Bad Mother Chronicles, part 1087

(I wrote this a few weeks ago. Although it probably could have happened today, if we weren't having Ice-ocalypse. Which seems pretty lame compared to the Kansas City ice storm of 2002, but I'm still glad I don't have to go anywhere.)

This morning I told my kids not to touch my shit.

Seriously.

It was like I was talking to my freaky freshman year roommate and her even freakier boyfriend. They liked my make-up a lot. And that's not what made them freaky. But anyway, it's probably not appropriate to talk to your children the way you once talked to drug addicts. Although they did hide my shoes.

We were hurrying out the door to take Ironflower to school, but I have been busy preparing for a trip (note to potential thieves: we're having a housesitter. With a Rottweiler.)  and trying to complete a million tasks and Hugmonkey has a cold. So I'm a little stressed. I run to the top of the stairs, where I KNOW I left my shoes and they are not there. Since it always takes 10 minutes longer than I expect to get all the children ready for the cold, we are always in a hurry. But if you think I'm leaving my house without my warm shoes when it's 20 degrees outside, you don't know how deeply I've chosen comfort over cuteness.

I would make Tim Gunn cry.

So, I wanted my ugly, warm, snow resistant Merrells. But they were not where I had left them. Nor were they nearby as if they had been kicked aside casually during one of the new games that involve running and screaming. They were not in my room. They were not by the door.

I called to the squabbling children (twice) and asked them if they had seen my shoes. I should have known something was up when they came upstairs to "help" me look. To them, looking for something usually amounts to a quick glance around the room. But this time they actually looked in several rooms. I began to get suspicious.

Finally they admitted to playing with my shoes.

And not remembering where they left them.

"What on earth were you even playing with my shoes for? Were you playing dress up?" I asked. Did I mention that these are ugly but functional Merrells? I mean, they're not typical dress up attire. Unless you're pretending to be hippies of questionable sexuality or something. But it seems my children, even though we have provided them with enough toys to open a small toy store, thought tossing my shoes around would be fun.

"Please leave my shoes alone," I said politely. They nodded. Then I went to find my purse. Which had been opened. By someone with sticky hands.

"If you want something from Mommy's purse, please ask. It's private," I explained. They nodded. Then I went to find my hat. Which was missing. Each child blamed another child. I gave up on it.

Last came the keys. "Don't move the keys, kids. Mommy keeps things in a certain place so she can always find them, " I may have been able to hold it together had not the oldest thought to pipe in.

"But we were playing and we needed keys and.. . ."

That's when I remembered having to go to Housing to get a new key because the roommate and her boyfriend had "borrowed" mine from my desk, without permission, and then lost it. It took about 7 hours.

"Just don't touch my shit, guys." We all stared at each other. "I mean, um, don't touch Mommy's stuff without permission, okay? It makes us late when I can't find it and it gives me flashbacks to the worst things about college." They nodded hesitantly, possibly waiting to see if would swear more.

I hung my head in shame and headed out the door.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I taught elementary school for 10 years - 8 of them in really challenging schools - and I never swore in front of the children. Not when the kid threw the chair. Not when the other kid bit me. Not when the stalker parent hovered outside of the classroom yet again. Not when the kid threw up on me. Not when things got cancelled or switched at the last minute. Not when my last principal changed my evaluation after I'd signed it.

But it only took about a month as a parent before I exclaimed, "Shit!" as my little girl pooped all over my new shirt. Of course, I told myself that it didn't matter, that Ironflower couldn't understand what I was saying anyway. I think I told myself that until she was 2. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized she had no interest in repeating what I said but instead came up with socially acceptable phrases like, "I hate you, Mommy!"

Of course, when Ironflower was 2, Lovebug was 9 months old. He seemed too busy trying to walk to pay attention to what I was saying. Not that I cleaned up my language when he began to talk. Which is why one of his first phrases was, "Oh shit!"

I did try to fix things when Lovebug was two and a half.

We did get him to stop saying "Oh shit!" and even "Cheezits Christ!" fell by the wayside. In fact, Lovebug no longer swears at all. Neither does Ironflower. I can't say the same thing for their parents. Which was brought home today when Hugmonkey proudly repeated, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" after hearing one (or both) of us say it.

Apparently, saying "shit" has now become some sort of family milestone. After talking in sentences but before potty training. I can only hope that Hugmonkey grows out of it like his siblings and doesn't remain a potty mouth like his parents.

Though I do kind of have a perverse wish that before he grows out of it, Hugmonkey says "Shit!" in front one of those really prissy and annoying moms.

Good-bye, You Bitch

That's what my son said today, after I prompted him to say good-bye to a boy from Ironflower's class. The kids like to run around a bit after being picked up from preschool, because apparently freezing temperatures, a biting wind and snow on the ground are not half as important as playing with their classmates for an extra few minutes. Today I'd seen Lovebug argue with the boy, a nice kid from Ironflower's class. As it didn't get physical and no one came to me about it, I figured all was well.

Until, as we walked to our car with the boy and his mom, my son said, "Good-bye, you bitch." The look of shock on her face combined with the shock I felt made me giggle. I covered my mouth. I made him apologize. I repeated, "We don't call people that" like a mantra.

But of course, we do call people that. Not me, actually - my favorite word, as I've mentioned, is "shit." But my husband and possibly my brother-in-law prefer the term "bitch".  We just spent 10 days at my in-laws, a number of them snowed in. Add in the 3 days driving there and the 3 days driving home and well, we've had a lot of togetherness lately. (Yes, you read that correctly. Three days in the car back to the farm outside of Kansas City, 9 days in a house with no internet, and three days home.  And we're all more or less intact.)

None of which excuses the fact that we've been swearing in front of the children again. Well, in front of Lovebug. Ironflower doesn't seem to notice most of what we say (even when it's directed at her), but Lovebug is like a little sponge. A sponge that called a bigger boy a bitch in front of his mother.

I personally don't care much about swearing, which is good since that would make me a total hypocrite. But name-calling really disturbs me. Maybe it's because I can still remember being called names - that still echo in my head - as a child, but don't even notice most swear words anymore. The only reason I haven't hijacked all of Lovebug's Thomas trains is that I don't think he knew that he was name-calling.

But he'd better remember next time.