Now, three years later, I’m doing it myself.  I’m rebranding.

mothergoosemouse has been my mommy blog.  Begun after a sudden cross-country move that turned every aspect of my life upside down, it has served as a constant source of comfort, friendship, and entertainment.  It also chronicles my children’s lives for the past three and a half years.  I cannot abandon it altogether, so the domain and archives will remain intact.

While I love writing about my children, it’s clear that op-ed is my passion, particular from a parent’s perspective: Delving into issues, analyzing them through a mother’s lens, gaining insights, drawing conclusions, and engaging in discussion those whose views conflict with mine – these are the high points of blogging for me and what I will focus on at my new site, The Mom Slant.

I never expected blogging to lead me where it has, and I’m still giddy with all the possibilities yet to be explored.  Much love and thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read mothergoosemouse.  I hope you will join me at The Mom Slant too.

I had to laugh as I explained that no, in fact, babysitters are free to turn down job offers. “I can’t FORCE anyone to watch you kids,” I told her.  “If I don’t pay them enough or if you terrorize them, they’ll probably say no the next time I call and ask them to babysit.”

I feel pretty fortunate that every time we’ve needed a babysitter, I’ve had plenty of phone numbers at hand.  And while there have been a few sitters that I’ve bumped to third or fourth string, I haven’t yet had a sitter turn me down because my kids were too much of a handful.

My poor mother wasn’t quite so lucky.

Now, of course it wasn’t ME who drove away our babysitters; I was a model child who only wanted to play double solitaire and the occasional game of I Doubt It – otherwise known as Bullshit.  The second-worst thing I ever did was laugh at my brother’s antics, like when he taunted our favorite babysitter for hitting puberty: “Eleanor has hair on her vagina! Eleanor has hair on her vagina!”

Never mind that his description was inaccurate and based solely on hearsay, it’s a wonder that Eleanor kept coming back to babysit for us – every day for a whole summer while my mother worked part-time.  But she did.

In retrospect, I understand why she stuck with us.  We may have been pains in the ass – rather, my brother was – but we were oddly entertaining.

Likewise, she was a little offbeat herself.  She could burp repeatedly, which fascinated both my brother and me, and she taught us the diarrhea song (cha cha cha).  She told us about how she wanted to be a Bobby Soccer but didn’t make it, and admitted that she made her boyfriend cry when she broke up with him.  She brought board games with her the first few times she babysat, but soon she taught me to play cards.  All three of us would play together by wrapping up one person in a blanket while the other two took the opposite ends and dragged the makeshift burrito around the house.

I think the closest we ever came to driving away Eleanor was also the time that my mother came closest to bumping her to third string.  It was the time that I did the worst thing I’ve ever done with a babysitter present.

I had gone downtown with Granny the weekend before, and she’d bought me candy on the first floor of Rikes.  Instead of spearmint leaves like usual, this time I’d chosen chocolate covered honeycomb chips, and they were in a small white bag in the refrigerator.  My brother took the bag out of the refrigerator and raced upstairs with it, waving it at me as he passed.

Incensed, I gave chase and tore after him – around the corner, down the hallway, and up the stairs where he’d already slammed the door to his room.  He and my special candy were in there alone, and I was sure that he wasn’t even EATING the candy but probably smashing it on the desk so that it would be RUINED, my special candy would be GONE just because he wanted to make me MAD and he had made me mad TOO MANY times before and he was NOT going to get away with it THIS time!

So I began pounding on the door.  When he didn’t open up promptly, I began kicking it as well.

CRUNCH

As that last kick connected with the hollow paneled door, it gave way and a small oval – the size of a ten year old’s sneaker toe – detached as if it were punched out like one of the paper dolls Granny used to buy for me.

Suddenly my special candy didn’t matter.  My fury at my brother evaporated.  All I wanted was to take back that last kick.

We all – Eleanor included – agreed not to tell my mother.

Of course, two days later my mother was vacuuming the stairs and at the second stair from the top found herself at eye level with that toe-shaped hole and shouted, “What the HELL happened HERE?!”

There really wasn’t any good cover-up that didn’t involve deliberate kicking, so I couldn’t even get creative with my explanation.  He took my stuff, he wouldn’t come out, I was mad, I was bad, end of story.

Surprisingly though, I was more concerned about whether my mother would continue to allow Eleanor to babysit us than about my own punishment.  In the forty-eight hours leading up to her discovery of the hole – really, I can’t believe it took her forty-eight hours; geez Mother, how about some attention to detail? – I worried more over the consequences for Eleanor than the consequences for me.

Eleanor remained our first-string babysitter that summer.  I have no idea whether she might have been put on disciplinary probation or given any other sort of talking-to by my mother, but I certainly never kicked another hole in my brother’s door.

There.  I said it.

I don’t have anything against her per se.  She’s a talk show host, for Pete’s sake, and certainly not a hateful windbag.  She’s likable enough, but I’ve just never seen the appeal.

Even back in 2003 when my PIMs and I were planning our first gathering in Chicago, a few of them fantasized about how cool it would be if Oprah had us on her show.  At that point, we actually were newsworthy – a bunch of women who met on the Internet and traveled from all parts of the country to meet in person for the first time.  And then, just like last year in that uncomfortable conversation, I thought: “Oprah?  Hey, why not.  It’s great exposure.”

Six years later, Oprah finally featured some of the most prominent and iconic mom bloggers – women who’ve met a bunch of other women on the Internet and traveled from all parts of the country to get drunk together meet each other.  Now that she’s done that, I’ve got some concrete reasons why I don’t like her.

1. The show’s title was “Secret Lives of Moms”. These women are bloggers.  They write in the most public forum of all, the Internet.  There’s nothing secret about what they’re putting out there.  Furthermore, that title sounds awfully salacious, as if mom bloggers are all spiking our OJ with vodka – though in Heather’s case it would be bourbon, and Stefanie would drink hers from a sippy cup.

2. The first line of the show’s description was “Moms across America boldly break their silence about motherhood!” Moms all over the world – not just America – are blogging, as Catherine and David’s project has illustrated well; Catherine herself lives in Canada.  While our blogging voices are being increasingly heard (be they bold or tentative), the silence was broken a long time ago (certainly not by a single episode of Oprah), because we – and our mothers and grandmothers before us (hello, suffrage) – have been speaking all along.  We’ve simply expanded the discussion to include new media.

3. Doing it right vs. no judgment. “I always say moms have the toughest job in the world if you’re doing it right,” says Oprah.  But in the next paragraph she says, “So today we’re creating a judgment-free zone, a sisterhood of motherhood where anything goes.”  Let me get this straight: It’s okay to think that motherhood is tough; in fact, if you don’t think it’s tough, you’re not doing it right?  What happened to that judgment-free zone?  It doesn’t exist; that’s what.  Mothers will always be judged, most hurtfully by each other.  Yes, blogging regretfully serves as a vehicle for delivering judgment, but far more than that, it’s a means of banding together in solidarity.

Oprah, we’ve got a sisterhood of motherhood already.  While I appreciate the recognition and credence that, whether I like it or not, your show gives the topics and communities you cover, neither your show nor much of the mainstream media coverage of mom bloggers thus far has been insightful so much as it has been sensational.

And honestly, I am disappointed by that.

Good thing we’ve got plenty of bread and milk (and beer and wine).

But it wasn’t the prospect of a tax bill that kept me from gathering up our documents on February 1 and dialing up our accountant for his earliest appointment.  No, it was the prospect of dialing up our accountant and then sitting across a desk from him.  As I told Kristen, I’d rather go to the dentist for extractions than go see my accountant.

He was a wizened old guy who spent time in the Army (definitely Korea, possibly even WWII) and then in the IRS as an auditor.  His contact information made its way around Kyle’s office, and when we got the first draft of our crazy-complicated 2005 return back with a five-figure tax bill (no, I’m not kidding), we figured it wouldn’t hurt to spend another hundred bucks to have him take a second look.  He reduced our bill by three thousand dollars, and in doing so earned our future business.

I didn’t meet him until 2008, when I had to accompany Kyle to our annual appointment in order to handle our business return.  I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but at the very least I thought he’d be personable.

I’m not sure the man even said hello.  I think he nodded at me.  I, of course, started to chatter away nervously, feeling compelled to fill up the silence.  Oliver was with me, so when I realized that this man was impenetrable, I focused on the baby instead.

He ignored both of us and asked me only for the information he needed, most of which I had to scramble for.  I had approached the appointment with the sense that it would be a tutoring session where I’d learn a thing or two.  Instead, it felt like a closed book final exam, and every time he asked, “What is your next expense?” and looked steadily at me, my metaphorical test score dropped another couple points.

But just like the year before, he got us a substantial refund.  So I breathed a sigh of relief that not only would we not have to pay, but I also wouldn’t have to face him again for another year, when surely I’d have my act together and would ace the exam.

This year, after all the W2’s and 1099’s rolled in, I still wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about calling for that appointment.  So I made Kyle call.

“He’s not available this year,” Kyle reported after phoning our accountant.

“What does that mean?” I asked.  “Did he die?”

Kyle shrugged.  “Don’t know.”

“Well, maybe your current co-workers can recommend another former auditor who can get us another substantial refund.”

We found an accountant who met the first criterium (former auditor), but was unable to make the math work in our favor.  That’s okay though.  While this guy’s not going to headline at Caroline’s anytime soon, he knows what he’s doing and he doesn’t scare me.  Even better, he held Oliver on his lap as he asked me, “What is your next expense?”

I may owe the government, but at least now I don’t fear the tax man.

Meanwhile, another devastated family is making similar arrangements for their son.

If I weren’t already a godless heathen, I think the events of this past week would have broken down my faith.  I’m not blaming God for taking these children – how can I attribute responsibility to an entity that I don’t believe exists?  But therein lies the source of my frustration: how can others attribute responsibility for personal triumphs – let alone so-called “miracles” – to a deity without acknowledging the role of that same deity in the tragedies that befall families like these every day?

In spite of my own disbelief, I’ve long endeavored to understand why other people have faith.  I had reached a place where I could accept that, irrational though it may be, faith brings comfort to people who struggle with the “whys” of the world.  With belief comes community – a family of sorts that supports and rallies and lifts up its members.

Likewise, faith in an afterlife brings comfort to people who have lost loved ones.  They hold on to the promise of seeing those people once more and never having to lose them again.

I get that, all of that; I really do.

But if an omnipotent and benevolent entity has the power to save these children when doctors and nurses and modern technology cannot, then why did they die?

Don’t bother offering platitudes like “it’s God’s way” or “God has a plan” or my least favorite of all: “They’re in a better place.”  That’s utter tripe; if whatever death brings is so much better, then why do we go to such lengths to prolong life and to avoid death?  Plus, any deity whose “way” or “plan” involves taking children and leaving parents and siblings in agony is no God I want any part of.

There’s no explanation involving God that will satisfy me.  I can’t accept the dichotomy of faith: in order to receive its comfort, a believer must be willing to be forsaken.  That sort of dynamic is the hallmark of an abusive relationship.

These children’s deaths are senseless, and so I remain faithless.

Wishing peace and comfort – the kind provided by loved ones here on earth – to Heather and Shana, their husbands and their families.

Let the birthday girl invite whomever she wants, as long as you’ve heard her mention the proposed invitees’ names before.   That means you must have at least a mailing address, email address or phone number for all invitees.  If she can’t muster up contact information, then I’d question how well she knows that would-be invitee.

Mail or email or telephone to issue invitations.  In other words, don’t pass them out in the classroom.  I realize that most seven year old girls haven’t yet learned not to talk about the events to which they’ve been invited in front of others who may not have been invited, but don’t get them started by enticing them to compare invitations at recess.

And yes, I did say let the birthday girl invite whomever she wants.  As with other social events, make out the guest list and then determine how extravagant the party can be based on your budget.  We opted for the extravagant guest list, as you can see.

Unless, of course, she’s got her heart set on a particular venue – the likely trade-off being fewer guests.

Step 2:  Plan one major activity

It doesn’t really matter how old kids are; none of them care much for being told what to do.  Trying to coordinate a bunch of games or activities will leave both you and your guests frustrated.

Identify one (or maybe two) main attractions, preferably activities that don’t require your involvement to coordinate them.  When Tacy was four, we had a bouncy castle.  This year, we had a magic show.  At Declan’s party last year (Greeblemonkey’s son), they had a face painter and a pinata.

Not only do these activities get nearly all the kids involved, because they’re not dependent on the number of guests, you can easily accommodate both younger and older brothers or sisters without added expense.

Step 3:  Do munchies, not a meal

Make it easy on yourself:  buy a couple bags of pretzels, a bag of tortilla chips, and a box of Cheez-Its.  Dump them all into bowls.  Don’t even think about dip; the kids will happily eat them plain.  So much easier and less expensive, even more so than pizza.

Even if, like I do, you normally ban juice from your home, buy juice boxes.  It will be yet another cool treat for the birthday girl, and juice boxes are much less likely to create monumental spills than paper cups filled with carpet-staining punch.

Get an ice cream cake.  Scooping ice cream onto kiddie party plates is a pain, and ice cream cake is so much easier to cut and serve – provided you thaw it for ten minutes or so beforehand.  Plus, ice cream cake is one of those party novelties that always goes over well with kids, thanks to the vividly colored frosting.

I’ve heard cupcakes suggested as the perfect birthday party treat, but since no child knows how to eat a cupcake without making a colossal mess – if they even eat it, that is; CJ merely licks off the frosting – I’m not a fan unless I’m the one eating them.

Finally, if you schedule the party for later in the afternoon and you have it at home, get a case of beer and a couple bottles of wine.  The parents who stay for the party (and a few of them might) will think you are fabulous.  Plus, a beer might help you cope with the prospect of fifteen kids running around your house.

Step 4:  Let them run around the house

Really.  If a neat-slash-control freak like me can handle it, so can you.

Prep the birthday girl up front as to which areas are absolutely off-limits – like the master bedroom and the formal living room – and then let them loose.  Trying to keep them all in one room may prove to be futile.  If your place has a natural “circuit” like ours, be prepared for the kids to run around it several hundred times.

Also, prep the birthday girl that her guests will be playing with HER toys.  Tacy’s not bothered by that, but lots of kids are.  If there are things that she absolutely positively does not want anyone to touch, put it on a high shelf or in one of those off-limits areas.  The top pre-magic show attraction at Tacy’s party was the cardboard cottage that’s been gracing our entry since Christmas, with the Hot Wheels Trick Tracks and my Gaiam exercise ball sharing second place.

Finally, if you live in an apartment, give your downstairs neighbors a heads up.  Bring them a bottle of wine beforehand and a big slab of cake afterward.

Step 5:  Stay loose

Obviously, the beer and wine will help, but if you can adhere to the first four steps, this one should be easy.  Basically, it boils down to not making anyone do what they don’t want to do simply for the sake of keeping to your schedule or your vision of what a birthday party ought to look like.  Just like the old adage about not waking a sleeping baby, don’t piss off kids who are having a good time and not destroying anything.

Well, unless it’s time to go home.  Which is the sad part for everyone; all parties must end eventually.

Much of the photo credit goes to Aimee Greeblemonkey; to see the whole set, check out her Flickr photostream (some photos are permission-only)

Bawk bawk!

Of course she did it nearly two months ago, which ought to give you an idea of the number of degrees of separation between her and me, but I read Amanda’s answers and thought it might be fun to do it myself.  Especially since I hear a lot about what a fabulous husband I have (and I agree, he’s pretty damn cool).

What are your middle names?

I’ll tell you my maiden middle name: Rush. I loved it and wanted to keep it, but said in combination with my married name, it sounded like I had a mouthful of cotton balls.

How long have you been together?

We met in March 1995.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?

Hmmm…maybe a few hours?

Who asked whom out?

Kyle asked me.

How old are each of you?

I’m thirty-seven.  Kyle turns forty this year.

Whose siblings do you see the most?

When we lived back east, we saw my brother more often.  When Kyle’s oldest brother lived here in Denver, we saw him more often.  Whom did we see most recently?  Kyle’s middle brother, last month in California.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?

Remembering that we ARE a couple.  That sounds more dismal than it really is, but we have to seize our opportunities to chat and laugh together.  He’s at work all day, I’m working whenever I get two minutes to string together, we have three children and a full dance card.  I actually like it this way though, because I find scheduled date nights to be fraught with pressure: We MUST have a good time!

Did you go to the same school?

No.  We have no diplomas in common.

Are you from the same home town?

We’re both from O states.  That’s as close as we come.

Who is smarter?

When we play Scrabble, Kyle knows more words, but I know how to spell them.  Draw your own conclusions.

Who is the most sensitive?

Depends on the topic.  We both can perceive insult where none is meant.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?

We’re so boring.  CB & Potts for beer and burgers, India House for chicken tikka masala.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?

Istanbul.

Who has the craziest exes?

For fear of potentially poking the crazy with a sharp stick, I’m not even going to go there.

Who has the worst temper?

Duh.

Who does the cooking?

Another duh.

Who is the neat-freak?

Let’s make it a duh-fecta.

Who is more stubborn?

I’m stubborn more often, but when Kyle decides to dig in his heels, he totally kicks my stubborn ass.

Who hogs the bed?

The kids.

Who wakes up earlier?

Depends on his work schedule and how nice we feel like being to each other that morning.

Where was your first date?

We went to TGI Friday’s and played miniature golf.  Hey, we were living in Dayton.  There wasn’t much else to do.

Who is more jealous?

Neither of us, really.  We spent two years of dating/engagement separated by a few thousand miles, and two years of marriage separated by 100 miles.  Jealousy couldn’t survive that.

How long did it take to get serious?

We drove to New York for a weekend after knowing each other for three weeks.  I’d say that’s fairly serious.

Who eats more?

Sadly, I often do.

Who does the laundry?

Me.  I like it that way now that we have our own washer and dryer.  In New York and New Jersey, we sent it out.

Who’s better with the computer?

Usually me.  Which is really kind of frightening.

Who drives when you are together?

Usually Kyle.  Unless we’re making our way across northern Nevada and the bungee cords holding the top of the luggage carrier in place are about to snap.  Then it’s my turn.

Of course, now and then Kyle or I will yell at the TV – like during a presidential debate when a candidate states that he doesn’t believe in evolution, or at the computer – like when a pastor poses as an atheist on a freethought website and makes horrific statements in a lame attempt to bait people – and objectivity goes out the window.

We’ve also had to gently advise Tacy that not everyone agrees with Mommy and Daddy.  That she may hear things from other people that are neither objective nor respectful.  That if she ever hears anything that she wants to ask us about, we want her to come straight to us and ask.

Well, except for sex.  She can ask anyone BUT us about sex.

Given the breadth of our conversations, it surprises me that she hasn’t asked where babies come from.  Frankly, given the sort of TV shows I know she’s seen, I can’t imagine that she doesn’t already have some inkling.  But she’s remained almost entirely mum on the topic.

Which really isn’t such a bad thing.  Because if I had to add sex education to the list of topics on which her friends’ parents are bound to eventually call and complain to me about what Tacy’s been telling their kids, I might have to start homeschooling her.

So when I read Sarah’s post describing how her twins have fully embraced the reality of what their parents did in order to bring them into the world, it gave me hope.  It also made me laugh my head off.

See, Sarah doesn’t want to talk about sex with her kids either.  As she put it: “If they want to discuss my sex life  – well, they are going to have to do that behind my back because I want no part of it.”  She’s given me a peek at the other side of this conversation, and now I can’t decide which of Tacy’s possible reactions scares me more: “Ewwwww!” or “Tell me again how you guys made me!”

As unenlightened as it may be, I think I’m rooting for “Ewwwww!”

——————————

I can’t say that I’ve ever ROFL, and I wish I could literally LMAO.  But when Sarah’s post made me laugh until I cried – probably because I could also hear her voice in my head as I read it – I bookmarked it immediately and wrote myself a note to finally respond to Jessica and Tania’s call for ROFL posts.

I’m awarding Sarah and the Goon Squad a ROFL award for the month of March.  Sarah, thank you.  Whether your post serves as inspiration or as a cautionary tale, it’s sure to make everyone laugh.