A people-pleaser she is not...

I had to laugh out loud when I pulled this out of #2's backpack today after her half-day of kindergarten. This is the five year-old's equivalent of a "fuck you" if I've ever seen it. I can just see her picking up a pencil in her chubby hand and saying, "Pfft. Whatever. Why would I have a good week? I have to come here everyday. There is significantly less playdough and significantly more sitting. And have you people ever heard of a snack?* Don't even get me started on the lack of napping. So a good week? I don't think so."

While her brutal honesty can be a bit of a buzz-kill at times, you'll never be able to accuse her of being a kiss-ass, I guess.

*to be fair, they squeeze a lot into the half day and I find the lack of snack time ridiculous, but then again, my children have the eating habits of Hobbits and get cranky when they aren't fed every ninety minutes.

Government at its finest...

I am back, after fully recovering from Friday's hangover which, to be honest, was more sleep-deprivation-induced than alcohol-induced, as a bottle of wine is really only about a third more than I would drink on a Saturday night. The same can not be said, however, for my jackassery during the concert. Well, OK, before as well as during, such as screaming "This is fucking bullshit" over the heads of the huge line I was corralled into with the other ladies for the ONE female security officer who could pat us down. I spend all day with small hands in my hair, lifting up my shirt to see what color bra I'm wearing ("Is it pretty?"), and practically up my ass crack, so if a nineteen year-old wearing a yellow Security shirt gets a little frisky, I'm more likely to ask him, "Did you lose a Goldfish, sweetie?", than bring a lawsuit.

So speaking of jackassery, I caught a few minutes of the Today show this morning before I turned the channel to Sesame Street and had to TiVo the segment on the Michigan mother who has been ordered by the State, by letter, to stop watching her three friends' young children (a total of three) for an hour before the school bus arrives so their working mothers can make it to the office on time. Apparently a nieghbor had turned her in three days into the school year for running an "unlicensed daycare center". Are you serious?*

This story made me want to punch someone in the head. Only a fellow mother of more than one child, one of whom is school-aged, can understand how five minutes can make or break your whole morning. For example, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I pick up LM from school at 11:30 and have to race home with him and #2 to stuff lunch down their throats before dragging my middle one to PM kindergarten. This requires making lunch earlier in the morning and having it entirely laid out so we can eat and be out the door in thirty minutes. Why didn't I put her in AM kindergarten, you ask? Well, that class gets out at 11:20 so I would be late picking Little Man up when his class ends. Once one of your kids hits kindergarten you are constantly at the mercy of Father Time, since if you are late for school every day, you are now a truant, back in pre-K, you were just that asshole who made the teacher wait to start Circle Time.

If in this crazy jigsaw puzzle of drop offs and pickups, something goes awry, I am totally screwed (as I have written about in the past), I can not even imagine if I had a boss to report to at the dot of nine. So if I feel a gargantuan sigh of relief on a day someone else offers to shuttle one of my kids to or from the hallowed halls of education, I'm sure these working mothers were ready to canonize their friend. She is the embodiment of the "it's takes a village" philosophy (minus it's annoying political subtext). As I have said before, I am forever grateful to my sisters out in the work force for holding it down and keeping my and my daughter's options viable, and all of us at home need to keep that in mind. My fellow Girl Scout co-leader** and I were setting the time for the new parent meeting, and while having the meeting during the school day would cause less-badgering-H-to-get-home-early-then-having-to-make-dinner-and-run-out-the-door-foolishness, we decided to have it in the evening so working moms (and maybe even a few enlightened fathers) could come.

So if you know a fellow mother who works, offer her a hand. Maybe her kid can't join the soccer team because practice lets out a few minutes too early for her to get there on time. Offer to bring that child back to your house or drop her off yourself. And if anyone complains about your running a bus service, call me. I'll straighten them out but good.

*If she's running an unlicensed daycare with three kids, than what was I doing last week when both girls each had a set of siblings over to play for a total of seven kids in my house? The neighbor who complained will undoubtedly have their house egged every Halloween until the end of time, and will go to a very special hell when they die where they have to cart four elementary-school-aged children to four different activities, again and again and again, like a minivan-driving Sisyphus. And the bureaucrat who told the one mother to "get an umbrella" if her kid has to wait alone in the rain for an hour, deserves to have his/her balls ripped off/tubes tied to prevent their producing a serial killer since that's pretty much a given with that type of sensitivity at home.

**Don't start, I don't know how I get roped into these things, but I am NOT wearing a uniform. Unless it's that KICKIN' one Shelly Long wore in Troop Beverly Hills! I know that was an inappropriate picture to include in a serious post about parenting, but seriously? Who wouldn't want to wear that? And she has red hair. And that amazing turquoise necklace when they go camping at The Beverly Hills Hotel! Which is entirely how I plan to teach camping, by the way.

Dear person sitting behind me at the U2 concert,

Please let me formally apologize for my behavior last night. I realize having a loud, redhead sitting in front of you who is alternately screaming at the top of her lungs while jumping up and down, and making out with her husband, was probably not the best time for you. And I fully admit my waving the Irish flag above my head for the duration of Sunday Bloody Sunday was excessive, and had I been in your shoes, I would have firmly tapped me on the shoulder and said, "You'll be using that as a sling soon if you don't knock it off." In my defense, I had consumed an entire bottle of wine by myself during tailgate after having only eaten a Lean Cuisine at lunch and gotten six hours of sleep the night before.

Let me assure you, I am getting my karmic retribution, as my children woke me after only four hours of sleep and are torturing me with requests for breakfast foods and their legal requirement to attend school with all the associated lunch-packing, hair-brushing, and lost-shoe-finding. And we have not one, but two, playdates at the house today.
Friday Bloody Friday.

Sincerely,
Mean Mommy

How fit are you?

During Back to School Night last week, the principal was discussing what the school is doing to meet the state standard for physical activity. My kids are very lucky, since not only do they have Gym twice a week (although #2 insists on still calling it Physical Education, I'm sure at the urging of her Napoleon-like gym teacher), but the principal has them run or walk laps around the playground for ten minutes at the beginning of recess. And while I think they are lucky, I'm sure they think all this exercise business is a pain in the ass, as I did in school. And this brought back a memory - The Presidential Physical Fitness Test.

How many of you remember that torture? In my memory, it was only in high school, but it couldn't have been, could it? I'm not even sure they do it anymore and Googling it didn't bring up anything concrete. There were several events and various, embarrassing moments associated with them, that stand out in my mind though - feel free to add to the list in the comments please.

1. Running - There were several runs of different lengths in this category, some long and some short. I sucked at both. While I have become a runner in my thirties, even in high school I was never fast. I'm more of an endurance athlete, let's say. H says it's because I'm stubborn. What probably did not help in high school? The fact that I barely changed my clothes for PE, and wearing an underwire bra, cut-off sweat-shorts and Candies tennis shoes did not set me up to be the next Flo Jo. And the poor fat kid. I would always avert my eyes and try to get involved in some distracting conversation to avoid seeing and hearing people make fun of him as he huffed and puffed around the track. My heart still cries at the memory. Meh.

2. Shuttle Run - If you thought you were humiliated running outside, wait until you have to fling yourself as fast as you can across the gym, bend over to grab an eraser on the floor (did the gym teacher have to borrow those?), quickly change direction and head back to the start to drop the eraser and do it again - twice. Again, my shoes? Not helping. I ran into that particle-board-folding-dividing-wall-thingy more times that I can count.

3. Sit Ups - How many sit ups can you do in a minute? I have no idea, but it has to be more than I could do in high school, as I would have H to hold my feet, and not be crippled by the anxiety that the kid who sits behind me in AP Chem is going to see my undies as I lay on the floor in front of him. Oddly sexual, no? After this particular activity half the student body couldn't walk upright or laugh without excruciating pain.

4. Long Jump - Standing in place, swinging your arms at your sides, jump as far forward as you can. What exactly is this a test of? Your ability to imitate The Million Dollar Man? White girls can't jump! Regardless, my senior year, I almost killed myself trying to get a high enough score on long jump since, getting an %85 average on the PPFT, and playing a varsity sport, got you out of gym for the year! (And, if you must know, it was field hockey and all I did was run away from the ball and try to look cute in my kilt.) Having scored so poorly on the other parts of the test, long jump was my last hope. I even came back during lunch to keep trying to up my score. Eventually, I did and I couldn't walk fora week. Got me out of hockey practice though.

5. The Bar Hang - You fellas might remember this one as Pull Ups. This was my most abysmal performance of the whole test. For the gals, you stand on a chair, holding onto the pull up bar, palms facing away from you, and you are timed to see how long you can hang. This test was the realm of the tiny, gymnastics/dance squad girls, five foot three and under. Me? Picture the teacher having to forcibly drag the chair out from under me with my legs still firmly planted on it as my body is stretched out slowly away from the wall. Upper body strength? What is that? Too bad I didn't have Little Man back then, because he has helped me develop some guns.

So here's one more thing to make you grateful high school is over. But considering I feel like I'm in better shape now (considering I actually exercise and consume more than soda and Chips Ahoy all day) I might actually have a chance of legitimately passing. Except maybe not the long jump. With three kids, I can't afford to be a cripple.

Only Adam...

...my stay at home dad friend, referenced way back in the beginnings of Mean Mommy, could find a YouTube clip so perfect and funny, I almost laughed myself into an asthma attack:

CLICK HERE

And then afterward, I feel guilty because Adam, being a man, puts up with the same shit we moms do, having to care for the kids when sick and all. He is quite the conundrum, that one. To experience more of his hilarious sense of humor and really disturbing knowledge of 80's movies (in which I am referenced - squee!) please check out his parenting book Don't Put Baby In The Corner! A PG-Rated Guide To Parenting Advice Found In 1980s Movies.

Sick days? I know not what you speak of...

I come up from the basement this morning after working out and instead of finding H filling his travel mug, ready to head out for the day, I was met with silence. I crept up the stairs, lest I wake the offspring, and found him, still burrowed beneath the covers of our bed, fast asleep. Nudging him gently I ask, “Are you going to work today?” “Ugh, doh”, he responds, “I’b doo sick.” Apparently he has been struck down by the cold I was suffering from earlier this week. The difference? He actually called in sick to work, while I live at work.

H spent the morning sleeping (until ten thirty for Christ’s sake), while I ran around getting #1 off to school and taking the other two to buy a new jogging stroller. What did I do the two days I was ill? The same damn thing I did today, just substitute stroller shopping with taking them to the park. Yes, one of the perks of being a stay at home mom is that you never, unless you are on death’s door, get a sick day. And even in that circumstance, there is no simple phone call to be made. There are car pools to be rearranged, saintly in-laws to be called into service, or when every other possibility has been unsuccessfully explored short of pulling some stranger in off the street, spouses cajoled into staying home with much disgruntled tut-tut-ing. And once you have secured yourself some childcare, don’t think you are collapsing into bed for some much needed, uninterrupted rest, you are still responsible for packing everyone’s shit to go to grandma’s or your, apparently, temporarily retarded spouse will come in every ten minutes to ask where the extra diapers are or what #1 eats for lunch even though she’s eaten nothing but peanut butter since she was three.

This must be the reason God made women mothers, since apparently, only our gender have the strength, and patience, to deal with illness in such an environment. I was climbing ladders chasing Little Man at the park Monday, while surreptitiously blowing my nose. H is lying prostrate in front of CNBC*. Even the severity with which we feel thee illnesses, and pain in general is less than that of the fathers of our broods. I felt a little congested, H feels like “his head is going to explode”. Perhaps we have some genetically enhanced pain threshold. As I have mentioned before, if the day H and I got our tattoos is any indication, we do. I sat in the chair first and afterward told him not to worry, it felt like a burning bee sting, and after all, the tattoo was only about half an inch square. Well, he came out like he had been water-boarded for an hour followed by some shock therapy. “You are out of your mind.”, he told me. “That hurt like a mother!” Well, no not really. It didn’t hurt this mother too much at all.

So as my reward for working when I am sick I am taking advantage of the warm body sitting in my house and have sneaked out to get my roots done while the baby naps, figuring, even in his state, H can listen to the monitor and call me when Little Man wakes up. That is, if the phone isn’t too heavy for him in his illness ravaged state. If I can’t get a sick day, then at least I will have good hair.

*To be fair, he did entertain LM while I prepped dinner, allowing him to crawl all over his prone body on the couch.

Baby's Got Back

What am I doing right now? Sitting in front of the computer, with piles of folded laundry stacked behind me, begging to be put away, an episode of The Biggest Loser in the hopper, begging to be watched, my dirty hair jammed under my Yankee cap, begging to be washed before Back to School Night, yet, I am writing. All of my big plans of using this time when the girls are at school and Little Man is napping to write? In the toilet. The kids, the house and all needs associated with the two, are like an unstable gas, needing constant monitoring lest they explode and expanding to fill any space (of time) they occupy. I don't know how it happens, but it seems I've just walked back in the house, thrown LM down for his nap and suddenly it's time to go get the girls and I have to shovel a few bites of a half-cooked Lean Cuisine down my throat on my way out the door.

So it seems logical, that as the seasons begin to change, and the weather gets colder, there has been no time for me to shop for fall clothes. While you might be thinking, "So damn what? Wear your pants from last year", it's not that simple. First of all, my "pants" from last year consist mainly of track and yoga pants, which I have made a pact not to wear in New Town unless actual athletic activity is going to take place in the next few hours, and running around my house looking for a missing ballet slipper ten minutes before class doesn't count. And stop your snickering, I'm actually sticking to it. I have been dressed in pants with actual buttons and zippers and not worn a baseball hat a single day since school started! Second, the pants I did manage to buy last year still did not fit the bill. I am talking about the Holy Grail. I am talking about the much maligned, but from-this-day-on-reclaimed-by-Mean-Mommy-term known as Mom Jeans. Yeah, I said it. MOM JEANS.

Stop shrieking. I, of course, am not talking about the light-wash, high-waisted, looks-good-with-a-holiday-themed-vest nightmares of Saturday Night Live fame. What I am talking about are jeans that allow you to complete all of your duties as a mom, and make you look attractive without looking like a cougar trying to pick up the teens playing pick-up basketball at the park or showing your whale tale to local toddlers. We all have our "going out jeans" or as I call them, Booty Jeans, as I don't have to worry about how much of my anatomy is hanging out since I won't be picking up some spilled goldfish at the local watering hole out with H. But they just do not function in real life not matter how good they make your butt look. As I discussed in my Shorts-gate post, the struggle to find clothes such as these is a pandemic. These jeans, it seemed to me, were the stuff of urban legend, never seen in real life, if my experience watching my mom friends hike up their pants after tying Johnny's shoe and hide what I know are toned butts in loose fitting, yet appropriate pants, is any evidence.

I went shopping with a friend this weekend, since as the mercury keeps falling, it becomes harder to stick to my no-elastic-waist-pants pact. I was child-free, bloated from my period (since you NEVER want to shop for jeans on a skinny day and wind up with pants you give the evil eye to as they sit, mocking you, on your closet shelf the other 353 days of the year you don't fit into them), and determined. In my search I came across several types of completely unacceptable jeans:

Skinny jeans - Can these every-gals-permission-slip-to-dress-like-an-80's-hooker please just go away? I know maybe two people in my life who can wear these jeans and even they don't feel comfortable doing so. So why would the rest of us? I'm not sure actual movement is possible in these pants so they preclude any jungle gym scaling, making them a non-option for me - along with the fact I would look like I could star in a Sir Mix A Lot video. And to those of you who do rock this look, enough already. Your labia called and it wants its blood flow back.

The "Boyfriend" jean - These jeans, made popular by Katie Holmes (no, I won't call you Kate, you and Ricky Schroeder need to remember what paid for your orthodontia and get over yourselves), are baggy, worn and cuffed and are supposed to remind you of a pair of pants you pilfered from your boyfriend's closet. Well, up until I met H, who rocks quite the booty, I had never dated a guy whose ass was even marginally close to the size of mine, being the pear that I am. And wearing pants to the playground that look like they should be worn home on the Walk of Shame, complete with raccoon eyes and high heels? Um, no.

Ultra Low Rise jeans - Crack is whack. Enough said.

Faded/Distressed jeans - My children wreak enough havoc on my clothing, I don't need my clothes to come pre-destroyed. In addition, having not mastered the bleach dispenser on the new washer, so I have enough faded clothing of my own right now, thanks. And also? Those fade marks they make right across the hip area? Dear God, why?

Completely demoralized, I made my way to Ann Taylor Loft and like a vision, there they were. With a halo of light shining behind them. The Classic Boot Cut. A nice, even wash, with a medium rise, straight leg and just enough stretch to forgive weekend wine and donut binges, making them actually wearable on Monday mornings, previously the domain of yoga pants. So if you are in my and Michelle's boat, get thee to this store, because mean Mommy might have bought every pair they make if you don't act soon.

A book and its cover...

As you already know, dear readers, I have been working my ass off trying to meet new pals here in the new town (which will henceforth be known as New Town), joining mother's groups and book clubs galore. We haven't had a book club meeting yet, but I'm sure my membership will be revoked once I open my big, opinionated mouth in a group of women who haven't chosen to be friends with me because of my brashness. I thought I was tired of half a summer working the kiddie pool like Obama at the DNC, then school started.

While this summer has been challenging, building relationships in a town we will most likely inhabit for the next twenty years, and wanting to avoid, as long as possible, becoming known as The Crazy Redhead, the beginning of the school year presented added stickiness. I'm worried about moms I'll run into every now and then in the day to day activities of parenting,but the majority of the children my kids would meet will be their classmates for the rest of their pre-college lives. Sure, I joked about picking out the right outfit and washing my bangs, but I took great and deliberate care in helping #1 select her first day of school outfit and disco-ball monstrosity Hannah Montana backpack. No pressure!

So fast forward a week, and my house is playdate central. My house might as well have a revolving door I've had so many girls between the ages of five and seven over. All of this is in an effort to get the girls to know their classmates and, to be honest, for me to get to know them as well. And here's where I admit my guilt to you. There is one little girl I am reluctant to invite over even though #1 talks about her all the time, and I am ashamed.

We met this girl, let's call her Leaf, since she has an equally look-my-kid-has-a-different-cool-name name, at the pool party the class mother was nice enough to host. I had heard Leaf and her family are also new to town so I thought this would be the perfect pal for my daughter. Until we met.

WARNING, I WILL SOUND LIKE A TRULY JUDGMENTAL, HORRIBLE BITCH HERE AND NOT IN THE USUAL FUNNY WAY:

Her mother showed up in tatty jeans and black t-shirt with waaay too much eyeliner for daytime. She said she and Leaf had moved into town to care for her ailing grandmother, not mentioning her husband or partner and not wearing a wedding ring, and proceeded to tell me she was four months pregnant*. Leaf, who was wearing cut-off denim shorts and a non-descript t-shirt upon arrival, had decided to go in the pool and was now wearing her string bikini. At least it was distracting from her large, hoop earrings. Oh boy.

Now here is my dilemma, dear readers. #1 has been talking about Leaf incessantly, and despite my efforts at making other playdates, she keeps asking to have this kid over. And while my first misgivings have not been assuaged since Leaf showed up on the first day of school wearing artfully ripped jeans and a halter top, and it was confirmed the mom's name is only one the class list*, I know I will be having this kid over to play. First of all, it will shut #1 up if I do. Second, it will allow me to sleep at night if I do need to nip this friendship in the bud if she gives me some hard evidence, like being a spoiled brat. But what if that's not the case? What if she's perfectly lovely, but her mother still allows her to dress like a Bratz doll? Am I bad mother if I discourage the friendship or am I good mother for doing so?

We tell our children not to judge people based on appearances, but let's be honest, we do it evey day. We all use visual clues to help guide us toward people with similar interests and lifestyles. The mom with the tattoo sleeve and dreadlocks and I maybe don't have that much in common. So when our children look past all that to see the person inside, but we, as parents, know somewhere down the line, that kid's appearance is going to become an issue, what is the answer? How can I tell #1 while she's seven, "No you can't be friends with Leaf because in eighth grade she'll be dragging you with her to get her birth control pills at Planned Parenthood**." And is it even fair for this kid to suffer for her mother's lack of foresight (And I really think that's what it is sometimes. I think some parents think it's cute to see their kid in a string bikini at seven, but what's left for them to upgrade to when they're eighteen)?

I don't know, dear readers. I don't have the answers, but I do know I feel shitty and confused about this. I guess I will have this kid over and see what happens. I will need to play this one by ear. This is the stuff they don't warn you about.

*I am not saying it is wrong to not be married when you have kids, but this whole situation seems shady and weird, especially since I called their number on the class list and it wasn't in service.

** At least I'm giving her credit in the future for being smart about birth control!

Central City Dump, the home edition

I know, since the spring, and the successful dunking of all my children, I have written very little about my return to church. Part of this has been due to our abysmal attendance since the summer started. My belief that our absence had gone without notice was shattered while trying to skulk out the door without shaking Padre's hand a few weeks back. He stopped mid-conversation, excused himself, and came over to say hello since he hadn't seen us in so long. I guess the deafening silence left in the absence of Little Man's babbling monologue called All Things Wheeled ("Truck! Car! Train!") is a dead giveaway. But with the new school year starting, and thus the start of CCD*, I have once again been thrown, headfirst, back into my faith, this time without a life preserver.

Since the move, I came to realize there was no way humanly possible that I would be able to get #1 to CCD on time, having to drive through four towns in the fifteen minutes between school dismissal and the start of class, without killing myself, or someone, in the process. So, no matter how grateful I am to this particular parish for making the whole return process easy and guilt free (a miracle itself when Catholics are involved), we had to change parishes. This might not seem like a big deal except I had this whole scenario worked out for #1, who was a year behind, to be in a first grade CCD class, since I was told she had to be in formal class for two years before receiving communion. I really didn't want to have the whole "I'm a bad Catholic" discussion again with a new priest.

I bite the bullet though, make the necessary calls and during my meeting with the director am told, "If you had been doing the first grade book at home, your daughter could have started with her classmates in the fall." Fuuuuck! I had wasted the whole summer since I had been told specifically this was not the case. Sensing my frustration by the huge vein popping out of my head as I explain this, she offers a solution. "If you really want to work at this, and can finish the book by October, we can put her in the 2nd grade class." Splash! That's the sound of my being thrown into the deep end of Catholicism.

Thus began my career as a Catechist (the official name for CCD teachers), but I think Masochist is a more appropriate title.

I really thought #1 would balk at the challenge I put before her, but God knows no better motivation for a seven year old than getting to dress like a child-bride (a post about the creepiness factor of this to come), and she said yes. If she hadn't, there was no way I forcing this upon her, since the kids have only recently become accustomed to the fact that church is something we do on Sunday mornings when they'd rather be watching a Kai Lan marathon**, and I didn't think forcing her to do homework all summer would improve her opinion of the place. But she was willing and although I was really not able, we began.

Let's all take a second here to appreciate the irony that I, a woman who had so completely given up Catholicism that she would not receive communion, even just for show at weddings and funerals, would now be spending hours a week teaching religion to her kid. I thought God would smite me on the spot. Every day we would sit for half an hour and do a chapter of the twenty-five set before us, and, at first, it wasn't too bad. The first couple of chapters start out with the basics, introducing the heavy hitters - sign of the cross, God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit (Which was a total bitch to explain to a seven year old. All together class, can we say abstract?) - but then things take a turn for the worse and I remember all the reasons I hated CCD.

First of all, the activities in the book are written for a wide range of ability levels. If Johnny can't read well, there are easy activities he can complete like "Trace the letters below to find the name of the first sacrament". And Baptism is so clearly written Mr. Magoo could read it. #1 looks at me and says, "But I can read it." No duh. I totally get why they have to do this, so don't line up to protest outside of my house. It doesn't make it any less boring for the other kids though.

And then, once you think oyu can check your brain at the door, among these same short-bus-riding-kid pages are gems like this one:

"In the footprints below, write or draw how you can live as follower of Jesus."

Seriously? When an adult needs to take a few minutes to figure it out, what the hell is a seven year old going to do with this question? I remember, so clearly, sitting at the desk during my dreaded Wednesday CCD class, pondering whether leaving questions like this blank would get me in trouble. At this point I just start feeding #1 answers since I find this whole exercise to be ridiculous, telling her, "Enjoy it now, because you're going to have to do this yourself in the fall."

Content-wise, we progressed to the really good parts about the bread and wine actually being the body and blood of Jesus. I have never felt more like David Koresh then when reading aloud the words "We receive the Body and Blood of Christ in Holy Communion." How is that not terrifying for a child? And, again, bad, bad Catechist that I am, I had to modify. I stopped and said, "OK, listen. You know we're not really eating a person, right? We just pretend it is..." at which point #1 cuts me off and finishes, "be cause Jesus was so important." Thanks for backing me up, girlfriend. I did have the foresight to tell her not to share this knowledge with her classmates, but just go with the flow in CCD. Watch, I'll have my kid labeled the class heretic.

Maybe I'm wrong in doing this, and it does make me a bad Catholic, but I didn't return to the church for all this stuff. I returned so my kids can learn about God, who I do believe in, despite the number of times I take his son's name in vain a day, and so that we can have an outlet to show gratitude for all the blessings in our lives. It's all this Jesus-died-for-you stuff that makes me cringe. I always said I'd moderate the teachings of the church with some of my own, I just never knew I'd be the teacher whose lessons I was modifying. And if the argument is this is information they need to know in order to receive First Communion, then why can't we do it in sixth grade or something? While I am still happy, overall, with our decision to become church-goers, my resolve is being tested when I have to explain original sin to my perfectly-innocent-from-the-moment-she-was-born daughter.

Hypocrite that I am, I will trudge on, helping her to finish the book by October 1st. And while I am giving myself migraines with all the eye-rolling I have had to refrain from, I will try to see the good in what I am doing. The end of each chapter has a space to write "How I will live my faith" and #1 always writes "Help my mom around the house." For that alone, all of this would be worth it.

*Which does not stand for Central City Dump as we all called it, it is actually the more terrifying sounding Confraternity of Christian Doctrine. Brings to mind images of Kool-Aid and sneakers, no?

**If you do not know this Chinese newcomer to Nickelodeon, turn it on and see how badly you suck at repeating Chinese phrases and how naturally awesome your kids are at it.