Some days I just suck at parenting.

It's a fact.

My children are small tropical storms on a good day.

On a bad day, well, let's just say I'm only half joking when I say we should have named the middle one Katrina. She can reek havoc on a room in three seconds flat...and she's just so freaking cute while doing it. It's maddening. Invite her over to your house, and you will still be finding things where they don't belong several YEARS later.

I wouldn't change a thing.

The only problem comes with balancing two handful-ish children with keeping a home that doesn't get nominated for Hoarders.

It's not easy.  I can clean, not paying attention to my children, only to find that they've emptied both toy boxes, the book shelves, and rearranged the furniture while I washed three dishes.

 I can set them up at the table with a project, which will result in walls that need to be cleaned since there is no way for me to wash dishes while watching them, since I was born without the proverbial eyes in the back of my head.

So today, faced with the prospect of looking at this mess for another day after spending almost a whole day yesterday without the benefit of power, heat or hot water, I broke all my parenting rules. I'm guessing this will be the day that begins their need for therapy, and I'm not entirely sure I care.

A list of rules I've broken today:
1) I made two separate lunches. Two. Separate. Lunches. I don't do this, because, well, I'm not a short order cook. But today, I went to the fridge, dug out what each child would like best, and put it in front of them. So, Alicia went a whole meal subbing the vegetable course for the more popular chocolate course.  She's going to Grandma's tonight, they will have plenty of vegetables. Plus, I'm out of raw carrots.

 2) I then put their plates in front of them and left the table. This is a much bigger rule in this house. We eat together. Today, I palmed a chicken sandwich on a commercial (blech!!!) hot dog bun and left the table. Popping my head in every three seconds and cleaning without the benefit of music to listen for any sounds. The girls, very happy to be left to their own devices, ate happily as I ran up and down the stairs rotating laundry and sweeping the steps.

3) I used the TV as a baby sitter. Well, as much as I could. My kids don't really "watch" TV. So this bought me exactly enough time to vacuum the steps. Which, I'm fine with, of course. I just needed to get it done before I fight them into their respective beds.

4) I forced the middle child into slave labor. As of right now, she's fed the dog and thrown her shoes from the living room. Hey, I'll take what I can get.

So, now that I've both neglected and abused my children for at least a half an hour according to some parenting standards, my house still isn't clean, and I have guilt.  I'm also at a loss as to what parenting rules I can break that will let me clean my kitchen and get ready for work. Oh, well, I'll figure something out. Right now, the baby is unloading the book shelf I just put back together, so, off I go.

At one point do the people who are "protecting us" actually become perpetrators?

Terrorists fly.

This is a true statement.

Terrorists kill their own children to promote their political agenda.

 This is also a true statement.

 At what point, though, have the people who are sworn to protect us become actual abusers themselves?




Watch this video. If it doesn't break your heart to see the young child screaming, "don't touch me!" over and over, as the TSA agent brusquely ignores her pleas and continues to grope her, well, I don't know what to tell you.

They started the search by taking a teddy bear away from a tired child. I'm at a loss to figure out why the teddy bear couldn't ride in his mommy's arms through the metal detector in the first place. She was SO upset at the separation, she couldn't keep still for the scanner, which prompted a pat down from someone with the child relation skills of Count Olaf. (MissPreteen is reading Lemony Snickett right now).

The strange man has his hands ALL OVER the child. Completely ignoring her protests and cries. Doesn't break to let her calm down. Doesn't stop. Finishes his business completely ignoring the fact that she clearly feels violated.

The father films the scene, and the mother holds the little girl, allowing the TSA agent to continue. No one stands up and says..."stop touching my kid." "Let's find another way to do this." "Is there anything else we can do to prove this little girl is safe?

 I mean, it's pretty clear she's hiding a bomb in her t-shirt and leggings.

 So the real question is, why are we allowing a government agency to molest our children?

 That dad had some rights he didn't invoke. Someone should have stood up for that little girl. And the fact that the TSA agent still has a job after forcibly groping a child with no respect for her pleas is utterly amazing.

I'm still sitting here shaking my head... at a loss to figure out how this keeps us safe.

If anything, it makes us victims.

Mom wisdom debunked... in other words, how in God's dear sweet name am I supposed to do that?

What is the number one piece of advice given to any new mom?

Sleep when your baby does.

By far, that's got to be it. Ignore the dishes growing mold in your sink, the growling in your own belly, the feline sized dust bunnies lurking in the corners of your house, and the fact that you can actually smell the food rotting in your refrigerator WITH THE DOOR CLOSED.  The tumbleweed sized balls of dog hair wafting through your house? Step over.

With any luck the cast of Hoarders will show up with a camera crew and take care of it for you, while you nap peacefully on the couch.

Just make sure that you don't look down at the pouch of your belly which at some angles still looks like it contains a baby, because that will make you want to do sit ups. Don't breathe deeply, or on second thought, you may want to, because the smell of the body odor coupled with the inevitable five or six spit ups may actually induce a sweet, restful coma. And for Heaven's sakes, don't walk past the mirror. You'll want to snap a photo of the stranger in the glass with greasy roots, untamed eyebrows, chipped nail polish clad in sweatpants and an over large shirt, and post it on www.peopleofwalmartwebsite.com, because that sure as hell can't be YOU.

I've got a new rule for new moms.

Delegate. Delegate, Delegate.

Call your friends, your relatives, your neighbors. Stop worrying what the house you look like, and get some help in there.  Have a team of people help you do everything that needs doing, and then, take your nap. You'll sleep better.

I gave birth to the Devil.

It's not the first one. Although she and I only speak the same language every second Thursday, and on days that involve something she REALLY WANTS TO DO, she's genuinely probably the sweetest tween on the planet.

It's not the second one. No. While, if left alone with an empty shampoo bottle, two paper clips and a My Little Pony, she could probably build an atom bomb and solve world hunger, she's okay, too. Because she doesn't have a subtle, or quiet, bone in her body, you KNOW when she is up to something, and her plots are fairly easy to foil. Like, when she was trying to flood the upstairs bathroom, I knew it, without stepping up the stairs.

She's not quiet.

 Nope.

 The real wild one is, by far, the quietest. She's built, solidly, like her marginally older sister, and that provides me some advantage, since if she were mouse like, I'd probably never be able to find her except when she wanted to eat. She can cause mass destruction in the blink of an eye, and you will NEVER HEAR IT COMING.  I just came back from warming up my coffee, to find that she had sidled her way past my homemade barricade, slipped behind the couch, took out the end table, and was attempting to rewire the lamp.

She did this in the time it took me to walk out to the kitchen and pour coffee. No cream, no sugar, because I'm alone with her and I know I don't have time for bells and whistles. Caught, she gave me an angelic smile, and slipped back behind the couch again.

So she could come and give me a huge snuggle, with sweet smiles and giggles. How can I even scold her? She's too freaking cute!

See? The Devil.

Box mixes: The enemy of frugal cooks every where

I remember the first time I ever cooked.

Ever.

My mother had made her famous meltaway meat. Of this, I still quiver in fear. The lumpy, tasteless mass of protein quivered like jello, the texture resembled canned dog food. I'm not entirely sure what she did to it that made it taste so...tasteless, but I do know it often involved me scrubbing out the crockpot for sometimes days on end, only to have her repeat the mess the moment I had managed to chip the remains from the walls of her ceramic petri dish, I mean, crockpot. Ugh.

My moment...she had come down with a "migraine" and needed to lay down. She needed me to "finish off dinner."

I was happier than a pig in, well, you know.

Laying on the counter, a packet of lipton alfredo noodles.

I put on my serious face. This was the big leagues. The moment that everyone tasted MY noodles. Oh, I could hardly wait.

I read the directions, then reread them. I followed them EXACTLY. Measuring the margarine, milk, and water as though my life depended on it.

Did you see my mistake? Because to this day, I don't. I followed the directions on the package, only to have my mother have a panic attack because I used margarine. Evidently, it was optional, (in those days, that was NOT printed on the directions.) and EXPENSIVE

As a (much) older cook, I wonder why we even had those packets. Even on sale they are ridiculously priced for what they are. A little bullion, a couple of seasonings, a four hundred percent mark up. It's scary what people will pay good money for.

On one of my favorite sites there is a certain amount of devotion to a certain meal product hawked by a four fingered hand. There are whole threads devoted to a favorite flavor...and again, I wonder why. Especially when I see "Italian Shells" ranks around the most popular flavors.

Seriously?

Ok, besides the ick factor, (have you READ the ingredients) and the price factor, (upwards of two dollars for barely three portions), Italian Shells? The easiest thing on the the planet, and, possibly the cheapest.

Check out my remake:

pasta
1 lb ground beef or sausage
1/2 lb whole wheat short pasta
2 C premade pasta sauce, or season a 16 oz can of tomato puree to taste.
2 C water

Brown beef or sausage and drain. Add sauce and water, bring to a boil, add the pasta. Return to a boil, simmering for 7 minutes. Do not cover. Let stand five minutes.

At this point, I usually sprinkle some shredded cheese on it and call it a day. However, I have the feeling the cheese sauce makes it for some people, so...

take 1/2 C milk and blend with 1 tsp cornstarch until smooth. Add 1/2 teaspoon garlic, bring to a boil. Stir in two to four tablespoons of parmesan cheese. Taste and add salt and pepper as desired. Drizzle over pasta.

Serve as you would your favorite box mix. Gloat in the fact that it cost less than half the price. Yay, YOU!

Do you have a favorite box mix you'd like a cheaper alternative to? Let me know in the comments!

Fathers Everywhere

Dear Fathers/Men Everywhere,

I beg of you, please, please, please do not attempt this on your children. I can guarantee you your wife/girlfriend/child's mother will not like it.

But since it's not MY child, it's pretty freakin amazing, isn't it?