Kids: They cost. A LOT.....

I had no idea how much these kids would end up costing me when I had them. Sure it was expensive to deliver them by C-section in the hospital. Insurance picked up the tab on that one. Thanks, Aetna! But these kids I have are bleeding me dry, one activity at a time. Allow me to sound like an old fart for a moment. When I was a kid, I was involved in NOTHING. I wasn't musically inclined (my school didn't have a band anyway), I wasn't athletically inclined, I had very few hobbies that required equipment. I read. I rode my bike. I wasn't a clothes horse, and when I turned 13, I started working.

I started as a set-up girl in a restaurant, and when I turned 14, I moved up to waitress. I always worked for my spending money. After my summer as a waitress, the restaurant where I worked burned to the ground (I grew up in Wildwood, the restaurant was on the Boardwalk, we called it Jewish lightning when a Boardwalk block burned down). For the next 4 summers I worked in an arcade on the Boardwalk where I made a little money, and met lots of cute boys. OH the cute boys! But I digress. I had a J O B. I don't ever remember nickel and diming my Mom for stuff.

Fast forward to today. These kids today. Two daughters. Two talented, athletic, musically gifted daughters. Oh my aching wallet.

Let's start with 14. Sax player. Sax lessons. We bought her a sax, reeds, nice neck strap, more reeds. She plays volleyball. She's on a team that travels. That's not cheap. Gas, snacks, dinner after her tournaments, sometimes hotel rooms. She plays basketball. She goes to basketball camp every summer. Thank goodness her grandparents pay for that. She also has ginormous feet. Did I mention those feet don't ever seem to stop growing? You know what's totally not fair? I went shopping for basketball shoes for her last year, and the biggest size I could find in women's was an 11. She needed a women's 11.5. So we had to go up to a men's size. And the men's basketball shoes were, no lie, $60 more expensive than the women's shoes were.

Moving on to 16. Trumpet player, trumpet lessons, sheet music, and now she tells me she needs a Harmon Mute. I don't know what that is but I have no doubt it's going to cost me more than a gallon of milk (or gas). She runs track and plays basketball. Thankfully her feet may have slowed down in the growth department because she has been in the same basketball shoes for 2 seasons (thank you baby Jesus). But she DOES need track spikes.

What?

Track spikes, mom.

Can we get them at the running store in town?

No, mom, not cross country spikes, track spikes are different. We can order them from Dick's.

But I have a gift certificate for the store in town.

I laugh at your gift certificates! BAH!!

Sunday we went shopping for prom gowns. HO-LEEEEE SHIT. Can I just tell you that I think my prom gown for my junior prom may have cost a total of $89? And that was INCLUDING alterations.  The first dress store we went to scared the pee out of me. I didn't see a single prom gown in that store for under $289. And I know that she'd have to have a few alterations done so we were definitely going over $300. Next store we found was a little more reasonably priced but not by much. We STILL ended up going over $300. We said 'yes' to the dress. And my wallet died a little more.

Next year will be 16's senior year and 14's freshman year in high school. And the band is going to Disney. So that'll be two in the band going to Disney. And my wallet will die a little more. Then 16 will be 18 and go away to college. And my savings will die a lot.

At this rate, hubby and I will be working until we turn 128. But our daughters will be well-rounded, responsible, beautiful adults. And hopefully, they will take care of us in our old age. Hopefully they'll wipe our drool, or our butts, and they'll thank us for making them the well-rounded, responsible, beautiful adults that they become. Money is overrated, right? Retirement is going to be boring and who wants to be bored, right?

Drivin' Miss 16...

16 will be 17 soon, and a few weeks ago she got her drivers license. She aced the parallel parking part of the test early on and the lady who administered her test told me that 16 was the most confident and capable person she'd had all week taking the road test. SCORE!! And now she's Drivin' Miss 16!

She got her license on a Wednesday and school started the next day. I opted to allow her to drive my car to school. And I've allowed her to drive to school almost every day since she got her license. Some people may think I'm crazy. I'm not.

A friend of mine posted on the Facebooks that she, too, had allowed her newly-licensed driver to take her car and OH THE HUMANITY!!!!! "Why would you let your kid take your car???" "Why do YOU have to walk to the store when you have a perfectly good car???" "That's not fair to you!!!!"

People were literally freaking out on her post, criticizing her for walking to the store and letting her kid take her car to school.

First of all, it's not really anyone's call but the owner of the car. Period. If you have an opinion, that's awesome. Good on you. But what you think doesn't really make much of a difference in anyone's life but your own, or in anyone's decisions but your own.

Here's my story: I work just under a mile from my office. I am a healthy 49-year old woman with fully functioning lungs and legs. I am fully capable of walking to my job. In fact, I actually ENJOY walking to my job. It gets me out in the sunshine, gets me fresh air, vitamin D and some much needed exercise. It's helping with weight-loss and it really doesn't suck as much as some nay-sayers would like you to think.

I also believe it's building my daughter's confidence. I have faith in her ability, I know she is careful, I know that she's capable and I know that it makes her feel good that I trust her enough to take my car to school. It also saves ME the trouble of having to go pick her up after sports or band practice every afternoon. If I continue driving her everywhere, she will not get the experience OR THE CONFIDENCE to do it for herself.

If it's raining, girlfriend gets to ride the bus and then I will go and pick her up from practice when I get out of work. But if it's a beautiful day outside, and I could use the exercise, and she could use the confidence building, why not let her drive? If she has her license but I drive her everywhere, what purpose does that serve? What experience is she getting?

So to all of the nay-sayers, I say this: it's none of your business if someone allows their kid to drive their car. If you have a child, parent that child. But don't judge another parent for their parenting decisions.



If you enjoyed this post, you may also find some humor in the story of my dueling GPSs.

The Egg Nazi...

Hey Snarklings. Most of you know that I've got two teens in High School this year, a Senior and a Freshman. Both my girls are band geeks and I couldn't be happier. Band kids are awesome. They are pretty well-behaved (most anyway) and I know and love most of their friends in band. Anywho, every year the whole band packs up and heads to the 4H camp for band camp (NO AMERICAN PIE JOKES NEEDED, TYVM) and we band parents all pitch in to assist. We provide produce, we show up at the school to help load up all the luggage, fans, equipment and instruments. Some parents drive the trucks up, others drive up in their own vehicles to help unload, and during the week, parents sign up to chaperone in the bunks or to help serve meals.

That's where I come in. Every year since 16 was a wide-eyed Freshman, I've gone up to band camp one evening to chaperone in the bunks and then to help with breakfast the following morning. I feel like every parent who has a kid in band should help out in some way, whether it's sleeping over at band camp, serving meals, chaperoning band trips, or one of my favorite things to do, working in the concession stand during Friday night football games. But I digress. Let's get back to breakfast, shall we?

My partners-in-crime and fellow band parents Suzie, Lucy and I woke up at the asscrack of dawn and schlepped over to the building where meals are served. There, we were instructed by the crack staff that is there every year. These awesome ladies, I believe, are on staff at the public schools in the area as cafeteria workers (don't quote me as I'm not 100% sure on this, because they could also be prison guards, could go either way). They quickly put us to work cooking eggs, buttering toast and cutting fruit. Breakfast on that particular morning was eggs, sausage gravy and biscuits, toast, cereal and an enormous selection of fresh fruit (trust me when I tell you, the kids at band camp almost NEVER go hungry). 

My job was serving freshly made scrambled eggs to these bright-eyed, bushy-tailed band kids. All 180 of them. Plus instructors. So there are 200 egg-eating folks all lined up and ready for me to dish them out some steaming scrambled goodness. I started with a big ice cream scooper and those first few kids were giddy with excitement at the serving of delicious eggy delight that appeared on their plates. And that's when it happened. The Egg Nazi appeared. She is the keeper of the kitchen. The master of the meals. I heard her say "THAT'S IT!!! NO MORE!!!" And then she traded my big scrambled egg scoop for a small scrambled egg scoop. She instructed me NOT TO GIVE OUT TOO MUCH to each person because we have to make these eggs last for everyone. "If there are any eggs left" she said, "they can go back for seconds. But I doubt there'll be any left. So you have to just give out a small portion to make them stretch for everyone."

The look on these kids' faces broke my heart as I laid out a smattering of eggs, like, a tablespoon on each plate. Their eyes, nearly filled with tears, looking up at me as if to say "Please, ma'am, may I have some.....more??" Overwhelmed with guilt, I apologized to each child as they looked down at the baby-sized portion of eggs on their plate. "I tried, I swear, but if she catches me giving you more.....she'll kill me"  I whispered through my own guilt-laden tears.

With 1/4 pan of eggs left and less than half the band left to serve I heard the Egg Nazi shout from the kitchen, "Put this fresh pan of eggs out, those eggs out there are getting cold!!" So I traded the old pan for a fresh new pan, but still, I was being watched like a hawk. If I gave even a smidgen more than that baby scoop, I could feel her eyes burning a hole in my skull. I could almost hear her thoughts: "NOT SO MUCH!!!!! ARE YOU CRAZY??? WE'LL RUN OUT!!!" Never have I felt so much guilt, I felt like I was starving these kids. I feared that they wouldn't make it to lunch before passing out on the field because they didn't get enough to eat for breakfast.

When I saw the end of the line, I looked at my pan of eggs. Almost still full, because of the miniscule amount of eggs I was instructed to distribute. Slow, smouldering rage began to burn in my heart, because I realized at that point that WE WERE GOING TO HAVE SO MANY GODDAMN EGGS LEFT OVER WE COULD FEED A SMALL AFRICAN VILLAGE. I seethed. I bit through my bottom lip. I burned with the fire of a thousand suns at the Egg Nazi, for making me starve those poor band kids.

As the last person in line walked away with their portion, the Egg Nazi came out from the kitchen, and looked at the mountain of scrambled eggs still left in my pan. She could probably feel the heat from my anger radiating through my skin. "I'm real sorry," she said, "I really thought you were giving out way too much in the beginning but looks like we had plenty."

Since dumping a pan of hot scrambled eggs on the Egg Nazi would probably have gotten me kicked out of band camp, I decided to keep my big mouth shut and carry my giant pan of eggs over to the table so that the children could help themselves to seconds. In the end, few did. It was almost time for them to head out and start practicing their music and their movements, so there was no time to eat the eggs. I'm not sure what the Egg Nazi did with the remainder of those eggs but I can only hope an orphanage in Haiti was well-fed that afternoon.

Next year I'm handing out toast.

Being a parent is hard, yo!

As I prepare to begin my oldest's last year of high school and my youngest's first, I can honestly say I'm filled with so many different emotions:

Fear: What if my oldest doesn't get into a good college and is forced to continue living at home and working at Dairy Queen? Free Blizzards aside, it would be awful for both her AND me. I love that girl, but she needs to learn the responsibility of getting up on her own, getting out the door on time and becoming a mature, responsible person. She is almost 17 and is too old for me to be her personal alarm clock. When I was finishing up my senior year of high school, my mom had moved up to Atlantic City from where we lived in Wildwood because she took a casino job and the 2 hour round trip commute was just too much. She came home on her days off, but I was left with the responsibility of getting myself to and from school, on time, every day. If I made a mess, there was no one else in the house to clean it up. Me thinks almost-17 needs a taste of responsibility.

Sadness: So many of my friends have high school graduates who are either going off to their first year of college or returning for their second year. Those young adults are spending less and less time at home. Some have on-campus jobs that require them NOT to come home for the summer. Forgetting everything I've written up there in that first category, how can it be that in just a year, my oldest will be leaving me, possibly for longer than I'm ready to have her gone? Last week she was a curious 5 year old running up and down the soccer field chasing a soccer ball with 12 other 5 year olds. Just this weekend she was an awkward middle schooler with glasses and braces. And wasn't it only yesterday that she was starting out her freshman year of high school, curious about making new friends and enjoying her time as one of the only 2 freshman on the varsity basketball team? What happened??

Pride: I could NOT be more proud of this child if I tried. Sometimes I'm so filled with pride I feel like I could explode. She's become such an amazing, beautiful and talented young woman that sometimes it's hard to get mad at her for missing the bus. I said sometimes. She's funny as hell, she is helpful to those around her, she's great with kids, patient and kind (kids who aren't her sister, that is). There is another reason that I'm so proud of her that I will talk about another time, but suffice it to say, she's pretty freaking awesome and I wonder how it is that we've raised such a great kid. She didn't come with instructions, yet we've managed to do something right, because she continues to make me proud almost daily.

Excitement: Am I scared to death? Yes. As her mom I'm frightened, since the future is so unknown, but she's smart and will do wonderful things. When she puts her mind to something, there's no stopping her. So I'm excited for her as she enters her senior year in high school and I know that this will be a year full of crazy fun memories for her, and I'm so excited and happy for her that she's as outgoing as she is, with a fantastic group of friends whom I love. Knowing what a great year she'll have definitely leaves me excited for her. But then come graduation, go back and read this list in order. Then repeat.

Being a parent is hard, yo.

Bacon and eggs and other tales from Snarkfest

Hey Snarklings. Let me tell you a little story. A few years back, I received a phone call while sitting at my desk working and it was 16 (who at the time was probably 14). Apparently, 14 (who at the time was probably 12) came home from her PT appointment and made herself bacon and eggs. Now, before you go getting all ‘oooh, you should NEVER let your children use the stove unsupervised’ on me, understand that this was NOT something that 14 has EVER done before. Have we allowed her to cook eggs, soup, or God forbid Ramen noodles alone? Yes but we’re usually somewhere in the house when she’s doing it.  But bacon? Nope, this is a first for 14. One thing you need to know about 14 is that she is an aspiring chef. No shit.  14 spends more time watching Food Network than Nickelodeon (unless, of course, One Direction is on, then Bobby Flay can go pound salmon cakes up his butt).  She’s gotten different tips, ideas and suggestions from Food Network and she really has made some cool creations. She even texted me a picture of a salad she made while at her grandma’s house. So I wasn’t horribly bothered by her bacon-cooking. But I can’t say the same for 16.

16 was suffering from bacon and egg envy.

Back to the phone call. 16 says “Mom, 14 came home from PT and made herself bacon and eggs and I asked her if she’d make me some and she won’t.” Now imagine me, sitting at my desk with a room full of interns to my left and a room full of my boss to my right. I just stared, unbelieving, at the phone thinking “think fast rabbit….” I told 16 to put 14 on the phone. When 14 got on, I said in my most terse, stern and quietly furious voice, “make your sister bacon. Don’t ask me why, just make her the bacon. Because I said so.” As the whining and arguing and ‘but why can’t she make it herself’ laments went on and on, I hung up on her. After a few moments, after calming myself down and taking a few breaths, I texted her: “Because she is your sister and u love her. You are the one who loves to cook.” To which 14 shot right back: “It’s bacon! I could heat it up in the microwave if I wanted to! That’s not even real cooking!!!” I believe the second and third exclamation points weren’t necessary but I digress. I replied: “Then show her how.”
14’s response? “This should be fun.”

I’m envisioning 14 in a red cape, devil horns and a pitchfork, with the flame all the way up telling 16, ‘put your face closer to the pan, smell the bacon frying, feel the heat from the grease, don’t be a sissy, get right in there! You wanted to learn!’ And in my sick imagination, I see 16’s contacts melting to her eyeballs as popping grease shoots up and hits her face like bullets. But I hoped for the best, and I did not hear the fire department sound any alarms so I can only assume that no houses were burned to the ground in the making of bacon at my house.

But wait, there’s more.

A few days later in our little burg there was a water main break, and we received word that there was a ‘boil water advisory’ in effect until further notice. Sweet. I had 2 cups of coffee, showered and brushed my teeth in that unboiled water, since I didn’t get that little slice of info until I got to work. Once again, I was at my desk when my phone rang and I saw that it was 14. I counted to 937 and answered it in my most pleasant, quiet, calm mommy voice. “Mom, can my bestie come over and help me clean my room? It’s okay with bestie’s parents. And then after my room is clean, bestie’s parents will come get us and take us to their house.”

“No, clean your own room.” I said, trying NOT to attract attention to the fact that I was, once again, talking with one of my children on a personal call. “But mom…. blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah…..etc”

“Fine, do what you need to do. I’m tired of fighting with you. And make sure you and 16 don’t drink any water. There’s a boil water advisory happening.” I relented.

“I know, the township called and told us. But I really want a drink of water. Can I boil some and then put it in the refrigerator?” asked my adorable 14.

Now, while the idea of my 14 year old daughter cooking bacon wasn’t something I found to be terribly, horribly frightening, the idea of my 14 year old daughter boiling water, then putting it in a glass and putting the glass in the fridge to cool off scared the bejeezus out of me. I could not contain my displeasure in my response.

“Absolutely not.”

“But why not? I want a drink of water!” 14 pleaded. Now, I try to get my kids to drink water, I really do. I never keep soda in the house. We have milk, we have juice, we have Mio, we have Gatorade and we have lemonade mix. That day, and for the first time in her entire life, she NEEDED a drink of water. She proceeded to hound and beg me to allow her to boil a pot of water so she could have a drink in 2 hours when it’s cool enough to drink. Jesus, by the time it’s cool enough to drink, the water main will be fixed and she could just turn on the damn tap.

“NO. I’m not going to argue with you, my answer is NO. Period. The end.” I said through clenched teeth.

“Mommy, you sound angry. Is everything alright?”

Ya think???? I need to remember that this is my youngest baby daughter, the one I love, the one I adore, the one I’m going to sell to the gypsies if she doesn’t stop calling me at work to ask me for a drink of freaking water.

It is, indeed, true. God made babies cute so we wouldn’t leave them on a church doorstep with a note. But you can only carry cute so far. 14 years is a long time to carry cute. I’m thinking the statute of limitations on cute may just be nearing its end in my house.

Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens....

Blah blah blah, these are a few of my favorite things.

Dumbass under my bed

I don't do a real good Julie Andrews impression. As a matter of fact, when I was in either 7th or 8th grade, our high school was putting on the play The Sound of Music and was looking for elementary kids to audition. My friend Sue (who could sing circles around me) convinced me to try out for the play as one of the Von Trapp kids. I don't remember if Sue made it but I certainly did not. I bombed my audition when my voice cracked as I tried to hit the high notes. Instead of it sounding beautiful and melodious when I sang Do Re Mi, it sounded more like DON'T, You're Raping My Ears. Suffice it to say, that was the beginning and the end of my career in the theater.

Anyway, I'm digressing from the point of today's post (and I really DO have a point, I just usually take forever getting around to it). I want to tell you about some of MY favorite things, and they don't include raindrops OR whiskers. Whiskey, maybe, but not whiskers.

In no particular order, I present to you, some of my favorite things:

Watching my kids perform. Doesn't matter if they are playing volleyball, basketball, track or music. One of my very favorite things is seeing them use their talents. When they were younger and played soccer, nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing them dribble the ball up the field, pass it back and forth with their teammates and then take that shot and watch the ball whiz past the goalie. More recently, I love watching them stand on the foul line and take a free throw that is the go-ahead shot in the game. And don't even get me started on seeing them perform music with their respective bands. Since I am not even remotely athletically or musically inclined it just makes me so proud that they HAVE talent and USE that talent.

14, my volleyball star
Photo courtesy of Brian Englebright

16, my hurdling hero
Photo courtesy of Rollie Jacobs

Baking on a hot beach, on a lounge chair with my feet in the ocean. Seriously, it's awesome and something I wish I could do more of, but sadly, when you live 4 hours from the closest ocean, it's a little difficult. When I lived in Ocean City, NJ I didn't do this NEARLY as much as I should have. Another thing that just melts my butter is tubing along on a lazy river with friends or family. Last summer, I tubed the Potomac with some amazing friends for about 4 hours. We relaxed, drank, laughed and had a blast.

Spending time with this crew, doing things together, or just sitting and watching TV when we're all in the same room. I bitch and moan about them but I love them to bits and love spending time with them. Things are going to be mighty different next year when 16 becomes 17 and graduates from High School. Totally not ready for that, so I will enjoy the time we have between now and then. 

My crew in Disney from 2012

This guy. This picture.

Me, carrying Mike Rowe, wanting to never put him down.

These three. They never fail to bring a smile to my face on a daily basis. If they didn't shed so damn much, life would be close to perfect.

My Henry

My Cosmo

My Dumbass

And I'm just saying, when the dog bites or the bee stings, I'm not just feeling sad, I'm pretty freaking pissed off. Remembering my favorite things when my skin is hanging open from a dog bite doesn't help me not feel so bad. When a bee stings me, thinking about kitties and bright copper kettles does NOTHING to ease my pain. And those silver white winters that I thought would NEVER melt into springs??? You can keep that white shit, Julie. Keep it right over there in Vienna where it belongs. Give me 90 degree temps and a hot beach with a cool drink. THAT'S what I need to make me feel better.

I must confess...

Some truth telling on the old blog today. I think it's time I came clean and 'fessed up about some stuff. Don't worry, I didn't kill anyone or hijack a school bus full of nuns or anything like that. But what I HAVE done are some things that very few people know, because they aren't things that you were supposed to do when I did them.

When 16 was just a few days old, I could NOT get her to fall asleep. I had a crib in her room but didn't use it right away since I was a brand new mother and was pretty much an idiot when it came to babies.  We kept a bassinet in our bedroom but every time she'd fall asleep in my arms and I'd put her down, she'd wake right up and fuss. So I did what any brand new mother would do. I put her in her car seat. For some reason, when I did this, she slept. And she slept well. Who was I to deny that little angel her sleep? So for about the first month of her life, my baby slept in her car seat at night.

Once I finally started figuring out this whole 'mothering' thing, I was able to rock her to sleep and put her in her crib (without her car seat) and she'd be okay. Until she wasn't. She was probably about 3 or 4 months old and I would have a hard time getting her to sleep in her crib. Like a good mother, I always laid her down on her back. No SIDS in my house! But one night I just got tired of laying her on her back and almost making it out the door before she'd start squirming and realize where she was. It was at that time that I became a rebel. SIDS be damned, I had a baby monitor, I cranked it up loud so I could hear every breath, every fart. So when I laid her back down in her crib after she'd fallen back to sleep in my arms.... I put her on her tummy. OH THE HORROR!!! I fear they are coming to take away my 'Mother of the Year' sash and tiara. Oh well. Guess what. She's 16, and she survived sleeping on her tummy. The only person I ever told about this was my best friend. And guess what! SHE DID IT TOO!!!! We felt like some secret society of 'Moms Who Throw Caution to the Wind!' We were rebel moms, but we slept! Oh the sleep! It was a secret that we only discussed in private when no one could hear us, and we relished the fact that we had our little club of 2.

When my girls were a little older, probably 3 or 4, they were fighting (as they did on a regular basis) and I finally followed through on my promise to call Santa and report them. I called them both into the room, and then I dialed his number and I said "Hello Santa? This is Mrs. Biebel. That's right, Jennifer and Amanda's mom. I'm fine thank you, and you? Oh that's good, I'm glad to hear it. Listen, Santa, I'm calling because I wanted to let you know that Jenn and Amanda don't want any Christmas presents this year. Yes, that's right, they keep fighting and...oh you've seen them? Oh, so you know how they've been behaving. Oh good! What's that Santa? You want to talk to them? Ok, hang on I'll get them." The look of terror in those little eyes was just priceless. I wish I had captured it on film. Or my phone. Or whatever. They were like frightened kittens.

I handed the phone to Jennifer and she very sheepishly spoke to Santa and promised Santa that she would be much nicer to her sister and she would stop fighting with her. Then she handed the phone to her sister who cried and cried because she wanted presents. I believe that's all she told Santa. She wanted presents. Whatever it took, she'd do what she needed to do. Because PRESENTS.

Those girls never even guessed that it was my brother, their Uncle Billy on the other end of that phone. And I didn't care. I actually got a few weeks of peace out of that one phone call to 'Santa' and I owed my big brother a huge debt of gratitude for playing along.

Phew, I don't know about you but I feel much better now that I've gotten those things off my chest. Now it's your turn. What secrets do YOU have that you feel you can finally confess? Go ahead, I won't tell.

Hey, before you go, just a reminder. That little box over there on the right that says "Shop Amazon.com" is for you. I'm saving you the trouble of typing in "Amazon.com", just click the link and do your shopping and I get a teeny tiny percentage of money for keeping that link on my page. Go on, you know you need a new pair of flip-flops, a shower cap and a can of whipped cream.

My girls missed the bus today. Here's why I'm glad....

It's no secret that I've had issues with my girls missing the school bus in the morning. The damn thing stops directly in front of my house every single morning. Directly. In front. Of my house. It's not like they even have to walk a block to the bus stop. The drivers could only make it more convenient if they called my house as they were entering my development to give us a 5 minute warning. And yet, my girls continue to miss the bus. Today, however, upon further reflection, I'm happy my girls missed the bus.

"Why?" you may ask. "Why all of a sudden are you HAPPY that both your girls missed the bus, Snarky? Have you fallen and hit your head again?"

No, I haven't. But thanks for asking.

While I was in the shower, I did some thinking. That's where I do a LOT of my thinking for blog post ideas. I have NO idea why, but that's usually where the light bulb goes off over my head. Kinda dangerous if you ask me, light bulbs in the shower, but whatever. I digress.

If my girls missing the school bus is the worst problem I have to deal with, I'm pretty damn lucky, aren't I? They missed the bus. Not because they were out getting drunk at a party last night. They weren't. Not because we were having a huge fight in my house. We weren't. Not because they are so unhappy that they've run away from home. They haven't. Not because they are on drugs and I couldn't rouse them. They aren't.

Getting the picture?

My girls are healthy. Some kids aren't. Some kids are in the hospital, waiting for an organ transplant. Or going through chemotherapy. Or suffer from anxiety issues. Or a million other things. My girls were just tired and didn't wake up quickly enough to get on the bus. Why? Because they were up talking 'til some ridiculous hour. I was already asleep long before they headed to their own rooms and went to sleep.

They have each other. They rely on each other. When they were younger, they made my life HELL because they did nothing but fight. Now, the fighting has all but disappeared, and has been replaced with late night chats in one of their rooms, behind closed doors. Sometimes I'm invited in. Sometimes I'm not. But they have each other. And they're happy. And they're healthy. And I'm the luckiest mom. Because they could've missed the bus because of drug addiction, alcohol abuse, health issues, abusive boyfriend issues, mental issues or about a thousand other reasons that other parents deal with. No, I'm lucky because my girls missed the bus because they were tired from spending time talking to each other too late into the night.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still annoyed that they missed the bus. But I have to think that it could always be much worse.

A new gig I've got...

So the leader of the Dumbass world, Toby of Real Dumbass News has a new group effort going called That Drawer in the Kitchen. And I've made me debut over there with a tale of my oldest and her poor choice of footwear for her first SAT test. Read about it here.

Tuesday Tirade....

Oh for the love of all that's holy, we're getting more snow. I believe we may be making up for all those nice winters where we only had a dusting of snow, and all those blistering hot summer days when we were bitching about the oppressive heat and humidity. Well guess what! WE GET IT. You've made your point. So enough with the snow already!

It's not bad enough that we've missed about seventy-bajillion days of school, but we've also had to reschedule dozens of basketball games! If we don't soon get these kids back to school they're going to have to make up all of their missed games in one day. (Although, they WILL sleep well if we do that. Hmmmm)

My girls have been complaining that even when they have off school due to snow, it's not really even a day off because I leave them a list of chores to do. Yes, that's right. Free slave labor! I put those kids to work and I work them to the bone! I work them for hours and hours, not giving them a break, to HELL with child labor laws. This ain't no democracy! Want to see the long list of things I "MADE' them do last week when we had a(nother) snow day? Here it is:

16: Unload dishwasher, help get all clean clothes off guest bed, clean your room
14: Load dishwasher, help get all clean clothes off guest bed, clean your room

What kind of horrible mother AM I?? Who makes their kids work this hard? Shouldn't I just let them be kids, let them do what they should be doing, like what normal kids do? You know, texting, snap-chatting, insta-gramming and tweeting? Kids don't even go sledding anymore. They don't want to go outside where it's cold when they can stay inside and be warm and work on their iPhone Brain Rot.

Here's what happened when I came home from work after leaving them with that huge, and totally unreasonable list of things to do while they were off from school. I was getting ready to make my macaroni, cheese and ham casserole (a favorite at Casa Snarkfest) and I needed to find my 9x13" casserole dish. It was in the sink. Dirty. Still.

When I questioned WHY said casserole dish was still dirty, the response I got was "It wouldn't fit in the dishwasher." When I questioned why no one chose to actually HAND wash that casserole dish and anything ELSE that didn't fit into the dishwasher, the response I got was "Well THAT wasn't on the list."

That was when my head exploded. There was brain matter everywhere. On the clean dishes, on the stove, on the dog's fur, it was ugly. Once again, I used my go-to phrase: "Are you fucking kidding me?" My tirade that evening was second to none and now I think that my kids understand that when I say load the dishwasher, the final result means that there isn't a fork, spoon or cup left in the sink. If it doesn't fit in the dishwasher, wash it by hand. It's not rocket science, but if I have to explain it again, flames will shoot out of my eyeballs and Godzilla will rear her ugly head again. And nobody wants that to happen.

My dogs love the snow but I think even THEY are tired of it.  This is what Henry looks like when he comes inside from being out in the snow.

Henry has snowballs. Sadly for him they're the only balls he's got.

Look at that sad face!! Poor thing looks like he's got little white tumors all over his fur. That's the face of an unhappy dog, covered in balls. That can't be comfortable. Mother Nature is making my dog miserable. So please, Mother Nature, give my dog a break. Give my kids a break. And for heaven's sake, give ME a break! NO MORE SNOW!!

Those topics you're not supposed to discuss at dinner parties?

Politics and religion, right? Two definite hot buttons that should never, ever ever ever be discussed. With politics, I don't have enough of an informed opinion (in my opinion) to form a valid argument either way. And you know what? I am okay with that. But religion? That's a different story.

16 and I were at a class this weekend at our church, because she and 14 are preparing for the sacrament of Confirmation. Yep, we are Catholic. Well, they are Catholic. I'm sorta neutral. Disenfranchised, if you will. I'm all sorts of messed up from 12 years of Catholic school. I believe in God. I believe in Jesus. It's the Catholic church and it's ever-changing policies, rules, edicts, etc. that I have issues with. Growing up Catholic, the nuns truly did a number on me.

Let's start with my sophomore year of high school. Our theology teacher, Sister Mary Hitler, came into class one day and taught us that if you HAVE an abortion, HELP in an abortion or have anything to do with ANYONE getting an abortion, you were considered excommunicated from the Catholic church. She didn't pull the 'you're gonna go to hell' card but she did make things pretty clear. I always had that in the back of my mind. Fast forward to the beginning of my time working in Atlantic City. Someone I knew when I was growing up contacted me because a. I knew Atlantic City because I worked there, and b. Atlantic City was where most of the abortion clinics were back then. Anyway, this person was in a bad way and in no position to have a baby. It's not my place to judge anyone. That's God's job. And Judge Judy's. But I also know that there are way too many babies brought into this world who don't get adopted and spend their lives in the system. So I helped out a friend and drove her to the clinic, waited until she was finished and drove her home. BOOM: Excommunicated. Sr. Mary Hitler said it, and she's got that direct line to God, being a nun and all, so it must be true.

After that, I really didn't think that the Catholic church wanted me, so I really never went back. Sure I went for the big 2, Christmas and Easter but that was pretty much for my mom, whose a completely devoted Catholic. We all want to please our parents, don't we? Mom was divorced and wanted to remarry some years later. The hoops the Catholic church made my mother jump through in order to remarry within the Catholic church rivaled that of a circus monkey. She had to have her first marriage (also performed in the Catholic church) annulled before the Catholics would allow her to remarry in their church. Now, let me say this: her first marriage was to an amazing and incredible man. I loved him like he was my own father. He and my mom differed on how much control members of the extended family should have, but they never for a moment didn't actually love one another. So custody of my brother was never an issue and when mom's ex would come to visit with my brother, he always included me, which was a wonderful thing. I loved him so much. So when the Catholic church told my mother that she would have to have that first marriage annulled, I have no doubt it hurt her but it also bothered me tremendously.

Dictionary.com defines the word annul this way:   to make void or null; abolish; cancel; invalidate; to reduce to nothing; obliterate.

That's what the church wanted my mother to do. Obliterate all ties to a man she once loved, a man with whom she shared a son. That's pretty damned harsh.

Don't even get me started on all of the sexual misconduct that has been revealed to have happened over the course of the last hundred years by Catholic priests. And don't come back at me arguing that NOT ALL priests did that. I'm not stupid, I know that not all priests are perverts. But the Catholic church hid these findings for so many years, that to me, again IN MY OPINION, the church itself is perverse for allowing it to continue.

Ok so all that being said, 16 and I were working on this questionnaire on Sunday. One of the questions was: Describe your faith. My answer was this: LACKING Her answer was: strong but it could be stronger. Then came the doozy.  The question was: what I could do to help my children in dealing with obstacles in their faith. I left it blank. I explained to 16 that I want both of them to be informed enough to make their own decisions about their faith. But I was overlooking something. How would they be informed if I don't actually give them the tools to make those decisions. I take them to mass when they have a mandatory Youth Mass in preparation for Confirmation, and then we do a church pot luck afterwards. But if we have something else going on, I really don't mind skipping church to do that something else. But that's not really helping THEM make informed decisions.

I've told them before that I don't want to make their choices FOR them, but in reality, isn't that exactly what I'm doing? They're not going to walk to church by themselves. So I thought about it for a minute and told her that I guess I really do need to make more of an effort to get them to church so that they CAN make those choices for themselves. At that point, she took my questionnaire and filled in the answer to the question I left blank: Do it for the children

She and I looked at each other and just cracked up because it really was funny. I said it sounded like a telethon or something. But the reality of it is, I DO need to do it for my children. How can they make informed decisions if I don't open the door for them to explore? So I'm going to swallow my pride and make the effort to get them to church as often as their schedules will allow. I feel like a hypocrite when I attend mass and go through the motions, reciting the prayers like singing my A-B-C's. But they need to decide for themselves what they want to do with faith in their lives.

Why I'm Out of Contention for Wife/Mother of the Year: A Snarkfest Confession

The amazing Frugalista Blog is healing from a football injury, and in her blogging absence, she's having some guest bloggers fill in for her until she's back in action. And one of her guests is the phenomenal Keesha from Mom's New Stage. Keesha's post is a fantastic confession of ways that she sucks.

This got me thinking that it's been a really rough week at Casa Snarkfest, and I think that it's very important that you all know that I'm NOT a very nice person sometimes (shut up, I said SOMEtimes, not 24/7). I think it's also important that you know that my family usually ends up on the receiving end of my not-so-niceness and they deserve an apology. So to that end, I'm presenting you all a list of reasons I sometimes suck at this whole wife/mother thing. The list below, in no particular order, is my way of apologizing to my family for my short-comings. I hope to improve on this soon. Until then, please don't change the locks on the front door.

A. I am a lousy housekeeper. You know it. I know it. And while I piss and moan to you all about not folding and putting laundry away, I continue to pile dirty dishes in the sink and then bitch that they are still in there days later. I'm just as much at fault as you are.

B. I let things simmer inside until I can't take it anymore, then I explode and let everything pour out, and you are on the receiving end, whether it was your fault or not. I'm talking to all of you. Instead of addressing the issue when it happens, I let it stew and fester, and then one thing sets me off and I look like Milton the Monster when he blows his top. And for that, I am sorry.

C. I am very hard on both 16 and 14. I embarrass them for missing the bus in the hopes that it will motivate them to start making the bus. And apparently, it's backfiring on me. Embarrassing them is mean. And I didn't realize just how mean it was until a 'Come to Jesus' meeting this week in which I realized just how much it has affected them. So I promise to make a concentrated effort to stop using negative reinforcement to motivate, and start using positive reinforcement. Donuts? Puppies? I'm open to suggestions.

D. I have also promised to try to be less, shall we say, 'fly-off-the-handle-like' with my girls. I've never had a teenager before, and they don't come with a manual, so it's pretty much either learn from the mistakes of others, or it's on the job training. So let this be a lesson to other parents who have kids who may soon be teens: listen to them before jumping on their shit. It's a mistake I make way too often. I leap before I look and I often miss the point. And for that, 16 & 14, I'm incredibly sorry. And I'll try to do better.

E. I often phone in my interest, and that's bad. Very bad, m'kay? Phoning in your interest is not cool. So when 14 goes on about how hot Austin Mahone is or how much her You-Tubers crack her up, I promise not to phone in my interest, I promise to listen. If it's important to my kids, then it needs to be important to me too. Because I don't want them to turn to someone else who will feign interest to get them to do things they probably should not be doing. So when you tell me about someone on the team who does this or that, or you tell me that someone in your class is bothersome, or that Harry Styles is the best thing since chocolate Pop-Tarts, I promise to listen and not just nod my head and say 'yup, sure is.'

F. I don't make enough time for my husband, and that's really bad too. Not making time for your husband is bad, m'kay? Marriage is hard, yo. Really hard. But we've been at it for almost 19 years, and he's so cute! It's definitely worth working for, and I am sorry that I don't make enough time for him. I need to make a concentrated effort to make a monthly 'date night' and I'm announcing it here and now (Wolf! Right here and now!) that I'm going to try hard to do this for him and for our marriage.

I think that's enough confession for one day. So to my handsome and funny 49, to my beautiful and amazing 16 and my phenomenal and fantastic 14, I'm sorry that I'm not working hard enough and I promise that I will try harder to be a better person. You girls look to me to be a role model, and I'm going to try to be the person you need me to be. Now go clean your rooms.

Sensitivity and the teenager......

I picked 16 up from basketball practice last night and we were discussing the blog. I told her I was trying to come up with some ideas on a blog about her dad. She asked if I was going to throw him 'out of the bus' like I do with her and her sister. And I said "first of all, it's UNDER the bus, not OUT OF the bus. And B, I don't throw you guys under the bus.


Much."

She then proceeded to explain to me about how I'm always like, "Oh I'm so proud of 16, she's such an awesome kid BUT SHE MISSES THE BUS and she never listens and she does this wrong and that wrong."

I didn't think that I was being mean. I think all teenagers do a lot of the same things. Messy rooms, not doing what's asked of them, being all-consumed with the iPhone, not doing what's asked of them, no sense of urgency, then blaming everyone else when things don't go as planned. I'm not alone in this. I swear, there are other parents out there with kids who are EXACTLY like mine. I write about mine so that other moms will tell me I'm not the only one. Nothing makes me feel better than when someone else says "Oh the same thing happens in my house." Because it makes me feel like I'm NOT sucking as a parent.

These girls didn't come with any training manual, no instructions on how NOT to fuck up their lives. So it's all been trial and error for me. And after the conversation with 16 I felt like it was WAY more error than trial.

And now I'm left wondering if I'm doing more harm than good by writing about them. Blogging about stuff, writing songs when they miss the school bus. I cannot tell you how much they hate those songs. Their friends give them a hard time, their friends' parents kid them about it. I don't do it to be malicious, I do it as a release. It's frustrating to me and I turn my frustration to humor. I have to. Drinking before work is kind of frowned upon.

She says I never write about the GOOD stuff they do.

Make no mistake, I'm incredibly proud of both my daughters. You'll never meet a more proud mom. They are smart, they are beautiful, funny, caring girls. They never rob banks or kick puppies. They never make fun of hobos or break windows. They almost never steal cars. And if they hate my songs about the school bus, maybe they could try MAKING the bus more often. I've already conceded to not writing songs when they MAKE the bus (which is awesome because I'm running out of ideas), and if they never missed the bus again, I'll never have to come with another witty song, ever. Trust me, that would be just fine with me.

So let it be known here and now and henceforth that I DO love my kids, I AM proud of them, they ARE amazing girls, and I hereby apologize to them if they feel that I'm mean to them on my blog or Facebook page.

And let me also say this: being messy, missing the bus and having to be nagged are problems I am THRILLED to have. Because there are other parents out there who have to deal with their children doing drugs, drinking, teen pregnancy, health issues, behavioral problems. Trust me, if the only thing I ever have to worry about is my daughter missing the school bus, I am the luckiest mother on the face of the earth.