Adventures In Motherhood

My kids messed with the wrong mom. Further proof that their prefrontal cortices are still under construction. I applaud them, however, for testing the boundaries as normal teens do, as well as testing my bona fides as a former trained CIA operative, because now, they've given me a chance to prove my skill set. With more eyes on the prize - empty-nesting in t-minus three years - the stakes have never been higher to prove my children can, and will, achieve their goals, if it's the last thing I guide them to do. Despite my menopausal mania, tradecraft proved effective and Operation Buzzkill a success.  "You get in less trouble if you tell the truth," has always been my mantra.  At times when they were younger, I swore by the old lie-detector test - the one where they'd place their palms down on mine and I'd ask them questions while locking their eyes. Behavior assessment and elicitation, now less effective, probably because their pupils are frozen from too much s...

I let him hit the curb. Hard. I braced myself for impact and it felt good. I'm not sure I've read 'allow your kid to crash the car' in any parenting books, but I'm here to say I finally got his attention. He was driving me crazy! If I had a dollar for every time my 15-year-old expert with the driver's permit said, "I know how to drive MOM," I'd be able to pay for a full tank of inflation-priced fuel for my minivan. Regardless of his expertise, I insist on silence in the car so he can focus, and I can breathe. Unfortunately, that night, there was no greater distraction than two brothers in the backseat begging to turn on the rap music. We had gone out to dinner in a Friday night attempt to steal some family conversation that didn't consist of bathroom banter while my husband was out of town. I was at my wits end from the testosterone overload of parenting three teen boys. Bruh.  Rap music took center stage after devouring the bread and first rou...

This is a shitty story. Honestly, from my son who woke up sick, to my daughter who left her shit everywhere, to the dog who shit in my car. Either way it stinks to high heaven! I'm effing tired of reminding my sixteen-year-old daughter to pick up her shit. We simply don't have the square footage divided by six people and two dogs to allow for any one person to occupy the entire house with their belongings. I hurdle her shit on the stairs to the basement, on my way to the kitchen, and out the front door. You'd think I'd be in tiptop athletic shape! Unfortunately I stubbed my toe on a chair tripping over her Vans, Nikes and Blundstone shoes to lock the front door before bed last night. Hobbling my way to the kitchen to shut off the lights and grab my cup of freshly microwaved Sleepytime tea, I couldn't help but notice my computer still sitting unplugged on the dining room table. "Yeah, mom," I distinctly remember my daughter saying as she ‘Vlogged’ her f...