The Secret Oreo Stash

I bought some Double Stuff Oreos at the commisary and hid them when I got home because...

A) I had a recipe I wanted to use them in.
B) I didn't want the kids eating them all in one day.
C) They were MINE!!! ALL MINE!!!
D) All of the above.

Obviously the answer is (D), as anyone who's ever taken a multiple choice quiz knows. (It's a rule; if "all of the above" or "none of the above" appears on the list, it's the right answer. Unless it's a trick.)

Anyways, one night after all the kids had (supposedly) gone to bed and I was working on the computer, ET emerged from the kitchen munching something suspiciously black and white.

I asked her what she was eating, hoping she wouldn't say, "Oreos."

She said, "Oreos."

I said, "Aw, man! You found my secret Oreo stash?"

A slow smile spread across her face. "Actually," she said, swallowing. "These were in a Lunchable in the fridge. But thanks for letting me know there's a secret Oreo stash."

I said, "Aw, man!"

She went back in the kitchen and came back a minute or two later. "Found it!" she said trimphantly.

I sighed in defeat. "Just don't tell your sisters, okay?"

(above image from amazon.com)

The Recorder Incident: A Story Told From Two Perspectives

(image from www.doctorramey.com)

I woke up one morning to see Little Boy in my room taking off his pajamas, informing me nonchlantly "There's pee on these," as he kicked the PJ pants across my room. As I dragged myself out of bed, he cheerily returned to his room and brought in all his soiled bedding as well, adding the blankets to the pile of wet clothes.

While I was stuffing all of that into the laundry basket, ready to wash, Little Boy went rummaging in his room and emerged with a recorder.

Remember the recorder? That piercing, shreiking, whistle-like instrument they teach you to play in elementary school? The twins each received one on their last birthday from a nice neighbor. (I'll get her back one day...)

Anyways, he came out playing the recorder at top volume, "Tweet! Tweet! TWEET!" Repeatedly. As I may have mentioned, the sound of this instrument has an icepick-to-the-ear feel to it.

I decided to ignore it and continue to get ready. At this point in my life, I'm getting to be a master at ignoring annoying sounds, by the way. Could that be my superpower? I went into the bathroom so I could get dressed.

I could still hear the recorder blasting outside the bathroom door. "Tweet! Tweet! TWEET!" Over and over. Then I heard another door forcefully opening, stomping feet coming, and Little Boy yelling.

"ET hit me!" he said. I figured his 16-year-old sister had come out of the other bathroom where she was getting ready for school and had popped him on the head to make him stop playing.

He kept playing of course. "Tweet! Tweet! TWEET!" "Tweet! Tweet! TWEET!"

A minute or so later I heard the door-slamming-open/stomping-feet-approaching combo again.

Little Boy yelled, "She took my whistle!" I wondered why she hadn't done that in the first place, to be honest.

So silence reigned momentarily.

ET's story:

ET was in the bathroom putting on her makeup when she heard the recorder starting up. "Tweet! Tweet! TWEET!" "Tweet! Tweet! TWEET!"

She tried to ignore it. "It's okay," she told herself. "Mom will make him stop soon."

But the high-pitched, earsplitting noise just kept on.

(image from yahoo.com)

Finally she stomped out of the bathroom and saw her four-year-old brother, compleltely naked in the hallway, crouching down and aiming the recorder under the bathroom door as he played the same sharp note over and over and over.

She took the recorder from him, conked him on the head with it, and went back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Only a moment later, she heard the sound again. "Tweet! Tweet! TWEET!" "Tweet! Tweet! TWEET!"

"WHAT?!" she thought. "He's got another one?!"

(Remember my well-meaning neighbor? An instrument for each twin!)

So ET slammed her way out of the bathroom again and took the second recorder away.

...And silence momentarily reigned.

A (Disturbing) Conversation With A Teenager

In the car, after picking up my oldest daughter from high school:

ET: You know, Mom, they have cell-phones with a built-in taser.
Me: NO.
ET: I didn't even ask anything! But it would be cool....
Me: NO.
ET: But what if I get attacked?!
GG: (from the backseat) Mom! She'll TASE me!!!
ET: I wouldn't!
Me: I said NO. You would tase your sisters.
ET: Well....
Me: You would! We all know it.
ET: Only once. Or twice.
Me: NO.

Teaching ET to Drive

So my oldest daughter --whom I call ET for blog purposes-- has a learner's permit. Yes, she turned 15 1/2, and now she's learning to drive.

In case you didn't know, ET stands for Evil Teenager.

Yes, I like to bestow friendly little pet names on my children.

Teaching her to drive is stretching my limits. In a big way.

Her father already did the "hard part," which is taking her out to a parking lot and putting her behind the wheel for the first few times. So now that she's considered "ready for the road," all that she requires is practice.

Which is where I come in.

Now every time we go somewhere, she's like a puppy, boucing up and down, "Can I go? Can I drive?"

The problem is, letting her drive turns me into a mass of anxiety.

I mean, I'm not normally an anxious person, but getting into the passenger seat of the minivan when ET is in the driver's seat sends me right over the edge.

(image from http://www.mysahana.org)

I bite my nails, twist my hair, pick at my skin and clothing, and generally start to look like the poster child for Xanax.

I make little whimpering noises when she changes lanes (too quickly) and cover my eyes when she hits the brakes (too slowly).

When she parks the car, I start to hyperventilate.

I feel the need to say, "Watch out for that!" about twenty times a minute.

I try to keep my tone even, pleasant, and heartening, but it comes out strained, trembly, and about two octaves higher than it should be.

When we finally stop, I really do feel like kissing the ground. But instead I say, "That was really good! You're getting better!" in my most encouraging --albeit breathless and tense-- voice.

ET rolls her eyes and says, "Whatever, Mom. I know you were totally peeing your pants the whole time."

Which is someting I can't really refute.

But the truth is, she really is getting better. And soon she won't need to practice any more.

Then she'll get her license... and my REAL anxiety will begin....

Mom, you are SO embarrassing!

Teenagers can cause their parents a lot of trouble.

So sometimes it’s nice to get a little of your own back, and mess with THEM for a change, you know?

I’ve had several opportunities recently to bug ET (my 15-year-old daughter).

First of all, there’s this blog. She is EXTREMELY mortified that I post things about her. Especially the one where she thought she’d found a dead body.(Click here to read that post.) She said I was “cyber-bullying” her with that one.

(She should be thankful for what I DON’T post about her, to be honest!)

So I’ll just go whole hog and tell you some REALLY embarrassing things I’ve done to ET recently.

First of all, I took her to a “Sweet Sixteen” party for a friend the other day. I knew it would be chaperoned by the parents, and it was at the community center so I was pretty sure it was fine, but I couldn’t resist freaking her out a little.

So when I went to drop her off, I took off my seatbelt and got out of the car.

She said in a scared voice, “What are you doing?”

“I just need to check things out inside, make sure her parents are there, you know.” I said, grinning.

You should have seen her eyes about pop out of her head. I let her sweat a little before I got back in the car and let her go inside alone.

I think that one might have made up for a few of those moldy dishes hiding in her room and having to clean up all the water on the bathroom floor when she forgets to put the shower curtain inside the tub AGAIN.

Then I took ET and GG bra shopping.

Which is the ultimate opportunity for parental embarrassment, probably.

The funny thing about this was, I wasn’t even TRYING to be embarrassing that time.

I mean, if I were trying I could have done a better job.

“Excuse me, young man? Could you direct me to the lingerie department? My daughter is developing and finds herself in need of a brassiere!”

I didn’t do THAT!

I mean, all I did was talk about what size they needed, and try to direct them to the more economical styles, and mention that if I were purchasing new underwear it would be necessary for them to clean out their drawers and throw away all their old crappy underwear to make room. What’s wrong with that?

They kept hissing at me to keep my voice down. I don’t think I was talking very loudly at all, by the way, but I guess underwear is a whispering matter when you’re an adolescent girl.

It was actually pretty funny when I thought about it.

At least it sort of took the sting out of having to shell out at the cash register at the end.

Steve Jobs, We Need Your Help!

ET dropped her iPhone in the toilet.

How’s THAT for an opening line?

Anyways, the way I discovered that this had happened was...

ET (my 15-year-old) was rummaging in the kitchen pantry and came out with a giant bag of rice.


Me: Are you hungry?
ET: No.
Me: Then what are you doing with that rice?
ET: I dropped my phone in the toilet.

Now this might seem a non sequitur to some mothers, but, tech-savvy mom that I am, I understood. She wanted to immerse her wet cell phone in rice in order to dry it out.

Yeah, I read about it on facebook. I’m cool like that.

(Insert adolescent eye-roll here.)

So I helped her put some rice in a baggie and asked if she’d taken the phone apart.

Here’s where we hit a big snag: Taking an iPhone apart is apparently like dismantling a bomb.

I ended up looking for the answer online and found some instructions on wikihow.

Unfortunately, the instructions were about twenty-five steps long and involved several tools, one of which I’d never heard of.

What on earth is a spudger?

It turns out this is a tool specifically for prying open iPhones or iPods. Oh, and it costs $20.99.

What, I can’t use a butter knife?

Long story short, we ended up putting the iPhone into the bag of rice intact and hoping for the best.

I guess she might have been due for an upgrade anyway…

(above image from vpnchoice.com)

Contact Lens Karma

My oldest daughter (ET) turned fifteen a few weeks ago, and I decided she was old enough to get contact lenses for her birthday.

She’s been asking for contacts for at least five years, but I wanted to wait until I felt she was mature enough to keep up with them and all of that. After all, we’re talking about an expensive but tiny piece of transparent plastic here. Logically, these things are going to be hard to keep up with.

Also, I myself got contact lenses at a young age (an unfortunate medical necessity at the time) and drove my mother CRAZY by ruining and/or losing them on a regular basis. But it seemed like ET was responsible enough to handle contacts at age 15.

So last Sunday we went to the Wal-Mart vision center and started the process.

They fitted her with the lenses, and said she was to wear them for increasing amounts of time for a week, and then come back the next Sunday to make sure all was well before receiving her final prescription. She had a little trouble learning to put them in and take them out; however, she was able to do it well enough.

By contrast, you should have seen the drama that ensued when ten-year old ME had to learn to insert contact lenses. My poor mother came by her prematurely gray hair honestly, let me tell you!

So I was pleasantly surprised when we spent less than half an hour on the whole “fitting” part for the contacts and were ready to go. The optometrist told me as we were leaving to remember to have ET wear the lenses every day all week.

She said, “If she loses or tears one at the end of the week, don’t worry about it; just come in on Sunday for the appointment and you’ll still get the final prescription, But if that happens early in the week, like on Tuesday or Wednesday, you’ll need to come get another pair.”

I thought, Well we shouldn’t have to worry about that. After all, it’s only a week. She should be able to keep up with them, no problem.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

On Monday ET came downstairs and said she’d lost a contact.

I said, “Already?!”

I went upstairs with her to search the bathroom, and she hovered behind me saying helpful things like, “I already LOOKED there,” and “I told you I searched for like an HOUR! It’s just not here!”

I cannot TELL you how often I had this conversation with my own mother as a kid. I recognize that I completely deserved this annoying little drama.

Bottom line: The contact was gone. I had to go back to Wal-Mart and get another one. After ONE DAY!

And I think I sprouted a few new gray hairs…

above image from bausch.com

The Hazards of Watching Crime Shows

Yesterday ET (my 14-year-old) came to me in a state of high excitement. She insisted she’d found a dead body in the woods near our house.
Well, what she actually said she’d found was a freshly-dug grave!

(She said it in italics like that too.)

Obviously I highly doubted that there was a corpse stashed away in our neighborhood. Plus I was busy watching the twins. ET found this attitude very offensive.

She texted her friends indignantly, “I found a dead body and my mom doesn’t believe me!!!!!!!!!”

I asked her to wait until her father got home and present him with her alleged evidence, arguing that dead bodies definitely fall under the heading of The Man’s Job. She said it was going to be dark before he came home, and that GG and Boo could watch the twins for a minute.

So Little Miss Nancy Drew insisted on taking me to view the crime scene. Unfortunately it involved me hiking uphill on a pebbly path in my flip-flops.

While we walked, ET told me her various theories of how the freshly-dug grave came to be there.

ET: There was a patch of freshly-turned dirt marked by a wooden cross. I’ll bet there’s a serial killer on the loose around here.

Me: There’s no serial killer, honey.

ET: MOM! Serial killers EXIST you know. They’re not mythical creatures!

Me: Okay. Why would a serial killer mark the grave like that that?

ET: Because he’s crazy!

Me: I think you’ve been watching too much Bones and Criminal Minds.

ET: So maybe there was some man who got drunk and got in a big fight with his wife and then he killed her and then he was afraid someone would find out and so he dug a grave and hid her in the woods.

Me: Again, why mark the grave? Isn’t the point to hide the body?

ET: Duh! It’s his WIFE! He FEELS bad!

Me: (Giant sigh) (Much puffing from walking uphill) Are we almost there?

ET: Or what if it’s one of the construction workers? Like if one of them got killed on the job and then they didn’t want the boss to know so they hid the body with the woods? But they mark it with a cross to show he was a good guy or whatever.

Me: Okay. You’ve GOT to stop watching Bones and Criminal Minds.

It was like talking to Velma from Scooby Doo, but with fewer facts.

When we finally got there, it was obviously a pet grave. There was NO WAY it was big enough for a person. It was not even big enough for anything larger than a cat. I pointed out that there was actually the outline of a box in the hole, less than two feet long.

She tried to insist that a person really could fit in there, but she was losing steam.

I said that if she really wanted to dig up poor Fluffy and make sure, she could be my guest, but fortunately the sight of the box convinced her.

So we headed back downhill. ET was very disappointed.

Real life is so much less exciting than TV.
   
images from amazon.com

While Mommy's Away...

So one night last week I came home from a class and discovered ET dyeing her sisters’ hair purple in the bathroom.

Yes, I mean BOTH Boo and GG. And herself.

I guess I should be thankful she left Baby Girl’s hair alone.

The good news is: The dye didn’t take. It was Kool Aid. Their hair still looks perfectly normal.

ET couldn't understand it. She'd gotten the recipe from the internet. Which should always be trustworthy.

The bad news is: Their father didn’t realize what they were doing the whole time.

Oh, well. At least they weren’t actually SUCCESSFUL…

Sock Wars

Last Saturday we had a major sock fight.

I don’t mean that the kids were throwing socks at each other, or that that Lamb Chop and that pets.com puppet were brawling in my house.

I mean that the children were actually fighting over a sock.

The altercation started right before dinner, with GG shrieking from the living room.

I yelled, “What’s going on?” from the kitchen, and discovered that ET had forcibly removed GG’s left sock and was dangling it above her sister‘s head.

“That’s MY sock! She’s wearing MY sock!” ET accused, regrettably sounding a lot like one of Cinderella’s stepsisters.

GG asserted that it was her own sock, and not ET’s.

Both girls insisted that it was a sock they’d just gotten for Christmas.

Now, unfortunately, although I purchased the Christmas socks myself only two months ago, I did not remember which particular sock went to which child. Therefore, with two conflicting claims of sock ownership, I could see no way to resolve the question.

I said, “There’s no way I can tell whose sock it is. So I guess I will have to confiscate the sock and throw it away, if neither of you will concede and allow the other one to have to sock.”

They both scowled at me. Nobody conceded anything.

I continued, Solomon-like. “I would think that the TRUE OWNER of the sock would LOVE the sock enough to not want it to be thrown away.”

ET rolled her eyes. “Bible wisdom, Mommy? REALLY?!”

I shrugged. “Well, there’s no way I can tell who’s telling the truth here. It was worth a shot.”

GG put in, “Besides, according to the Bible story, you should cut the sock in half, not throw it away.”

“I want the toe end!” ET said quickly.

Obviously NO ONE is the true owner of this sock.

We went around the subject a few more times, but the only other idea we could come up with was that all of GG’s Christmas socks had matches, whereas ET’s did not.

 (There’s some new sock style where your socks don’t match intentionally, so I was trying to be Cutting Edge Mom and bought her a set of twelve unmatched socks. Yeah, I know: Like I don’t already have a pile of those behind the dryer!)

ET said smugly, “If SHE can come up with a match, then it’s HER sock. If not, it has to be MINE!”

I pointed out the problem with this, namely, the propensity of sock matches getting lost in this house. “Even if she can’t find as match, that won’t prove it’s not hers,” I told ET. I was still planning on tossing the offending sock after dinner.

Or at least dumping it behind the dryer.

Then, surprisingly, GG excused herself from the table, searched the laundry room, and came up with the sock’s match!

ET had to grudgingly concede this round to her sister.

I don’t know if Solomon himself could have done better with this crowd.

Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

Recently GG (aged 10) has been annoying ET (aged 14) by imitating her.

I don’t mean mimicking, by the way. She’s not repeating everything her sister says in a mocking voice.

Well, okay, SOMETIMES she is. But that’s not what I’m talking about here.

I mean, she’s actually trying to BE LIKE her older sister.

She’s borrowing her sister’s make-up, hairbrush, and zit cream. She’s acquiring clothing that looks identical to her sister’s, except in a smaller size.

In other words, she attempting to transform herself into a teenager. ALREADY! At AGE TEN!

It’s just sad.

And it also enrages ET.

Which is, I suppose just an added bonus for GG.

Last week we went to the mall and ET had taken Boo in search of candy while GG and I (and the twins trapped in their stroller, of course) went to the Annoying Teenager Store.

Okay, it’s not called the Annoying Teenager Store.

That’s just a short way of saying The Store Full of Ridiculously Low-Cut and/or Ripped Clothing and Gum-Chewing Bored-Looking Teenage Girls (Some of Whom are Employees) Where Irritatingly Loud and Partially Incomprehensible Music Blares.

GG chose a pair of skinny jeans from the sale rack (she was paying with her own money, and kids get frugal when Mom’s not footing the bill) that were exactly like the pair ET had bought a few weeks before. Exactly the same, down to the little zippers on the ankles.

Yep. Zippered ankles are back. Just like 1985.

When ET saw what her sister had purchased, she freaked out.

“MOM! Those are the SAME as MY jeans! She’s bought the EXACT SAME JEANS as ME!” she shrieked. “DO SOMETHING!!!!”

I said, “ She’s allowed to buy what she wants with her own money.”

ET was not mollified. She continued to scream complaints and protests as I offered other logical comments:

“It doesn’t hurt you any if she wears the same jeans as you.”

“She doesn’t even go to your SCHOOL!”

“It’s actually a compliment. She’s trying to be like you because she thinks you’re cool.”

This last one sent her over the edge, I think, but with a final epic eye-roll, she did finally stop yelling about it.

So we rode home with ET staring out the window in stony silence, amazed at my inability to see that her sister had committed a capital offense.

And GG clutched her skinny jeans to her chest and smiled.

ET Cooks Dinner

Last night my 14-year old daughter made dinner.

The amazing thing was, it was her idea, not mine!

She wanted to make “Crab and Noodles.” This is a dish she really likes but I rarely make it, because her two younger sisters don’t care for it.

It’s actually imitation crab in garlic-butter sauce. We usually serve it with rotini pasta and broccoli. Unfortunately, I used the last package of frozen broccoli a couple of days ago, so I put out cauliflower instead.

Cauliflower is like broccoli’s cousin who sits indoors and stays pasty-white.

Incidentally, I just googled “imitation crab,” because even though I’ve eaten it plenty of times, I’m not exactly sure what it is.

I discovered it is made of surimi, which is basically a fish paste.

Here’s what it REALLY looks like.

Appetizing, isn't it?

It looks much better here.

And, just for fun, here’s a cartoon about imitation crab from burnscomicstrip.blogspot.com

Cute, huh? He’s pretending to be a pirate.

But I digress….

Anyways, ET was cooking.

I had purchased the ingredients earlier in the week, so all I did was put everything out on the counter with the recipe book open to the correct page and let her go.

She has cooked before; it’s okay.

ET had her friend M over too, so they seemed to be enjoying themselves without any help from me.

There was a lot of giggling and banging of pans in there, but I just ignored it.

Later, while doing the dishes, I would learn she’d used every pan we own. LITERALLY.

But that’s okay, because I DIDN’T HAVE TO COOK!

I got concerned when I heard a giant crash and ET yelled, “Don’t come in here, Mom!”

I knew something had broken, but I didn’t really want to see it. I just called for her to clean it up and worked on keeping the twins out of the kitchen.

A few minutes later she said everything was almost ready so I let the twins free and came in the kitchen.

The floor seemed a little slippery.

ET had a can of tomato sauce in her hand. She said, “Will this work for a vegetable?”

“But the cauliflower was supposed to be the vegetable,” I began. Then I stopped and said, “Oh.”

I looked at the counter. She had already put the crab and the noodles in serving bowls.

That meant one of my serving bowls was history.

“Did you already butter the cauliflower before you dropped it?” I asked.

She nodded. Well, that explained the oil slick on the kitchen floor.

Then I looked around again and asked where M was.

ET said, “She had to go home.”

“Before or after you dropped the cauliflower bowl?” I asked.

ET rolled her eyes. “Right after that. Conveniently.”

Hey, I don’t blame the kid! I was the one hiding in the living room when I heard the crash, so I can’t throw stones here!

In any case, I decided to allow the tomato sauce as a vegetable, and ET and I set the table.

In the end, I thought everything tasted pretty good.

Especially since I hadn’t been the one to cook it.

However, GG refused to eat the crab at all, and Boo complained, “It’s too garlicky.”

ET rolled her eyes again. “Well, thanks for all the APPRECIATION, kids.”

I said, “Welcome to MY world, honey.”

How to Embarrass Your Teenager

A couple of years ago my oldest daughter started middle school.

That was part of her transition from Sweet Little Girl to Evil Teenager. It’s a process, I’m sorry to report, that seems to have come to completion.

Anyways, before school began the administration sent out a letter saying that parents would be allowed to attend with their sixth graders on the first day. The letter said that parents were “encouraged to share” this happy day with their children, and were invited to go from class to class with their student to help ease the transition into middle school, and reduce the stress of the first day.

As I have not forgotten the experience of being a middle-schooler myself, this letter caused me to laugh out loud.

When I was in sixth grade, I’m pretty sure nothing could have made my first day MORE stressful than having my MOM along!

So I decided to share the chuckle with my daughter, by reading her this letter aloud and pretending I might actually accept the school’s invitation.

As I was reading, her eyes got so huge I thought they might pop out of her head.

It was hysterical.

I let her mouth hang open in horror a few seconds before letting her know I wasn’t planning on going along with her to middle school.

I think her relieved sigh was heard for miles around.

It turned out that one or two clueless parents actually DID take the school up on this offer, however.

Sure stinks to be THAT kid!

Well, I am bringing this up because I just recently read a review of a new parenting book called “My Teenage Werewolf” by Lauren Kessler.

This is totally real; NO LIE!

Allow me to quote from the amazon.com version:

(I capitalized some phrases for emphasis. You’ll have to add the tone of horrified incredulity yourself.)

“Kessler, the author of five narrative nonfiction books, explores the mother/daughter relationship at a PARTICULARLY VULNERABLE POINT—the cusp of her daughter's entry into adolescence. At 12, Lizzie is often at odds with her author mom, who describes her chilly relationship with her own mother. Not wanting to repeat a distant and dissatisfying relationship with her offspring, Kessler decides to dive into her daughter's world. She embeds herself in middle school, FOLLOWING LIZZIE FROM CLASS TO CLASS, probing her peer relationships, online pastimes and cyberfriends, athletic and summer camp life….Mothers of girls in particular will be alternately amused, horrified, and entertained as they view the turmoil and triumphs of adolescence from Kessler's insightful perspective.”

Oh. My. Gosh.

I could NOT make this stuff up, people!

It REALLY stinks to be THAT kid!

What could be worse than a distant and dissatisfying relationship with your mother, Ms. Kessler?

Hmmm…how about a mom stuck to your left arm like a LIMPET all through middle school?

Of course I had to share this story with my (now 13-year-old) daughter too.

She agreed this woman makes me look like Mother of the Year.

I know that’s not much of a compliment, but I’ll take what I can get.