April showers bring May flowers... and field trips, and end of school year parties, and recitals....

So we are off on another Army adventure this summer.  But before I can do any of that, I have to brace myself and survive the next 28 days. Thank you, #2, for keeping me updated on how many school days are left.  Mommy is keeping track too, but it is a completely different type of anticipation. You know, the kind that leaves a pit in your stomach.

I love my kids' school.  But I could strangle someone that EVERY. FREAKIN. GRADE. has two or more field trips this month.  And then there is field day. And the pre-K end of year party. And the talent show. And the May crowning (#3 is involved in that somehow).  And my mom's group end of year brunch.

Did I mention that since we are the end of the alphabet (by last name), I am signed up to bring stuff to ALL of the end of year parties?

It may be time to start mixing booze into my coffee. 

I already did one field trip last week, and also skipped one last week (child #4). Each kid was promised one field trip. #4 already had hers in December. So sorry. 

This week there are THREE field trips. I am going on one tomorrow. I had totally forgotten that until my MIL called to ask what time she should be here to watch the kids. Now I need to call the orthodontist and reschedule #1's appointment.  This was the wrong week to get his braces off.

 And maybe the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.*

It is so hard to have a month so packed with "fun" that I already know I'll be completely exhausted by the 15th.  That doesn't even get me to field day (the 24th).

We are also in the "Quick! We're moving! Let's go see everything before we leave!" stage.  Which isn't a problem in, say, Clarkville, TN. Northern Virginia has a million things to see and about a million other cars trying to get there and park.  I am seriously considering doing a drive-by of the monuments and tidal basin. "Look kids, Capital Hill. See that white building? No, that one. Yeah, that's Lincoln's monument."  That would make me "Mom of the Year" for sure.

I am leaning heavily on the idea that most of the peeps aren't interested. But I bet money they call me on it at a different duty station. Like that time when I was faulted for not taking them to the Statue of Liberty when we lived in NY. We lived an hour north of the city.  The Statue isn't that neat. I promise. I was schlepped there 3 times during grade school. 

Maybe I'll just make buy cupcakes with extra frosting for the parties and hide in my bathroom for the rest of the month.  I'll come out when the movers get here in June.

*(If you missed that, you MUST go to Netflix right now and watch Airplane. It's on instant play, or it was last week.)

I've been away too long. They changed the freakin settings. Or may just the colors of the page.  I only had one cup of coffee, so it is hard to say.

This is all making me a better person, right?

Some days I wish all I had was two cats and an apartment somewhere awesome.  Today was one of those days.

I feel a little cheated, to tell you the truth. Because NOWHERE in "What to expect while you're knocked up" or any of those awesome parenting magazines does it mention that you could end up being the parent of "that kid".  You know, "that kid."  Yeah, the one who is just a hot mess.  I think I may have hit the jackpot and have two of them. Of course, one of them is only four. She could still come around. #2, on the other hand, is going to put me in an early grave, and he's only 11.

#2 is hard to love.  I do love him, of course. But there are days when it takes every last ounce of effort to do it.  He is ornery, argumentative, stubborn, and has wild mood swings. My husband says we don't get along because we are too much alike.  (I'm not that ornery. Other than that, he may have a point.) 

I think I had unrealistic expectations of kids. I mean, we all do, or the human race would have died out already if we knew what the hell we were getting in to.  I guess I was expecting more, um, cooperative children.  You know, ones who might not have the same. freaking. argument. about homework every night.  Really? I thought we settled this in second grade. You HAVE TO do it. So quit your whining, shut your mouth, and get to it. Or I will go on a Mommy-strike and you'll have to fend for yourself because I don't like half the stuff I do either.  And I mean that in the most loving way possible.

I try very hard to be philosophical. He has had all those ups and downs that come with being an Army brat, but just doesn't handle it as well as others. Thanks to the Army, I know all about those things that just about kill me, but end up making me stronger, and being all I can be and so forth.  But when the whole family is going Code Red, with #2 leading the way....sigh.

Tonight, I was trying to figure out how this could possibly be part of God's plan for me.  Like maybe this was someone else's plan who bears a striking resemblance to me.  So I had a brief pity party (brief, because I still had to make everyone's lunch for tomorrow).  I came to the conclusion that this must be supposed to teach me about what it means to truly love someone.  I love my husband. He's a great guy and (I think) pretty easy to get along with. My other kids are easy to get along with too. #5 and #6 are cupcakes frosted by the devil, but they play the cute card, so people (okay, me too) seem to forget about the mayhem they cause.  But #2 is different. I infrequently get anything back from him.  I will try to do things for him to make him feel special (not easy in a family this size) and he'll usually snap at me because he is grouchy about something else.  It hurts.

But are we like #2 to God? Is that how he sees us? Is that the point here? Are we, so proud in our own ways and certain we control our path, like #2 sometimes?  We all get those spiritual nudges sometimes that we push off because that isn't what we want to do.

Maybe I need to learn how to love those who don't naturally receive and reciprocate? Kind of like those spouses whose soldiers came home with TBI or PTSD and are not able to be the spouse they once were, but those superwomen hang on.  Or the people that work with addicts or the mentally ill, where you have to do that work for a higher cause because the recipients of your care are likely not going to say thanks. 

Not that an extremely difficult kid is like an addict. It's just that most people (me!!) tend not to foster relationships in which effort is poured forth to the point of exhaustion with little or no acknowledgement or reciprocity.  I can only hope it will get easier.  My husband swears #2 has gotten better over time, but he may have a better view of that, having been gone for a year instead of seeing him everyday.  If this is the plan, it must all work out in the end (maybe before he is thirteen?).

One of those things I hate about this Army life

One of my best friends moved away.

Dammit.

We'll still stay friends and call each other and talk for too long. But it's. not. the. same.

We have been friends (and co-located) for eight years and three duty stations.  Some military marriages don't get that far.

We were friends for two years at our first assignment together, but then her husband left for Kansas for school and we fell out of touch (no facebook then, as hard as it is to remember life before FB). Because God is truly awesome and looks out for drunks, small children and fools like me, we found out that we would be assigned to the same duty station after that year of school.  How am I so certain that it was divine intervention? Because the only soul I knew at that duty station rented a house 4 doors down from the one we bought. Did I mention the house I bought was not my top choice initially? 

When our husbands PCSd us to a new duty station and deployed in the same brigade two weeks later, we were all we had. We could have saved a ton of money and just lived in one house. But we didn't think of that in time. We were battle buddies for that hellacious year of deployment and the not-much-better year when my husband was between deployments and hers worked 90 hour weeks. 

My kids thought her kids were related to us. The term "other mom" was tossed around. Our hairdresser in Austin thought we were a couple because when we showed up at the salon together and I handed her the baby, the baby was totally okay with being handed off.  (In response to his approving smile and head nod: No. It's not like that. See, we have husbands, but.... You know what. Nevermind. I just need a trim, okay? )

We followed each other to Virginia, because there is always that one person in the Army that you just keep getting assigned with.  But now she's off again. It's great for them. She's at peace with her husband's assignment and kids' schools and living arrangements.  But I miss her.

She watched my five kids (on top of her two) when I went to the hospital to have #6 because I NEVER manage to have my babies when the family member who volunteered to help is around.  Naturally, her husband was in the field for that fun-filled night. I checked her for lice that time her kid brought it home from school, because she has thick, gorgeous hair and was losing her mind at the very idea of lice. 

You don't make friends like that often in this life. Luckily, I realize that and can appreciate it fully.  All I can do now is wait for that assignment cycle that dumps us back in the same place.  And use up all my minutes because she refuses to switch to AT&T. (that was a hint. Did you catch it? ;) )

And that's why we don't negotiate with terrorists....

Okay, so maybe the terrorists in question here are my children. Just stick with me.

I was being held hostage over the (evidently sub-par) pork chops I cooked for the little monsters darlings.  I tried to hold firm. Really. But after an hour, they broke me.  Two kids managed to slip away, and the third one stalled until I almost lost my schmidt. Just to clarify- I made a tasty meal. 4 people (which includes 2 children) ate it without any issues.

I hate when they manage to negotiate their way out of dinner. It usually starts with an innocent "I'm not very hungry." When I use my psychic powers to confirm that they are, in fact, hungry, it devolves into whining. Tonight, #3 totally showed the other kids how it is done.

3: This looks funny.

Me: No, it doesn't.

3: What is that green thing? (this question is usually accompanied by stabbing the offending food item repeatedly with a fork)

Me: It is a teeny piece of oregano. EAT and stop stabbing the food. The pork is already dead.

3: How come He (#2) got more rice?

Me: Because he ate his (mother-loving) pork chops.  (Teeth are starting to clench)

3: I have to go to the bathroom.

Me: Then you better eat quickly.

3: Do I have to eat all of it?

Me: YES!!!!!!!

3 pokes around some more with his fork. He moves the pieces of meat around. He folds napkin into boat shape (not kidding). Chews up an ice cube. Wipes off fork onto boat-shaped napkin. Still hasn't eaten. 

3: But I already ate four bites.

Me: I barely gave you enough pork to keep CPS off of my case. WILL. YOU. JUST. EAT.

3: I really have to pee.

Me: (inaudible grumbling...)

Kid leaves for a while and returns.  He didn't flush, by the way.

3: Can I just eat one more bite?

Me: No! You will eat at least 4. (HUGE mistake. Kids sense that as a sign of weakness, just like sharks and blood in the water).

More dillying and dallying and rearranging of pork pieces, accompanied by pleas for more rice.
I am no longer answering. I am only glaring.

3: Well. I'm done.

Me: ?????? YOU DID NOT EAT YOUR FOUR BITES.

3: I already ate four bites.

Me: You were supposed to eat four more bites.

3: But I already ate four, and then had one more (I doubt that very much). So that was five, can I be done?

Me: NOOOOOOO! Sit. Eat. Do. not. move.

Five minutes later, I realize he has been sitting there for an entire hour. Yup. That's about 40 minutes longer than anyone else.  I (in true Mom-of-the-Year style) grab his plate, and inform him that dinner. is. over. That he is to get in pjs, do his homework and stay out of my line of sight until breakfast. 

He scampers away.


Score: Kid 1, Mom 0.

I am grumpy, have wasted time I could have used to check Facebook clean the kitchen, and we still have to do his homework.  He, on the other hand, didn't have to eat his pork. 

And that, my friends, is why you don't negotiate with terrorists children.  You just feed them chicken nuggets every night, and hope they don't tell all the other parents that they broke their mom.