Awkward Mom vs. Waking Up

It is 8:46am at the time of this writing. We have already engaged in about 17 different battles. This is merely the tale of one.

So, I am having a rather disturbing dream where an army of Ankylosaurus (Ankylosauruses? Ankylosauri? Come on, English Majors; blow the dust of those degrees and help me out!) apparently think I am a gourd and are chasing me down a wooded glen in a game of D-ball. The Point-of-Fact guy is riding Hank the Ankylosaurus, holding onto his jaunty hat with one hand and waving frantically at me with the other, while shouting at me that Ankylosauri (I'm going with it. ) are herbivores and that I shouldn't worry. I totally start to worry when one of them begins nibbling at my hand like it is a tasty bush. I blink awake, in that combo terror/relief that accompanies bad dream wake-ups; I am literally half-off the side of the bed, my arm trailing on the floor, a hungry Super Cat licking my fingers. Finding this slightly more disturbing than the dream, I jerk my hand away and flip over; to be confronted by something decidedly more disturbing that both dream and a flesh-desirous cat. I find myself staring into the cold dead eye sticker of RoGun, who is tucking into Super Toddler's arms, as if he were an adorable kitten. After my initial impulse to hurl him from my son passes, I find myself grateful that at least Super Toddler transformed him out of gun-mode before he decided to cuddle him. With no interest in going back to sleep and being trampled by jock dinosaurs, I dispassionately survey the bed.

It resembles a sardine can. Super Toddler, RoGun, and I are cuddled in on the far right side, heads on a pillow. Baby Elmo, a Reindeer, and Awkward Dad are huddled toward the left side, bodies completely turned around, Awkward Dad's feet on his pillow and his arm draped over the end of the bed, where Super Cat is nudging it urgently. Super Cat 2 (the non-human-flesh-eating one) is sleeping in the deep center of the bed, spooning Super Preschooler and snoring. Super Preschooler is hugging a stuffed Zebra, and 8-foot-long Arcade Snake is in a perfect diagonal, his head and tail connecting my feet with Awkward Dad's feet in a grand circle of life, or at least a ridiculously crowded bed. The only one not here is Super Baby, who I can hear playing with these guys, who have little bells in them that are softly tinkling in harmony with her gleeful baby coos. I have an intense longing to crawl into her crib and go back to sleep.

That longing is quashed when Super Toddler jerks in a particularly active dream and sends RoGun slamming into my left eye. I kick Arcade Snake, which begins the game of Mouse-Trap; he vibrates past Super Cat, who merely yawns, which shifts Super Preschooler, which sends stuffed Zebra flying into Awkward Dad's face, which causes him to jerk his arm, which startles Super Cat into sinking his teeth into it, which causes an earthquake about an 8.6 on the Rictor scale as Awkward Dad awakens with all the grace of Samson tearing down a pagan temple. Next door, Super Baby hurls a roly-poly friend out of her crib with a roar not unlike her father's, RoGun slams into my face again, and I long to return to the Ankylosauruses (grammar variety, Readers; try it). I am despairing about this day already, when Super Preschooler slowly rises from his central nest, as lovely as a Buzz-Lightyear-pajama clad Venus emerging from the waves. He smiles radiantly in the weak morning sun and turns his beatific face to mine, hair haloing him like a vision. He picks his way through the Mouse-Trap wreckage, finds a way to squeeze into the microscopic space to my right, and settles into that child-sized space under my arm like he was born to fit there, which he was. He sleepily smiles at me and whispers, "Good morning, Mommy." Good indeed.

We may be losing some battles, but we are winning the war, Readers. Make sure to buy your war bonds to support the cause. What? Everyone loves World War II references, right? Oh, just Awkward Grandpa...OK, well then, go buy some chocolate to support Awkward Mom's sanity. Do your part on the home front, Readers!

Good morning or not,

Winning the war or not,

 RoGun is still giving me the creeps.

Awkward Mom vs. First Steps

What do you mean "where is the Legoland post?" Haven't you figured out that things aren't exactly linear around here? More like those Family Circus cartoons where Billy be-bops all over town, climbing trees and whatnot.

Strap on your seat-belts, Readers. This one is bumpy.

So, Super Toddler and Super Baby have a First Steps class on Tuesday mornings. Usually Super Preschooler is, funnily enough, at preschool and does not attend, but today is Election Day and his school is closed. I thought about not going, but what the hey! I mean, I juggle three kids most of the time away, how hard can it be at First Steps? (Spoiler alert: very hard.) Plus, it is my turn to bring snack; not gonna mess that up, for, if these moms are anything like me, it is their first meal of the day.

I show up. On time. Children: coated, hatted, and looking weather appropriate. I have the snack, a non-offensive animal crackers, although I am taking a risk that they aren't organic. Even so, I am confident: things are totally looking good. I walk in and meet the substitute teacher and her daughter. OK. Wasn't expecting that, but OK. She asks me if Super Baby is walking yet. I tell her no, laugh, and make my standard joke about Supers taking their sweet time to do just about anything. She doesn't laugh. Hmmm...not looking so good all of a sudden. Oh, and that is the teacher asking me, by the way. Her daughter turns to Super Preschooler and demands to know how old he is. He tells her and she says, "Oh, I am four too. You are really short, like a baby. Are you sure you are four?" Sigh. Totally lost my early mojo with that one. But Super P. is made of stronger stuff. He laughs at her and says, "Yes, you are very big! Let's go play blocks, my big friend!"

They run off to play blocks and I hand my snack to the substitute teacher. She glances at it and seems to approve, or at least isn't too offended by its non-organicness. Super Toddler sees that the roller coaster toy is out and we lose him for the next hour. Super Baby decides to crawl up the slide and I breathe for a few minutes. This is fine. I can do this.

Except I totally can't. Super Preschooler drops a block on his foot about the same time that the roller coaster bearing Super Toddler plunges into the back of a little girl, and then Super Baby falls off the slide. Not being Multiple Man, I decide that Super Baby needs me first. I dash there, while shouting apologies at the little girl's mom and reprimands at Super Toddler. I holler for Super P. to hop over to me, while I scoop up Super Baby and feel her head for fractures. None. Put her down and focus on Super Preschooler's foot, but he is gone again; running up the slide. Guess he is fine. Super Toddler is gearing up to plow into someone else now, so I tear across the room to halt him mid-flight. He all but pops off the back of the car, so I snatch him and put him in a Cozy Coupe. Since he hasn't figured out how to go forward in them, he only rams the walls when he is those. Super Preschooler has acquired a new friend, a boy, who also seems to delight in racing up the slide and tumbling down the stairs in complete and total abandon of logic. Super Toddler is backing into a corner, and Super Baby is playing a toy piano with her face. Good enough.

Things go well, for a little while. There are a few things though. Super Toddler finds a way back to the roller coaster toy, about 17 times. Super Baby eats multi-colored rice out of the sensory table. Super Preschooler's pottying needs are brought to my attention by the teacher's aide, but we do make it to the bathroom, so I am putting that one in the win column. The mom who doesn't like me, and never has, doesn't seem to appreciate my calling her an "early bird" and admiring her "I voted" sticker; I get a lecture on civic duty for my sins. Substitute's daughter does not want to let the smallness of Super P. go and taunts him with "baby boy! baby boy!" until her mother makes her stop. Of course, the taunts start up again when he decides to play dress-up and steals the dress she wants. I shouldn't be so hard on the substitute teacher, after all, she is busy telling me ways to encourage Super Baby to walk and seems intensely frustrated by my lack of concern about the whole thing. Minor issues, really. A appetizer sampler of the awkward meal ahead. And just like that, it is time to eat.

We all wash hands. Well, Super Toddler decides his shirt needs a wash too, but let's not quibble about details. We settle down for snack, when an air raid siren emerges from the mom who already doesn't like me. "Peanuts! Peanuts! Who brought something with peanuts?!" She is intensely staring at the bag of animal crackers. I sheepishly admit to providing snack, but argue that no animal cracker I know of has peanuts in them. I mean, if they sell Peanut Butter Animals Crackers, I am not aware of it. Which is a good thing because I would buy them out and eat them all while lying on the couch watching Netflix and then where would we be? She shoves the bag in my face and points at this sentence at the bottom of the bag, in tiny lawyer writing, that states that these cookies where made at a factory where peanuts are present. I apologize profusely, but she won't even look at me while she gives her lecture about the safety of our children to the wall above my head. I repeatedly tell her that I am sorry, and she tells me that I should read ingredients and not just feed my children any "junk" I feel like. The teacher frantically rummages through the cabinets and comes up with some Cheerios, but the damage is done. The children want animal crackers, not Cheerios. Especially the plain yellow box Cheerios that the teacher is trying to get us all excited about. The mom who now hates me scoots her daughter, who is screaming for animal crackers, as far away from us as she can, while, loudly, hauling dish upon dish of snacks out of her diaper bag. I have the itty-bitty irreverent thought that her bag must be a portal to her refrigerator, but I am mostly occupied by fending off the hate lasers that are shooting out of her eyes and into my soul. This is when Super Toddler spills his full cup of water onto his animal crackers, lap, and 4 nearby children.

I scoop up some soggy crackers, hand them to Super Baby to rub on my shirt, and head over to the art table to feel sorry for myself. This dad who attends our class sidles up to me and tells me that his wife is about to have their next child and wants to know how I do it. I stare at him. How I do what? Completely and totally ruin my children's friendship value with my stupidity and awkwardness? Tumble through my day with the barest understanding of what I am doing? Consider it a successful day when no one in the house needs to go to the ER? I am near tears, eating wet animal crackers off my shirt, and realizing that I may have let that diaper of Super Baby's go too long, if the damp near my hip is any indication. But I don't want to scare this man, so I dredge something up from deep in my being and tell him that it will all be alright. I tell him that somedays you will wish you had more hands, but if you just give yourself permission to be late most of the time, you will be fine. And happy. Not content or OK or fine, but happy. And delighted in ways that you never knew existed. You will be as tired as you have ever been, but your sleep, when you get it, will be the sleep of those who do a good day's work. You will laugh more, cry more, feel more, and be more than you ever knew you could. You will learn to juggle fire knives while riding an elephant. You will mold and shape the next generation with your wisdom, and they will grow that wisdom within you, even as you change their diapers and break up their fights and wonder if running away from home is still an option. I tell him that I am so happy for him and can't wait to meet his baby. He seems relieved and at peace. And then Super Baby throws up all over his shirt.

That is enough, it really is. And we wish it was the whole story. Super Preschooler insists on sitting on the W square of the alphabet rug during Circle Time, which happens to be where Mom who Hates Awkward Mom is sitting. He is basically in her lap for most of the Wheels on the Bus. Super Baby decides to just lie down in the middle of the Circle Time rug, for reasons unknown, and Super Toddler reverts to old habits and rebels against Circle Time in its entirety, causing an early and abrupt end of class for all of us, a rapid, Fast-and-the-Furious exit from the parking lot, and a huge crying jag for Awkward Mom at the stop light. And then we voted, which is a whole other tale that you'll hear someday, if Awkward Mom stops crying.

Awkward Mom vs. Funerals

No, Awkward Mom doesn't battle funerals. Or even at funerals. She is awkward, not morbid. She is also 15 years too old to be gothy. Of course, I suppose Goths won't be battling funerals really. They seem like funerals might be their idea of a good time, might even use them as their secret lairs, like coffin benchs and control tables, purple candles and whatnot....hmmm, seem to be getting a little lost here. What was I saying?

So, we had to travel back home for a funeral, very unexpectedly, the day after Halloween. Like throwing stuff in a bag, calling the Awesomes to watch the Super Cats (thanks, guys!), and taking off for Chicago at 9pm. Funeral was at 10am the next morning, which lead to family stuff. And more family stuff. And, wait for it, yes, even more family stuff. We got back today. Yep, totally awkward, per usual. The Supers were amazing through it all, but I think Awkward Dad's promise of, "Hey, behave like angels and I will take you to Legoland" might have had something to do with it.

Dang it; follow-through just happens to be an Awkward Dad super-power.

 

We'll be back to tell you all about it, after we recover. About a dozen Awkward funerals aren't nearly as wearing on the parenting super-powers than room upon room of super-charged children, small chokable legos, and something called an Earthquake table. Off to take a 3 day nap, see you soon!

Awkward Mom vs. Halloween Decorations

So, in the least shocking news ever, it took Awkward Mom nearly a week to rebuild the Tesla Coil and stop the villain from blowing up the lab. A week, Readers. And that was with Nancy's helpful advice that "maybe this round thing goes here." Oh well, the preview for the next game shows ghosts! Ghosts are a little more in Awkward Mom's wheelhouse than, well, any science at all. Of course, we have to wait until next July for that, so let's complain about Halloween for the time being!

I am not good at decorating. For some strange reason, despite being born of 2 clutter-bugs, married to a near-hoarder, and the mother of three proud materialists, I am a secret minimalist. Well, not secret so much as frustrated. I am the kind of person who looks at the austerity of monks' cells and goes "That looks great! Where do I sign up? What vow of silence? Oh, never mind." It isn't meant to be. Especially, not with Super Preschooler for a child. He decorates daily with the pirate horde of jewelry and baubles that he has been collecting since his pincer grasp developed. Seriously, the boy has 2 jewelry boxes and is quickly outgrowing those; he has more Madi Gras beads than a college girl on spring break. You get the picture; basically my mother's Martha Stewart decoration gene bypassed me entirely and lodged itself in the forefront of Super P.'s brain, where he draped a scarf over it and pronounced it fabulous.

Super Preschooler decorates for every holiday, much like my mother, who once threw a President's Day party, complete with Lincoln beards for all. But they both agree that the big 2 are Christmas and Halloween. For the moment, I am choosing to ignore the 8 aisles of Christmas decorations at Target, but there is little I can do about Halloween, being as I am the mother of the Mayor of Dress-up Town and the daughter of the owner of a 7-foot singing Frankenstein's Monster. I don't have to like it, but I do have to deal with it. Now, be proud of me, Readers! I decide to grab the devil horns by the, hmm, horns, and I went to Target, walked right past the Christmas aisles to the Halloween aisle, freaked out about the pre-teen costumes (What the #$%^ is the 12-year-old doing being a "sexy witch" and what exactly is a "sexy witch" anyway? Is her eye of Newt designer?), and I bought a light-up pumpkin. I brought it home and proudly called Super Preschooler over to admire it. He dutifully came over, gave it the once over, and looked up at me, pityingly. "Oh, Mom, that's cute. But don't worry; Grandma is coming this weekend and we'll get some real decorations." So, after the equivalent of a pat on the head, I banished the light-up pumpkin to the bathroom (he is rather small), and I awaited my mother's arrival; breathlessly, with the rest of the family.

She arrives in true style; bearing about 647 Christmas gifts (fully wrapped, of course), 2 overflowing boxes of Halloween decorations, 3 different types of Halloween-themed cookies, a pile of magazines for collage projects, and an abundance that my children bask in like it is the sun. My mother is not as insane as she sounds; she did leave the Frankenstein's Monster at home. She has numerous super-powers, but one of her most powerful is this amazing ability to be abundant and balanced at the same time. I do NOT know how she does it, because if I did, I would bottle it and make a million dollars selling it to legions of mothers. Since my childhood, she has possessed a magical ability to make every day seem like a party, even though the party games involve eating vegetables, raking leaves, doing homework, and functioning like a responsible human being. A responsible human being covered in sequins and flashing lights, that is. I jokingly call her Martha Stewart, but she is anything but. She isn't uptight in the slightest and would laugh in your face if you asked her to make a twine bag (swear to Pete; I once spent 25 minutes watching Martha Stewart do this). My mother holds to the adage that no one is gonna notice your messy floors or dusty shelves if you just hang tinsel everywhere. Or put a 7-foot Frankenstein's Monster on your porch. Bring your muddy shoes on over to her house, she'll laugh if you break her centerpiece, and oh, just come on in to the kitchen and eat whatever you'd like, but maybe you could cut these carrots for me, let's race to see who can finish first! Her abundance is completely generous and grounded and gleeful, and for some reason, it all gels gorgeously.

I got many good and wonderful things from my mother, but I can not master this abundance of hers. I'm too stingy and small and careful and worried. But Super P.? He's got it down and he is only 4. He carries extra necklaces in his pocket in case his friends need one. He praises with embarrassing effusiveness that makes me cringe and strangers glow. Ask him to share and 9 times out of 10, he'll hand it over with an offer to help you put it on. Yes, that 10th time; well, he is 4, remember. Can you imagine the generosity that is gonna grow in him over time? I think I may be raising a combination Mother Teresa/Santa. So if the result of my mother's generosity skipping me is that it leapfrogged into my son, well, I can totally live with that. As long as he doesn't decide that he needs a 7-foot-tall Reindeer display come Christmas....

But on to the important part; pictures!

This is rather tame for her. Or I hid the second box of decorations. I'm not telling.

 

She decided against stringing lights through this, once she saw what Super Toddler wanted to do with it. She is nothing if she isn't flexible in her design.

 

What Super Toddler wanted to do with it. For hours.

 

Well, duh. Of course, there were window clings.

 

Learning from the master.

 

 

Awkward Grandma's visits are never long enough, but they were long enough to go trick-or-treating at Greenfield Village. She and Super Toddler watched the Headless Horseman canter though Sleepy Hollow for close to a half-hour, laughing their heads off. Well, not literally, but it appears that Super Preschooler may have gotten her generosity but Super Toddler got her totally irreverent sense of humor. Please, please, please let Super Baby get her culinary skills. And soon. Awkward Mom tries, but everyone is getting tired of eating Mac and Cheese around here. No mean feat, considered that we are talking about toddler palates.

Awkward Mom vs. Deadly Devices

Only happens twice a year; the new Nancy Drew game is out! Watch Awkward Mom go nerdier than a band of Trekkies trekking through Skywalker Ranch on their way to a ComicCon, while somehow playing video games and writing fan fiction. It's epic. But first, we have to get the game...details....

So, I think I have mentioned my obsession with Nancy Drew. This is not hard to understand; the girl has her own detective agency, hundreds of kickin' scarfs, and a blue roadster, for goodness sake. Not to mention a huge helping of moxie. She is cool personified; I want to be her. And secretly, you do too.

I have been playing the Nancy Drew computer games since they started coming out, which was embarrassingly past my 10th birthday and the age they are aimed at. Now I play them with Super Preschooler, which kinda makes it a little more tellable, but not quite. I still totally acted like I didn't know what Super P. was talking about when he told our neighbor all about why we were going to Best Buy in the middle of a Tuesday. I mentioned that we needed computer ink, which is true, and let Super P. confuse Mr. Perfect Yard with talk of  magnifying glasses and puzzles. Oh well, it is miles better than the day Super P. told the visiting nurse all about Plants vs. Zombies.

So, we head over to Best Buy because I have a coupon and I really do need ink. I hate going to Best Buy, and not because this place is crawling with hipsters who somehow got lost on their way to the Apple store, although that is a pretty good reason. No, I hate Best Buy because my children love Best Buy and Best Buy does not love my children. Lotta high emotions swirling around amid the appliances. (Has anyone ever bought a fridge at Best Buy? Just curious.) Basically, I think Best Buy would prefer that I bring my children back to them in about 12 years, when they have allowances and best motor control. I can't exactly blame them, but the glares are a bit much.

I am planning an in and out operation and I might have been successful, if the game I was here to get wasn't, well, a game. Getting a game involves going into the belly of the Best Buy beast; a veritable gamer's playland, where milling zombie teenagers shuffle and shrug under the nightmarish light of a hundred televisions silently showing the Avengers. There are demos everywhere; X-box, Wii, Playstation 2, or is it 12? Each demo has a listless adolescent standing in front of it, killing things with a numbing nonchalance that is all the more frightening to me when seen next to the three whirling dervishes orbiting me. Is this their future? I want them to sit still sometimes, but the boredom oozing out of this place is horrifying. My crystal ball gazing is cut short when my children cluster around the teenager playing Borderlands 2 and actually seem to drag his attention away from the screen. They are pretty loud and completely unaware of personal space, you know, like most people under the age of 8.  They jostle this kid and he shifts his eyes to them and shakes his head slowly, like someone waking up. I think I can actually see his eyes dilating, but that might be a trick of the Avengers light. I am getting significantly worried about this encounter and moving forward to shoo them away, but then he smiles. This armored teen with hair too messy to be accidental and a Space Ghost t-shirt meets Super Toddler's loose grin with an identical one, and then it all falls away. All the pretension and carefully sculpted unaffectedness and chips stacked 10 high on his shoulders. There is little a smile can do about all that gel, but for some reason, it appears to soften it a touch. He stands there looking into Super Toddler's face for what seems like a million years, then he notices me and sends me a quick look of permission. I acquiesce with a slight nod and really hope that I didn't just Rumpelstiltskin my middle child. Shouldn't have worried. He scoops Super Toddler up and lets him hold the controller while explaining something about Hyperion Corporation. Super Toddler gazes at this kid like he is Elvis and I let him bask under Super Toddler's adoration for awhile. That is, until I start counting the spent shell casings on the screen.

I ease Super Toddler away from his new guru, thanking him profusely. He smiles softly, his mask already shifting back into place, and we leave him shooting things in peace. Super Toddler is not pleased, but I am pretty sure he wasn't ready to battle the Hyperion Corporation. He recovers quickly from his thwarted gaming and gleefully sorts through the Disney movies with Super Preschooler, not a shoulder chip in sight. I am breathing a sigh of relief, as I pull the new Nancy Drew game off the shelf and hand it to Super Baby to gnaw on. Childhood is long, and if that smile was any evidence, it doesn't completely die in an adolescent flurry of gel and grisly games anyway. We've got time and now we've got a new Nancy Drew game to play. Life is good.

And then, the Supers knocked down the entire Tinkerbell: Secret of the Wings display. I turn to see a bemused crowd of hipsters gather and 5 glaring Best Buy employess move toward the giggling pile of Supers and glittered DVDs. The gamers? They don't even look up, even though, above them, the Hulk is totally destroying Loki. Have I already mentioned that I hate Best Buy?

Don't you guys worry about Awkward Mom; she and the Supers made it out of the store with Nancy's latest adventure and the ink they needed. Plus a brand new copy of Tinkerbell: Secret of the Wings. So, I guess you don't need to worry about Best Buy either. The new Nancy Drew game, the Deadly Device, is about Tesla coils and physicists; not exactly Awkward Mom's strengths. Super P. could have finished it last night, but he likes to let Mommy work stuff out for herself. We'll be back just as soon as we figure out how to reprogram the keycards and sneak into the lab. Don't wait up.

I want to go as Handsome Jack from Borderlands 2, but Mom keeps going on about tradition.

Blah. Blah.

Awkward Mom vs. Vision Statements

She's back! With the shake-up of the century! Or maybe just some small rearranging....move the couch over a bit, that kind of thing....

So, if you are anything like me, and I really hope that you are not, you feel a wee bit unorganized after battling a mega-villain, like bronchitis. Major villains really take it out of you, and they take you out of yourself. They ramble on and on about their evil plan; boring everyone in sight. Then, they start pulling in subplots and lesser villains, sometimes to the point of having to purchase tie-in issues. Not cool. Before you know it, every available space in your house is covered in random villain detritus and cough drop wrappers. Now, you have issues 1-5 of Bronchitis; Voiceless Scream. Plus, you have issue 3 of Missing School, issue 6 of Late Credit Card Payment, issues 16 + 18 of Lost Playdate Opportunities, issue 698 of Why are we having Mac and Cheese for Dinner again (getting close to a milestone issue on that one, folks!), issue 13 of Are there any Clean Socks in this House at all, plus the preview issue of Holidays; Don't try to Hide, they are Coming. What a mess! And you have no idea how to catalogue it. Do you put the Bronchitis issues first because he was the main villain, even though you acquired the other issues along the way and well before the last issue of the main arc? Do you do it in the order they showed up at your house? Do you use size? Or something more archaic perhaps? Is it done in alphabetical order? Oh, Readers, I am not Hercule Poirot, or even Miss Lemon. I am like 18 times more disorganized than Captain Hastings. This is well beyond me.

And what is even more beyond me is reclaiming ownership of Awkward Manor once more. It is time for the triumphant return for our hero; she must ride home in glory and reclaim her throne. The throne that has lain listless and lank since her departure, to vanquish the imposing threat to her kingdom. We are in the epilogue of the novel, the final panel of the comic book, the parting crane shot that dissipates into swirling fog and credits. And I will tell you why they do it that way, my lovely Readers. Because thrones that have lain listless and lank are likely pretty gross. It is Lord of the Flies in here. Literally. I have no idea how these flies are getting in or who has flies in October, except maybe Pig Pen from the Charlie Brown Halloween Special. Guess that answers my question. I am Pig Pen from Charlie Brown, Readers. I have finally realized my destiny. Whew. That was easy.

Oh, shoot. I can't be Pig Pen. I have responsibilities, and I have kids. Kids who need to be Pig Pen. Guess I better regroup. So, I have all these villains to catalogue, all these flies to evict, a throne to wash, responsibilities to resume, children to herd, and the ever rolling tide of adult life to surf. OK, guess I should roll up my sleeves and start. Where should I start? That all sounds boring, I don't want to do any of that! How about I make a vision statement for Awkward Mom instead? Yes, that sounds like a great use of time, especially since I decided to allow one more Barney before putting him away, right next to the heavy-duty cold medicine and the Valium.

I'll be honest; it's been awhile since I worked. You know, worked anywhere that might have a vision, or at least one more sophisticated than "Let's try to avoid putting raisins in our noses." In fact, that is the current Awkward Mom Vision Statement. But it might be time to update that one, let's see what I can come up with, eh?

Moderation in All Things.

You wanna know what I mean, I suppose. Man, this is turning into more work than just cleaning the throne. Wanna know why I like moderation, Readers? I'll tell you why; you go up on the roof, all reaching for the stars and whatnot, you are gonna fall off. The view from this moderately sized rock over here is just as nice. Plus, what are you gonna do with stars anyway? Take up too much space, stars do. I'm not telling you (or I guess me, since it is my vision statement) to not be ambitious. I am just telling you (I mean me) to use some sense and not demand perfection (or constant star-grabbing) on this parenting path of yours/mine/ours. For example:

Perfect bedtimes are great. But not on Halloween, Christmas Eve, anytime the Wizard of Oz is on TV, or the nights when Awkward Dad is on call and we have a slumber party in the big bed. So, moderate bedtimes.

Perfect meals are great. But not when Grandma is in town, the circus is in town, when Super Preschooler wants to make a cake at 4pm to "celebrate life", or when everyone gets so excited talking about what animal they would like to be that Super Toddler crawls into the middle of the table (a la lion) and sends the pea bowl flying onto Awkward Dad's head. So, moderate meals.

Perfect attention is great. But not when Mommy needs to read this one thing, or take a short bath, or talk to Awkward Grandma about Super Baby's weird rash, or just needs 2 minutes to herself in the pantry to eat one Cadbury Cream Egg. So, moderate attention.

Perfect discipline is great. But not when one isn't in the perfect conditions described in whichever book one happens to be following at the moment or on the Dr. Phil show. So, moderate discipline.

Perfect expectations are great. But not when hungry, tired, crabby, ages 2-4, not in a sharing mood, or in public. Or when someone is trying their best and that C becomes a symbol of outstanding perseverance, and not average disappointment. Or really, on any day between Monday through Sunday. So, moderate expectations.

Perfect parenting is great. Except it totally isn't.

Therefore, Moderation in all Things shall be the new Awkward Mom Vision Statement.

Well....except for Kindness. Because Kindness is really the only area of your life where you should take a deep breath, climb all the way up onto the roof, lean all the way over the edge, grab up as many stars as you can, and just scatter them all to the winds in glorious, reckless, absurdly abundant abandon. Kindness is a kick off your shoes kind of dance, a throw it all in kind of bet. Kindness should be totally blown on flowers every single chance you get. There is never any reason good enough to be careful with kindness. Therefore, we here in the Awkward Family shall be moderate in all things. Except Kindness. And kisses. Which is basically the same thing anyway.

We want to thank everyone who has been careless with their kindness over this recent battle with Bronchitis. It was not pretty around here and won't be for awhile, or at least until we figure out the flies. Thank you all for your moderate expectations of us!

Awkward Mom vs. Bronchitis - round 3

And now, the last word. From our sponsor: Super Preschooler.

Dearest Readers, tis I; Super Preschooler! Here to save the day (or at least the post) in a flurry of flowery adjectives and awkwardness. Awkwardness yes, but perhaps with a little more style and color then has been around these parts lately. I mean, she has bronchitis, she isn't Camille or something. Did I just compare my mother to a courtesan with tuberculosis? Well, yes, but I said she was NOT Camille. I mean, come on, she doesn't have that kind of wardrobe. Shesh.

So, Mom's voice is back. This is a gray area, superheroly speaking; like a Magneto-type villain, if you were. It is mostly a bad thing, but you definitely respect the power and you usually have enough back story to get where the range and rage comes from. Man, that woman can yell. But man, Super Toddler can destroy a room in under 3 minutes, so I get the temptation to use her power for bad sometimes. She has 3 days of yelling to catch up on, so it should be a blast, literally, around here for a bit.

But not yesterday! Yesterday, I had an all day playdate with Awesome Preschooler. All day! Readers, it was glorious! We did all kinds of stuff; amazing stuff that I am not gonna tell you about because it is secret club stuff. Now, if you wanna join out secret club, I might tell you. I mean, I would need to talk it over with Awesome P. but she is pretty cool with new friends. You'll need a wand, a dress-up dress, maybe some jewelry. Well, if you need jewelry, I have some you could borrow. I bet the blue necklace with the stars would look just perfect on you. When can you come over? What? Oh, what was I talking about again? Oh yes! Yesterday, right; Great day, the best really. I mean, Awesome P.'s brother was here too, but babies can't play pretend, so he and Super Baby mostly hung out with Mom. Which made her happy and not yelly, so I suppose babies are OK. Sometimes. On occasion. As a distraction. Whatever, they are still pretty boring.

So, mostly Awesome P. and I planned our wedding. It is gonna be like Cinderella's and then we are gonna live in a cool castle, with Mom and Dad and Mr. and Ms. Awesome. I suppose the babies will have to be there too, but they can just get married to each other and we can have another wedding! I don't know who is gonna marry Super Toddler....he has some good points that must appeal to someone. Excellent Toddler could marry him, she is tough and could keep him in line. I'll ask her next time I see her. Yes, that is a good idea. But I had to tell Mom about the wedding because it is gonna be pretty fancy and I have about 50 cents. She was so excited that she spit water across the room, which made me think that an ice sculpture that trickles punch would be a lovely addition to the reception. I was a little concerned about the face she made when Awesome P. told her that we were gonna have a baby. I thought Bronchitis was trying to kill her or something. But I think it was just shock that we would be so into babies. I mean, I'm not, but if it makes Awesome P. happy, that's cool. She says that there is a whole row of them at Target. Says we can get a dozen or more. Whatever, back to my wedding plans. Well, I wanted to tell Mom about the fountain ice sculpture thing, but Mom must have been dealing with some of the mind-alerting stuff that Bronchitis does sometimes because she wanted to talk about college and responsibility and some other stuff that I didn't really understand. We need to get rid of this guy, he is making her crazy.

That is when Awesome Preschooler and I come up with a plan to poof Bronchitis out of Mom. Super Toddler wants to call him Bronc, but I see him more as a mad scientist kind of villain, rather than a straight bruiser. And for a mad scientist, you need the -itis. You just do; it's science. So, we get all dressed up, you do not poof in normal clothes. I mean, I don't need to tell you this, do I? Awesome Preschooler wants to be Cinderella and so did I, but hey, no need to fight. I know some fabulous fairy friends and they recently sent me a stunning selection of sartorial selections. In the wave of a wand, Awesome Preschooler and I are in matching blue dresses with just the right amount of sparkle. Cinderella is tricky balance, you never wanna go overboard with the bling; it just isn't her. Now, it takes some convincing, but I finally get Super Toddler into something approximating a costume. I mean, we really ought to be grateful that he is wearing anything at all. He agrees to a hat and a shoves a wand in each pocket, like some gun-slinger out of Oz.

We pop out of the bedroom and spring on Mom and the babies. Awesome Preschooler climbs on the coffee table to begin the aerial offensive and I aimed from under the couch; we didn't know what his defenses were like and had to be ready, you know. So, we are poofing like crazy and the babies (being babies) are trying to grab the wands. (I am totally starting to rethink this baby thing with Awesome Preschooler.) Mom is looking pretty freaked out; I guess that deep within her, Bronchitis is freaking out at our display of power. So I am thinking this is working. Well, that is when Super Toddler shouts something about "hitting you where you live" or something like that (he is pretty hard to understand sometimes), and then he knocks Mom in the throat. Yeah. Well. I told you that I don't think Bronchitis is a bruiser and now I am pretty sure I was right because that didn't do anything but get our wands confiscated for an hour.

But she let us watch Cinderella, so that is a plus. Gave me some more wedding ideas. I am thinking that releasing some doves would make a nice touch. What do you guys think?

Thanks for that pleasing and powerful post, Super Preschoooler. And thanks for checking that Awkward Mom's heart is functioning; sometimes a big jolt of adrenaline can be good for her. But if she gets anywhere near Awkward Dad with your wedding plans, you are gonna have to deal with a much bigger college lecture. Fair warning.

High noon; wands at 20 paces.