. You may try to set up some sort of time share system but there’s no point, because, let’s be honest, it’s a f@$king box not a house in the Hamptons.

3. You will be forced to play that game.

You know the game I’m talking about. The one where they get inside the box and you have to pretend that you don’t know where they are only to have them jump out and yell “surprise!” like a stripper at a bachelor party. The good news is that you’ll have to play it so many times that you will inevitably begin to hate the sound of your own name and eventually go numb. So, I guess that’s something to look forward to.

4. The shit inside.

Nine times out of ten that box will be filled with some sort of padding and whether it’s packing peanuts or bubble wrap, it’s really just the lesser of two evils. Either way, the incessant popping or the shit scattered all over your floor will eventually evoke an Amanda Bynes grade meltdown.

5.  Disposal can be tricky.

If your kids are anything like mine, you will not be able to just throw the box away. A situation like this will require a carefully orchestrated accident of some sort. Perhaps it was left outside overnight and the sprinklers got it or there was a small kitchen fire that consumed the box but miraculously spared well, everything else. Whatever you choose, be sure to dot all of your i’s and cross every t, because you will have murdered that box and you have to be ready for them to go all C.S.I. on your ass.

So with the holidays (and their promise of endless oversized boxes) just around the corner, I want to remind you that having a box is a lot of work and huge responsibility. I am certainly not suggesting that you shouldn’t ever get one, I’m just saying that you may want to consider getting a dog or at least having another baby first.