United States of Motherhood: March 2009

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Want Some Drama With Your Venti Half-Caff With Whip?

I think I've mentioned before I love coffee...and drama.

I also love reality.

The best combo of which is this sometimes snarky little blog written by a bunch of Starbucks barristas.

One of their latest threads includes the worst thing to have ever happened in their store.

On. My. Stars. Check it out.

Customers emptying colostomy bags.

A certain Mr. Honey demonstrating self-love in the washroom with honey packets from his white blossom tea.

Visits from customers who think they are Satan.

Oh, the flung hot coffees swung at barristas for being not hot enough.

The scams. The thieves. The pimps. The hookers.

The affairs between customers.

The affairs between barristas.

Let's not forget the ever-present urge by customers to urinate on the comfy chairs tradition that pops up everywhere.

Network TV couldn't come up with the drama that goes on at the local Starbucks. Seriously.

It makes me feel my last visit was a vacation.

Also, the frequent, ubiquitous use of Starbuck's sinks across the nation by customers as receptacles of feces has really made me question my next visit.

Seriously. Their coffee is not that good, my friends.

Sorry Molly.

BTW The Caffeine Click Test - How Caffeinated Are You?

Thx for the Flickr pics by william couch and by pierofix

Monday, March 30, 2009

Smoking Pig or Whiny Babies ON A PLANE? You decide.

I was dreaming about balmy weather and tropical drinks today.

Warm breezes.

Sand between my toes.

Watching the kids play in the surf.

I went to Trip Advisor to do some research for a trip I doubt we can afford, but a girl can dream, can't she?

So imagine my shock to be jolted out of my blue raspberry daiquiri reverie than this asshat forum:

The flight I was on from Sydney to London last year took 23 hrs and 25 minutes.

During that time there was a small child (maybe aged about 3) that screamed for 21 hrs and 13 minutes of the entire flight. Trust me people...I timed it. Not much else to do really. I couldn't sleep because of the noise, there was nothing on telly and I couldn't have a cigarette thanks to the draconian non smoking laws.

The kid still carried on screaming in the terminal at Singapore on the one hour stop.

I reckon a child of that age is far too young to fly.

So I propose that no children should be allowed on a plane until they are over 11 years of age. This would suit the airlines as inexplicably they consider a 'child' is not a 'child' when they are over 11. Well they seem to whack the prices up once a child is over 11 anyway....


Posted on: 9:54 am, today by Cris_P_Bacon

I responded:

This is such a ridiculous comment. Many of you assume this family was on holiday/vacation. How do you know they weren't going to a funeral? Relocating? Attending a family reunion? Medical treatment? Do you know the history of that child? Apparently, you view children as second class citizens of the world. Sad really.

As a military member stationed in Alaska, I often had to travel on long flights with my small children to visit family and also when we relocated.

Once, my two year old, was that screamer. Just once. I was horrified. He was un- consolable. I could do nothing. He before and since has always traveled like a dream. But that once? It was a nightmare.

So been there and done that. Had the evil eye of fellow passengers. Even a bitchy flight attendant. Now, I realize if that parent could calm that child if it were humanly possible.

Now days, my kids are older, but when we travel and I hear a poor child screaming on a flight, I always go out of my way to make eye contact and smile with sympathy. I'll even offer candy, snacks, treats, or a toy if I have one.

So why don't we get out of our infantilized, whiny, belly button gazing behavior and have some goddamn compassion for once, eh crispy bacon? Grow up. the world is not about you and your nasty cigarette habit reeking up the plane.

Posted on: 1:58 pm, today by USMotherhood

So, my friends, let's do "discuss. "

Last I checked, I paid full price for a seat for any child over the age of two. Full. Adult. Fare.

Second, my husband travels for business quite a lot. He has said on more than one occasion that he would happily travel with our well-behaved seven year old than a lot of the inconsiderate adults with which he has traveled on flights.

He even had a woman beseachingly ask him if she could nurse her baby while sitting next to him. He was shocked she even asked. Of course she could. Apparently other passengers on her travels had complained.

Ridiculous how grown adults put their petty desires and comforts over helpless, hungry, uncomfortable children, isn't it?

So my friends? Let's discuss. What would you choose?

Stanky cigarette whiner self- monikered after a pig who bitches about kids under the age of 12 years having the gall to travel on planes?

Or unhappy baby whose ears hurt?

Which would you rather sit next to on your next trip?

Send me a comment, m'kay?

And while you are at it, please do go discuss with Mr. Cris P. Bacon what a cold, congealed dolt he is, pretty please.

He's already responded to me that he doesn't care if it was a funeral. Seriously.

Don't get me wrong, parents should come prepared with snacks, games, ipod, ds, dvds, AND TO BE ACTIVELY PARENTING (Yes, I've had the kid kicking the back of my seat over and over with no parent intervention), but when a child, especially a baby, is hurting, sick, or so uncomfortable they only cry because they don't have the ability to communicate their needs?

Let's have some compassion, not bans.

Thx for the flickr pics by dustjelly and by tostadophoto.com and by David Winnie

Monday, March 23, 2009

The Best Part of Waking Up...

The. Best. Part. Of. Waking. Up. After. Staying. Up. Past. Midnight...

...Working with son on volumes of prisms, cones, and pyramids well into the night when that type of math makes you shiver and was instrumental in you choosing political science and let's just say it is not your calling, but you needed to stay while CG helped him because while math is CG's thang, let's just say teaching and patience is not CG's calling?

Is not for same son to run into our bedroom, startle you and your husband awake at 7 AM to shout that his little brother is throwing up in the kitchen.

Nope, that is not the best part of waking up.



Eldest then breezed out to his bus, having been up for an hour, doing his morning ablutions, eating breakfast, packing up his bag, and having made his lunch.

This is the same kid that stayed up with us past midnight.

He woke up at 6 AM. We slept through two different alarms.

Oh, to rebound like a 12 year old.

I am still sitting here, dazed, bags under eyes, in PJs, nursing 7 year old and sipping coffee.

This motherhood gig seems pretty harsh in the brutal light on Monday morning.

I look at my calendar.

This last week-end was science fair, swim meets and driving carpools to swim practice.

This week is art docent lessons, field trip chaperoning, and working reading groups in the classroom. Add five days of swim practices, gymnastic practices, marimba practices, and choir practices.

Our kids? They like to practice.

Next week-end is a 3 day all-day each day swim meet.

In between? My house is a disaster. PB's room still is half painted. I have 10 bags of sprouting bulbs to plant before they mold. Kid getting C in class and after two attempts to talk to teacher, still no response which I think might be part of the problem. Time to turn into bitch mom.

Now add vomiting child.

It's going to be a long week and it's only Monday. I feel like the tortoise in the picture above.

Must. Stay. Awake.

Thx for the Flickr pic by Caro's Lines

Thursday, March 19, 2009

My Kind of Americanism

Abraham Lincoln? He's my man. He's my kind of Republican. Strike that. He's my type of American.

In the context of the bail out, his words are beyond wise.


Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Yes, We Eat in Our Car

Due to our onerous commitment to swimming 7 days a week, for three of them, dinner is eaten in the car between practices.

My husband CG has never had the privilege.

To be quite clear, CG thinks eating in cars is for animals. He rarely does it and only begrudgingly on road trips.

Ordinarily, he dutifully attends MBA classes on those nights, so he gets the privilege of eating my pre-made, packaged with love dinner in a warm classroom.

The difference tonight? He happens to be on a break between trimesters and has actually met us two nights of swimming this week alone.


Tonight happened to be our eat in the car night.

To be clear, the weather's pretty abysmal here in Seattle or we would eat in the park, but since it's not and we are gone from 1 PM until 9 PM, we've got to eat somewhere. I prefer not to eat with chlorine in my eyes, nose, and lungs, so the pool is out. It's not time feasible to go home between practices.

The car, our home away from home, it is.

I packed our dinner at 1 PM this afternoon. Plastic forks. Individualized tupperware-ed portions of pasta and tomato sauce, crunchy red bell peppers, and cheese sticks. Cans of chocolate milk.

We stopped to eat in view of a city park. My husband didn't like eating in the car next to the park, but didn't want to eat outside because of the chilly weather.

It did not appeal to his haughty sensibilities of where food and how food should be eaten. He, and his family for that matter, can be a teensy bit snobbish when it comes to food consumption while I play loose with the rules out of necessity.

It's a point of contention in our marriage how much he rides our kids about proper table manners to the spoilage of everyone's appetite.

Eating in the car? Well, let's just say, it's not for him.

After dinner, he asked me, "If I had a brown cardboard box?"

Ummm, no I say quizzically.

Perhaps some brown paper bags?

Ummm, no.


He muttered snarkily something about why not have some cover for sleeping in the park since we are eating in the car like the indigent homeless.

This judgment after one dinner?

After I and the children have had the privilege of eating in the car and making the best of a situation for two years?


You have the privilege of being an jackass.

That's all.

Thx for the Flickr pics by Arkansas ShutterBug and by Frank Peters

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Erin Go Bragh and All That Shite: Green Moldy Science Fair Fugging Sucks The Blarney Stone

There was no corned beef and cabbage at the Scouty household tonight.


No, Guinness either.

In fact, besides a dilapidated leprechaun trap that came back from 1st grade, it was forgotten.

The kids were not tricked out in all their traditional Irish pride (Yes, my auburn haired, green eyed butt is very Irish).

In years past, knowing how ridiculously over the top I get about seasonal holidays, the kids have worn flashing shamrock necklaces, green headbands, sparkly top hats, headbands, and shirts.

Today? Li'l Man wore a green Trader Joe sticker. I'm not sure any of the other kids wore green.


Today, all that could go fug itself.

I had homework still to do. Does green mold from science fair experiment count?

However, my friends, I can say with great trumpeting and fan fare that my homework is done.

Do you hear the angels singing? No?

Oh, maybe that's me getting my cocktail on.

So, swimming was even sacrificed today. We stayed home and put out little heads to the ground.

Six hours straight of cutting, pasting, printing, table and chart wizardry, and it is done and ready for set-up tomorrow:

All the foods...erm..."hosts" were even labeled.

Sadly, attention to food in my clan's bellies? No much attention there.

Dinner was Ramen at 8 PM made by Eldest.

It's one of the few things he can cook without supervision.

So, maybe we'll cook corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes tomorrow.

I can resolve to imbibe in one thing Irish today: Help me my friends? Irish Whiskey or Bailey's and Cream? I'll be up late celebrating. Feel free to chime in at any time.


Okay, one final question does anyone think this type of required assignment is a bit too much for a 9 year old?

I mean control manipulative, variable manipulative, responding manipulative, hypothesis and required research?

Well, shite, I had to look up half of those terms since it's been so long since I was in school.

I guess I am getting punished for not paying attention the first time around, eh? Luck o' the Irish, me thinks....or maybe that's Murphy's Law.

Sigh. Okay, back to cocktails.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Mommy Homework Pt. #2

Yep, that is a par-tay for wee leprechauns.

One Mommy Homework project done. Leprechaun Trap? Check.

Hot diggity it's a hot tub o' getting lucky.

Just go up those stairs my lucky friend and two Bratz ho-bags will ensnare you.

Yes, my friends, that is a par-tay. And no, my friends, Scouty did not purchase those Bratz. They came from happy meals. I cannot tell you how much it pains me that they repose in this house. At the same time? Something in me gets great pleasure in sending a shack o' loving leprechaun to school and the Bratz were a perfect lure. Besides all the Barbies were naked and I thought it was taking this tongue in cheek 1st grade Mommy homework project a bit far..

Here little leprechaun. Come here. This is what we wee Bratz were made for...

So, now only a Science Fair Project to go:

Anyone in the market for moldy cheese?

Um, rotting pumpkin?

Don't these lemons look delicious?

Oh, wait, we rubbed them with these:

And now they look like this:

And this:

Num. num.

We also rubbed those Q-tips on all of these:

And put them in these:

Want some coffee grounds? Decomposing but NOT moldy chicken when we're done?

Only been unrefrigerated for 18 days or so. They don't look quite like the images displayed above.

They've been enhanced.

I know. I know. Tempting.

We have five different colors of mold of this little specimen of Muenster. Again, never thought I'd be doing this when I felt the little flutters of my princess in the womb.

Motherhood today requires hard liquor. Stat!

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Mommy Homework

While all you readers are out there are going on shopping trips, mini-vacation, skiing, a refreshing hike, the movies or the mall?

In short, enjoying your week-ends?

Think of me.

Housebound in Seattle.

The dark skies fit my mood. I'm glum.

My weekend?


I must "Help" construct a "Leprechaun" trap for Li'l Man's homework.

I must help PB with ridiculously detailed, required science fair project due next week on mold.

There goes the weekend.

Remember I mentioned rotting meat and a stench in my house?

Yep, we have samples of fresh lemon, coffee grounds, whole wheat wrap, canned pumpkin, "fresh" chicken breast, and cheese in three different places rotting in my house.


Yep, the coat closet, the not so sunny windowsill, and the frig door.

They've been decomposing for 10 days now.

And that chicken? Not so fresh. We've now bagged each piece in a dozen ziplocs and still the decomposing flesh smell exudes from the coat closet.

If the police raid us, they'll know where we keep the dead bodies. Heh!

So did not know that this is what I signed up for when I had these adorable children fluttering in my womb.

Nope, decaying flesh, cheese with no less than four colors of mold, and dissolving canned pumpkin DID NOT COME TO MIND!

So, I don't remember the level of projects as a school child that my kids have today that require help.

I, for one, am sick of the homework.

I went to elementary school already....and even college.

So why, now days, do so much of the projects that I did AT SCHOOL, become REQUIRED projects at home?

To be honest? The Leprechaun trap is optional, but do I want to leave Li'l Man as the only kids without a trap to proudly bring in?

But the science project? Is intense. Detailed. Over the top for fourth graders.

As well as the monthly 2 page book reports in 4th grade?

And poster projects? And student of the week projects? And weekly parent homework to write love notes? Well, I actually like that one.

It's not the teachers' fault. It's the times. Cramming more and more into required curriculum, so requiring more and more for kids to do at home. For parents to do at home.

And really? I just don't want to do it.

I don't recall having any homework in 4th grade except one mission project that I did myself without parental help.

Was it lame compared to the over the top sugar cube missions some of my friends "made" with their parents? Yes, but I survived and even got myself a Berkeley education.

And now? I am tired of doing these projects. Every month there's at least 1-3 projects for one of my three kids that require some degree of parent involvement.

Can't a mom get a break? I honestly don't know how moms that work outside the home get these done.

When are too many projects for kids too much?

Maybe it's just me...

I'm not sure if I want the rain or the mommy homework to go away more.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Added To Yet Another Bad Idea in Scout's Bible o' Ridiculously Bad Ideas

I write this so no one can say I never warned you. This is how much I love you, my friends:

Everybody heard of the morning after pill? No worries. I wouldn't touch the topic of abortion here with a ten foot pole.

Just, you know the gist, yes? It's used for a mistake, a sudden lapse in judgment and common sense coupled with sudden regret and fear of consequences.

Got it?

M'kay, well, let's call my mistake a couple heaping servings of homemade lasagna and a Krispy Kreme Doughnut...or two... okay, maybe three.

My day after pill? Yep, my good friend Alli.

Heard of it?

It helps your body not absorb fat. Helps! As in expels with forceful ferocity.

And what I ate? Lard buckets of fat in that luscious steaming lasagna and glazed oohey-gooey jelly-filled glazeds.

Result: Very, very bad idea.

Much worse than this.

Do not compound the mistake of eating fat by eating an Alli...or two...or three.

For fack's sake, I admit. No self control. Nada. None.

Just saying. Don't do it. Step away from that doughnut. Don't make me come get you. Learn from my mistakes.

Sounds like a mom talking, huh?

Thx for the Flickr pics by size8jeans and by bunchofpants

Thursday, March 12, 2009

A Day of Epic Fails: How I Almost Gave Myself A Hernia & Other Ramblings

I went to drop the Expedition at the dealership today for some much deferred maintenance.

They tried to give me a 2 seat pick up.


Um hello? Tap, tap, tap. Ford dealer? It doesn't work that way.

I have a three row, eight seat car because I have at any given time 3-7 kids in my car.

I could have used my husband's Mini Cooper and fit more passengers.

I settled for a smaller SUV called an Edge. It's cute. It's red. It's sporty. It purports to hold five passengers.

Five, my left butt cheek!

Let me tell you getting three car seats across was a bitch. The buckle for one seat was under the booster of the next. It was like a chain reaction.

Ridiculous. You couldn't seat three skinny teenagers in there much less 3 adults.

The car seats installed for Li'l Man's playgroup took 20 minutes each time to exit and enter the vehicle. I. Do. Not. Exaggerate.

Then I was off to the gym for the first time in months.

Yay me. Can you sense my enthusiasm?

It had been so long that I had to intently read the directions on each weight machine.

For 20 minutes, or so, I did pretty well. I adjusted the machines by following the diagram. I started out with the smallest weight rather than over do it. I got my bearings. I refused to ask for help.

Hello, too damn independent. As a kid from a family of eight, you learn to do it yourself even to spite yourself. My husband laments that all the women in my family are so damned independent. So true!


I got over-confident.

Not good to be over-confident.

No, n-a, n-a, n-a, no. Not in this gym of bored trainers and Barbie housewives on 'roids.

I went to the ab machine. I put the bar in front of me. I grunted as I tried to crunch.

The bar? Never budged.

What the ever living....

So I know it's been long, but by all that's holy, I should be able to crunch 20 lbs.


I tried over and over. I almost herniated, but I would not let that deter me.

I refused to give up. I would not be turned away. I would prevail.

I looked at the directions for the adjustment. Check.

I grunted and tried over and over.


A trainer came over and said kindly, but loudly that I was sitting at the back machine. The bar was supposed to go behind me not on my chest.

Uh, I am a moron.

Epic Fail.

Failed to read title of machine and pretty picture emblazoned on front that even highlighted the muscles to be used in red. Those would be back muscles.

The picture even had arrows to show you should be bending backwards. Not. Forward.

Her buff little trainee said in a commiserating, but totally lying voice, "I would have done that too."



Feeling foolish. I stayed for 20 minutes more of cardio after finding that damned ab machine.

Dumb machine. Dumb machine. I will prevail.

Note to self: Must get to gym more often so I don't have people at the gym thinking Mr. T thoughts:

Watch more IFILM videos on AOL Video

Yep, pity this fool.

Is there anything worse that making a fool of yourself at the gym? It's like middle school P.E. all over again.

I know. Let's watch Mr. T make a fool of himself over and over again and enjoy the embarrassment that was the eighties:

I've been chanting cool hotdog with mustard socks and a ketchup sash all afternoon. I'm sure those cats in the video consider this a shining pinnacle of achievement. Much more epic fail. I feel much better now. Heh!

Many thanks to one of my favorite stumbling friends Depeche Violator who sent me this video. You rock!

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Simple Pleasure: It's All About the Homemade, Cracker!

Had some wacky weather lately?

Washington too.


Snow and more snow.

It snows. It hails. It melts.

Every time I think to plant some pretty spring flowers?

Bam! Snow. Melt.

Snow. Melt. Snow. Melt.

I swear our Realtor said it never snowed when we moved up here.

Anyhow, despite the ridiculous delays and canceled school for measly 1/2 inch accumulations, I do love it and it makes CG happy.

I think we miss Alaska more than I would think.

By the way, Fort Wainwright (Fairbanks) never plowed and never canceled school, you Washington wussies. Be real Pacific Northwesterners!

So this little guy to the left? He showed up on the back patio. Yes, those are chopsticks and cracker mouth.

Yes, you heard me cracker.

No, I'm not calling you a cracker. No, the snowman isn't mouthy like a crackah.

Just sheer innovation.

Done entirely by Li'l Man. No help from older siblings. No help from his Mommy.

All him.

He scraped together every last bit of snow not melted to make that Charlie Brown snowman.

I love him cracker and all. Just another simple thing that makes life good.

Some collect figurines or designer purses.

Snowmen are free as childhood should be...

Me? It's all about the homemade.

Simple pleasures.


...and shoes. Heh!

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

All You Ladies With Vaginas, Please Respond

Okay, first I must say this will be a TMI moment.

That would be Too Much Information. Run now if you have a weak stomach!

Seriously, I am giving you fair warning to not read any further if you don't have a vagina or are squeamish like Helen.

This would apply to anyone related to me especially that does not have a vagina? Big brother? Skedaddle! I know you don't want to hear about this again. Heh!

Helen, you still here? You hoo? Shooo! Heh!

Okay, this would be a plumbing question.

So I have a specialist gynecological appointment coming up.

We all know why. If not, please read it here.

This appointment?

Made over three months ago. This doctor? Most sought after gyno in Seattle area.


Ohhhh, uterine ablation, I lurve you. Enough said.

So, my dilemma? The reason for this appointment is my terrible menstrual cycle with huge lemon size (I told you to leave Helen) blood clots and copious amounts of bloods that require two super tampons and overnight pads that still don't allow me to even leave the house.

I'm anemic. I'm exhausted. I need this to stop.

I'm a prisoner to my period and it's whims.

Well, obviously that's not why I asked you here because you aren't doctors and my appointment can solve my dilemma.

No, my problem is that for some ungodly reason, my periods have become regular in the last 3 months and I can now predict that I will be deep into day 3 of that period during my appointment. The worst of the worst days.

I have never gone to a gyno actually on my period.

So, my friends, have you? Is this kosher? What's the etiquette?

Can they even check my lady bits if I'm gushing? (I know you are gagging Helen)

If I reschedule, then I won't get an appointment until summer. That makes me very teary and depressed.

Have I mentioned this has to stop? I easily am losing 2 cups daily of blood for 3-4 days during my period and it lingers at times 7-10 days.

My friends, I am bleeding to death each month.

To complicate matters? Even worse? This doctor's son is on my kid's summer swim team. How would I say, "Oh, Hi." Casually to a woman that has her hands in my bloody mess?

I know she'll be professional. It's her job. But me? I will freak out.

This is really not turning out to be a good year.

So tell me dear readers what I should do?

I need your help.

Does one go to the gynecologist that she sees socially when one is on her period?

Or does one reschedule and slit her wrists because bleeding out that way would be much less messy?

Or, door number three, do we re-visit CG's suggestion with more gravity? DIY?


Tap, tap, tap... You there?

What would you do?

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