On Parenting With Labels

Tiger Mom.  Helicopter Mom.  Free-Range Parenting.  Crunchy-granola Mom.  Hipster parents.

The labels are all around us.  In the media.  In our conversations with other moms.  Practically in the air that we breathe.

But, what if you don't fit any of the labels out there? Or, if you fit them all?

I'm definitely not a Tiger Mom.  I don't force my children to speak Mandarin at age 3 (really?  Mandarin?  Who are they going to converse with in Mandarin?  Plus, my Chinese relatives are Cantonese.  And they speak English, anyway.)  I don't oversee three hours of violin practicing a day (are you kidding?  I'm lucky if I can get my little Drama Queen to practice three times a week.  For five minutes each time.  And forget piano.  The screaming and tears over practicing were legendary.  And that was just me...)  Half the time I don't even check over her homework, much less make her redo it because the handwriting isn't up to my standards.  As far as I'm concerned, I've already passed 3rd grade and Kindergarten, and I'm no longer responsible for writing book reports.  I'm happy to review homework for mistakes, but I'm certainly not going to stand over my children, lecturing them on perfection and excellence.  I think of myself more of a Panda Mom--you know, lounging around surrounded by food, chewing slowly, enjoying an occasional nap, moving only slightly faster than a sloth when needed.

And, I'm definitely not a Hipster Mom.  I have no idea what's "cool" on the "Indie Scene".  I have no desire to wear "ironic" t-shirts of bands that I never saw the first time around.  I don't care if my coffee is free-trade or organic--I only require that it has caffeine.  I don't even require that it's hot anymore.  Just that it's caffeinated.  About the only think "hipster" about me is my slouch.  But that's due to lifting heavy munchkins, unbagging groceries, having absolutely no core strength, and basically giving up regarding decent posture.  It's not hip.  It's due to a bad hip.

I'm a little bit crunchy-granola.  At times.  I clean with vinegar, water, baking soda, and essential oils.  I'm beginning to make my own dish detergent and washing machine detergent because I want to avoid chemicals that give me hives.  I do not use non-stick pans. In a fit of Dr. Oz induced hysteria, I threw out all of our plastic storage containers and water bottles out of fear of BPA.  I've been known to buy organic.  But, that's pretty much where I end.  If you look in my pantry, you'll find waaaaay too many processed foods encased in plastic.  If you look in the bathrooms, you'll find shampoo, conditioner, and lotion with fragrances produced by phlalates.  And if the soap scum on my shower proves too much for my baking soda paste, I have been known to sneak a bottle of orange scented Scrubbing Bubbles.  Plus, I really look bad in boho fashion...

I'd like to imagine myself more Free-Range than Helicopter.  It doesn't bother me when the kids are running around outside without shoes on.  MacGyver is cringing with visions of the kiddos stepping on glass and/or dog poop, but I maintain that part of childhood is running around with grass-stained feet, dog poo be damned.  I support the excessive playing with dirt and mud.  I allow my children to run wild and free in the woods behind our house and at the park in our neighborhood.  I do nag about wearing helmets when riding their bikes and scooters, but the kiddos will get around me from time to time (especially in the summer when helmets make them hot), and I have to try to balance safety (and, frankly, the law) with the knowledge that most of us grew up without ever owning a helmet and most of us are okay.  Sort of.

But, heaven forbid I hear and unsubstantiated report of a child abduction.  Attempted or not.  It doesn't even matter if it's in my area.  I hear a story about a baby being kidnapped from it's crib, and I'm bolting the windows and doors, and putting on the burglar alarm while we're home, watching TV in "safety".  I'll get one step from encasing my children in bubble-wrap and installing a micro-chip with GPS and Lo-Jack in their necks, like a pet.  Yeah, I'm all Free-Range until I read my newsfeeds...

And then, there's the weekly disagreement about tree climbing in our family.  I firmly believe that tree-climbing is an inherent right for children.  That it encourages coordination, allows children to test their limits, and gives them a great sense of accomplishment.  MacGyver thinks it's covers them in pine sap that's hard to remove in the tub, and that they'll fall and break their necks.  The Wild Man like to climb trees.  A lot.  He has a favorite white pine that he likes to climb to the very tip top of, and perch like a drunken Christmas tree angel.  The top branches tilt wildly to the side, and sway dangerously.  I'll just yell to him to "get down right this instant!!!  I've told you a thousand times not to climb that high!!!  I swear, if you fall and break your neck, you'll have to call 911 on your own and explain this yourself!!!!!!!".  MacGyver, on the other hand, would never let the Wild Man get near the tree to begin with.  Too dangerous.

So, should we "supervise" (aka, helicopter) the children 24/7 in an attempt to control everything we can about their environment and try to keep them from injuring themselves by simply being children and doing stupid, childish things?  Or do we go with the flow and let them explore the world on their own while we get some things done around the house, or--heaven forbid!!!--have a conversation with another grown-up at the park?  I know MacGyver has a really good point when he tells me "how would you feel if the WMB fell off the top of the tree and hurt himself?" Yes, I'd feel like crap.  I'd probably tell myself I was a terrible mother.  I'd curse myself for turning my back and chatting with friends while my son decided to pretend he was a spider monkey.

But then, is it worth it to restrict so many things we did as children, and that generations of children did before us, because we're scared our kids will get hurt?  We can't protect them forever.  And we can't protect them from everything.  And, really, wanting them to be "safe" is more for our own fears than for them.  While I will never be truly Free-Range, I hope that I never cross the line into hovering in my helicopter, trying to control supervise every potential danger in the world.  Or, just in my backyard.  I want my children to fly into the world.  And, even momma birds know, that children need to crash out of the tree a few times before they learn how to fly.

A Room of One's Own

One of the days I dread as a parent came the other day.  No, not that one...  The one where my little Drama Queen found my stash of "mommy humor" books and decided to peruse them.

Now, I know it was totally my fault for leaving them in MY BOOKCASE, with MY BOOKS, with strict instructions that the books in the study were Mommy and Daddy's books so leave them alone.  In fact, last time I checked, the kiddos were told not to even play in that room.  But, I digress...

Anyway, she found my funnies.  And decided to start reading one of my personal favorites--"I Was a Really Good Mom, Before I Had Kids."  Complete with a cute little quiz at the beginning of each chapter.  And she saw, among other embarrassing things, that I had checked off the little box indicating that "yes, I sometimes dream of having my own apartment."

Well, she melted down.  Complete, weeping, hysteria.

"Mommy, why, why, why do you want to have your own apartment!!!  Don't you love us!!!???"

Yes, my dear lovebug.  I love you.  I adore you.  I worship the ground your sweet little niblet-like toes walk on.

But, yes.  I would love my own apartment.  Heck, I'd be thrilled to have my own room.  Or even a stinking corner.

I think Virginia Woolf had it right when she wrote her essay about how women need a room of one's own.  Now, granted, she was talking about women writers, and women fiction writers in specific (I'm basing this on my semi-cognizant memories of college when I was actually in class...paying attention).  But, her words strike a cord in almost every heart of every woman (especially mom) out there.  Nor am I saying Woolf was filled with great ideas--she did after all fill her pockets with stones and, well, go swimming.  But, she did have something there with the whole room thing.

Men dream of their "man caves" (or, as one of MacGyver's friends put it more bluntly--a PMS bunker) and talk about filling it with big screen TVs, stereo systems, surround sound, leather furniture, and a wet bar.

Women dream of a room where no one can disturb them under any circumstances under penalty of death (or at least extended time-outs), and they can't hear the ruckus of family life for just an hour or so.  You know, a soundproofed room, inside and out, where we can relax in total silence.

Basically, we want a "panic room".  A really nicely decorated panic room.

My room would not have a handle on the outside, so when I was locked inside, no little hands could wiggle the knob or pick the lock (yes, the little DQ can pick a lock.  It's actually kind of frightening.  I don't know if she has a future as a locksmith or a cat burglar, but her little talent has come in handy--and not so handy--more than once).  It would be hermetically sealed so no notes about what one child has done or said to another could be slipped under the door.  No husbands could ask where the toilet paper, ketchup, or remote control was while I was relaxing.  No phone calls about playdates or Club Penguin would disturb my rest.

And there would be no leather furniture there.  Just a big, comfy, overstuffed chair with pillows and a soft throw.  And an ottoman, to rest my tired piggies.  And books.  Lots of books!  Without pictures, and that didn't involve stories about fairies or steam shovels.

I'd like to say how I'd have a little tea pot and yummy snacks in my panic room, but let's be realistic.  I'm not usually a tea and cookie gal.  I'm a candy-colored vodka martini or fancy top-shelf margarita girl.  With chips and guac.

Ahhhhh,  I can almost feel the chenille of the pretty throw, and the sigh of the overstuffed chair.  If I try really hard, I can smell the fruity essence of a drink with an umbrella in it.  I imagine reaching for my trashy novel, and....

Oops--there's the bus.  Bunnies of all sizes are bopping down the steps, and running and shrieking into the houses, looking for hugs and snacks and attention.

Oh well.  Some day.  Some day I'll have my panic room room of my own...

Date Night

Ahhhh---remember the days when you and your hubby (or SO) would spontaneously decide to go out for drinks and dinner, and maybe catch a movie?  At, oh, say--9:00 at night?

Cold drinks in a smoky bar with jazz or blues in the background?

Fusion food or sushi in a cool restaurant with rooftop seating?

A movie that had subtitles, or at the very least, was in a quaint artsy cinema that only showed late night movies?

Yeah, me neither...

These days, date nights are few and far between.  And, when we do get out (every few months or so), it's usually for discount happy hour drinks and appetizers (hey, they're cheaper than dinner and you get variety!) and a matinee movie.

Why?

Well, partly because MacGyver and I are total cheapskates and hate to "waste" money on dinners and movies when I can just as easily make dinner and watch On-Demand.   Or DVR'ed movies.  Or Net-Flix.  If we could even stay still (hey--I've got laundry folding to do!) or even agree on the show (aliens?  UFOs?  Big Foot?  Really????)

And, because our "babysitters" are my parents, and I hate asking them for help constantly.  Not that it really is "constantly", but it feels that way.

Then, there's the whole "I guess I need to shave my legs and find clean clothes that fit" conundrum.  I hate spending money on my own clothes since I'm convinced that my current body is just temporary.  I still consider it "baby weight", even though my "baby" is five years old, and this special extra padding is only three years old.  Yep, do the math.  This small problem is actually not the Wild Man's fault.  Anywho, unless Ann Taylor Loft has some lovely, dirt cheap, yet cute, clothes whose sizes are mysteriously missing the first "one" digit, I'm not buying a darn thing.  And really, at this point in my life I'm still usually covered in kiddie-boogers, boob stains, and applesauce.  So, what's the point of spending more than $20 on jeans or $5 on t-shirts when they'll just be destroyed in a month or so.  Now, MacGyver doesn't have this problem.  Lucky bastard still weighs and looks the same as he did in college, when we met.  He still rocks his H&M jeans and Hugo Boss polos.  Last time I checked, he did not have a boob stain on his shirt, or applesauce on his chinos.  I guess I could blame it on the fact that he gets to go to work each day (before the kiddos are up, and looking to wipe their hands or faces on someone or something) and therefore has fewer hours of munchkin time to get dirty.  But really, I suspect he's just far more hygienic than me.

And finally--it would require both of us to stay up past 9:00 pm.  Oh, for crying out loud--who are we kidding??!!  We're lucky if one, or both, of us aren't snoring in front of the TV by 8:30.  And, no--I'm not exaggerating one bit.  The idea of watching a movie at an actual movie theater where the show doesn't end until 10:30 and there's no chores to do during the "boring" parts makes me almost break out in hives.  Plus, what if we don't like the movie?  It's a lot easier to blow off a video you spend $1.99 on at Red Box than a new release you spent $25 or $30 on (before popcorn, Junior Mints, and soda) to sit in a theater with hundreds of people crunching away on their snacks, checking their texts and Face Book, and whispering back and forth.  And that's before you realize you have your head on a chair that's had thousands of people resting on it, so I start to itch just imagining lice....

No, I'm not neurotic....

But, books and tv shows and therapists and other parents tell us how important "Date Night" is to a relationship.  That we need our time together, away from children and responsibilities.  That we need to be a couple.  And not a couple of looney-toons because the only time we've spent alone in the last week was when we were asleep.  Or, in the car commuting to work.

So, this coming weekend, MacGyver and I are going out.  To a movie.  And dinner.  Not in that order, since I'm still too cheap to pay full price for a dinner and drinks (and this date is my treat).  So it will be the two of us with the AARP crowd getting our early-bird specials and then buying movie tickets with my discount movie passes.  We will certainly be home before 10:00, and I'll probably still be giddy from my 1 1/2 happy hour drinks that I had 3 hours before (what can I say--I'm a cheap date.)  But, we'll be able to see a movie that is not made by Disney or Pixar, and we'll eat a dinner that didn't involve mac-n-cheese or tuna casserole.  And, it may be fun enough that we make it a resolution to date each other at least once a month.  I hope.

Christmas Card Mayhem!

Once upon a time, I would gaze longingly at the beautiful family portraits on the Christmas/holiday cards we'd receive and dream of a day when I would have a family of my own.  We'd happily pose for as long as it took to get the "perfect" picture, and we'd relish the excitement of wearing matching, or at least coordinating, outfits.  Sometimes I'd imagine a classic picture of mom and dad holding their munchkins' hands while strolling down the beach at sunset.  Other times I imagined us decked out in red and green, posing with Santa who had a gorgeous rosy cheeked toddler on each lap, smiling serenely for the camera.  Or, maybe a quirky photo of us decorating the tree with flocked pine cones and sparkly bows...

Yeah.  Right.

Any picture involving a beach would involve sand being flung at a sibling, who was howling with indignity because I wouldn't let them feed the entire bag of Doritos to he seagulls.  There would be no matching outfits, just faded bathing suits with chocolate stains from the icecream truck and a little pouches of sand where the sun don't shine.  We'd all be sunburned, and our hair would make us look like gorgons.  Not to mention there's no way in hell you'd get me to pose on the beach in my bathing suit, or any other suit, until I've spent at least 3 solid years with a personal trainer and a photographer highly trained in Photoshop.

As for a picture with the fat man in red?  My kids have been scared to death of him since they were born.  I mean, really--you're forcing your small child to sit in the fuzzy lap of a complete stranger who offers them candy and asks them about their deepest desires.  Frankly, it sounds more like an afternoon special on stranger danger...  Last year was the first time I got my kids to even mutter a word to Santa, and then they forgot what they wanted to ask him for anyway.  As for the matching outfits?  Nope.  It was freezing cold out at the National Christmas Tree, and my bunnies were dressed in dirty Lands End parkas (from laying on the ground by the Yule Log to get warm) and their hair had a serious case of static cling.  Santa was probably thinking he needed to deliver some Tide and a comb to our house, more than candy or toys...

Ahhhhh--and that leaves the Christmas tree.  Good luck getting clean clothes on the kids and forcing them to smile at the camera when there are packages to be shaken, Christmas ornaments to rearrange and/or break, and electric cords to trip over.  And that's not even taking into account that the Wild Man just wants to hide under the darn thing.  He spends most of December with his feet sticking out of the bottom of the tree, staring up into the lights from the inside of the branches.  He looks like a deranged Wicked Witch of the East before her ruby slippers disappear under Dorothy's house....

And the matching clothes in any of these pictures? 

Nope.  Not a matching set.  Ever.  Wild Man prefers cammo at the moment, and the DQ only wears things that sparkle at 100 yards and has the word "Justice" printed somewhere.  I'm just happy if any shirt I'm wearing doesn't have a boob stain on it, which leaves only MacGyver looking "normal".

So, after all these years, I've given up on ever having a "traditional" family picture on the front of our Christmas cards.  Even if I could afford matching Hanna Andersen outfits for all of us, we'd look uncomfortable and our smiles would look forced.  When I see these types of pictures now, I wonder how many glasses of wine the mom had before the photoshoot, and if dad threw a fit when he saw the red and green plaid sweater he was being forced to wear (and the bill for it too!).  I can almost hear the screams of indignation that the little boys made when they were told to take off their favorite Transformers sweatshirt and put on the itchy turtleneck and the sweater with snowflakes and reindeer on it.  And the dramatic sighs of the tweenie girl being bribed into wearing a "baby" dress with no freaking rhinestones or sequins on it for a card that "all her friends are going to see and think I look dumb".  Really?  Is this what Christmas pictures are all about?

So, our cards are usually a spontaneous shot taken between poses.  Someone's head may be thrown back in laughter because someone made a fart joke to get a smile for the camera.  I'm usually holding WMB in a partial strangle-hold to get him to stay still for the shot, and trying to keep my eyes open for the flash.  And DQ will have smuggled in something sparkly for some glamour.

But, at least it's real.  Maybe those pictures other families frolicking in the surf in matching chinos and white shirts are real for them--but, I doubt it.  Maybe other families happily don matching outfits while decorating their Frasier fir, but not us.  As I look back on our Christmas cards of years past, I smile and remember all the bunny ears and jokes and rude noises that produced those smiles.  I recall how much my kids loved their favorite outfits that made them feel beautiful, even if they color clashed.  And I know that our friends and family know that those cards represent who we really are--a wee bit off, and having a whole lot of fun!

On Gratitude and Appreciation...

Lately, I've been going through a tough time with the kiddos when it comes to "things".  By "things", I mean toys.  And books.  And craft supplies.  And snacks/food.  And overall crap.

Why?  Because they don't appreciate a damn thing.

And, that leaves me really torn.  I am totally aware of the fact that munchkins, in general, are self-absorbed little souls.  They can only really see the world from their own perspectives at this point in their lives.  They are only beginning to understand, or acknowledge, empathy.  They don't understand (thank goodness!) lack or deprevation.  The worst agony or deprevation they have had to experience at this point in their lives is hearing that they can't have cookies before dinner or eat Reeces Peanut Butter Cups for breakfast  ("but mommy, they have peanut butter for protein and the chocolate has milk in it!  They're really healthy!")  The fact that most of the world doesn't have enough to eat, or fancy toys to play with, or even flushable toilets is completely foreign to them.

And, to an extent, I'm glad that they don't know these things.  They're still small.  They're still innocent.  I want them to still believe in the basic goodness of the world and of humanity.  They don't need to know about war and famine and genocide when they're still small enough to think there's monsters under their bed and that unicorns really exist.

But, because they don't know about these things, they can behave (more often than I'd probably like to admit...) like little entitled, spoiled, unappreciative cranky-pants.

It's so hard to listen to DQ complain about how she doesn't have some fancy new techno-gadget like "everyone else does", or see WMB break yet another construction toy and cry for a replacement when I know that so many children in the world would be happy with a box to play with.  It's hard to listen to the kiddos complain about their nutritious, homemade dinners (ah, yes--that's my story and I'm sticking with it...) when I know that billions of people don't even have a dinner to eat.   And, when I see their playroom and their bedrooms completely trashed, I want to go ballistic because they have no concept of how lucky they are to have crayons and paper and Legos and dolls when most the world's children have nothing to play with but homemade toys made from sticks and straw.  And, when they scream at me that I'm the meanest mommy in the whole wide world because I sent them to the rooms for some misdeed or another, it's hard not to tell them how lucky they are that they aren't abused and beaten for such petty things like so many children are.

So, I'm torn.  I want them to know how lucky they are to have a roof over their heads and hot meals to eat.  I want them to thank me and MacGyver for all the time and money we spend on carting them to activities and vacations and other fun things.  I would prefer they have the respect for their possessions to put them away, in their proper places of course, when they're done playing with or wearing them.  And, lord knows I'd like the incessent whining and complaining to stop.

But then, when I see DQ crying over an American Girl movie because she didn't know that little children had to work in factories (and, still do.  Yes, we did have that conversation.) or weeping before bed when she tells me about how they are reading a book about the Great Depression in school, I want to shield them from all that is bad or sad in the world.  I turn off the news when they walk into the room so they don't know about starving people and wars and dictators and missing or murdered children.

So, I ask y'all--what do you do?  Do you let your children know about the realities of the world?  If so, how to you make it appropriate for children?  Should I shield them for a little while longer?  Or, is this just completely normal for kids to be ungrateful little gremlins?

I suppose all of us (or, at least, most of us) were the same way as kids.  That our parents, and our parent's parents, ad nauseum, complained about the same things.  For all I know, cave moms and dads grunted about how their bundles of joy had no appreciation for the work it took to kill and cook the mammoth for dinner, and that they weren't grateful for the lovely leather and fur coat that mommy made from the bear they ate last month, because they wanted a racoon coat not a bear coat, because Susie next door had a racoon coat with a tail on it, and their bear coat was just boring and stupid and that their cave mommy was the meanest mommy in the whole wide world....

Anywho, if anyone has a great idea about how to encourage gratitude (an idea that works, that is.  Lots of "experts" have ideas, but the don't work so well...), I'd love to hear it.  And, if you're going through the same thing with your kids, I'd love to hear about that too so I'd feel like I was at least in the same boat as some others.

When the Cat's Away...

This week, MacGyver is out of town for his job.  He left us, feeling a bit guilty, and set off with his co-worker/best friend/kiddos' godfather (also known as "the Don") for a few exciting days in Mobile, Alabama.

The moment the door shut, I thought "the cat's away, so the mice shall play!"

Now, don't get me wrong--I love my husband.  Adore my sweetie.  I swear he's the one that wakes up early and puts the sun up in the sky for us.  But, here and there, it's really awesome to have him go away for a few days...

I don't think I'm alone, either, in believing this.  A totally non-random poll of friends and acquaintances has shown that the moms (not the dads!) believe that a few non-hubby days with the kids is simply fabu.  We stay up later.  Eat enormous amounts of crap and fast food (yeah!! no cooking!!!!).  We refuse to clean or vacuum.  The laundry fairy only visits when we're down to our last pairs of undies.  Dishes in the sink?  Yep.  Why?  Because. We. Don't. Care.

Now, this does not include those of us with hubbies (wives, or co-parents, or significant others, etc.) who are in the military and are gone for long lengths of time.  Nor, does it include those whose better halves travel all the time.  That's no fun, and frankly, sucks.

But, for those of us who get to see all our sweetie darlings every. stinkin'. day. It's nice for a break.  It really does make the heart grow fonder.  And, it relieves the craving for Squisito's pizza (since we basically live on that and Lucky Charms for days at a time).  By the time MacGyver's back home, I'm itching to make something homemade for dinner, and living in sloth and gluttony isn't as exciting as it was a few days before.

And, you know what?  I think that, deep down, the husbands like getting away too.  Yes, my sweetums complains that the hotel rooms aren't homey, he doesn't like eating out every meal of the day, and it's really boring to watch TV by yourself at night.  But, then, he doesn't have someone complaining about his choice of TV show (really?  another conspiracy theory/aliens/UFO show?) and wanting to watch the Real Housewives marathon instead.  And, theoretically, no one is asking for a refill on their juice or if they can eat the rest of his meat, and can you please cut it up for me, no, not that way, like little triangles, and can I have the rest of your potatoes too, and can you take us out for ice cream, why not?, that's not fair, he hit me, she looked at me, etc. etc. ad nauseum....

He makes it sound like travel is horrible. All the lines.  All the airports.  All the questionable food.

And, yet, inevitably, he calls to tell me goodnight and I hear laughter and music in the background.  Sometimes he and the Don are at a nightclub/restaurant drinking bottles of wine with a bunch of co-workers in South Beach.  Or, I hear the surf and seagulls from Hernando Beach where they're talking to surfers and guys fishing on the pier while their table is called at that restaurant that looks out over the ocean.  Once, they were getting dinner in Little Havana and I got to hear the descriptions of all the street vendors and their meals. It sounded awesome!  I could almost taste the pulled pork and fried plantains...

So, my point is, I think some travel and time apart is really good when you've been together as long as MacGyver and I have been.  The kids are excited that daddy's gone so they can pile into bed with me and snuggle all night.  And, they get to be excited when he comes home, usually with trinkets and souvenirs for them.  And we both get the excitement of a little change in scenery and routine, and that can make everyone feel a whole lot better.

I hope he remembers this when I try to get away next month for a "girls' weekend"...

Wardrobe Malfunctions

Okay, I know a lot of y'all out there have this same problem.  But, for some reason, this year it's really getting to me.  What is it?

new season + major growth spurts + one mom "slightly" behind in her back to school shopping = CHAOS

This weekend, fall came.  Like, overnight.  It was a sweaty, humid 78 degrees on Friday, and then on Saturday we woke up to 40 degree temperatures.  And no sweaters, sweatshirts, or jackets that fit.  And I can't find their hats.  Forget the mittens and gloves--there's only unmatching ones of each floating around in oblivion...

Oh, and the kiddos feet grew.  Again.

I swear, this is a never ending problem around here and in almost every other household in the world.  I'm sure somewhere there is a mother who lovingly collects larger sizes of every piece of clothing, underwear, outerwear, and shoes for her sweetie darlings.  I'm sure she has these bits and bobs organized by size and season for each gender child.  No doubt she has her munchkins' holiday clothes all washed and ironed, and has well fitting snow boots and snow pants lined up for the first snow.

Me?  I found out the kids' rain boots didn't fit two weeks ago when the biblical rains around here started.  Poor WMB hobbled around in 2-sizes-too-small "fireman" boots for almost a week before I found replacements (and not even on sale, dammit.  Or, with a coupon.) Forget DQ's boots, since they were a size 2 and she wears a 5.  Plus, DQ sniffed at the idea of rain boots and just wore her already-too-small sparkly silver ballet flats (how can an 8 year old have size 6-7 women's feet?  She is already pirating my heels!) every single day to jump in puddles.

Now, back when they were babies and toddlers, this was never a problem.  We had tons of hand-me-downs from every Lucy and Ethel in my life.  Any holes in the wardrobe were easily filled at the local consignment shop, and those clothes were adorable and hardly worn since kids only wore an outfit or shoes a few times before outgrowing them.  Now, the growth spurts are less predictable and the kids' wear their clothes and shoes out before outgrowing them.  Plus, anyone who has shopped at consignment shops lately knows that they have tons of little kids clothes, but after size 8 or so, there's almost nothing. 

Also, in the past, I bought tons of clothes at the end of the season clearance sales that were the size I guessed my munchkins would be the following year.  Yep, can't do that anymore either.  I wasted a small fortune buying "50% off the lowest marked price--up to 70% off!" clothes to find out my kids outgrew them before they were ever worn.  After taking one too many bags of brand new, with the tags still on, clothes to the consignment shop, I gave up on that practice.

So now, I wait til they grow and go shopping.  Which puts me in a bad situation.  Like this weekend.  I needed sweatshirts, sweatpants, and sweaters (non "hoochie mamma" or "bad a$$ graffiti artist" please) for DQ and WMB.  Couldn't. Find. Them. Anywhere.

Apparently, all the far more organized moms got to the stores before me.  There were empty racks where tunic sweaters used to be.  The only long-sleeved t-shirts for boys DQ's age were not the sweet ones with firetrucks and bulldozers, but had questionable spray-painted slogans on them.  And no--I will not buy any sweatpants or yoga pants for an 8 year old girl that has any kind of writing, sparkly or not, on the bum bum.  Not. Gonna. Happen.

After a long afternoon of combing the mall and surrounding area for fall and winter clothes, my kids now have enough to put off doing laundry every day.  Not that I don't do that anyway, but at least they have 3 or 4 long sleeve shirts and pants to last them a few days.  And school boots that fit (thank you Stride Rite for having a clearance sale that actually had my kids' sizes in stock!!!).  I still haven't gotten around to the winter stuff yet--and, no doubt, I'll only get around to it when it snows and I'm digging around under the basement stairs for the box of snow pants that are three sizes too small and the boots that would be small on a toddler.  My munchkins will be the ones out on the neighborhood hill, sledding in three pairs of sweatpants and mismatched mittens because mommy couldn't get her act together enough to find snow pants and boots at Target before they were all sold out.  But, at least they'll be having fun--and I know that they are totally unprepared for the weather because we were all too busy playing at the park and going fishing at the dock and investigating all the different types and colors of mushrooms that have sprouted up in the woods during these torrential rains.

And, that has to account for something.  Doesn't it?