The 21st Century SAHM

Mommy and Her 3 Bears vs. The Tornado

July 7, 2015

Very few things in life are more terrifying…

There aren’t many “easy” parenting days, but there are those that are more mundane than others. Maybe nobody bled profusely, or nobody pooped himself, and you didn’t lose a kid. You know, a regular day. And then there are more dramatic days. Day 1 of the stomach flu. Packing for a vacation. Someone broke the I-Pad.

But once in a while, you have a day of fear as a parent. True, real, chilled to the bone, fear.

Tonight, I had a scare. A real down-in-the trenches parenting scare. I was getting ready to grill some chicken and corn when the rain hit. Well, crap. Looks dinner will be modified, I thought. And then the weather alert sounded: flash flood warning. Thunderstorms. Yuck. Might be a long night. The big kids were upstairs playing and the toddler was under my feet “helping” me in the kitchen.

But then there was another weather alert. Now, here in Kansas, we have “tornado watches” so regularly that many of us don’t pay them too much attention. But not many things grab me in the gut like a “tornado warning.” That means one is here. On the ground. And we need to take cover fast.

I shouted to the big kids, who have been trained as to the severity of a tornado, to get downstairs immediately. “Get down here now! There’s a tornado!”

My 6-year old came down quickly, excited, but handling himself okay. My 4-year old lost her marbles quickly. She was overwhelmed, and all she could sputter through her hysterics was, “My friends are in my room! What if the house blows away?” (How could I tell her that her her 58-piece stuffed animal collection was the least of my concerns if, in fact, our house “blew away”?)

And even the toddler seemed to understand. Usually a defiant do-exactly-the-opposite-of-what-my-mother-says 2-year old, he got right in line. We rushed down into our basement, and I assessed the information as quickly as I could on my phone.

We’ve been in the basement before for tornado warnings, but usually they are miles and miles away, so hunkering down is more of a precaution. The kids run and play a bit and we are back upstairs within a half hour. Not tonight. When I pulled the radar up on my screen, I saw red. Shit. I corralled the kids into a corner, covered them with pillows and blankets, and called the husband. He was driving home, through tornado sirens, torrential rain, and constant lightening, trying to get to us as quickly as possible.

We heard the tornado sirens outside our house. We heard constant booms of thunder. Rain pounded the walls around us. And there they sat, all in a row, looking at me. Three pairs of innocent eyes, frightened, looking at Mommy for comfort. Needing Mommy to say it was going to be okay. But the truth was that Mommy was scared to freaking shit.

On the phone with my husband, he said, “You need to be calm for them. I see one right now. I see a funnel cloud. I am going to do my best.”

I yelled at him that he needed to pull over, but I knew he wouldn’t. I knew he wouldn’t stop until he was home. And I needed him home. We all did. We needed Daddy’s calm wisdom at at time of crisis. Daddy would swoop in and tell funny stories and make everything okay.

I felt tears well up as I looked at those three sets of terrified eyes, more and more nervous with each passing boom. More and more nervous as they saw Mommy’s scared face. But Mommy needed to get it together and be a big girl now. She thought of the mothers of Moore, Oklahoma and of Joplin, Missouri. How brave they must have been, clutching their babies as the world came down around them. So this Mommy, with her heart beating out of her chest, found a bit of courage and told her kids a story to keep them calm. She told them a story of three little bears who were caught in a loud storm. They had to snuggle under a blanket and be very brave, but everything turned out okay in the end.

A few minutes later, husband arrived home safely. And 30 minutes later, the horribleness was over. Our house didn’t blow away. Those three sets of scared eyes are now closed, peacefully asleep, upstairs in their beds.

I had to step up tonight and be a grown up. Hiding my fear as I read “take cover!” and “tornadoes spotted in your area” so as to protect my kids was not easy. I wanted to crawl under the blanket with them, close my eyes, and wait until it was all over. But instead, I covered them up and laid on top of them and told them the story of three little bears in a storm.

Just like my three little bears were tonight, with one scared Mommy, wrapping her arms around all of them, praying for strength. Praying they didn’t see just how scared she actually was.

Cashiers, why must you terrorize us? (No, I don’t have any Kohl’s cash!)

The 21st Century SAHM

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June 26, 2015

You DON’T have a Kohls charge or any Kohls cash??!!

Dear cashier with your lecture about what I am buying and how I am paying for it:

What is the deal?! Look, I am an anti-shopper. I loathe the act of dragging my 3 minions to a store to fill a cart with randomness that we really don’t need, but we think we do. By the time I am wrapping up the party and checking out, the following has happened:

1. We have visited your bathroom. It was 60% passable on the cleanliness scale.

2. My children have argued over who gets to hold the apples, wrapping paper, new tie for Daddy, or Mommy’s tampons.

3. I forgot my list in the car and have stood in aisle 5 with a screaming toddler trying to remember what the 9th thing on my list was. I never remembered. I will see it on the list in the car in 12 minutes (or 10, if you skip your dissertation on why I should have a credit card to your store).

So please, just ring up my shit. Lecture not needed.

For example, here is a script of every single interaction I have ever had with a cashier at Kohls:

Cashier: “Do you have any Kohl’s cash?”

Me: “No.”

(Cashier has look of horror and/or disbelief at this act of apparent sacrilege.)

Cashier: “Do you have a Kohl’s charge?”

Me: “No.”

Cashier: “Do you want to save 15% / 20% / 87% and apply for one today?”

Me: “No, thank you.” (I remembered to use my manners! Does that get me out of this?)

Cashier: “What the hell is wrong with you, you freakishly horrible human?” (Well, not these words exactly, but there is no hesitation in making me feel like a lesser person for my refusal to join the Kohls circle of friendship).

Me: “I’d like to just pay the full price. With this regular old credit card. Which means I am giving your place of employment MORE of my money. Please take more of my money and let me go.” (I think in my head.)

Every time, Kohls. Every time.

And today, another store has joined the ranks of Kohls in berating me for spending EXTRA money at their store.

At the liquor store:

Me: “Can I get a few small bags of ice?

Cashier: “Why don’t you get a large 20 lb bag?”

Me: “Because the 6 lb bags are easier for me to manage and fit more easily into my freezer.”

Cashier: “That makes no mathematical sense.”

Really, buddy? MATH? You want to do math? I just spent 70 bucks on beer. I was here FOUR DAYS AGO. That’s how fast the hubs and I are tearing through it these days. And do you see the three little people I dragged in here, looking up at you with their where-is-my-damn-lollipop eyes? Every single item in this entire place is a safety hazard for them, and you are questioning my ice-bag choices?!

Me: “Yeah. They are for my husband’s ice machine. He just had surgery and the 6 lb bags are exactly the right amount to fill the machine…” Why am I explaining this to you?!

Cashier: “That just doesn’t make mathematical sense. That’s all I’m saying.”

Me: “Heard ya. Now please take MORE of my money. By the way, does your sister work down the street at Kohls?” (Again, in my head.)

Listen, I was a cashier for years. I know you get a cut or promotion or special badge if someone signs up for the card. I get it. I don’t mind you asking. I expect you to ask. But I am not expecting to pay a penance and say 11 Our Fathers for this sin. Let this anti-shopper pay you her due, whatever it is, and send her on her merry way. She just wants some damn 6 lb bags of ice and to pay for her son’s Avenger sandals with a Visa! Is this asking for too much?

Signed,

Professional online shopper Mommy

image credit: photobucket

Why is it hard to say the v-word?

The 21st Century SAHM

16 Comments

June 21, 2015

A cute bunny. Which is better than a picture of a vagina.

Does anyone else struggle with teaching the v-word to your kids? You know, the vajajay? Hoohoo? Ladybits?

So Parenting 101 says to use correct terminology for private parts. And penis is a no-brainer. It is easy to say in casual conversation and is socially acceptable. When a parent shouts, “Don’t touch your penis!” to a 3-year old at the park, it’s adorable. And everyone has a chuckle. Yet, “Get your finger out of your vagina!” doesn’t get quite the same reaction. Parents will look at you in horror. What is wrong with your daughter? Why is she a freak?

Why are we such hypocrites to our little girls? Because I am, for sure, one of the horrified parents at the park who thinks crotch-grabbing girl really is a freak.

I can vividly recall the first time the word vagina was introduced to my kids. I was 0% ready. My 3-year old son was in the bath with his baby sister. He had not paid much attention to her anatomy (or really any other part of her) as babies are boring to most 3-year old boys. But one day in the bath, he asked very pointedly, “Where’s her penis?”

Crap! I thought I had more time! She was only 9 months old. I had assumed (foolishly) that she would be the first to force my teaching of this awkwardness. But no, it was Captain All-of-a-Sudden-Curious who did.

“She doesn’t have a penis. She’s a girl.”

Okay, that will do it.

Nope.

“Where did her penis go?”

“She never had a penis. She is a girl. Only boys have penises.”

Good? Done?

Nope.

“How does she go pee?”

Okay, I guess it’s time.

“Boys have penises. Girls have va….. ginas.” I spit the word out with slightly more than a whisper. (Hey kid from Kindergarten Cop! I could so use your help right now.)

Whisper, my son did not. “THEY HAVE WHAT??!!”

“Vaginas.”

The next 3 hours (not kidding) were spent in detailed vagina-analysis. Why do they have them? What do they look like? Can I see hers? (NO!) Do all girls have vaginas? Does Mommy have a vagina? Does Grandma? Does my friend Allison? Does Dora the Explorer have a vagina?…

Fast-forward a few years. That baby girl is now 4 1/2 and has asked questions about her own body. For fairness, we have established the same private-part ground rules for both kids. Nobody touches your private parts. You don’t touch anyone else’s private parts. You are only allowed to touch your own private parts when you are alone. (Not at school, at a friend’s house, or at the zoo, for example.) So yes, because little girl crotch-grabbing isn’t allowed in most social circles, this means the 6-year old can’t play with his balls while watching baseball on the couch (even if Daddy does it). Fair is fair, kids.

We do, however, now have another 2-year old little boy who is quite fond of his southern appendage. And yeah, it is still adorable and completely socially acceptable. Damn double standards.

image credit: pixabay.com