Being from New Orleans and going to public school, my dream was that my kids would go to private school.  And if the people I have been talking to are any indication, my kids’ dream will be that their kids go to the high school they went to.  Cycle continues.

Amber moved to a Catholic school at third grade. Before that she went to a private school without a religious affiliation.  It was an adjustment for both of us.  She was entering a school where most of the students had been together since they were 3 yrs old.  Now on our 2nd year and Sam joining the school we are in the groove.  Our  newness still comes through on occasion, but that should wear off in a year or 2.  As one mom reminded me, I have 7 years at this school.  I can’t be new forever, right?

What I didn’t expect was the high school talk to start so soon.  You see around 5th grade the kids start looking at high schools.  And from what I am hearing it sounds like the experience that most kids looking at colleges go through.  Amber started her talk of which high school she picked last year in third grade.  As far as I can tell, she had some catching up to do with the other girls.  It scares me.  All the what ifs come flooding in and I am left in a corner sweating clutching brochures to high schools.

Amber has expressed her preference and it seems to be the preference of the majority of girls and moms at the school. It is the “IT” school.  So the talk begins, “Hey Amber, if you want to go to that high school, you better make sure you study.”  ”AMBER!  They don’t accept girls who act like that to that high school.”  I have found the new version of the Santa threat.  Of course, all this perks Amber’s ears for a nanosecond and then she goes back to avoiding that 800 page Harry Potter book she just had to read for her AR test that is coming up in 3 days.

I don’t need this stress.  Public school was simple.  Oh you live there?  You go here.  Sure there were knife fights in the playground and you learned to hold your bladder all day for fear of what might befall you in the bathroom, but, at least, you didn’t have to worry about getting into the perfect high school.  You went to the school you were told and you fell into line like everyone else. There was no worrying about the perfect high school leading you to the perfect Louisiana University (subtle, eh) and all of that leading you to the perfect job where you will lead the perfect life and live happily every after.  One false move and the delicate house of cards based on the right school since birth will come tumbling down and their lives will be doomed forever.  See the pressure I am under.  I just started to relax after my world wind tour of every Catholic elementary school on both sides of the river and now I am back to panic mode.  The happiness of my kids’ lies in my hands.  One false move and they will be living in my house forever and I will never have my dream of a kid home where I get to do what I want and the house stays clean.  Parenting in NOLA is hard, y’all.

Sam came home to 4 white walls and the only crib set I could stomach.  I never knew how hard it was to decorate for a boy, especially, when I hadn’t met him, yet.  I remember standing in front of that wall of crib bedding at Babies R Us.  Did I like the dinosaurs?  Nah.  Did I like the cars?  Meh, Did I like the baseball theme?  UH, NO!  SoHubby was going to go for the flower one, so I, finally,  settled on the baby jungle theme.  Everyone loves baby jungle animals, right?  So that was Sam’s room for 5 yrs: white walls, a couple of shelves, a dresser, and a crib/toddler bed.  It took the third kid to figure out I didn’t need a whole bedding set.  They just cause trouble, anyway.

It was the perfect time to decorate Sam’s room: 1. He was 5 yrs old and needed to get out of his crib/toddler bed.  and 2. I had gotten to know him, so I knew what he wanted.  His room is a superhero/Star Wars theme.  I have been corrected many times when I mentioned his room is a Superhero room only to be told that Star Wars is not superhero.  Yeah, whatever.

The easy part was telling Sam all about his room.  The hard part was actually doing the room.  I have a fear of painting.  Throughout the months I gathered posters, frames, bedding, curtains, and paint samples.  Oh Lord, the paint samples!  While I have a fear of painting, which includes picking out the color, SoHubby, on the other hand, has no fear of paint samples.  When we were deciding on a color for our living room he would bring home handfuls of paint samples everyday.  After awhile, all the colors blended together.  I still don’t know what you call the color of our living room, but I know we can call it finished.

Then at the end of summer I had got the courage to buy 2 paint samples.  It would take me another few weeks to get the courage to actually put them on the wall.  Once you put that sample on the wall that’s it, you must commit to painting the whole thing.

It seems fitting that one massive storm inhibited us from preparing for Sam like we did with Amber, but another (not so massive) storm would get our butts in gear.  Since we were all stuck home because of tropical storm Lee, I decided to bite the bullet and paint the room.  There were many trips to Home Depot.  Me letting go and trusting people, who you know do this kind of thing all the time.  And SoHubby actually being trapped at home to help me.  I was shocked that it took only a couple of hours to paint the room.  Once that was done, we were off and running.  There was some mishaps with those Command Strip things, which just forced us to go old school and use nails.  Here is Sam’s room pretty much done.  If anyone can suggest where I can find a slightly more big boy lamp shade, I can call the room officially done.

The entrance.
These are pictures from the movie How to Train a Dragon.
Seem fitting that dragons would protect his room.

Sam’s new bed, curtains, Yoda clock (on the shelf), superhero posters nicely framed
And, of course, a Clone Trooper helmet to round things out.
The Clone Trooper helmet is actually from one of the many Halloween
costumes I got on sale.

A closer look at the posters.  He got Spiderman and Transformer bedding.
As you can see my son doesn’t sleep under the comforter, but ontop with his
fleece blanket.
I really do like the paint color.  I think it highlights the posters well.

The other side of the room and my favorite Spiderman poster.
That is Bumblebee’s helmet.
We have a Bobo Fett helmet, but for some reason it scares Sam at night, or so he says.  I have to say I never thought, I would call to my son and demand that he takes his Bobo Fett helmet to his room, because “it doesn’t belong in the playroom”. Yeah, life is kind of surreal with kids.

You can see the offending lamp shade.  Such a small detail that gives me fits.
I think I made up for it with the reusable wall stickers of Ben 10 Ultimate Alien Force. Don’t ask me anymore about Ben 10, because I have told you all I know and I get yelled at, because “I have told you a million times, mom.  Why can’t you remember?”  These stickers are a source of entertainment for Sam and SoHubby.
And when I say entertainment, I mean war of how the stickers should be applied.
Amber, Sam and SoHubby put the stickers on the wall.  There was much disagreement where certain ones should go.  Now, SoHubby will move a sticker only to have Sam come behind him and move it back.

And my favorite, the giant Anakin Skywalker wall sticker. It took a bit to put up, but I did it.  The best part, his lightsaber glows in the dark.  That alone should win me the Coolest Mom award.
These wall stickers are so cool and I love them. I can’t wait to use these when I redo the girls’ room, which won’t be until Evie is in a twin bed.  If history as taught us anything that won’t be for another 3 years.

And as a bonus we got these smaller stickers.  Sadly, the little lightsabers don’t glow, but I think that would be asking too much.

I am so happy we, finally, got Sam’s room done. It feels like it is truly his room, now.

I have had 3 c-sections.  Yes, you read that right, I had 3.  Many factors went into me going under the knife.  However, convenience and fear of pain was not on the list.  Matter of fact, I clearly remember sitting at the side of my first OB’s ( I would go on to have 3 more doctors for my births)desk wringing my hands asking him if he knew for sure if I would AVOID a c-section.  Damn doctors.  Sadly they aren’t God and he couldn’t tell me. Bastard!  You see, I had never been in a hospital, before giving birth, and I was deathly afraid….let me say it, again….DEATHLY AFRAID of having surgery.  I didn’t want it.  I took all the classes and I was prepared for a vaginal birth.  I knew I could push.  I knew I could breathe.  I knew I could do that.  What I didn’t know was what a c-section entailed.  All I knew was that they wanted to cut me open and move my insides around.  Last I checked my insides were fine where they were and there was no need to going poking around.

I researched.  I am here to tell you that there is such a thing as too much research. Another thing to pop up that would put the fear of modern medicine into me, pitocin.   From my research I learned that pitocin caused Autism.  WHA?!  Pitocin meant you were definitely, for sure going to  have a c-section. NO!  Pitocin hurt like a semi truck driving through your pelvic area.  *falls to the floor*  I prayed.  I begged. I bargained.  Please, oh please, don’t let me have pitocin or a c-section.  I guess I my message to God went to the wrong in box, because at 5 days pass my due date (which I never believe, because I never knew the last day of my period.  Who the hell keeps track of that crap?  It is here. I curse. It is gone.  The husband comes out of hiding.)  I was contracting and then I wasn’t.  Huh?  What is that you say?  That is not possible.  Oh really.  You want to have a conversation with my lazy uterus.  Go ahead, but I am hear to tell you she ain’t listening to no body.  So the pitocin drip starts, the contractions start to feel like an angry ape throwing luggage around in my uterus, but they don’t start getting any closer together.  The story of my life, I do well with one thing, but can’t pull it through to complete the transaction.  Here is where I tell you I take a nap and you go, “HUH, WHA?!”  Oh yeah, that contraction was a bitch, but once it passed I was all clear for my journey to sleepy town.  I would wake in another room with a doctor peering into my nether regions and liquid spilling all over the bed.  That is when the action started.  No, not contractions, medical staff bustling around like someone just set their collective pants on fire.  It was time for the baby to come out.  Whether she wanted to or not.  I have stubborn kids, especially when you are expecting them to do certain things, like, I don’t know, be born into the world.

I have gone over a million times what I should have done during Amber’s birth.  I have read on the Internet as people, some who have never given birth, say I had choices.  Oh really?  Let’s look at the choices I could have demand in all my non-medical knowledge glory:  I could have demanded to push.  That might be a little hard without contractions.  I mean I know we are women, hear us roar, but we do need all parts doing their, well, part.  I could have demanded to wait and see what might happen.  I mean my body, as a female, is made to give birth, right?  So it would have happened eventually, right?  Who the hell knows.  In the mean time Amber could have choked on her first bowel movement.  (Yeah, I can never spell that word right, so you get my 2nd grade description of it.)  So in the end I did have choices, but no one talks about the consequences of those choices or being in a situation where it might be a tad hard to make a completely rational decision.  You can try.  Here is what you do.  Invite about 10/15 total strangers into a cold, very bright room, while you lay buck naked on a hard surface.  Have about a million beeps going on, some of the people will be having a conversation with words you have no clue what they mean while someone tries to explain the situation to you quickly and then ask you for a decision.  Let me know how you fair.  I am not denying that I could have made the no c-section decision and come out completely fine.  I can’t tell you how Amber would have come out in that scenario.

I don’t know who is spreading the word that c-sections are fun.  I am here to tell you they ain’t no walk in the park on sunny day.  You are literally cut in half while you are AWAKE!  Yeah, that last part freaked me out, too.  And I don’t care what anyone says, they don’t get easier the more you have.  Each one carries it’s own risks.  What I am here to tell you is that until you are in that situation you can’t completely say with all certainty what you would do or not do.  Not to mention you suddenly have another human being who is completely dependent on you to make the right decision.  Remember the goal is healthy, happy babies.  So if I am out of the running for mother of the year because I had 3 c-sections then so be it.  I am sure there are many other things you could have used to take me out of the running.

I don’t really need to justify my other 2 c-sections.  I could tell you about the natural disaster I found myself in while 4 months pregnant with Sam.  I could go on and on about how I didn’t like nor trusted my OB, but what choice did I have in a city that barely had hospitals up and running?  My main goal with her was for her NOT to tie my tubes no matter how much she insisted.  Without medical records and hospital staffs at an all time low there was no chance in hell I was going to get a VBAC.  I would guess New Orleans after Katrina, even 6 mos after, was as close to a 3rd world country as I ever want to get.  Do you give me points for even asking at the beginning of my pregnancy and when I finally secured a doctor after my original one had fled?  By the time I got pregnant with Evie, I was done.  I would have let them extract her through my nose if that is what they said was the best way.  I was in the hands of my fully capable OB (a new one from the one that I had with Sam)and the Perinatologist who I saw every damn month.   That was a bit much, I thought, but hey, again, if it gets me a healthy baby so be it.

Who do we blame for this?  Do we blame those nasty money hungry medical doctors?  I really don’t think ALL doctors are assholes.  And if you find yourself faced with an asshole, then, um, here is your choice: Find a new one.  I have many times and didn’t feel bad at all.  However, when I do find a new doctor I discuss my medical care and ask questions.  My first clue that you are an asshole doctor is if you get annoyed at all my questions.  I am here to tell you in any profession there will be good ones and there will be bad ones.  Your job is to find a good one and then trust them.  Do we blame health insurance?  That one I am not touching.  If you think insurance companies don’t want to pay for your regular visit to the doctor, what makes you think they are all gung ho to pay for your c-section.  My belief is that insurance companies are going to fight and go over with a fine tooth comb just about every claim put before them, because they are trying to make money.  It is a pain for us, but we have a choice, we can pay out of pocket for our medical care.  Go ahead and ask, I am sure your doctor or hospital will take cash.  I know they took mine.  We can blame lawyers, but what can’t you blame lawyers for?  Hmmm, I am not sure how to defend lawyers on this one, but I will say that I would venture a guess that someone came to them with a grievance regarding their birth and the lawyer did his job.  Maybe a little too well, but he did his job.  You can blame malpractice insurance that all doctors and hospitals must have to cover their asses.  Having a mother, who is a nurse, who got dragged into a lawsuit, because a family didn’t want to accept that their elderly mother died of natural causes, it is frightening to be on the shit end of a lawsuit, especially if you have never been involved in one before .  And I am sure doctors and hospitals would much rather put the money they spend on malpractice insurance to better use, but alas it is a necessary evil much like car insurance. There are many places to put the blame for the c-section rates.  Dare I say, yes even those mothers, who I believe are very rare, that pressure their doctors for a c-section out of convenience.  I have heard of them, but have never met one.  Does it do anyone any good?  Not really.

We live in a society where many things are available to us, medicine, medical advancement out the ying yang and the Internet that can scare you with one small Google search.  I don’t think the answer is beating mothers, who have already had their babies, over the head with the fact that YOU think they didn’t birth right.  I think the real solution is an open dialogue that dispenses with the scare tactics (I am looking at all you old school moms who just love your war stories) and share an experience that can be learned from.  I think there needs to be included in those birth classes (keep in mind my last one was 10 yrs ago. ) a real discussion about c-section, stalled labor and pitocin.  I might have heard a blip about these things in the birth class I took, but nothing substantial. What I really think is that the medical community doesn’t know everything about pregnancy and birth.  Yeah, I said it.  And they are still learning.  When my daughters are ready to give birth I am sure I will be sitting at the kitchen table with my mouth gaped open amazed at what they are telling me is going to happen.  That is what we do people, we live, learn and move on.  Each generation will learn something new about the process of being born  and will be a little better off.  And the generation behind them will sit there and wish they had that when they were about to give birth.  It is the circle of knowledge.

I don’t have a favorite Saint.  I blame my parents.  The short of the story is that my mom got my religion choice in the divorce.  From the little I learn, I could fake it by saying Joan of Arc.  It is not quite as transparent as claiming Mary as your favorite Saint.  No offense to those who have her as a favorite Saint, but she is kind of a go to Saint, especially for us with minimal Catholic education.  Amber choose Mary, last year, because…wait…for it…she got to bring a baby doll to school.  A baby doll that she forgot to bring.  A baby doll I had to rush to Target to buy along with swaddling clothes.  Do you know how hard it is to find swaddling clothes in this day and age?  Of course, I had to get her the baby, because, “…HOW WILL ANYONE KNOW WHO I AM?!”

This year we got lucky and Amber’s teacher picked her Saint for her.  Her Saint is Barbara.  It seems Barbara had quite a hard life at the hand of her father.  She kept her faith despite her abusive father and was rewarded with Sainthood.  Plus, as an added bonus, God showed her father the business end of a lightening bolt.  Take that buttmonkey!  I am a little confused, because the information sheet given by the teacher mentioned that Saint Barbara is/was the patron Saint of firefighters, but not really, anymore, because we have fire extinguishers.  Then while I was trying to find out dates for when Saint Barbara lived, I came across this.  It appears that Saint Barbara’s true lesson is :

The life of St. Barbara is a vivid reminder that there can be much anger in our world and in our lives. Being in touch with God’s presence in a very special way can do much toward relieving ourselves of our tendency to allow anger to control us. 

Hmmm….could this be a message?  Maybe, but we will put that aside for the moment.  See, not letting all that anger control me. I find all this Saint business fascinating, which means I am learning right along with the kids. I didn’t finish my Catholic education.  There are many things we can learn from the Saints.

Now, if I can find the patron Saint for stubborn children to help guide me through my experience of parenting Sam.  He is not required to dress as a Saint.  I am not sure how many kids in his class will, but I am sure he won’t care if he was the only one to show up in just his school uniform.  Or he could flip out and yell at me as he gets in the car after school, that “he was the only one that wasn’t dressed as a Saint and it is all my fault!”  I thought I had the perfect solution to this problem.  Sam has an Anakin Skywalker costume that I got on sale at Target after Halloween, last year.  All it really is a brown sack like garment that can be cinched at the waist.  Throw in a large wooden rosary and you have yourself a monk.  I am sure there is a monk Saint out there, somewhere.  Of course, this was a no go for Sam.  He is adamant that he wants to wear his Ironman costume to school.  I don’t think I will have much success in finding a Saint that could incorporate an Ironman costume.  I wonder if he still wore a large wooden rosary, if anyone would notice?  I think I will have better success becoming the patron Saint of stubborn children.  At least, I would have earned it.

Amber has a lot on her plate.  Not only is she continuing with dance and gymnastics, but we have added cheerleading.  And with her brother coming to an age where he can join in on some extra activities, we are running Monday through Thursday.  The majority of that is Amber’s stuff, which sucks for the younger 2.  To soften the blow I ply them with ice cream on a regular basis, so I doubt there will be any real animosity between them.  I was worried about adding cheerleading to the mix.  This is not the run of the mill rah-rah at football games.  I don’t think the school even has a football team.  We are talking competition.  And before you think we will be at Spirit camp or backstabbing at national championships, this is Catholic school competitions.  Which really means the underlying thought is kick their ass, but on the forefront it is everyone is doing a good job and we all love each other.  Okay, I am pulling that out of my ass, because we haven’t been to a competition, yet, so I am not sure what the mood will be.

Cheerleading is 2 days a week and 2 hours a day.  Not too bad, except when you add on dance, gymnastics and 4th grade.  As Amber’s teacher told us during a parent’s meeting at the beginning of the year, this is a transition year for the kids.  They are entering the world of big kids, but haven’t fully left the world of little school kids.  They are dipping their toes into the sea of hormones, but yet still play tag in the school yard.  So basically you have an innocent tag game that at any moment can become carnage. Yay!

I was pleasantly surprised when we had our first couple of meetings for cheerleading.  Everyone was nice and accommodating.  All the girls, who tried out, were accepted.  There was no drama, like in the movies.  There was no crazy moms scoping out who they wanted to ice out of the picture.  Nope, it was new moms and current moms helping each other out.  Then school started and so did the homework.  Here is where the drama lies.  There have been girls missing practices.  First, I never noticed, then came the email.  The email that reminded us that it was important for all the girls to attend all the practices.  Then there was the email from a mother that reminded us that it hurt the girls, who showed up for practice, when they can’t practice the full routine, because they need all the girls.  I read all the emails and listened to the whispers of homework remediation.  I asked Amber about homework remediation and was assured that she had only missed 3 homework assignments.  I imparted on Amber how important it was to do her homework. Then there was the announcement at practice that it seemed many girls were missing practice because of homework remediation (detention) and it was important for the girls to do their homework so they could make practice.  As I was wiping my brow from relief that we were not included in that announcement, Amber approached me and told me that she had homework detention.  Everything stopped!  Huh?  Wha?  Are you freaking kidding me?  What the hell happened?

Let me stop here for a moment and explain what happens when I get the shock that my kids are not the delightful little angels I expected them to be.  My mind races.  I ask myself what am I suppose to do in this situation, especially in public with other parents watching me.  And basically, I throw everything, but the kitchen sink at my kids.  NO TV! NO PLAYDATES! NO DINNER! NO HAPPINESS…EVER! Which in hindsight always seems a bit much.  I am just at a loss as to what to do.  Today was no different and especially hard.

At each practice the coach hands out the team’s mascot, a stuffed Jaguar dressed in the team’s uniform, to the member who has improved the most.  That member gets to hold on to the mascot all week.  Amber had been looking forward to the day that she got to bring home the mascot.  And today was that day.  As I sat by the stage expecting him to throw the mascot to anyone, but Amber, I was so happy to see that she had gotten it.  It was exciting and thrilling, because along with that little stuffed jaguar was the mention that Amber had improved as a flyer (The girl they throw in the air.  The plight of the smallest on the squad).  This must have meant that she was getting confident at being flung into the air.  So when she approached me and told me she got homework remediation, I knew what had to be done.  I told her that she couldn’t bring the mascot home and would have to turn it over to the moderator.  *sigh*  This parenting gig is hard, yo!  I really didn’t want to do it, but as I searched my brain I just knew it was not fair for her to get the mascot when she would be missing 2 practices next week thus making the whole squad suffer.  So she cried as she handed over the mascot.  The most heartbreaking is that it will be a long time before she will come up with another chance to take the mascot home, because we have to count this week as the week she was chosen.  Dem the breaks.

On the way home, I second guessed myself and knew that there would be someone somewhere that would tell me I was completely wrong, but I knew it had to be done.  When disciplining Amber she needs a jolt.  She needs something that signals to her that this is serious and makes her remember.  Considering I can ask her to bring down her clothes only to find her going through her closet to find a jacket and has completely forgotten about bringing down the laundry, I need to make a big impact. There are other punishments that have gone along with this incident, but I think not being able to bring home the mascot is one she will definitely remember.  Each week she talked about getting to bring home the mascot one week.  Frankly, I never knew handing out punishments would be tough on me.  It is just hard to see her disappointed.  However, I know in the long run she will learn from it.

Of course, I have learned from this as well.  I have learned that I must be on top of Amber.  I must read every assignment, sign papers that maybe don’t necessarily need signing (2 of her missed homework assignments were because I didn’t sign certain papers, even though I know I signed them but can’t prove it, now), go over her assignment book several times and require her to bring home every book so she can’t say that she forgot.  I have, also, learned that I can’t let my guard down.  I thought Amber had this homework thing down.  Apparently, just as much as 4th grade homework sucks for her, it sucks for me, too.  Nights at the Old Homestead are going to be more chaotic than before and I don’t know if my sanity can take it.  This means pushing bedtime to 8pm, which means mornings are going to be a beast.  And once again, I am smacked in the face with the realization that once you get over one parenting hurdle there is another one waiting for you just around the corner to trip, point and laugh at you while you struggle to regain your footing.  And to think I get to do this 2 more times.  I will either collapse from exhaustion or cross the finish line a champion.  I am merely praying to make it out alive.

I am old enough to remember going to the movie rental store.  It was so exciting.  We got to walk up and down the aisles choosing which movie we wanted to see.  Then we would race right home and watch it.  Times were good and I was young without the responsibility of getting the movie back in time to avoid a late fee.  As I got older, life’s checklist got longer and time got shorter, which meant late fees got more expensive.

SoHubby and I decided we would just buy movies.  At some point, most movies make it to the $5 bin.  That, my friends, is a long wait.  Us, being part of this fast paced, I had to have it yesterday world, that didn’t work for us.  Then we heard about this great company, Netflix.  You mean they would deliver movies to our house?  There was no special return date?  There was only one low price?  Hot damn!  Sign us up.  And we had a good relationship for awhile.

Suddenly, Netflix started to see it’s stock rise (literally and figuratively) and in my opinion got too big for their britches.  However, my love affair with Netflix started to wane when we went down to the 1 movie and streaming offer.  SoHubby would go on the website and clog up our queue with crap movies.  Movies that at that moment he would have watched, but would forget about by the time they made it to our house.  Here is the journey of a Netflix delivered to the Southern household: Movie arrives in the mail.  Movie is either retrieved from mailbox that night or the next morning.  Movie would then end up in my mail pile. I would get around to my mail pile sometime that day or the next day.  I open movie, say a little curse over it, because it would most likely be a dumb shoot ‘em up movie that SoHubby ordered and place it ontop of the TV or mantel.  Days would go by.  Days turned into weeks.  Weeks turned into a month.  When all of a sudden I spied with my little eye that little red envelope.  Then another curse as I held it up for all to see asking, “How the hell long has this been sitting here.  When are you going to watch this crap, so we can send it back and get a real movie?”  So as you can see folks, Netflix is genius.  They have developed a company where  men and women pay to fight via movie queue and have a little red envelope sits ontop of the TV for a month or longer  Don’t get me started on that crap they call streaming.  Half the time the movie wouldn’t play all the way through without several stops and starts.  Oh but that is our fault, why don’t you upgrade your WiFi.  Yeah, why don’t you bite my….be nice, now.  Then there was no rhyme or reason to the streaming.  One day a top movie would be on there, the next day some D flick you would have to pay me to watch would have taken it’s place.

After the whole rate hike, I was miffed.  I was calmed down with reasons like they had to do it, poor, poor Netflix.  Okay, we can understand the plight of the business when faced with things out of their control.  The dumb move came in when they decided to divide up the streaming side and the DVD side.  Um…exsqueeze me?  Dildo say what?  You expect me to bookmark an entirely different website to put DVDs in my queue?  Oh hell, NO!  I was done, but what could I do.  I wasn’t going to do that Redbox thing.  You want me to do what with my credit card and then you will do what?  Sorry, maybe it is my age, but I am getting the feeling that technology needs to calm down for a bit.  I thought I could just go down to my local Blockbuster.  Oh, but wait!  All the Blockbusters were run out of town by the evil, yet genius Netflix.  Then a light shone over me and the angels sing.

You see I live in a village, next to a couple of small towns.  And one thing that I am constantly told about these small towns and villages is that we are a bunch of hicks that don’t move with the times.  So guess what?  There is a Blockbuster right down a very long highway, but it is there just waiting for us to choose when to get a movie and forces us to watch that damn movie that night to avoid late fees.  The best part is it seems busy, very busy, which means maybe it will stay long enough to build up it’s force, again.   Who is having the last laugh, now?  Well, not the clerk at my local Blockbuster when I told her all this.  Maybe she didn’t appreciate my fine storytelling skills.  Maybe she wasn’t interested?  Nah, that couldn’t be it.  Or maybe she just wanted to get on with her life and didn’t care why the hell I found myself at the Blockbuster with my over energized spawns.  But I felt good.  I finally got to see The Black Swan and go WTF along with everyone else.  I even promised the kids that we could go back on Friday to rent movies and maybe some Wii games.  Then they ran around like I told them Santa Clause was coming to live with us and set up shop in the backyard.  And now my life has come full circle.  We will be release from our prison of the little red envelope back to the freedom of the movie rental store and wait for our implantation of our movie chips.

I am sure if you have one child people might pity you or constantly ask you when you will have another one.  If you have 2 kids, especially 1 boy and 1 girl, people tell you how perfect your family is and assume you are done.  If you have 3 kids you are kind of stuck in the middle.  You had the perfect family and then you went and messed it up with another baby.  It seems anything after 3 kids is considered a large family and I am sure you get the “what were you thinking looks”.  Basically, how you have decided to structure your family is up for opinion.  If you are lucky, like me, you might even get a professional, totally unwanted, medical opinion on how you decided to build your family.  Then you get the joy of having the feeling that you don’t want that doctor anywhere near your fallopian tubes.

SoHubby and I talked about 3 kids.  After the first, which was like a kick to the throat, I thought I was done.  About 3 years later, we would decide (or I would agree to let SoHubby come near me, again.)that we should try for another child.  Lucky us, I am pretty easy to knock up and number 2 was on his way.  Again, another kick to the throat with a heaping side of losing SoHubby’s job.  That was it we were done.  Although, we had left the door open.  I am not sure what we were thinking.  Financial challenges don’t change overnight, especially when you are self-employed and we weren’t getting any younger. At that point, I was just not ready to close up shop.  I was wrong, according to just about everyone, because I had my girl and I had my boy what more could I want.  I guess I was just greedy.

Choosing the number of children one might have is a pretty personal decision.  I do my best not to ask people when they will start having kids, when they are going to have more kids or expressing any surprise in how many kids they currently have or don’t have.  Really it is none of my business and I don’t know what is going on in people’s lives.  I would hate to badger someone about kids only to learn they were having fertility problems.  So I keep my mouth shut.

I will fully admit number 3 was a big surprise.  I knew I was pregnant before I was pregnant.  I won’t go into the gory details, because this is a family blog (HA!), but I just knew and I was freaked.  We were not where we wanted to be financially (still not) and since we are self-employed medical coverage is no walk in the park.  There are no $20 co-pays in this world.  Things worked out and we are enjoying number 3 along with her siblings.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t have many concerns.  However, I think I would have concerns no matter how many children I had or don’t have.

What strikes me as odd is the comments I get.  I have a weird feeling that people think I have only one child when I am only with one child and that gives me an urge to tell them I have 3.  I can usually contain myself, but I do giggle if I meet someone and they try to give me advice as if I have one child.  I got a comment once from a guy in a restaurant asking me if SoHubby and I had a television.  I was stunned, because at the time I only had 2 kids and was babysitting a friend’s child.  And really, 3 kids is a cause for thinking we don’t have anything else to do.  I did get a Duggar comment, but I think that was just a joke.  I am the first one to tell you that I don’t think I could handle more kids.  Wanting more kids and being able to handle more kids is 2 different things and I know my limits.  I would like to spend sometime with an empty house before I ride my coffin into the sky. The best comment, which came from my father, was “I hope this is a boy”.  No congratulations when I told him I was expecting my 3rd, just hope for a boy.  Which is weird, because he just had 2 grandsons not too long ago.  Karma tis a bitch, because he ended up with 2 more granddaughters and will forever be surrounded by cackling hens telling him he has no idea what he is talking about.

That aside 3 is a weird number of kids to have. First, you are never in a position of having a childfree night when one child has an invite from a friend.  I, either, have one child, two kids or all 3.  I am rarely without a child.  Second, you are an odd number family so seating in restaurants are weird.  Often we are stuck at a table for 4 with the highchair seated at a corner and everyone else is crowded together.  I, often, think what will they do when we can’t use the highchair, anymore, which is fast approaching.  Sister, doesn’t want to be a baby, anymore. She is a big girl and will tell you so.  And forget about fitting your food on the table.  If you are lucky enough for them to put you at a larger table, you somehow feel like inviting someone over to eat with you, because you have a tad more space than you need. God forbid you go out to eat with friends or another family.  There is major decisions that need to be made and a bustle of activity just to accommodate your large crowd.  I mean, why couldn’t you large crowd people just stay home and leave us appropriately numbered gatherings in peace.  Third, you can be either a large family or small family depending on the situation.

Eggs.  Yes, eggs.  The first time I thought we were a large family was when I went to cook eggs for everyone.  At the least it would take 7 eggs to feed the family.  That is more than half a dozen.  I don’t think my mom ever used more than half a dozen of eggs making us breakfast while she was in the position of making our breakfast, but our whole family equaled 3.  It was an odd feeling that a dozen eggs wouldn’t get us through the week.  That was quickly rectified by buying a dozen and a half, which is a tad too much, but you can’t buy a baker’s dozen of eggs anywhere.

We don’t fit into a sedan.  Well, that is not entirely true.  We could fit into a sedan, but not comfortably and not with our stuff.  It is either minivan or SUV.  Of course, we already had a SUV when the first was born, but there is no turning back, now.  There have been a few times where I have had to have my SUV in the shop for repairs and we have had to find alternate vehicle accommodations.  We have tried SoHubby’s Hyundai which is a stretch fitting 4 people in, much less 5.  No!  There is no way you are fitting 5 people in that car, especially with required carseats.  One time we had the larger Chevy volt, which I liked, but only the kids and I could ride in it at one time and then Amber had to sit in the front, which I am not totally comfortable with.  Someone did tell me that a Prius would have more than enough room for all of us.  I would like to know how they did that.  It must have been a family of clowns, because it was hard getting 2 carseats in the back of that thing when we tried.  So we are not spilling out of our Suburban, but we aren’t getting into any car, anytime, soon.

The only time I feel like a small family is when we come across families with more children than us.  If it is hard for me to keep up with 3 kids then it must be harder keeping up with 4, 5, 6 kids.  Of course, many of our parents or grandparents did it and lived to tell the tale.  It seemed normal back then to have 6 or more kids.  Now, when you see an actual family with more than 2 kids, people gasp and you get comments.  That leaves 3 in the middle.  At anytime we can be placed in the small family pile depending on the other families in the room or we could be placed in the large family pile depending on how much space is available.  I guess it is not so bad being in the middle when you can pull the positives as you see fit.  I guess the biggest lesson to learn is not to make comments regarding other people’s decisions.  The taste you are having at that moment is your foot.

Not if you are us.  First, my kids would be at school from 730am-10pm (or whatever time I decided to pick them up, but let’s be honest I will be waiting until the last second to get them).  That is a long day.  I wouldn’t just leave one kid there.  That would be 2 kids plus I would still have one kid with me, since they won’t take Evie.  The cost to me would be $58, since I wouldn’t be making the drive to pick them up, go home and then bring them back to school which means they would be in aftercare for 3 hours.  So I had to come up with something to distract Sam away from Fun Friday.  Something that could compete with wearing your pajamas at school while eating pizza, watching a movie and playing with your friends.  The perfect idea hit me.  We would all go see The Lion King…in 3D!  It would be perfect.  The kids could wear their pajamas, we would eat snacks for dinner and enjoy a fun of adventure of watching lions jump off the screen at us.  Oh how soon I forget how well laid well intentioned plans go wrong.

First you must realize that I was breaking all kinds of parenting rules with that above statement.  It is disgusting to have your kids go to the movies in their pajamas then come home and go to sleep on their sheets.  Really?  I hope CPS doesn’t find out that sometimes the kids play all day and then go to bed without…dum…dum…dum…a BATH!  Then there is the eating of snacks instead of a properly government approved balanced meal.  Preferably with no hair in the bread.  And I saved the cordial sin for last.  This one I will burn in hell forever.  If the kids were asleep by the time we got home, I would plop them into bed without…BRUSHING THEIR TEETH!!  Oh the horrors of it all.  How did I slip by the parenting police and spawn…3 TIMES?  Meh, that is just the mommy boards for you.  If someone doesn’t tell you suck then you are not doing it right.

The first problem that we ran into on our journey to the FUNNEST NIGHT OF OUR LIVES!  SoHubby was going to meet us there, because he is working and campaigning and is squeezing us in.  I sat in the car with the kids, which was mistake number 2.  The kids don’t just sit and listen to the radio or talk about their day or any other quiet sitting still things.  No they bounce off the sides of the car like a bunch of monkeys that just escaped from the research lab.  After about 20 minutes and seeing child after child after hundredth child go into the movie theater we get out.  I call SoHubby that he can buy his own ticket, because I would be inside and didn’t know what time he would arrive.  I just knew this movie was filling up and with 3 kids in tow things always take 15-20 minutes.  We get tickets, go to the bathroom, get snacks, find some seats and things are going smoothly.  Then the movie starts.  First we have to give detailed instructions over and over, again, regarding putting on the 3 D glasses.  Next Evie decides that sitting in her chair is for chumps and will walk between SoHubby and I throughout the movie.  She will lean on the chairs in front of her and repeatedly kick the backs of those chairs.  Sam will spill the gallon drum drink I bought for him, Evie and SoHubby to share.  That is my cue to go get a refill.  Thank goodness you get free refills for large drinks or they would have had to drink the diet Coke Amber and I were sharing.  I am sure that would have caused much drama, especially from SoHubby.

Next Sam is crying.  Why? Who the hell knows.  Apparently, he was sitting on dad’s lap before Evie, but Evie muscled her way in and that was cause for crying, thrashing and your run of the mill drama.  Cue me taking him out to threaten him to be quiet.  Not sure why he needed to be quiet, because every other kid was talking, whining, and crying, too.  At least, I could say not my little angel, whom I threaten to keep quiet.  Then Sam falls asleep.  Evie is still running between SoHubby and I and refuses to sit down.  She will hand out kisses, popcorn (which we are not sure where it came from) and drink from everyone’s cup including the family sitting next to us. Finally, the movie ends.  I think I saw most of it.  There were some lions, a singing pig, and a goofy baboon with a blue ass.

I don’t know when I will learn or if I am just hoping that one day one of these fun outings will result in a “Thanks, Mom. That was fun.” or happy children or a family leaving all together or one of those scenes you seen on TV.  Until then I am grinning and trying to bare it.  Sure I didn’t get to see the whole movie, but it did look like it was raining in the theater.  Maybe I had to drag a heavy sleeping 5 yr old out of the car, but, at least, he was ready for bed.  Sure I had to argue with a 2 yr old regarding whether she was hungry or tired, but, at least, I won the argument.  Sure, I am sitting at home alone on a Friday night wondering when my husband will be home, but at least there is a pedicure in the morning to look forward to.  I cling to hope and let the small victories get me through another day, it is called parenting.

It is an endless competition that goes on unnoticed, mostly.  Much like other competitions that go on among mothers, breastfeeding (how long and who bleed the most), sleeping (who slept through the night first or who didn’t), eating (who waited to start solids, who made their own food, who kids ate veggies, who kids is the pickiest.  You win this one if you come up with a special condition name for your child’s pickiest.), etc.  Add to it who must be the most experienced mom, therefore she knows the most and we have the parenting side of the Internet.  I really don’t find much of these competitions going on outside the realm of the Internet.  Or maybe I am too scattered brain from chasing after my 3 kids to notice.  *ZING!*  But can you really decide who is the best parent is by how many kids they have or don’t have?

The number of kids simply presents different challenges.  The one I see the most for those with one child is not having a built in playmate for your child.  While I don’t see that as a long time problem for the child, it might become a problem for the parent when you are asked for the millionth time to play Candyland.  Sorry, but that game was fun when I was five, now, I am just trying to pick the right card that will end this game.  With more than one child you have the extra demands of those other kids and, of course, the fighting.  The endless fighting.  However, I don’t think any of this makes one a better parent than the other.  I can think of a few reasons why an only is better than 3: one college tuition to worry about, one set of clothes to buy, one little person’s demands to meet on a daily basis and one that can soak up all the attention you can provide.  There are bonuses to having more than one kid, as well,:  at some point I will have a built in free babysitter (this only happens if the spacing is just right), more slaves to do my bidding (i.e. chores), other little ones to use the baby stuff YOU  JUST HAD TO HAVE, and more hugs and kisses to hand out and receive.  In the long run there is no magic number.  No number of kids will make you a better parent than other parents, except maybe for the people that have no kids at all.  Parenting, in general, is a hard game.  Mainly, because we are dealing with uncontrolled subjects.  We are in a game with other little humans that have their own opinions and are programmed to rebel against pretty much anything you throw at them.  Even those who end up with seemingly perfect kids always know there is a deep dark secret hiding underneath waiting to shatter the illusion in the blink of an eye.  So really the only thing parents with more than one kid have going for them is practice, which really doesn’t matter because by the time you have practiced enough to get it just right, you are are on your death bed.

First, let’s take Sam’s teacher.  She has taken to calling him her delicate little China doll.  Why?  Because he is a ninny baby.  You may find that harsh, but COME ON!  This kid is 5 years old and his go to reaction when things don’t go his way is a high pitch scream that makes any adult within a 5 mile radius jump out of their skin.  Your immediate reaction is, “Who cut off your arm and where did they put it?!”  When in reality one of his sister just took one of his toys away from him or changed the channel.  I didn’t correct the teacher, because why make a fuss?  No big deal, I can fix this at home.  We have been working on this, anyway.  I am constantly telling Sam, over his screams, to use his words and I can’t hear screaming.  You would think me swerving off a road would have gotten his attention, but no.  The boy stays with what gets a reaction.  I, also, have been telling him that he is a big strong boy.  He is kind of enjoying the delicate, ladies all over him that he is currently getting at school.  Can’t really blame him.  What man/boy wouldn’t?

Amber’s teacher has given the STINKY talk.  Basically, she has explained that the kdis have to wear deodorant.  Most kids would probably take this talk and maybe mention it to their parents or not mention it at all.  My daughter..MY daughter gives me direct orders to go promptly to the store and get her some deodorant.  I tell her that she doesn’t stink, YET, and when she does I will get her deodorant.  She did smell her armpit to make sure that I was telling the truth.  I assured her that I am on STINK patrol and not to worry.  Oh NO!  That is not good enough.  She had to go in and tell her teacher how her mother is not listening to the teacher and basically not following directions.  *sigh*  My daughter has not mastered the art of taking in information and using it when it pertains to her.  My explaining that the longer she waits to start these things the much better life will be.  I mean, COME ON, this girl can’t remember to get her leotard for gymnastics when I tell her straight to her face 10 seconds before she walked into her room where she forgot what she was in there for, shrugged and then walked right back out.  You think she is going to remember deodorant every morning.  NO!  It will be just one more thing for me to remember and I am getting too old to remember everything.  BUT she can remember word for word what her teacher says that goes against her mother.

I think it is fine that the teacher gave this speech, because I am sure some of the kids will start to stink and some parents may or may not notice.  Who wants to spend all day with stinky people?  Not me.  My problem is more with my child arguing with me, because I am just MOM and can’t possibly know anything.  It is the normal evolution of the child/mother relationship.  You go from knowing everything to knowing nothing in a short time.  I am sure the teachers have the same problem.  If not, then just let me live in my bubble of denial. So I will continue to remind my daughter that I will keep on top of her smell and make sure she is not the stinky kid in class. In the meantime, I will push through with the hopes of grandchildren, who think I am just about the best thing since cotton candy and unicorns.