Motherhood Uncensored

Etiquette, Bitch - Road rage with the kids in the car

Now I'm not going to sit here and tell you that I haven't cursed in front of my kids, because, that's just a load of bullshit.

See. Love to curse.

And I have been known to use the Lord's name in vain. My husband tells the kids I'm praying again. Too bad I can't use that when he screams "You Assholes" at the tv on football Sundays.

But I really do try to make sure my responses to other people, you know, as opposed to things on television, gigantic glasses of spilled milk, and poop on my hand, are fairly appropriate.

Now when it comes to driving in the car, my husband is way worse than I am. I swear he thinks a car is like a plane, and because he's got super fast reflexes, anyone who hesitates for more than a few seconds incurs his wrath. I have to admit that there are some big fat idiots on the road here in Atlanta, most often it's someone cluelessly driving slow in the left lane on their cell phone. Yesterday a cop had his flashers on right behind her and was waving a person over and she didn't even move, obviously too engrossed in her very important conversation to focus on driving a moving vehicle and all.

But, alas, I still let a "Son of a Bitch" fly out of my mouth, shake my mean maraca, and go on my merry way.

However, that was not the case for the woman sitting in the complete wrong lane coming out of Kroger a few days ago. I was attempting to make a left turn into the drive, and she thought that my lane was a left turning lane (apparently double yellow lines mean nothing) and was sitting there waiting for the light to turn green, oblivious to the fact that I was about to turn in.

She could have easily backed up and just whipped into the correct turning lane because no one was behind her, but even as I started to make the turn and beep my horn in a "hey, lady, move the heck out of the way because YOU'RE IN THE WRONG LANE" sort of way (as opposed to "get the fuck over you dumbass"), she just sat there. Staring. Maybe pretending that I was just the nuts one and she was, in fact, correct.

Well, I finally HAD to turn because traffic was coming so she sort of pulled forward enough for me to get by, glaring at me the whole time. I was talking to her through my window, which I'm sure she could see. Nothing terrible, mind you, but just a combination of "hello, you're in the wrong lane, move the hell over, I'm about to get hit in traffic, I have kids in my car."

And before I know it, she rolls down her window all the way and starts screaming at me, in front of a dude in the front seat, and better, in front of her kids in the back seat.

"SHUT UP, BITCH. JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Now, in my world, if you are wrong, you generally don't yell at the person who is right. I tend to do the little "I'm embarrassed sorry that I'm an idiot" wave and smile and hope that the person WHO IS RIGHT doesn't get all crazed.

And if they do, oh well, such is life. I'm not perfect. So fuck you.

(ha!)

But it was obvious that perhaps in her embarrassment she just lost it. And how I would have LOVED to give her a piece of my mind right about then.

But I thought about the kids in the backseat, and the piss poor example it would have set for them - rolling down my window to scream at a complete stranger, and I just drove on, trying to ignore my urge to just back into her car.

Accidentally, of course.

So, when it comes to situations like that, or road rage in general, how do you respond, particularly when your kids are in the car?

[For more adventures of the Etiquette Bitch, read about The Baby on the Bar, The Poopy Diaper at the Kid's Gym Room, and the Unbuckled Kids in the Car; idea originated by the brilliant Mom-101]

Meet my nemesis

It's a hand me down "gag" gift from my hil-arrrrious friend, made out of way too much hot pink grosgrain ribbon and it drives me completely and utterly insane, mostly because no matter where I hide it, the damn thing always ends up back on my daughter's head.

I've taken to sending her pictures of Quinlan every single time she wears it - which is now almost every day.

"You remember that damn bow you gave me? Yeah. Well. LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE."

I generally get a reply that goes something like this:

"BWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA!"

Now before you call me a bow hating Yankee, let me just explain to you that Quinlan never really had any hair, so I never bought clips or headbands or any sort of hair apparatus.

But apparently hair grows, you see, and since we live in the South, we're surrounded by bows.

They are everywhere.

And oh how she admires them. Especially the big ones. With porkers or korkers or whatever they're called. You know, the ones where it looks like a bunch of bows exploded on the little girl's head in the shape of a cheerleading pom pom.

Yes those.

They sort of make me want to take a big fat crap in my adult diaper.

"Oh mommy look at the pretty bows, they're so pretty, wouldn't they look nice in my hair mommy?"

Sigh.

We'll send her upstairs to get dressed, and without fail, she'll come down with that damn headband on.

My husband tries valiantly to talk her down from the bow ledge.

"But look at this pretty headband. It actually matches better. So why don't you come here and take the bow off. It'll be okay. Really."

"No Daddy. I like it. The hot pink ham-band matches my hot pink leggins."

Girl does have a point.

So while we can't bring ourselves to buy any more ridiculously large hair bows, we just can't bring ourselves to toss it out either.

Besides, I've got to hold onto it so I can strategically regift it back. Along with the other 400 fine Southern bows I'm collecting.

Oh they're coming for you TNG. Just you wait and see.

Hearing voices

I had all but decided to screw kindergarten, pocket the money we'd save, and homeschool Quinlan next year.

But then I realized, after trying to teach her to play the violin for the last few days, that I'd probably end up using that money on my own personal psychiatric care, so perhaps I might want to consider all the options before making that sort of decision.

In all my years as a teacher and now as a parent, I'm perfectly clear that education doesn't begin or end with school. It's our duty as parents to have a hand and maybe even a couple of feet in the learning process.

We've started a book called "Explode the Code" to help her with reading, and she plays "Dreambox" (both of which we love and were not paid to love) every other day or so. And we read to her all the time, encourage creative imaginative play, and engage her in thought-provoking discussions, which generally have to do with poop and what her next birthday cake will be. But still, we're not sitting back with our feet propped up on our coffee table relying on the teacher and her full-time assistant to ready our daughter for life.

And so we talked with the kindergarten teacher about the curriculum, which we both felt was pretty promising, and we looked at what was holding us back and whether those were legitimate concerns, or just our own fears and trepidations that had really nothing to do with Quinlan.

Funny how we try so hard not to live vicariously through our kids, but then we forget about projecting our own fears and our need for control onto them.

Oh how easy it was when we could stick them in the exersaucer or plop them on the floor, and the only opinion they offered was in the form of a puny whelp or a loud screech.

But now she's a near five year old kid who can't be plopped anywhere without a full, detailed explanation, and a series of ridiculously complicated questions. Decisions just aren't as easily made when they involve her actual participation.

So honestly, I still feel like 8:00am to 3:30pm is a terribly long day.

But I also thought that everyday preschool from 8-12pm was ridiculous - a complete tragedy against small humans.

Come to find out my daughter loves it. Completely freaking loves it. As in begs for school on the weekend loves it.

And so, when I asked her for the 14th time whether she'd want to stay home and do school with me or go to kindergarten, she said:

"I want to go to kindergarten, mommy."

"But it's a reallllly long day. 8-3:30 in the afternoon!" I replied, in my best guilt-inducing mom voice.

"Yes mommy, but sometimes, at school, I never have enough time to get all my work done. So if I'm there all day, then I will."

And there you have it. A ridiculously smart and logical answer to my own heartwrenching emotional battle.

I'm sure it won't be the last time that happens.

Now I'm not letting my daughter make all the decisions for herself, but I do believe there's certainly something to be said about allowing her to have a voice. I just need to be sure to listen to it before my own fears of her growing up and moving on drown it out.

The Joy of Farts

My son has become completely obsessed with the glorious sound of flatulence leaving his tiny little asshole. I'm beginning to think it's a male rite of passage - a tradition passed down from our forefathers.

They signed the Declaration of Independence, they freed the slaves, and they taught their sons the virtues of good farting.

Don't get me wrong. I've giggled at sound of an ass trumpet bouncing off our wooden kitchen chairs or cutting through a strong wind like an air horn.

And unfortunately, I've been rendered helpless at the hands of a carefully timed SBD (Silent But Deadly).

Hell, we've all been there. According to Dr. Oz we're there about 15 times a day.

Or more if you're a genius.

Ahem.

Didn't Einstein have gastrointestinal issues?

Damn 30 Day Shred.

But farting around these parts has always been a passing fancy (heh).

Until we had a boy.

Now life is his farting karaoke stage and we're the poor victims sitting the audience, not drunk enough to just pump our fists and raise our lighters in support.

Okay, wait. No raising lighters. But still.

He warns us of their impending arrival and expects us to stand or at least stop what we're doing and admire his handy work.

"Me fartin'," he'll tell us.

As if it wasn't completely obvious. 

I suppose we should be proud that he owns his farts, unlike my daughter who still tries to pawn them off on someone else, pretend that they never happened, or worse, make it seem like I'm crazy.

"A fart? Where? You must be smelling things, Mom."

But Drew. Not him.

He proudly accepts the honor of a good fart. Or as we call it in our house, "gift that keeps on giving."

Sort of takes the "speak your truth and own the consquences" thing to a whole new level, huh?

There's a sucker born every minute

"I'm thirsty."

Go to bed.

"I need a little snack."

Go to bed.

"It's a little too dark [even with my GIGANTIC SUN-SIZED NIGHTLIGHT ON], can I turn the bathroom light on?"

Fine. Go to bed.

"I'm scared and I just can't sleep. Can I snuggle with you?"

Snuggle with your doll. Go to bed.

"I thought I heard a fire alarm and a fire engine and I don't want to get burned and you told me that if I felt uncomfortable that I should get you so I'm just doing what you told me."

Okay you win.

[Share the cute or crazy excuses your kids use to get out of bedtime on your blog this weekend and you could win prizes up to $400 in value courtesy of Sylvania via our Parent Bloggers Network Blog Blast. Coincidentally, we have their new LED Nightlight (and flashlight and stroke of genius) and it rocks.]